“Here are some mushrooms,” he said guardedly, lest his voice should carry to Honey. “They're just an excuse. Far as I'm concerned you can feed them to the hogs. I like things clean and natural and wholesome, myself. I came to find out what's the matter, Mrs. Morris. Is there anything I can do? I took the hint you gave me in the note, Sunday, and I discovered right away you knew what you were talking about. That was a holdup down in the Sinks. It couldn't have been anything else. But they wouldn't have got anything. I didn't have more than a dollar in my pocket.”
Marian turned her head, and listened to the piano, and glanced up at him.
“I also like things clean and natural and wholesome,” she said quietly. “That's why I tried to put you on your guard. You don't seem to fit in, somehow, with—the surroundings. I happen to know that the races held here every Sunday are just thinly veiled attempts to cheat the unwary out of every cent they have. I should advise you, Mr. Birnie, to be very careful how you bet on any horses.”
“I shall,” Bud smiled. “Pop gave me some good advice, too, about running horses. He says, 'It's every fellow for himself, and mercy toward none.' I'm playing by their rule, and Pop expects to make a few dollars, too. He said he'd stand by me.”
“Oh! He did?” Marian's voice puzzled Bud. She kneaded the bread vigorously for a minute. “Don't depend too much on Pop. He's—variable. And don't go around with a dollar in your pocket—unless you don't mind losing that dollar. There are men in this country who would willingly dispense with the formality of racing a horse in order to get your money.”
“Yes—I've discovered one informal method already. I wish I knew how I could help YOU.”
“Help me—in what way?” Marian glanced out of the window again as if that were a habit she had formed.
“I don't know. I wish I did. I thought perhaps you had some trouble that—My mother had the same look in her eyes when we came back to the ranch after some Indian trouble, and found the house burned and everything destroyed but the ground itself. She didn't say anything much. She just began helping father plan how we'd manage until we could get material and build another cabin, and make our supplies hold out. She didn't complain. But her eyes had the same look I've seen in yours, Mrs. Morris. So I feel as if I ought to help you, just as I'd help mother.” Bud's face had been red and embarrassed when he began, but his earnestness served to erase his selfconsciousness.
“You're different—just like mother,” he went on when Marian did not answer. “You don't belong here drudging in this kitchen. I never saw a woman doing a man's work before. They ought to have a man cooking for all these hulking men.”
“Oh, the kitchen!” Marian exclaimed impatiently. “I don't mind the cooking. That's the least—”