"I like you pretty much."
"I'm so glad!"
"You an' Black Bart, an' Satan—"
"Oh!" Her tone changed.
"Why are you tryin' to take your hand away, Kate?"
"Don't you care for me any more than for your horse—and your dog?"
He drew a long breath, puzzled.
"It's some different, I figger."
"Tell me!"
"If Black Bart died—"
The wolf-dog whined, hearing his name.
"Good ol' Bart! Well, if Black Bart died maybe I'd some day have another dog I'd like almost as much."
"Yes."
"An' if Satan died—even Satan!—maybe I could sometime like another hoss pretty well—if he was a pile like Satan! But if you was to die—it'd be different, a considerable pile different."
"Why?"
His pauses to consider these questions were maddening.
"I don't know," he muttered at last.
Once more she was thankful for the dark to hide her smile.
