Margaret, responding to her brother's exited summons, went to the door and her hands flew to her breast. A wagon, loaded with packages, pulled up at the dilapidated corral and eight rough-looking men, driving a herd of horses, stopped near it. One of them kept on at a walk and approached her. Removing his sombrero, he pulled up and bowed.
"Ma'am," he said, slowly and kindly, a smile wreathing his weather-beaten face, from which genial gray eyes twinkled at her; "Ma'am, we have come out to round up for you. We understand that this ranch ain't been combed for three years—an' it shore is time it was. I saw a wire fence north of th' trail: how far does it run?"
"Why, why—I didn't know—we were not expecting any round-up. Isn't there some mistake?" she faltered.
"I don't reckon there is, Ma'am," Cimarron assured her. "Mr. Nelson was tellin' us about th' SV, an' we all reckoned it was time there was a round-up run over here. You ought to know how many cows you got; an' mebby there's some as should be branded."
"I hardly know what to say—how to thank you," Margaret replied. "Won't you come in and speak to father? He doesn't want to leave his bed for a few days more."
"Shore, Ma'am," said Cimarron, dismounting and throwing the reins over the head of his horse, and following her into the house.
"Father, this is Mr.—Mr.—?" she looked at Cimarron inquiringly.
"Quantrell—Cimarron Quantrell," he smiled. "I was born on th' banks of th' Cimarron when they wasn't exactly safe for bein' born on, but our fambly was lucky."
"This is my father, Mr. Quantrell," smiled Margaret. "I'll leave you men to talk by yourselves. If you want me, please call."