Upon a clothesline, stretched from one corner of the house to a juniper post in the yard were a number of garments that had never been worn by Billy Magee; to wit—a calico dress, three pairs of silk stockings, some fluffy bits of lingerie, together with handkerchiefs and other articles.
He took a long breath. Though he was a handsome man he was anything but a gallant; he would do anything rather than face a woman. Which was perfectly natural considering the mode of life to which he had been accustomed. Bunk houses do not make for polish; and Billy was a confirmed bachelor. Girls were fairy creatures to be thought of—beings dreamy, distant, illusive—to be longed for! And here was one on his own homestead! For a moment he felt like giving up and returning whence he had come. But he had still the leaven of curiosity. He had quite forgotten Holman. Anyway, he would see what she looked like.
He left the pinto at the gate and entered the enclosure that he had fenced off the year before. It was the same and yet so different. From an open window there came a fragrance that made him hungry—not the bacon and eggs nor the ham and coffee of the confirmed desert rat; but the sweet irritating odor of apple pies. Surely, there was a woman. The stockings upon the line were of silk—somehow it seemed proper for them to be there. She would be young; and he set his mind that she would be pretty. Oh, yes, she would be that, and she could sing—from the house came the sweet flood of a love song.
Billy knocked at the door—his own door. Upon the panel was a piece of paper. He read:
Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
That’s where the West begins.
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there’s more of giving, and less of buying,
Where a man makes friends without half trying,