IX
Meta Beggs saw Gordon at the same moment; and, without observation on the part of her escort, beckoned him to her. She said promptly:
“Mr. Makimmon, please take care of me while Buckley goes down by those carriages, where we saw you a little while ago, and gets his share of the refreshment there. I’m certain that dusty road made him as dry as possible.”
Buckley grinned; such frank feminine acknowledgment and solicitude for the masculine palate was rare in Greenstream. “Why, no, Miss Beggs,” he rejoined; “I’m in good shape for a while yet. I got a flask under the seat of the buggy—”
“I insist on your tending to it at once. I know just how it is with men—they have got to have that little refreshment ... don’t you call it ’life preserver’? I’ll be right by the counter; if Mr. Makimmon will be so kind—”
“Well,” Buckley agreed, “a drink don’t go bad any time; the road was kind of dusty. If you insist, Miss Beggs.”
“I do! I do!” He turned and left them, striding toward the lower level. Then:
“The fool!” she exclaimed viciously; “my arm is all black and blue where he pinched it. My skin is not like the hides on these mountain girls, it tears and bruises dreadfully easy, it’s so fine. Let’s go back there,” she pointed to where, behind the platform and counter, a path was trampled through brush higher than their heads. Gordon glanced swiftly in the direction in which Buckley Simmons had vanished. “He won’t be back,” she added contemptuously, “for a half hour. He’ll stay down there and drink rotten whiskey and sputter over rotten stories.” Without further parley she proceeded in the direction indicated; and, following her, Gordon dismissed Buckley from his thoughts.