The news of Judge Ware’s visit had passed through the Four Peaks country like the rumor of an Indian uprising and every man rode into Hidden Water with an eye out for calico, some with a foolish grin, some downcast and reserved, some swaggering 243 in the natural pride of the lady’s man. But a becoming modesty had kept Lucy Ware indoors, and Kitty had limited herself to a furtive survey of the scene from behind what was left of Sallie Winship’s lace curtains. With the subtle wisdom of a rodéo boss Jefferson Creede had excused himself to the ladies at the first sound of jangling horse-bells, and now he kept resolutely away from the house, busying himself with the manifold duties of his position. To the leading questions of Bill Lightfoot and the “fly bunch” which followed his lead he turned a deaf ear or replied in unsatisfying monosyllables; and at last, as the fire lit up the trees and flickered upon their guns and silver-mounted trappings and no fair maids sallied forth to admire them, the overwrought emotions of the cowboys sought expression in song.
| “Oh my little girl she lives in the town,” |
chanted Lightfoot, and the fly bunch, catching the contagion, joined promptly in on the refrain:
| “A toodle link, a toodle link, a too––oo-dle a day!” |
At this sudden and suggestive outbreak Jeff Creede surveyed Bill Lightfoot coldly and puffed on his cigarette. Bill was always trying to make trouble.
| “And every time I see ’er, she asts me f’r a gown,” |
carolled the leading cowboy; and the bunch, not to seem faint-hearted, chimed in again:
| “Reladin to reladin, and reladin to relate!” |
Now they were verging toward the sensational part of the ballad, the place where a real gentleman would quit, but Lightfoot only tossed his head defiantly.