"Haven't you got all that north range to yourself?" Bill Atkins
asked begrudgingly.

"Yap. How're you making it, Atkins?"

"Why, as long as I'm let alone, I'm making it all right. It's being
let alone that I can't ever accomplish. When I was a boy I began
my travels to keep out where I could breathe, and I've been crowded
out of Missouri and Kansas and Colorado and Wyoming and California,
and now I've come to the American Desert thinking I could die in
peace, but oh, no, not ME! I no sooner get settled and made my turf
dugout, than here comes a stranger--"

"Name of Brick Willock, if you've forgot," interpolated Willock
genially. "I'll just light my pipe, as I reckon there's no
objections. Lahoma don't care, and you can breathe all right if
you keep with the wind from you."

The man turned his back upon Willock, opened his book and read.

Lahoma approached the block of wood that supported him, while
Willock calmly stretched himself out on the grass. "Is that a
book?" she asked, by way of opening up the conversation.

The man gripped it tighter and moved his lips busily. As she
remained at his knee, he presently said, "Oh, no, it's a
hand-organ!"

Lahoma smiled pityingly. "Are you afraid of me, Atkins?"