Childress looked, saw the effort to escape, and suppressed a chuckle. "That's Padraic Mahaffy, my outfit. He's sort of woman-shy, which accounts for the get-away."
The widow felt her suspicions returning. Under all the circumstances, the wrangler might have another reason for being shy of any one from the Rafter A.
"You're a bit shy yourself, aren't you?" she asked. "I remember that although my uncle offered you the choice of evenings that time, in Strathconna, you were not in the least hungry."
"That situation was beyond my control—my small experience with women had nothing to do with refusing to dine with you. And right now, won't you dismount and rest a bit? I can't offer much in the way of hospitality, but such as we have is yours."
"I'm quite comfortable in the saddle, thank you, and I have but a moment," she said. "Do you think, Mr. Childress, that you've done wisely settling in this particular basin? There is no open range near here, and——"
"Oh, I'm going in for intensified breeding," said Childress, as Ethel paused, "if I may use an adjective which the farmer seems to have preempted. I'll fence in my section presently and attempt only the raising and training of thoroughbreds. There's still a good market for the right sort of horses on both sides of the line."
"But I was speaking of this particular section," she continued gravely. "You know the situation here—the trouble we've been having on Fire Weed range."
"With the rustlers?" he suggested.
She affirmed with a nod and had a thought of admiration for his cool manner under her significant gaze.
"They had better not trouble me," he declared, his lean face going suddenly grave. "I have the advantage over range breeding and grazing. Here, my stock will be always under my eye, and there'll be no stampeding it without my knowledge. If the rustlers persist in coming—well, Mrs. Andress, a man has the right to protect his own property, even to the extent of drawing a gun and using it. You wouldn't hesitate, yourself, would you?"