He straightened from the wagon-body he was tinkering and waved a wrench toward the window behind Stratton. Turning quickly, the latter saw that it looked out on the rear of the ranch-house, where there were a few stunted trees and a not altogether 151 successful attempt at a small flower-garden. On a rough, rustic bench under one of the trees sat young Manning and Mary Thorne, in earnest conversation.
“Sickening, ain’t it?” commented Bud, taking encouragement from Stratton’s involuntary frown. “I been expectin’ ’em to hold hands any minute.”
Buck laughed, mainly because he was annoyed with himself for feeling any emotion whatever. “You don’t seem to like Mr. Alfred Manning,” he remarked.
“Who would?” snorted Jessup. “He sure gets my goat, with them dude clothes, an’ that misplaced piece of eyebrow on his lip, an’ his superior airs. I wouldn’t of thought Miss Mary was the kind to—”
“Where’s—er—Miss Manning?” broke in Buck, reluctant to continue the discussion.
“Gone in with Mrs. Archer,” Bud explained, “They was both out there a while ago, but I reckon they got tired hangin’ around.”
Stratton turned his back on the dingy window and fell to work on the wagon with Bud.
“Seen Bemis lately?” he asked presently, realizing of a sudden that he had not visited the invalid for several days.
Bud sniffed. “Sure. I was in there this mornin’. He’s outa bed now moochin’ around the room an’ countin’ the hours till he can back a horse.”
“Still got that notion the outfit isn’t safe?”