"I don't even know whether you sit down. I haven't a pipe that would go round, but there's a fair tobacco you're welcome to. It don't make bad chewing. Tressa's awful glad to see you. We haven't had a caller since the new curtains went up."
The Indian was not listening; his eyes were on the two horses tied beyond the door. Gathering his blanket about him, he went to them, running a hand over them with the air of a connoisseur. He stooped to their feet, his two braids, twined through and through with bits of coloured cloth, falling over his ears.
"Good!" he grunted.
"Just what I said," agreed Torrance amiably, "—of course, after I'd paid for them. Best bits o' horseflesh this side of anywhere. Broke 'em myself, so I ought to know."
"Daddy!"
"Maybe not quite broke 'em," corrected Torrance easily, "but they nearly broke me. Picked 'em from a bunch of the finest animals ever came off a ranch—"
"Daddy!"
"That was a fine lot, Tressa—and those two were the best of the bunch."
"How much?" The Indian's face was expressionless.
The contractor blinked. "You don't want to buy? I thought Indians always stole what— The worst of me is I talk too fast. You see I lost a lot of horses not long ago, and it's temporarily affected my judgment. I don't say it was Indians stole 'em—in fact I saw the guy, but it was too far to catch his pedigree. Anyway, he was dressed white. One of three got 'em—either my own men, or contractors out west, or the Indians. If I thought it was my men there'd be a new line of graves to-morrow—and I don't somehow think the contractors would risk it. It seemed safer to blame the Indians then. Now? Oh, I guess I must have been crazy. Them horses weren't stolen. They've taken a holiday to get a drink, or gone for the World's Series baseball games."