"I used to ride a good deal," she said. "But I have no saddle, no habit, and I am afraid—" She hesitated looking at them in embarrassment.
"Nicky, dear, you must learn to ride western fashion. With divided skirts, if you like. We can get you a khaki outfit in Hereford."
"I should like to try it," said Miss Nicholson, her face still flaming, the high-light quite apparent.
"Up to you, Sam," said Sandy. "I sh'ud think the blue roan w'ud suit."
"I'll have her gentled to a divvy-skirt this time ter-morrer," said Sam gallantly. "You've got pluck, marm—I mean, miss—an' once you've forked a saddle, you'll never ride otherwise."
Miss Nicholson gasped at Sam's metaphor and Mormon kicked him on the shin.
"What's the idea?" he demanded after Molly had gone out and Miss Nicholson had ensconced herself on the veranda with a book.
"You're plumb indelicut. You ought to be ashamed of yorese'f. You got to be careful round females, Sam Mannin', with yore expressions. Speshully one like this Nicholson party. She's a lady."
"Who in hell said she ain't?" demanded Sam. "Me—I guess I know how to treat a lady, well as the nex' man. I don't notice you ever made a grand success of it with yore three-strikes-an'-out."
Mormon disdained to reply. They went outside and, at the end of the ten minutes, walked together toward the cottonwoods. Grit was lying on the grave, and they saw Molly kneeling by the little railing. They advanced silently over the turf and stood in a group about her with their hats off and their heads bowed. Grit made no move and Molly did not look up for two or three minutes. Then she greeted them with a smile. There were no tear-signs on her face though her eyes were moist.