“You’re going to Dry Lake?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said shortly, and a grim note crept into his voice. “It’s west of here, ain’t it?”
“About fifteen or eighteen miles,” she answered. “The trail leads there from the lower end of this valley––the same trail you came on, I guess. Are you a cow-puncher?”
“Don’t I look like one, miss?”
“Yes, you do and––you don’t.” She was confused by the quality of his smile. But his eyes seemed to glow at her kindly, with a cheerful, amused light––altogether honest and friendly. She lowered her gaze and flushed despite herself.
“My vocation, miss––you’re too young an’ pretty to be called ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for saying so––is a peculiar one. I’ve punched cows, yes; I’ve prospected an’ worked a bit in the mines. I’ve scared the wolf from the ‘Welcome’ mat by standing off the boys at green-topped tables, an’ once I––I––worked 19 on a sort of farm.” He appeared apologetic as he confessed this last. “I guess I wasn’t cut out for a farm hand, miss.”
She laughed at this. “Are you going to work in Dry Lake?” she asked, sobering.
“Well, now, that is a question,” he returned, draining his cup of the last of the coffee.
“I’ll get you some more,” she said quickly, taking his cup. “Dry Lake isn’t a very big place, you know.”
“Just how big is Dry Lake?” he asked when she returned from the kitchen with more coffee for him.