"Shucks," said the other; "you're bashful, and you don't run to vanity. Any fool could see that."
"I ain't been introduced to you—regular," said Sanderson, "but you seem to be a heap long on common sense, an' I'd be glad to know you. What did you say your name was?"
"Barney Owen."
"What you doin' at the Double A? You ought be herd-ridin' scholars in a district schoolhouse."
"Missed my calling," grinned the other. "I got to know too much to teach school, but didn't know enough to let John Barleycorn alone. I'm a drifter, sort of. Been roaming around the north country. Struck the basin about three weeks ago. Miss Bransford was needing men—her father—yours, too, of course—having passed out rather sudden. I was wanting work mighty had, and Miss Bransford took me on because I was big enough to do the work of half a dozen men."
His face grew grave. Sanderson understood. Miss Bransford had hired Owen out of pity. Sanderson did not answer.
The little man's face worked strangely, and his eyes glowed.
"If you hadn't come when you did, I would have earned my keep, and Alva Dale would be where he wouldn't bother Miss Bransford any more," he said.
Sanderson straightened. "You'd have shot him, you mean?"
Owen did not speak, merely nodding his head.