She was on her feet, ready to turn to go into the house, for his manner of receiving her insult had made her feel infinitely small and mean. But at his words she halted and looked at him.
“Why should you send Red Owen to see me? What do you mean?” she demanded.
“Why, you’ve made it pretty plain, ma’am,” he answered with a low laugh, turning his head to look back at her. “I reckon you wouldn’t expect me to go on workin’ for you, after you’ve got so you don’t trust me any more. Red will make you a good range boss.”
He urged Patches on. But she called to him, a strange regret filling her, whitening her cheeks, and Patches came again to a halt.
“I—I don’t want Red Owen for a range boss,” she declared with a gulp. “If you are determined to quit, I—I suppose I cannot prevent it. But you can stay a week or two, can’t you—until I can get somebody I like?”
He smiled gravely. “Why, I reckon I can, ma’am,” he answered respectfully. “There won’t be no awful hurry about it. I wouldn’t want to disconvenience you.”
And then he was off into the deepening haze of the coming evening, riding tall and rigid, with never a look behind to show her that he cared.
Standing in the doorway of the house, the girl watched him, both hands at her breast, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, until the somber shadows of twilight came down and swallowed him. Then, oppressed with a sudden sense of the emptiness of the world, she went into the house.