"They'll be here in less than an hour." If the Pilgrim wanted peace, he was thinking rapidly, what grounds had he for ignoring the truce?
He himself had been the aggressor and he also had been the victor.

According to the honor of fighting men, he should be generous.

And when all was said and done--and the thought galled Billy more than he could understand--the offense of the Pilgrim had been extremely intangible; it had consisted almost wholly of looks and a tone or two, and he realized quite plainly that his own dislike of the Pilgrim had probably colored his judgment.

Anyway, he had thrashed the Pilgrim and driven him away from camp and killed his dog.
Wasn't that enough?
And if the Pilgrim chose to forget the unpleasant circumstances of their parting and be friends, what could he do but forget also?
Especially since the girl did not appear to be holding any grudge for what had passed between them in the line-camp.

Billy, buttering a biscuit with much care, wished he knew just what _had_ happened that night before he opened the door, and wondered if he dared ask her.
Under all his thoughts and through all he hated the Pilgrim, his bold blue eyes, his full, smiling lips and smooth cheeks, as he had never hated him before; and he hated himself because, being unable to account even to himself for his feelings toward the Pilgrim, he was obliged to hide his hate and be friends--or else act the fool.