His own life had been no bed of roses—no pioneer’s was—and he, too, had known loneliness, hardships, but never anything like this. His shrewd face, deep-seamed and weather-beaten by the suns and snows of many years, worked. Then he straightened his shoulders, stooped from years of riding, and the black eyes under their thick eyebrows flashed.
“So this was that Sprudell fellow’s work, was it? He was trying to freeze Bruce out, down him because he thought he had no backing—break him on the rack!” His teeth shut hard and the fingers inside his mittens clenched. “There were people in the world who thought they could treat Bruce like that—and get away with it? Annie’s boy—his son! Not yet, by God, not while steers were bringing nine-sixty on the hoof.”
Burt strode around the corner and threw the door back wide.
“Bruce! Bruce! You mustn’t feel so bad!” Excitement made his voice sound harsh, but there was no mistaking the sympathy intended or the yearning in his face.
Bruce jumped, startled, to his feet and stared, his vision dimmed by the smarting tears. Was it a ghost—was he, too, getting “queer?”
“Haven’t you anything to say to me, Bruce?”
There was an odd timidity in his father’s voice but it was real enough—it was no hallucination. Simultaneous with the relief the thought flashed through Bruce’s mind that his father had seen him through the window in his moment of weakness and despair. His features stiffened and with a quick, shamed movement he brushed his eyes with the back of his hand while his eyes flashed pride and resentment.
“I said all I had to say fifteen years ago when you refused me the chance to make something of myself. If I’d had an education nobody could have made a fool of me like this.” His voice vibrated with mingled bitterness and mortification.
“I suppose you’ve heard all about it and come to say—‘I told you so.’”