They had dinner, a merry noisy meal, with the men at the bunk house. It was a novelty Bob and Betty thoroughly enjoyed and they found the men, mostly clerical workers, a few bosses and Dave Thorne, the well foreman, a friendly, clever crowd who were to a man keenly interested in the work at the fields. They talked shop incessantly, and both Betty and Bob gained much accurate information of positive value.
After dinner Mr. Gordon drove them back to the Watterby farm, promising another trip soon. He had to go back immediately, and slept at the fields that night. Thereafter he came and went as he could, sometimes being absent for two or three days at a time. The horse he had ordered for Betty arrived, and proved to be all that was said for it. She was a wiry little animal, and Betty christened her “Clover.” For Bob, Mr. Gordon succeeded in capturing a big, rawboned white horse with a gift of astonishing speed. Riding horses were at a premium, for distances between wells were something to be reckoned with, and those who did not own a car had to depend on horses. Bob even saw one enthusiastic prospector mounted on a donkey.
As soon as they were used to their mounts, Betty and Bob began to go off for long rides, always remembering Mr. Gordon’s injunction to stay away from the town.
“How tanned you are, Betty!” Bob said one day, as they were letting their horses walk after a brisk gallop. “I declare, you’re almost as brown as Ki. I like you that way, though,” he added hastily, as if he feared she might think he was criticising. “And that red tie is awfully pretty.”
“You look like an Indian yourself,” said Betty shyly.
But Bob’s blue eyes, while attractive enough in his brown face, would preclude any idea that he might have Indian blood. Betty, on the other hand, as the boy said, was as brown as an Indian, and her dark eyes and heavy straight dark hair, which she now wore in a thick braid down her back, would have enabled her to play the part of Minnehaha, or that of a pretty Gypsy lass, with little trouble. Her khaki riding suit was very becoming, and to-day she had knotted a scarlet tie under the trim little collar that further emphasized her vivid coloring and the smooth tan of her cheeks. Although the sun was hot, she would not bother with a hat, and Bob, too, was bareheaded. They looked what they were—a healthy, happy, wide-awake American boy and girl and ready for either adventure or service, or a mixture of both, and reasonably sure to call whatever might befall them “fun”.
“Why don’t we go to that north section Dave Thorne is always talking about?” suggested Bob. “He is forever harping on the subject of a fire there, and I’d like to look it over.”
“But it must be five miles from here,” said Betty doubtfully. “Can we get back in time for dinner?”
“If we can’t, we’ll get some one of the Chinese cooks to give us a lunch,” returned Bob confidently. “Let’s go, Betty. I know the way, because I studied the map Uncle Dick had out on the table night before last. The north section is shut off from the others, and it’s backed up against the furthest end of that perfect forest of derricks we saw the first time we went to Uncle Dick’s wells—remember? I think that is what worries Dave—some of those small holders have tempers like porcupines and they always think some one is infringing on their rights. Let one of ’em get mad and take it out on Dave, and there might be a four-alarm fire without much trouble.”
“Do you know what I miss more than anything else?” asked Betty, when the horses’ heads were turned and they were on their way to the north section. “You’ll never guess—ice-cream soda! I haven’t had one for weeks—not since we left Chicago.”