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“Say, friends, that butter ain’t in no trance.”

“If it’s too rich for you,” croaked the enraged proprietor, “use axle-dope.”

The company continued gravely feeding, while I struggled to preserve the decorum of sadness, and Miss Buckner’s face was also unsteady. But sternness mantled in the countenance of Mr. McLean, until the harmless boy, embarrassed to pieces, offered the untasted smelling-dish to Lin, to me, helped himself, and finally thrust the plate at the girl, saying, in his Texas idiom,

“Have butter.”

He spoke in the shell voice of adolescence, and on “butter” cracked an octave up into the treble. Miss Buckner was speechless, and could only shake her head at the plate.

Mr. McLean, however, thought she was offended. “She wouldn’t choose for none,” he said to the youth, with appalling calm. “Thank yu’ most to death.”

“I guess,” fluted poor Texas, in a dove falsetto, “it would go slicker rubbed outside than swallered.”

At this Miss Buckner broke from the table and fled out of the house.

“You don’t seem to know anything,” observed Mr. McLean. “What toy-shop did you escape from?”

“Wind him up! Wind him up!” said the proprietor, sticking his head in from the kitchen.

“Ah, what’s the matter with this outfit?” screamed the boy, furiously. “Can’t yu’ leave a man eat? Can’t yu’ leave him be? You make me sick!” And he flounced out with his young boots.

All the while the company fed on unmoved. Presently one remarked,

“Who’s hiring him?”

“The C. Y. outfit,” said another.

“Half-circle L.,” a third corrected.

“I seen one like him onced,” said the first, taking his hat from beneath his chair. “Up in the Black Hills he was. Eighteen seventy-nine. Gosh!” And he wandered out upon his business. One by one the others also silently dispersed.

Upon going out, Lin and I found the boy pacing up and down, eagerly in talk with Miss Buckner. She had made friends with him, and he was now smoothed down and deeply absorbed, being led by her to tell her about himself. But on Lin’s approach his face clouded, and he made off for the corrals, displaying a sullen back, while I was presenting Mr. McLean to the lady.

Overtaken by his cow-puncher shyness, Lin was greeting her with ungainly ceremony, when she began at once, “You’ll excuse me, but I just had to have my laugh.”

“That’s all right, m’m,” said he; “don’t mention it.”

“For that boy, you know–“

“I’ll fix him, m’m. He’ll not insult yu’ no more. I’ll speak to him.”

“Now, please don’t! Why–why–you were every bit as bad!” Miss Buckner pealed out, joyously. “It was the two of you. Oh dear!”

Mr. McLean looked crestfallen. “I had no–I didn’t go to–“

“Why, there was no harm! To see him mean so well and you mean so well, and–I know I ought to behave better!”

“No, yu’ oughtn’t!” said Lin, with sudden ardor; and then, in a voice of deprecation, “You’ll think us plumb ignorant.”

“You know enough to be kind to folks,” said she.

“We’d like to.”

“It’s the only thing makes the world go round!” she declared, with an emotion that I had heard in her tone once or twice already. But she caught herself up, and said gayly to me, “And where’s that house you were going to build for a lone girl to sleep in?”

“I’m afraid the foundations aren’t laid yet,” said I.

“Now you gentlemen needn’t bother about me.”

“We’ll have to, m’m. You ain’t used to Separ.”

“Oh, I am no–tenderfoot, don’t you call them?” She whipped out her pistol, and held it at the cow-puncher, laughing.

This would have given no pleasure to me; but over Lin’s features went a glow of delight, and he stood gazing at the pointed weapon and the girl behind it. “My!” he said, at length, almost in a whisper, “she’s got the drop on me!”

“I reckon I’d be afraid to shoot that one of yours,” said Miss Buckner. “But this hits a target real good and straight at fifteen yards.” And she handed it to him for inspection.