But Robin grew wary of pursuing that inquiry. He was afraid of getting out of his depth, not too sure she wasn’t poking fun at him. Girls did that, he knew. He took refuge in the obvious.
“Your hair’s sure different,” he grinned.
“It is right now,” May admitted calmly. She ran her fingers through the tangle of short yellow curls. “But it won’t be by and by—when it grows again. I was ill. The fever made it come out. It’s a good cure for vanity to be bald as an egg, even if only for a little while. Let’s ride the way you’re going for awhile—toward the Bar M Bar.”
Their horses struck a running walk, that untiring gait of the cow horse trained to cover ground with the least effort. As they rode May and Robin talked, until on a low ridge with twilight drawing in the girl pulled up and held out her hand.
“Good-by, Robin Tyler,” she said. “I wonder when we’ll meet again.”
“Lord knows,” Robin answered frankly. “If I had nothing to do but sit on a fat horse and let my feet hang down you might see more than you wanted to see of me. But I’m with the round-up until beef-gatherin’s done. By that time you’ll be gone.”
“No,” May said. “I’m not going any more for awhile, except when dad goes to Helena or south for the winter. I’m through school.”
“Got your diploma and everything?”
“Yes. Although I don’t know what good it’s going to do me. If I’d been a boy I’d be on round-up now, myself.”
“Tell me,” she asked, as if an afterthought had come, “you know Mark Steele pretty well, don’t you?”