“Well, talk, you damned grinning inquisitor!” was Taylor’s greeting to the puncher. “What did she say?”
“At first she didn’t seem to be a heap overjoyed to know that you was in this country,” said the other; “but when she heard you’d been hurt she sort of stampeded, invitin’ you to come an’ set on the porch with her.”
Taylor got up and started for the door, the bandaged foot dragging clumsily.
“Shucks,” drawled the puncher; “if you go to runnin’ to her she’ll have suspicions. Accordin’ to my notion, she expects you to come a hobblin’, same as though your leg was broke. ‘Help him to come,’ she told me. An’ you’re goin’ that way—you hear me! I’ll bust your ankle with a club before I’ll have her think I’m a liar!”
“Maybe I was a little eager,” grinned Taylor.
An instant later he stepped out of the bunkhouse door, leaning heavily on the puncher’s shoulder.
The two made slow progress to the porch; and Taylor’s ascent to the porch and his final achievement of the rocking-chair were accomplished slowly, with the assistance of Miss Harlan.
Then, with a face almost the color of the scarlet neckerchief he wore, Taylor watched the retreat of the puncher.
His face became redder when Miss Harlan drew another rocker close to his and demanded to be told the story of the accident.
“My own fault,” declared Taylor. “I was in a hurry. Accidents always happen that way, don’t they? Slipped trying to swing on my horse, with him running. Missed the stirrup. Clumsy, wasn’t it?”