Mose slipped off his horse and stood watching the queer old fellow as he squinted and hammered upon a piece of iron, chewing furiously meanwhile at his tobacco. It was plain his skill was severely taxed by the complexity of the task in hand.
As he stood waiting Mose saw a pretty young woman come out of the house and take a babe from the ground with matronly impatience of the dirt upon its dress.
The old man followed the direction of the young man's eyes and mumbled: "Old man's girl.... Her child."
Mose asked no questions, but it gave a new and powerful interest to the graceful figure of the girl.
Occasionally the old man lifted his eyes toward the ridge, as if looking for some one, and at last said, "Old man—comin'."
A horseman came into view on the ridge, sitting his horse with the grace and ease of one who lives in the saddle. As he zig-zagged down the steep bank, his pony, a vicious and powerful roan "grade," was on its haunches half the time, sliding, leaping, trotting. The rider, a smallish man, with a brown beard, was dressed in plain clothing, much the worse for wind and sun. He seemed not to observe the steepness and roughness of the trail.
As he rode up and slipped from his horse Mose felt much drawn to him, for his was a kindly and sad face. His voice, as he spoke, was low and soft, only his eyes, keen and searching, betrayed the resolute plainsman.
"Howdy, stranger?" he said in Southern fashion. "Glad to see you, sir."
Mose presented his note from Delmar.