There was a new note in Rob's voice—something more than the boyish kindness that had made him so lovable a chum. For a moment Harriet felt very far from him. Then a wave of nobler feeling swept over her. Of course Rob was absorbed in his homestead. Who would not be—owner of 160 acres, and master of his own toil?
Soon Rob left the road and drove through the brush along the edge of a wet, green meadow toward the cañon that opened out from the hills. Along the steep slopes of the hill, trees meandered, and down the cañon a mountain stream came gushing. At the upper edge of the meadow Rob drew up, unhitched the horses, and pitched the tent in the shelter of a spreading clump of willows.
Two weeks later, Harry was standing in the tent, deep in a struggle with her first pie. The cookbook was propped open before her on the plank table, on which cups, spoons, and plates were scattered in profusion.
"Bobs, is that you?" she called, as she heard footsteps outside. "Do look here! This pie crust is such a mess!"
She had arrived at a point where she needed encouragement. The morning was passing; the tent was very hot; flies swarmed everywhere, and her dough-covered hands could not grasp and tuck away the refractory curl that was tickling the end of her nose.
"If you want pies," she went on, "you'd better send for one of your cowboy cooks to come and make them. I can't."
"Excuse me, ma'am. Can I help?"
At the sound of the strange voice Harriet turned, dismayed. In the doorway of the tent stood a dark, slender man eying her questioningly. In his khaki shirt, scarlet neckerchief, silver-trimmed leather "chaps" and broad-brimmed hat he was all that Harry had imagined a cowboy should be. There was something familiar to her in his dark-eyed face; and when he said, "Is Mr. Holliday here? I'm fetching in a bunch of colts—Jones is my name," she remembered at once.
"Mr. Holliday is not here, but please come in, Mr. Jones," she said. "I am his sister."