"Miss McCrae is a leddy," said Quilty, with quiet dignity. "And Casey Dunne is—is a dom good friend of mine."
The riders drew up at the platform, and Casey Dunne hailed the agent. "Hallo, Corney! Any freight for Talapus or Chakchak?" The last was the name of his own ranch, and in the Chinook jargon signified an eagle.
"Freight for both iv yez," Quilty replied. "But sure ye won't be takin' it on the cayuses. Howdy, Miss Sheila! Will ye 'light and try the comp'ny's ice wather wid a shot iv a limon, or shall I bring ye a pitcher?"
"I'll 'light, Mr. Quilty, thank you," said Sheila. She swung down from Beaver Boy, letting the lines trail, and Dunne dropped off Shiner.
Quilty introduced the engineer punctiliously. Farwell raised his hat, and bowed to the girl, but did not offer his hand to Casey Dunne.
"I've heard of you—from York," he said meaningly.
"I've heard that Mr. York has a wonderful memory for faces and names," said Casey. "Quite flattering to be remembered by him. I've only met him once."
"He remembers you very well," Farwell returned dryly.
Sheila McCrae stood by, watching them, hearing the rasp of steel beneath the apparently casual words. And unconsciously she measured the men, one against the other.
Farwell was slightly the taller and much the heavier. He created the impression of force, of dominance. The heavy, square chin, the wide, firm mouth, the black, truculent eyes beneath heavy brows, all marked the master, if not the tyrant. His body was thick and muscular, and he stood solidly, confident of himself, of his position, a man to command.