“Why,” she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day. “Why, I don’t know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I suppose you will stay here too.”
“All right, ma’am; I’ll be takin’ my war-bag in.” He was evidently feeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. He got his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shouldered it, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth’s voice stopped him.
“Oh,” she said, “your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in the northwest corner.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He went in.
“Come down when you have straightened around,” she called to him, “I want to talk with you about some things.”
“I’ll have to put Patches away, ma’am,” he said, “I’d sure have to come down, anyway.”
That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smoking his pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle off Patches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talk and smoke with Uncle Jepson.
While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.
“One of the boys, I reckon,” said Randerson.
Uncle Jepson chuckled. “It’s Willard,” he said. He peered into Randerson’s face for some signs of emotion. There were none.