It's--eh--bad taste out here to--eh--doubt anybody's word--eh--publicly." Moffat stirred uneasily, his hand flung behind him, but McNeil was gazing into the lady's fair face, apparently unconscious of any other presence.
"But all this time you have not favored me with any of your own adventures, Mr.McNeil.

I am very sure you must have had hundreds out on these wide plains." The somewhat embarrassed foreman shook his head discouragingly.
"Oh, but I just know you have, only you are so modest about recounting them.

Now, that scar just under your hair--really it is not at all unbecoming--surely that reveals a story.

Was it caused by an Indian arrow ?" McNeil crossed his legs, and wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

"Hoof of a damn pack-mule," he explained, forgetting himself.