A cowboy emerged from a building down near the corral—Marion learned later that the building was the bunkhouse, which meant that it was used as sleeping-quarters for the Arrow outfit—and walked, with the rolling stride so peculiar to his kind, toward the porch.
He was a tall young man, red of face, and just now affected with a mighty embarrassment, which was revealed in the awkward manner in which he removed his hat and shuffled his feet as he came to a halt within a few feet of Marion.
“The boss wants to know how you are gettin’ along, ma’am, an’ if there’s anything you’re wantin’?”
“We are enjoying ourselves immensely, thank you; and there is nothing we want—particularly.”
The puncher had turned to go before the girl thought of the significance of the “boss.”
Her face was a trifle pale as she called to the puncher.
“Who is your boss—if you please?” she asked.
The puncher wheeled, a slow grin on his face.
“Why, Squint Taylor, ma’am.”
She sat erect. “Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is here?”