“Top Hill Tavern,” he said coldly, “is the name of a ranch—not mine. The owners live there.”
“And does she, ‘the best woman in the world,’ live there?”
“We must start now,” he said, rising abruptly and leading the way to the car.
“I should think,” remarked the girl casually after his fourth ineffectual effort to start the engine, “that if she owns a ranch, she might buy a better buzz wagon than this.”
He made no reply, but renewed his futile attempts at starting, muttering words softly the while.
“Don’t be sore, Kurt. I can’t help it because your old ark won’t budge. I didn’t steal anything off it. Wouldn’t it be fierce if you were marooned on the trail with a thief who has a lifelong record!”
He came around the car and stood beside her. His face was flushed. His eyes, of the deep-set sombre kind that grow larger and come to the surface only when strongly moved, burned with the light of anger.
“Did anyone ever try whipping you, I wonder?”
“Sure,” she said cheerfully. “I was brought up on whippings by a—stepmother. But do you feel that way toward me? You look like a man who might strike a woman under certain provocation, perhaps; but not like one who would hit a little girl like me. If you won’t look so cross, I’ll tell you why your ’mobile won’t move.”
He made no reply, but turned to the brake.