“Yes, just up for a look around and to see how you and Rosey were. Got snowed in, didn’t you?” he said, looking at his sister.
She kissed him affectionately and drew him to the light where she subjected him to a sharp, exploring scrutiny. Evidently the survey was satisfactory, for she gave him a little slap on the shoulder and said,
“Good boy, Gene, San Luis is agreeing with you. Yes, we were snowed in for nearly three weeks. Papa’s been half crazy. And you’ve been in town two days, Prescott says. It must have been dull here all alone.”
“Oh, I haven’t been dull. I’ve been going round seeing the boys and”—his sister’s sudden, uneasy look checked him and he answered it with quick reassurance of glance and tone. “Everything strictly temperance. Don’t you get uneasy. I’ve lived up to my promises. The ranch is mine all right, father.”
He had a high, rather throaty voice, which, without seeing his face, would have suggested weakness and lack of purpose. Now as he looked at his father with a slight and somewhat foolish air of triumph, the old man responded to his remark with a sound which resembled a grunt of scornful incredulity.
“Really, Gene,” said his sister, her manner of fond gratification in marked contrast to her father’s roughness, “that’s the best news I’ve heard for a year. It’s worth being snowed up to hear that when you come out. Of course you’ll get the ranch. I always knew you would. I always knew you could pull up and be as straight as anybody if you tried.”
The old man, who had been kicking off his rubbers, here raised his head with a bull-like movement, and suddenly roared at the retreating butler who was vanishing toward the dining-room.
“My cigars. Where in hell are they? Why doesn’t somebody attend here?”
The servant, with a start of alarm and a murmured excuse, disappeared for a moment, to reappear, hurrying breathlessly with a box of cigars. Cannon selected one and turned to the stairway.
“How long are you down for?” he said to his son as he began ascending.