"Too often guessing is mistaken for knowing," said Cockney, looking at his wife.
Dakota and Bean returned early the next morning, the others following in the afternoon. The Professor greeted them with unaffected pleasure as he returned from his day's work; and after dinner he made his way to the cook-house. Imp was already installed at the foreman's feet. Cockney lit a cigarette and wandered off toward the corrals, and Mary called for Matana and went for a wild ride, leaving Stamford and Isabel to keep the ranch-house. But Dakota drifted across from the cook-house, whereupon Stamford was quite certain that henceforth they were bitter enemies.
Indeed, Dakota developed such an annoying habit of spending the evenings at the ranch-house that Stamford's hatred of him assumed enormous proportions. The cowboy took to daily shaving, and even Stamford was forced to admit hitherto unsuspected traces of an elemental comeliness. When Isabel also seemed conscious of it, he cursed beneath his breath with a small man's jealousy.
Dakota responded to the poorly veiled dislike in the safety of the cook-house, whither Stamford repaired at every opportunity for the purposes of his quest.
"You don't seem to like me, Dakota," smiled Stamford. He knew the memories it recalled.
"I always did hate dwarfs," snorted Dakota.
"You see," said Stamford, with mock humility, "there was so much good left after you were created that it wouldn't have been fair to put it up in big bundles. I must have been turned out just after you were patched together."
Dakota was not soothed by the loud guffaw from his companions.
"Some day," he warned, "I'll get you where we can talk it over real friendly-like. Let me invite you over to Montana, where the shooting's good."
"Thanks! I'm safer here."