"Solitude ought to feel good, after to-day." When he got
no answer, Dade looked around at the other.
Jack's face showed vaguely through the night fog creeping in from the
clamorous ocean off to the west. His legs were hanging free of the
stirrups, and his hands rested upon the high saddle-horn.
"Say, Dade," he asked irrelevantly and with a mystifying earnestness,
"which do you think would kill a man quickest--a slash across the
throat, or a stab in the heart?"
"I wouldn't call either one healthy. Why?"
"I was just wondering," Jack returned ambiguously. "If you hadn't
happened along--say, how did you happen to come? Was that another
sample of my fool's luck?" Since the coincidence had not struck him
before, one might guess that he was accustomed to having Dade at his
elbow when he was most needed.
"Bill Wilson sent word that you were making seven kinds of a fool of
yourself--Bill named a few of them--and advised me to get you out
of town. I've more respect for Bill's judgment than ever. I took his
advice as it stood--and therefore, you're headed for safer territory
than you were awhile ago. It ain't heaven," he added, "but it's next
thing to it."
"I'm not hankering after heaven, right now," averred Jack. "Most any
other place looks good to me; I'm not feeling a hit critical, Dade.
And if I didn't say it before, old man, you're worth a whole regiment
to a fellow in a fix.
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