The Complete Flying U Series – 24 Westerns in One Edition. B. M. Bower

dismissed from their conversation, of which there grew less and less as the days passed.

      Then came a time when Chip strongly resented being looked upon as an invalid, and Johnny was sent home, greatly to his sorrow.

      Chip hobbled about the house on crutches, and chafed and fretted, and managed to be very miserable indeed because he could not get out and ride and clear his brain and heart of some of their hurt—for it had come to just that; he had been compelled to own that there was a hurt which would not heal in a hurry.

      It was a very bitter young man who, lounging in the big chair by the window one day, suddenly snorted contempt at a Western story he had been reading and cast the magazine—one of the Six Leading—clean into the parlor where it sprawled its artistic leaves in the middle of the floor. The Little Doctor was somewhere—he never seemed to know just where, nowadays—and the house was lonesome as an isolated peak in the Bad Lands.

      “I wish I had the making of the laws. I’d put a bounty on all the darn fools that think they can write cowboy stories just because they rode past a roundup once, on a fast train,” he growled, reaching for his tobacco sack. “Huh! I’d like to meet up with the yahoo that wrote that rank yarn! I’d ask him where he got his lack of information. Huh! A cow-puncher togged up like he was going after the snakiest bronk in the country, when he was only going to drive to town in a buckboard! ‘His pistol belt and dirk and leathern chaps’—oh, Lord; oh, Lord! And spurs! I wonder if he thinks it takes spurs to ride a buckboard? Do they think, back East, that spurs grow on a man’s heels out here and won’t come off? Do they think we SLEEP in ‘em, I wonder?” He drew a match along the arm of the chair where the varnish was worn off. “They think all a cow-puncher has to do is eat and sleep and ride fat horses. I’d like to tell some of them a few things that they don’t—”

      “I’ve brought you a caller, Chip. Aren’t you glad to see him?” It was the Little Doctor at the window, and the laugh he loved was in her voice and in her eyes, that it hurt him to meet, lately.

      The color surged to his face, and he leaned from the window, his thin, white hand outstretched caressingly.

      “I’d tell a man!” he said, and choked a little over it. “Silver, old boy!”

      Silver, nickering softly, limped forward and nestled his nose in the palm of his master.

      “He’s been out in the corral for several days, but I didn’t tell you—I wanted it for a surprise,” said the Little Doctor. “This is his longest trip, but he’ll soon be well now.”

      “Yes; I’d give a good deal if I could walk as well as he can,” said Chip, gloomily.

      “He wasn’t hurt as badly as you were. You ought to be thankful you can walk at all, and that you won’t limp all your life. I was afraid for a while, just at first—”

      “You were? Why didn’t you tell me?” Chip’s eyes were fixed sternly upon her.

      “Because I didn’t want to. It would only have made matters worse, anyway. And you won’t limp, you know, if you’re careful for a while longer. I’m going to get Silver his sugar. He has sugar every day.”

      Silver lifted his head and looked after her inquiringly, whinnied complainingly, and prepared to follow as best he could.

      “Silver—oh, Silver!” Chip snapped his fingers to attract his attention. “Hang the luck, come back here! Would you throw down your best friend for that girl? Has she got to have you, too?” His voice grew wistfully rebellious. “You’re mine. Come back here, you little fool—she doesn’t care.”

      Silver stopped at the corner, swung his head and looked back at Chip, beckoning, coaxing, swearing under his breath. His eyes sought for sign of his goddess, who had disappeared most mysteriously. Throwing up his head, he sent a protest shrilling through the air, and looked no more at Chip.

      “I’m coming, now be still. Oh, don’t you dare paw with your lame leg! Why didn’t you stay with your master?”

      “He’s no use for his master, any more,” said Chip, with a hurt laugh. “A woman always does play the—mischief, somehow. I wonder why? They look innocent enough.”

      “Wait till your turn comes, and perhaps you’ll learn why,” retorted she.

      Chip, knowing that his turn had come, and come to tarry, found nothing to say.

      “Beside,” continued the Little Doctor, “Silver didn’t want me so much—it was the sugar. I hope you aren’t jealous of me, because I know his heart is big enough to hold us both.”

      She stayed a long half hour, and was so gay that it seemed like old times to listen to her laugh and watch her dimples while she talked. Chip forgot that he had a quarrel with fate, and he also forgot Dr. Cecil Granthum, of Gilroy, Ohio—until Slim rode up and handed the Little Doctor a letter addressed in that bold, up-and-down writing that Chip considered a little the ugliest specimen of chirography he had ever seen in his life.

      “It’s from Cecil,” said the Little Doctor, simply and unnecessarily, and led Silver back down the hill.

      Chip, gazing at that tiresome bluff across the coulee, renewed his quarrel with fate.

Chapter XV. The Spoils of Victory

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      “I wish, while I’m gone, you’d paint me another picture. Will you, PLEASE?”

      When a girl has big, gray eyes that half convince you they are not gray at all, but brown, or blue, at times, and a way of using them that makes a fellow heady, like champagne, and a couple of dimples that will dodge into her cheeks just when a fellow is least prepared to resist them—why, what can a fellow do but knuckle under and say yes, especially when she lets her head tip to one side a little and says “please” like that?

      Chip tried not to look at her, but he couldn’t help himself very well while she stood directly in front of him. He compromised weakly instead of refusing point-blank, as he told himself he wanted to do.

      “I don’t know—maybe I can’t, again.”

      “Maybe you can, though. Here’s an eighteen by twenty-four canvas, and here are all the paints I have in the house, and the brushes. I’ll expect to see something worth while, when I return.”

      “Well, but if I can’t—”

      “Look here. Straight in the eye, if you please! Now, will you TRY?”

      Chip, looking into her eyes that were laughing, but with a certain earnestness behind the laugh, threw up his hands—mentally, you know.

      “Yes, I’ll try. How long are you going to be gone?”

      “Oh, perhaps a week,” she said, lightly, and Chip’s heart went heavy.

      “You may paint any kind of picture you like, but I’d rather you did something like ‘The Last Stand’—only better. And put your brand, as you call it, in one corner.”

      “You won’t sell it, will you?” The words slipped out before he knew.

      “No—no, I won’t sell it, for it won’t be mine. It’s for yourself this time.”

      “Then there won’t be any picture,” said Chip, shortly.

      “Oh, yes, there will,” smiled the Little Doctor, sweetly, and went away before he could contradict her.

      Perhaps a week! Heavens, that was seven days, and every day had at least sixteen waking hours. How would it be when it was years, then? When Dr. Cecil Granthum—(er—no, I won’t. The invective attached to that gentleman’s name was something not to be repeated here.) At any rate, a week was a long, long time to put in without any gray eyes or any laugh, or any dimples, or, in short, without the Little Doctor. He could not see, for his part, why she wanted