She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep was his admiration of her.
“And your parents?”
“Both dead, ma’am.” A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his bare head.
“If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you,” she said.
He blushed crimson. “Why, ma’am—” he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.
“Oh!” she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she had seen him from afar, “you are here already!”
“I expect it’s me, ma’am,” he said gravely. “You see, Wes Vickers stopped at the Diamond H last evenin’, an’ I come right over.”
It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step over that line, and his manner showed it.
“Well,” she said, “I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation, that you will be able to fill his place acceptably.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon I’m to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?” He paused. “Or mebbe the foreman’s shanty?”