She sighed with disappointment. It was not Falcon the Flunky, but one of her father’s vaqueros, Splicer Kurtz.
“Yes. Hello, Splicer! What brings you out of the mountains?”
“Sumpin. Got anything cold you could gi’me to eat, Manzanita?”
“Sure; pie and milk and cold beefsteak. Or I’ll cook you something. Are you afoot? I didn’t know you could walk.”
The cow-puncher stepped on the veranda and laughed. “Oh, I’m ridin’. I left my caballo out on the desert, though, and walked in.”
“Why, what a silly thing to do!”
“Maybe; maybe. Just gi’me somethin’ cold—all you c’n spare—and I’ll pack ’er away with me, Nita.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind! Come in and put your big feet under the table, Splicer.”
“No, thank ye, Nita; I gotta be foggin’ it. You see, I’m busy.”
“What’s up?”