A cowpuncher who has ridden the range since he was sixteen should not shirk a night ride in a blizzard, or fear losing the trail.

It was not storming so hard a man might not ride ten miles--that is, a man like Charming Billy Boyle.
After that he was in great haste to be gone, and would scarcely wait until Miss Bridger, proudly occupying the position of cook, told him that the chicken stew was ready.

Indeed, he would have gone without eating it if she had not protested in a way that made Billy foolishly glad to submit; as it was, he saddled his horse while he waited, and reached for his sheepskin-lined, "sour-dough" coat before the last mouthful was fairly swallowed.

At the last minute he unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to her.
"I'll leave you this," he remarked, with an awkward attempt to appear careless.

"You'll feel safer if you have a gun, and--and if you're scared at anything, shoot it." He finished with another smile that lighted wonderfully his face and his eyes.
She shook her head.