"Buck, I 'm like Jake: 'sot in my ways.' There is no necessity to follow that pole-cat, as you so aptly call him. And you are not going to the ranch, you know. Miss LaFrance has kindly volunteered expert service in nursing and I intend that you shall get it. Miss McAllister, Miss LaFrance, whose services you already know; and Mr. Peters, your father's partner."
"You must not think of going on to the ranch, Mr. Peters," persuaded Margaret. "I only hope it is not too far to Miss LaFrance's home. If we could lift you—I 'm afraid these horses won't stand."
"Lift! I reckon I got one good laig, Miss McAllister—" he fell back with a grunt.
"Dash it all, Buck! Do you want to break open that wound? 'Pon my word, I don't envy you your patient, Miss LaFrance. You lie still, you restless beggar. I 've packed more than one man with a game leg and gone it alone. Do you think you can manage those dancing jackasses?" He looked doubtingly from them to Margaret.
Margaret dimpled. "Ask Sandy," she advised, demurely.
"Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into bubbling laughter that reflected from Rose's face in the faint shadow of a smile.
"Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters," apologized Margaret, correctly interpreting the expression of Rose, whose glance had turned to Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I least expected it that I forgot for the moment you are wounded."
She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus unobserved, displayed a grin more fittingly adapted to the countenance of the famous Cat of Cheshire. Rose glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two women were already aware of that which the men would never guess in each other.
"Shucks! I been shot up worse 'n this, Miss McAllister," assured Buck; "if that pig-headed Britisher would on'y take orders like he oughta. He 's obstinater nor a cow with a suckin' calf."
"Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his preparations for the lift. "Now, Miss LaFrance."