Frosty is an independent sort and won't stand a word from anybody, and the wagon-boss is something of a bully.

The gait they were traveling, out there with the wagons, was fraying the nerves of the whole bunch before I left.

And that was all I thought about Frosty.
I had troubles of my own, about that time.

I had put up my bluff, and I kept wondering what I should do if Beryl King called me.

There wasn't much chance that she would, of course; but, still, she wasn't that kind of girl who always does the conventional thing and the expected thing, and I had seen a gleam in her eyes that, in a man's, I should call deviltry, pure and simple.