With de Spain, to think was to do; at least to do something, but not without further careful thinking, and not without anticipating every chance of failure. And his manner was to cast up all difficulties and obstacles in a situation, brush them aside, and have his will if the heavens fell. Such a temperament he had inherited from his father’s fiery heart and his mother’s suffering, close-set lips as he had remembered them in the little pictures of her; and he now set himself, while doing his routine work every day, to do one particular thing––to see, talk to, plead with, struggle with the woman, or girl, rather––child even, to his thoughts, so fragile she was––this girl who had 223 given him back his life against her own marauding relatives.
For many days Nan seemed a match for all the wiles de Spain could use to catch sight of her. He spent his days riding up and down the line on horseback; driving behind his team; on the stages; in and out of the streets of Sleepy Cat––nominally looking for stock, for equipment, for supplies, or frankly for nothing––but always looking for Nan.
His friends saw that something was absorbing him in an unusual, even an extraordinary way, yet none could arrive at a certain conclusion as to what it was. When Scott in secret conference was appealed to by Jeffries, he smiled foolishly, at a loss, and shook his head.
Lefever argued with less reticence. “It stands to reason, Jeffries. A man that went through that ten minutes at Calabasas would naturally think a good deal about what he is getting out of his job, and what his future chances are for being promoted any minute, day or night, by a forty-five.”
“Perhaps his salary had better be raised,” conceded Jeffries reflectively.
“I figure,” pursued Lefever, “that he has already saved the company fifty thousands in depredations during the next year or two. The Calabasas 224 gang is busted for five years––they would eat out of his hand––isn’t that so, Bob?”
“The Calabasas gang, yes; not the Morgans.”
John’s eyes opened on Scott with that solemnity he could assume to bolster a baldly unconvincing statement. “Not now, Bob. Not now, I admit; but they will.”
Scott only smiled. “What do you make out of the way he acts?” persisted Lefever, resenting his companion’s incredulity.
“I can’t make anything of it,” premised Bob, “except that he has something on his mind. If you’ll tell me what happened from the time he jumped through the window at Calabasas till he walked into his room that night at the barn, I’ll tell you what he’s thinking about.”