where I can hear the girls' heels knock the sidewalk. I'm done; my experimentin' with these here sheep-ranch women's over. You can tell her you saw me, and I was on my way."
"But you don't mean you're quitting her, Peck?"
"Cold. I'm quittin' her cold."
"What do you suppose she'll say?"
"Plenty," said Peck, with deep conviction. "Let her rair, it'll do her good. She'll think double next time before she deceives any stranger into marryin' her. Say, Rawlins; you remember that bundle of money Tippie brought her the day I hit the ranch?"
"Sure I remember it."
"So do I," said Peck, sadly. "And that's all I've got of it—a remembrance. I ain't never seen the color of that long-green since; I never would if I hung around there the rest of my life. What's the use of bein' a husband to a woman and a stranger to her money? That's what I say. I'd ruther punch transfers on the end of a street-car in St. Joe."
"So you're on your way. Well, I thought you had more nerve than that, Peck. I never took you for a quitter. In fact, Tippie and I thought you'd be about as hard to lose as a tick."
"You see me," said Peck, significantly. "I didn't tell that old Chinaman anything about my scheme, I just throwed a saddle on my horse—her horse, I don't even own its snort—and headed south, trustin' to luck to hit the railroad."
"When was that?"
"This morning while that old Dago feller was wakin' up the sheep. He won't miss me before a couple of
