work over to Deadman's Gulch again."

The young girl's eyes brightened timidly with a feminine mingling of
imaginative awe and personal, pitying interest. He was, after all, so
young and amiable looking for such hardships and adventures. And with
all this, he--this Indian fighter--was a little afraid of HER!

"Then that's why you carry that knife and six-shooter?" she said. "But
you won't want 'em now, here in the settlement."

"That's ez mebbe," said the stranger darkly. He paused, and then
suddenly, as if recklessly accepting a dangerous risk, unbuckled his
revolver and handed it abstractedly to the young girl. But the sheath
of the bowie-knife was a fixture in his body-belt, and he was obliged
to withdraw the glittering blade by itself, and to hand it to her in all
its naked terrors. The young girl received the weapons with a smiling
complacency. Upon such altars as these the skeptical reader will
remember that Mars had once hung his "battered shield," his lance, and
"uncontrolled crest."

Nevertheless, the warlike teamster was not without embarrassment.
Muttering something about the necessity of "looking after his stock,"
he achieved a hesitating bow, backed awkwardly out of the door, and
receiving from the conquering hands of the young girl his weapons again,
was obliged to carry them somewhat ingloriously in his hands across
the road, and put them on the wagon seat, where, in company with the
culinary articles, they seemed to lose their distinctively aggressive
character. Here, although his cheek was still flushed from his peaceful
encounter, his voice regained some of its hoarse severity as he drove
the oxen from the muddy pool into which they had luxuriantly wandered,