"I guess you sure could," Billy proclaimed enthusiastically.

"The trouble is," she went on, "the men that loved me I never
cared for that way.--Oh, look!"

A cottontail rabbit had scuttled across the road, and a tiny dust
cloud lingered like smoke, marking the way of his flight. At the
next turn a dozen quail exploded into the air from under the
noses of the horses. Billy and Saxon exclaimed in mutual delight.

"Gee," he muttered, "I almost wisht I'd ben born a farmer. Folks
wasn't made to live in cities."

"Not our kind, at least," she agreed. Followed a pause and a long
sigh. "It's all so beautiful. It would be a dream just to live
all your life in it. I'd like to be an Indian squaw sometimes."

Several times Billy checked himself on the verge of speech.

"About those fellows you thought you was in love with," he said
finally. "You ain't told me, yet."

"You want to know?" she asked. "They didn't amount to anything."

"Of course I want to know. Go ahead. Fire away."

"Well, first there was Al Stanley--"

"What did he do for a livin'?" Billy demanded, almost as with
authority.