David Bond busied himself with urging on his horse. "God will watch over them," he said devoutly. "'Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.'"
The section-boss sniffed. Sure of the safe trend of his affairs, he was in a mood to scoff at any religious allusion. Reverence, with him, was entirely a matter of urgent physical need. He had called to his Maker but twice in his life: once, when an ugly-tempered peon threatened him with a spade; again, when, falling from his swiftly moving flat-car, he felt the heavy wheels grinding him, flesh and bone.
"Storm kain't tech th' shack," he said proudly. "She 's built like a ship, t' stan' any win'. She's warm, too, an' thet Injun, he brings us plenty of wood. An' they's grub 'nough t' las'."
The evangelist was politely attentive.
"They's jes' one man thet might come botherin' 'em," Lancaster went on. "But 'tain't likely he'll see these parts before spring. An' Ah don' b'lieve he'll come then."
David Bond set his brows together. The previous night an unshaped thought had made him pause a second before leaving Dallas. Now, that thought became a suspicion—a suspicion of the real truth. "A man?" he said questioningly; "a man?"
Being thus prompted on the subject of the claim, Lancaster was willing to proceed, for he had no feeling that he was obeying Dallas. "Ah'm speakin' of a man thet filed on my section in July," he said. "His six months is up t'-day. So Ah reckon he'll hev t' work a new piece of track. For Ah inten' t' hang on t' thet quarter—it's goin' t' be worth a pile."
The evangelist threw him a swift glance. "What is the name of that man?" he asked.
"Ah dunno. Ah clean gone an' f'got it. Ah ought t' wrote it down——"
"Would you know it if you heard it?"