Imp had accepted the ranch from the moment of his arrival as his own special possession, and its occupants as created for his exclusive amusement. He was as keenly interested in the rousing of the kitchen fire as was Cockney, considered Bean Slade a rather boring plaything, favoured Stamford with a tentative sniff, but for his mistress had a deep though undemonstrative affection.
Dakota Fraley lounged over from the bunk-house and stood in the front doorway, tapping on the frame to attract attention.
"Here's something you'll be interested in, Dakota," called Mrs. Aikens. "I managed to get a couple of Montana papers for you. Why, look at Imp!"
Imp, christened more in hope than descriptively, was crawling to Dakota's feet, head outstretched, tail invisible.
Dakota smiled. "They all do it. Never seen the dog yet didn't get on his belly to me. Here! Up you get! Better go back to your missus; she's jealous."
The dog raised himself obediently, but with cringing body, and slunk back to Mrs. Aikens, where he seated himself sideways in the shadow of her skirts, watching Dakota.
"Just came to tell you, Mr. Aikens, that I'd best get Pink Eye out of harness instanter or he'll get himself out, and mess up the ranch in doing it."
Stamford remembered then that, in the fever of his new ranch life, he had forgotten to shave that day. He excused himself and retired to his room, which adjoined the sitting-room on the ground floor. Cockney went with Dakota to the front door.
"Thanks, Dakota!" he was saying. "Pink Eye's going to make a driver all right. I may use him a lot. He's got——"
The rest of the sentence was drowned in the closing of the door, but more of their conversation came to Stamford through the open window.