All the
devil-may-care insouciance of Buck Daniels was quite, quite gone. In its
place was a dogged sullenness, a hang-dog air which one would not care
to face of a dark night or in a lonely place. His manner was that of a
man whose back is against the wall, who, having fled some keen pursuit,
has now come to the end of his tether and prepares for desperate even
if hopeless battle. There was that about him which made the doctor
hesitate to address the cowpuncher.
At length he said: "You're going out for an outing, Mr. Daniels?"
Buck Daniels started violently at the sound of this voice behind him,
and whirled upon the doctor with such a set and contorted expression of
fierceness that Byrne jumped back.
"Good God, man!" cried the doctor, "What's up with you?"
"Nothin'," answered Buck, gradually relaxing from his first show of
suspicion. "I'm beating it. That's all."
"Leaving us?"
"Yes."
"Not really!"
"D'you think I ought to stay?" asked Buck, with something of a sneer.
The doctor hesitated, frowning in a puzzled way. At length he threw out
his hands in a gesture of mute abandonment.
"My dear fellow," he said with a faint smile, "I've about stopped trying
to think."
At this Buck Daniels grinned mirthlessly.
"Now you're talkin' sense," he nodded. "They ain't no use in thinking."
"But why do you leave so suddenly?"
Buck Daniels shrugged his broad shoulders.
"I am sure," went on Byrne, "that Miss Cumberland will miss you.
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