"How about what?" countered Billy, his teeth close together.

"The girl, and the dawg, and the fight--but more especially the girl.
The Pilgrim--"

"_Damn_ the Pilgrim! I wisht I'd a-killed the lying ---- The girl's
a lady, and he ain't fit to speak her name. She come here last night
because her hoss fell and got crippled, and there wasn't a hoss I'd
trust at night with her, it was storming so hard, and slippery--and
at daylight I put her on the gentlest one we had, and took her home.
That's all there is to it. There's nothing to gabble about, and if the
Pilgrim goes around shooting off his face--" Billy clicked his teeth
ominously.

"Well, that ain't _just_ the way he told it," commented the foreman,
stooping to expectorate into the hearth and stopping to regard
surprisedly its unwonted emptiness. "He said--"

"I don't give a damn what he said," snapped Billy. "He lied, the
low-down cur."

"Uh-huh--he said something about you shooting that dawg of his. I saw
the carcass out there in the snow." The foreman spoke with careful
neutrality.

"I did. I wisht now I'd laid the two of 'em out together. The dawg
tried to feed offa my leg. I shot the blame thing." Charming Billy
sat down upon the edge of the table--sliding the dishpan out of his
way--and folded his arms, and pushed his hat farther back from his