Charley started to answer, but my look stopped him.
“I’ll have your clothes ready Saturday.” Mrs. Reed slammed the gate and turned toward the house.
“Gee,” said Charley, riding up close beside the buggy, “them two women’ll be fightin’ over Bob yet, if he ain’t careful. Why, that’s funny”—he looked at me questioningly,—“Bob wasn’t to Maggie’s, either, was he?”
“No,” I answered, “I was just wondering about that myself. Perhaps he went to town, instead.” A coyote ran out of a gulch. Charley with a whoop started in pursuit, and the entire incident passed from my mind.
We were going in to supper, when three men drove up to the door. Whenever strangers appeared, I always had a moment of uncertainty as to whether they were to be sent to the bunkhouse with the men, or invited to our own table. Instantaneous social classification is rather difficult when there are no distinguishing external signs. And it had to be done at the moment. The men asked for Owen.
We had no idea who they were, so our conversation during supper was limited to impersonal topics, such as the present, past and future weather, the condition of the range and stock—nothing calculated to offend the delicate sensibilities of a Governor, a ranchman or an ex-convict, inasmuch as our guests might come under any of these heads. Entertaining on a ranch is democratic in the extreme.
They went out with Owen after supper. From the window I could see four dim figures sitting on their heels by the corral gate, talking earnestly.
It was late when they drove away. I was putting up the mail, as Owen entered. His announcement drove all idea of the Postal Laws and regulations out of my head.
“Well, they’ve gone, and have taken Bob and Tom Lane with them.”
“Mercy! what for? Who were they, anyhow?”