“I did write to ’em—out of cur'osity.”
“Don’t forget that married men are not hired into this Outfit,” she reminded him, smiling. “I’d be sorry to lose you.”
“Gosh a'mighty!” he protested vigorously. “I ain’t no use fer women!”
The subject seemed to interest him, however, for he continued with animation:
“They’s always somethin’ about ’em I don’t like when I git to know ’em. I’ve knowed several real well—six or eight, altogether, countin’ two that run restauraws and one that done my warshin’. I got a kind o’ cur'osity about ’em, but I don’t take no personal interest in ’em. Why—Gosh—a'mighty—”
Bowers nearly kicked the stove over in his embarrassed denial.
Kate looked after him speculatively as he made his escape in a relief that was rather obvious. His protests had been too vehement to be convincing. Was he growing discontented? Didn’t her friendship satisfy him any longer?
There was something of the patient trust of a sheepdog in Bowers’s fidelity. “The queen can do no wrong,” was his attitude. Kate was so accustomed to his devotion and admiration that it gave her a twinge to think of sharing it.
She called after him as he was leaving:
“If you meet that freighter, tell him for me he’ll get his check if he gets in again as early as he did last trip. I won’t have a horse left with a sound pair of shoulders.”