Pushing the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied him to the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, one after another, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.
"That's enough," he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon the grass. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he had them cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them he busied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returning it to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments later the two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, and trout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.
"You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early," ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.
"No," laughed Christie, "I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had some drawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've a notion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing. Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch and shows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a piece of flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins to talk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasm as he points out the good points of some of his creations, and the defects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorial efforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I can see a flash of real genius."
"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!" exclaimed the girl. "And wouldn't you feel proud of having discovered him? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromising parentage."
"It wouldn't be so remarkable," smiled the man. "Watts, himself is a genius—for inventing excuses to rest."
"How is the sick man?" asked Patty. "The one you went to see, over on Big Porcupine, wasn't it?"
"Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow—Samuelson. I sure hope he'll pull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he's got a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that old fellow asks—even against pneumonia. He's a man!"
"I wonder if there is anything I could do?" asked the girl.
Christie's face brightened. "Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ride from here—thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them, they're very well fixed—capital Chinese cook and all that. But I've an idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely. They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think. They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where they can't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people a world of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from——"