"What's this nonsense," cried the girl, angrily, "—this talk about choosing a man? I never saw him till today! I hate men!"
McWhorter finished his pipe, returned it to his pocket and stepping into his own room reappeared a moment later with a pair of heavy blankets which he laid on the table. "I'm goin' to bed, for I must be early to the lambin' camp. I'm thinkin' the young mon will not return the night—but if he does, here's blankets." He stood for a moment looking down at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the stern eyes allowed: "My little lass," he murmured, as though speaking to himself, "I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter—an' I am glad. The anger will pass—an' 'twill set ye thinkin'—that, an' what's here on the paper." Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed it upon the blankets. "'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same as the one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate—'twas seein' that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, lass—an' 'twad be sair hard to see ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twad steal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night." McWhorter turned abruptly, and passing into his own room, shut the door.
Standing beside the table, Janet watched the door close behind her father. The anger was gone from her heart, as McWhorter had said it would go, and in its place was a wild desire to throw herself into his arms as she used to do long, long ago—to sob her heart out against his big breast, and to feel his big hand awkwardly stroking her hair, as he muttered over and over again: "Theer, theer wee lassie, theer, theer"—soothing words—those, that had eased her baby hurts and her childish heartaches—she remembered how she used to press her little ear close against his coarse shirt to hear the words rumble deep down in the great chest. He had been a good father to his motherless little girl—had Colin McWhorter.
The girl turned impulsively toward the closed door, hot tears brimming her eyes. One step, and she stopped tense and listening. Yes, there it was again—the sound of horse's hoofs. Dashing the tears from her eyes she flung open the outer door and stood framed in the oblong of yellow lamplight. Whoever it was had not stopped at the corral, but was riding on toward the cabin. A figure loomed suddenly out of the dark and the Texan drew up before the door.
"You here alone?" he inquired, stooping slightly to peer past her into the cabin, "'cause if you are, I'll go on to the lambin' camp."
"No, Dad's here," she answered, "he's gone to bed."
The man dismounted. "Got any oats?" he asked, as he turned toward the corral. "Blue's a good horse, an' I'd like him to have more'n just hay. I may ride him hard, tomorrow."
"Yes—wait." The girl turned back into the cabin and came out with a lighted lantern. "I'll go with you. They're in the stable."
Side by side they walked to the corral, where she held the lantern while the Texan stripped off the saddle. "Got a halter? I ain't goin' to turn him in with the others. They'd nose him out of his oats, or else worry him so he couldn't eat comfortable."
"Blue's never been in the stable—and he's never eaten oats. He don't know what they are."