“Not the slightest in the world.”
Mr. Daisy sighed as does one who has quested long in vain, and turned on the seat.
“Well, good night,” he said as he climbed to the ground. “The day’s comin’, though—an’ she ain’t far off—when you’ll say: ‘Sucker that I was! I coulda had that fella Daisy fer just sayin’ a word. But I wasted me opportunity. Now look at um! And it’s too late—too late!’”
“Is that all?” asked Wing o’ the Crow.
“All for the present.”
“Good night!”
CHAPTER X
GUESTS
SQUAWTOOTH CANBY was finding his new rôle a difficult one. As his devoted daughter had expressed it, he was not a “folks snob,” but merely a “money snob,” and a new and inexperienced one at that. The warm hospitality of Squawtooth Ranch was a byword in this section of the country. Any man, vaquero, miner, prospector, homesteader, or the chance wayfarer from the inside of the range was welcome at Squawtooth so long as he showed the slightest evidences of being a gentleman as the term is interpreted in the outland West. Penniless prospectors and underpaid cow-punchers for years had sat at table with the master of the squat old adobe and the master’s daughter, and no member of the household ever had thought of considering them anything but equals. To break the custom of a lifetime is a difficult matter; and to-night Webster Canby found himself perplexed as how to treat his guests. Falcon the Flunky and Hunter Mangan.
He had not known that the first named was to be a guest until shortly before his arrival. He had come afoot five minutes ahead of Mangan, who arrived on horseback. When Manzanita had seen him walking in from the desert she had told her father that she herself had invited a guest for supper, and there had been little time before The Falcon’s arrival for questions. She introduced him, when he stepped over the high threshold, as Mr. Falcon of the Mangan-Hatton camp.
This was a busy time of year for Squawtooth Canby, and he had not found much opportunity to visit his new friend’s camp. Therefore it was not surprising that he never before had met a man called Mr. Falcon. The visitor was hardly dressed as a member of the camp’s royal family would be—in khaki or corduroy and puttees—but he was nevertheless presentable. Dress clothes of any kind were almost unknown to most of the men who came to Squawtooth, so in this The Falcon was not amiss.