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“That’s so,” said Lance, curtly. “And now, Mr. Fairley, if you’ll hand me over a coat or a jacket till I can get past these fogs on the Monterey road, I won’t keep you from your diamond pit.” He threw down a handful of silver on the table.

“Ther’s a deerskin jacket yer,” said the old man, “that one o’ them vaqueros left for the price of a bottle of whiskey.”

“I reckon it wouldn’t suit the stranger,” said Flip, dubiously producing a much-worn, slashed, and braided vaquero’s jacket. But it did suit Lance, who found it warm, and also had suddenly found a certain satisfaction in opposing Flip. When he had put it on, and nodded coldly to the old man, and carelessly to Flip, he walked to the door.

“If you’re going to take the Monterey road, I can show you a short cut to it,” said Flip, with a certain kind of shy civility.

The paternal Fairley groaned. “That’s it; let the chickens and the ranch go to thunder, as long as there’s a stranger to trapse round with; go on!”

Lance would have made some savage reply, but Flip interrupted. “You know yourself, Dad, it’s a blind trail, and as that ‘ere constable that kem out here hunting French Pete, couldn’t find it, and had to go round by the canyon, like ez not the stranger would lose his way, and have to come back!” This dangerous prospect silenced the old man, and Flip and Lance stepped into the road together. They walked on for some moments without speaking. Suddenly Lance turned upon his companion.

“You didn’t swallow all that rot about the diamond, did you?” he asked, crossly.

Flip ran a little ahead, as if to avoid a reply.

“You don’t mean to say that’s the sort of hog wash the old man serves out to you regularly?” continued Lance, becoming more slangy in his ill temper.

“I don’t know that it’s any consarn o’ yours what I think,” replied Flip, hopping from boulder to boulder, as they crossed the bed of a dry watercourse.

“And I suppose you’ve piloted round and dry-nussed every tramp and dead beat you’ve met since you came here,” continued Lance, with unmistakable ill humor. “How many have you helped over this road?”

“It’s a year since there was a Chinaman chased by some Irishmen from the Crossing into the brush about yer, and he was too afeered to come out, and nigh most starved to death in thar. I had to drag him out and start him on the mountain, for you couldn’t get him back to the road. He was the last one but YOU.”

“Do you reckon it’s the right thing for a girl like you to run about with trash of this kind, and mix herself up with all sorts of rough and bad company?” said Lance.

Flip stopped short. “Look! if you’re goin’ to talk like Dad, I’ll go back.”

The ridiculousness of such a resemblance struck him more keenly than a consciousness of his own ingratitude. He hastened to assure Flip that he was joking. When he had made his peace they fell into talk again, Lance becoming unselfish enough to inquire into one or two facts concerning her life which did not immediately affect him. Her mother had died on the plains when she was a baby, and her brother had run away from home at twelve. She fully expected to see him again, and thought he might sometime stray into their canyon. “That is why, then, you take so much stock in tramps,” said Lance. “You expect to recognize HIM?”

“Well,” replied Flip, gravely, “there is suthing in THAT, and there’s suthing in THIS: some o’ these chaps might run across brother and do him a good turn for the sake of me.”

“Like me, for instance?” suggested Lance.

“Like you. You’d do him a good turn, wouldn’t you?”

“You bet!” said Lance, with a sudden emotion that quite startled him; “only don’t you go to throwing yourself round promiscuously.” He was half-conscious of an irritating sense of jealousy, as he asked if any of her proteges had ever returned.