Carver was conscious of a sense of irritation toward his friend, a vague resentment at this implied familiarity between the boy and the lady of the doorway.
“Then I wouldn’t be letting her wait around,” he reproved. “Damned if I would.”
“But a man can’t tag his sister every living second,” Bart expostulated. “I ask you now!”
“No,” said Carver. “Maybe not.” His irritation had evaporated. “But if she was my sister I’d put in considerable time with her.”
The brother grinned unrepentantly.
“All right; you do that,” he urged. “Maybe she’ll take to worrying about you instead of losing sleep over me. Appears to me like a nice arrangement for all hands concerned.”
The girl appeared suddenly beside Lassiter and rested a hand on his arm.
“Put up your horse and stay here with me,” she urged.
“Can’t, Molly,” Bart declined. “I promised the boys I’d go and they’re waiting now. We’re due to help Crowfoot gather a little bunch of beef stuff to-morrow and we’ll have to ride all night if we make Turkey Creek by morning.”
The girl turned to Carver.