"You remember Matty Roberts, don't you, Charlie?" Gus inquired.

"Yes, she's a fine woman," Goodnight said. "She's in the love business but love ain't been kind to her. I've not visited her establishment in Denver but they say it's lavish." "What do you mean, love ain't been kind?" Gus asked. He realized that he had no recent information about his old friend.

"Matilda's dying, that's what I mean," Goodnight said. He had unsaddled his horse, so the sorrel could have a good roll in the dust; but the sorrel had had his roll and in a few minutes Goodnight was ready to depart.

"What--Matty's dying--what of?" Augustus asked, shocked. Now another woman of his close acquaintance was about to be carried off.

The news struck him almost as hard as if he had been told that Clara was dying. Even Woodrow Call would admit a fondness for Matty Roberts; he would be shocked when he heard the news.

"I don't know what of," Goodnight informed him. "I suppose she's just dying of living--t's the one infection that strikes us all down, sooner or later." He mounted and started to leave, but turned back and looked down at Augustus, who still sat idly at the campfire.

"Are you poorly today?" Goodnight asked.

"No, I'm well--why would you ask, Charlie?" Gus said.

"You don't seem to be in an active frame of mind today, that's why," Goodnight said. "You ain't ready to die, are you?" "Why, no," Augustus said, startled by the question.

"I'm just a little sleepy. I was sitting up with Nellie quite a few nights before she passed away." Goodnight did not seem to be satisfied by that answer. The sorrel was nervous, ready to leave, but Goodnight held him back, which was unusual.

When Charlie Goodnight was ready to go he usually left without ceremony, seldom giving whomever he was talking to even the leisure to finish a sentence. He had never been one to linger--yet, now, he was lingering, looking at Augustus hard.

"If you were under my orders I'd order you home," he said bluntly. "A man who can't get himself in an active frame of mind by this hour has no business travelling in this direction." "Well, I ain't under your orders and I never will be," Augustus retorted, a little annoyed by the man's tone. "I ain't a child and nobody appointed you to watch over me." Goodnight smiled--al a rare thing.

"I was concerned that you might have lost your snap, but I guess you ain't," he said, turning his horse again.

"Wait, Charlie ... if you're bound for Denver I've got something for you to take to Matty," Gus said. The news that she was dying struck him hard--he was beginning to remember all the fine times he had had with the woman. He went to his saddlebag and pulled out the sock where he kept his loose money. The sock contained about sixty dollars, which he promptly handed to Goodnight. As he did his face reddened, and he choked up. Why were all the good women dying?

"I was always behind a few pokes with Matilda," he said. "I expect I owe her at least this much. I'd be obliged if you'd take it to her, Charlie." Goodnight looked at the money for a moment and then put it in his pocket.

"How long have you owed this debt?" he asked.

"About fifteen years," Augustus said.

"If you were going toward the Pecos I'd accompany you until your mind gets a little more active," Goodnight offered.

"I ain't, though," Gus said. He did not want company, particularly not company as prickly as Charles Goodnight.

"I'm bound for the good old Rio Grande," he said, although he wasn't.

"All right, goodbye," Goodnight said. "If I plan to find a way to get my cattle to Colorado, I better start looking." "Charlie, if you do see Matty, tell her she's got a friend in Texas," Augustus said-- he was still choked up.

"Done, if I get there in time," Goodnight said.

When five days passed with no ^w from Augustus McCrae or the two men who had been sent to find him, Governor Clark waxed so indignant that he was hot to the touch. Call, impatient himself, thought the Governor's indignation unwarranted. The rangers had no urgent mission at the moment, in light of which Augustus's absence did not seem exceptional. Governor Clark himself was a hunter, often gone from Austin for a week at a time killing deer, antelope, or wild pig. Call began to find the Governor's complaints irksome, and said so to Maggie one evening over a beefsteak which she had been kind enough to cook him. The boy, Newt, had scampered downstairs on his arrival and was blowing his whistle at some chickens who belonged to the lady next door.

"I expect Gus is just grieving," Maggie said. "If I ever had a husband and he died, I'd want to go off someplace to do my grieving.

It wouldn't be fair to Newt to do too much moping at home." "Being a ranger's getting to be like being a policeman," Call said. "Nowadays they want you on call all the time." He noticed that Maggie's arms were freckled to the elbows. Probably she had spent a little too much time in the sun, working the little garden plot she had planted with Jake Spoon's help. In the warm months Maggie was never without vegetables.

It was a fine thing, in Call's view, that Maggie had gained respectable employment at last. He had been in the store one day while Maggie was writing up an inventory and was surprised to see that her penmanship was excellent.

"Why, you write a hand as fine as Jake's," he said. "They'll be asking you to teach school next. I doubt there's a teacher in town who writes that pretty." "Oh, it just takes practice," Maggie said. "Jake lent me his penmanship book and showed me how to do some of the curls." As Call was finishing his beefsteak he noticed Jake's penmanship book on a table by Maggie's bed; then he noticed a bandanna that he thought was Jake's hanging over the bedpost at the foot of Maggie's bed.

He had known, of course, that Jake and Maggie had a friendship; the two of them were often seen working in the garden. Jake's skills as a gardener were such that a number of local women pestered him for his secrets or showed up to watch when he was working in the garden. Jake basked in the attention of all the local ladies--Call had no doubt that many of them would have envied Maggie her penmanship lessons.

"Why, Jake's left his bandanna on the bedpost," Call said, as Maggie was taking his plate to the wash bucket.

"Yes, he left it," Maggie said. At that point young Newt burst in, crying and holding up an injured hand; in his pursuit of the chickens he had wandered too close to old Dan, the turkey, and had been soundly pecked.