CHAPTER VII
THE GREEDY SANDS
When the Ramblin' Kid, working the rope-conquered and leg-weary Gold Dust maverick from the North Springs back to the Quarter Circle KT, crossed the Cimarron at dawn Captain Jack and the filly swam a raging, drift-burdened river. Less than twelve hours later Carolyn June and Skinny, at the lower ford, rode into a stream that again was normal. Old Blue and Pie Face splashed through water barely reaching the stirrup leathers. Only the fresh rubbish flung out on the meadows by the flood's quick anger or lodged in the willows, still bent by the pressure of the torrent that had rushed over them and slimy with yellow sediment left on their branches and leaves, told the story of the swift rise and fall of the Cimarron the night before.
On the bluff north of the river Carolyn June and Skinny checked their horses while the girl gazed down on the panorama of green fields, narrow lanes, corrals and low buildings of the Quarter Circle KT. The sight thrilled her. On all the Kiowa range there was no more entrancing view.
"It's kind of pretty, ain't it?" Skinny ventured.
"Beautiful!" she breathed.
"I'd—I'd like to stand here and look at it always—if you—if you'd enjoy it!" he said and was instantly appalled by his own audacity.
Carolyn June flashed a quick look at him.
"We had better go on," she said, then added lightly: "Does it always affect you so when you get this view of the valley?"
"No. But, well, somehow it's different this morning—maybe it's because you are here!" he blurted out hurriedly.