"I thought so when he commenced to quiet," muttered Thorpe.
He looked then at his daughter and found her standing still, hands clasped, lips the least trifle parted, gazing at Young VB.
Something in him urged a quick step forward. It was an alarm, something primal in the fathers of women. But Bob Thorpe put the notion aside as foolishness—or tenderness—and walked closer to the corral, chewing his cigar speculatively. The stallion wrinkled his nose and dropped the ears flat, the orange glimmer coming into his eyes.
"Don't like strangers, I see."
"Not crazy about them," VB answered.
Thorpe walked off to the left, then came back. He removed his cigar and looked at Gail. She fussed with her rebellious hair and her face was flushed; she no longer looked at the horse—or at VB. He felt a curiosity about that flush.
"Well, want to get rid of him?"
Thorpe hooked his thumbs in his vest armholes and confronted VB.
No answer.
"What do you want for him?"