“The Supervisor’s daughter?”
“She seemed a fine Western type.”
“She’s not a type; she’s an individual. She hasn’t her like anywhere I’ve gone. She cuts a wide swath up here. Being an only child she’s both son and daughter to McFarlane. She knows more about forestry than her father. In fact, half the time he depends on her judgment.”
Norcross was interested, but did not want to take up valuable time. He said: “Will you let me use your telephone to Meeker’s?”
“Very sorry, but our line is out of order. You’ll have to wait a day or so—or use the mails. You’re too late for to-day’s stage, but it’s only a short ride across. Come outside and I’ll show you.”
Norcross followed him to the walk, and stood in silence while his guide indicated the pass over the range. It all looked very formidable to the Eastern youth. Thunderous clouds hung low upon the peaks, and the great crags to left and right of the notch were stern and barren. “I think I’ll wait for the stage,” he said, with candid weakness. “I couldn’t make that trip alone.”
“You’ll have to take many such a ride over that range in the night—if you join the service,” Nash warningly replied.
As they were standing there a girl came galloping up to the hitching-post and slid from her horse. It was Berea McFarlane. “Good morning, Emery,” she called to the surveyor. “Good morning,” she nodded at Norcross. “How do you find yourself this morning?”
“Homesick,” he replied, smilingly.
“Why so?”