"Well, I reckon I could," Billy told him doubtfully, "but it would be
quite a contract under the circumstances. Anyway, your cayuse is too
near played; yuh better cut out your visit this time and come along
back to town with me. You're liable to do a lot more wandering around
till yuh find yourself plumb afoot." He did not know that he came near
using the tone one takes toward a lost child.

"Perhaps, seeing I've come out of my way, I might as well," Mr. Dill
decided hesitatingly. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," Charming Billy assured him airily. "Uh
course, I own this trail, and the less it's tracked up right now in
its present state the better, but you're welcome to use it--if you're
particular to trod soft and don't step in the middle."

Alexander P. Dill looked at him uncertainly, as if his sense of humor
were weak and not to be trusted off-hand; turned his tired horse
awkwardly in a way that betrayed an unfamiliarity with "neck-reining,"
and began to retrace his steps beside Charming Billy. His stirrups
were too short, so that his knees were drawn up uncomfortably, and
Billy, glancing sidelong down at them, wondered how the man could ride
like that.

"You wasn't raised right around here, I reckon," Billy began amiably,
when they were well under way.

"No--oh, no. I am from Michigan. I only came out West two weeks ago.
I--I'm thinking some of raising wild cattle for the Eastern markets."
Alexander P. Dill still had the wistful look in his eyes, which were