So Sandy, too, had his fears. Gard’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the approaching group.
“Shucks, Sandy!” he exclaimed. “You want to keep away from the loco patches, man. He couldn’t do it!”
The thought of Helen’s frank, pure eyes put unnecessary emphasis into his speech; but Sandy was pleased.
“Good talk!” he cried, with a long breath of relief. “Guess I’m some of an old fool; but I’ve seen the little gal grow up from that high,” measuring an incredibly short distance above the desert, “An’ you put in a pin where I tell you, Gard: that there Westcott’s a tarantula an’ a side-winder all into one; an’ some day you’ll know it.”
“I guess that’s no lie, Sandy.” Gard’s face was pale, and his eyes wore a strange look. He spoke very low; for the others were coming within earshot.
“Guess I’ll mosey along,” the foreman said. “I come a driftin’ up here after some hog-grease, an’ I’ll have to buscar Chang fer’t.”
He walked off in the direction of the kitchen as the others began talking to Gard. Half an hour afterwards Anderson was waving adios to Westcott, from the great rancho gateway.
The attorney rode out on the desert, glorious in the afternoon light, and taking a wide sweep turned back by way of the corrals. A cow-puncher who had been squatting against one of the fences, waiting, got up as he came in sight, and shuffled out to meet him.
“What did you want of me, Broome?” Westcott asked at once.
Broome lounged up against the fence, his hands in his pockets.