“I intend to see him, Barbara—but alone. There are several things of importance that I want to say to him—chiefly concerning his conduct toward you.”
He got up. Barbara rose also, and walked with him, outside the gate, where he got on his horse, smiling down at her.
“Harlan was right about your riding out alone. I’d stay as close to the ranchhouse as possible. There’s no telling what Deveny might try to do. But don’t worry. If it wasn’t so soon after—after what has happened—I would—” He smiled, and Barbara knew he meant what he had said to her many times—about there being a parson in Lazette, a hundred miles or so northeastward—and of his eagerness to be present with her while the parson “tied the knot.” His manner had always been jocose, and yet she knew of the earnestness behind it.
Still, she had not yielded to his importunities, because she had not been quite sure that she wanted him. Nor was she certain now, though she liked him better at this moment than she had ever liked him before.
She shook her head negatively, answering his smile; and watched him as he rode around a corner of the ranchhouse toward the corral where, no doubt, he would find Harlan.
Harlan had ridden directly to the bunkhouse door and dismounted. Red Linton said nothing until Harlan seated himself on a bench just outside the bunkhouse door. Then Linton grinned at him.
“There’s a geezer come a-wooin’,” he said.
Harlan glared at the red-haired man—a truculent, savage glare that made Linton stretch his lips until the corners threatened to retreat to his ears. Then Linton assumed a deprecatory manner.
“They ain’t no chance for him, I reckon. He’s been burnin’ up the breeze between here an’ the Star for more’n a year—an’ she ain’t as much as kissed him, I’d swear!”