Lance drove up with a flourish. Like most people out in the Colorado mountains, he seemed to be a very reckless driver. His mother was quite calm, however; she evidently had perfect confidence in her son’s ability to handle the ponies, and at the same time take care of her.
The girls ran down the steps to help Mrs. Petterby out of the buckboard. “So delighted to see you, dear Mrs. Petterby,” cried Dorothy.
“And Ophelia,” giggled Tavia, reaching out her hands for the basket, but making big eyes at the cowboy.
“Howdy! howdy!” Lance was exclaiming, his face very red under Tavia’s wicked scrutiny. He would not let the girl take the basket, but removed it from his mother’s lap himself. “Don’t you mind, Miss,” he urged. “I’ll take this yere along to the bunkhouse, mother. Yuh don’t want thet thar little hen with you in Miz White’s nice house.”
“Quite right, Lance,” agreed the old lady, hopping out. “But you see that nothing happens to her, son.”
“I’ll take keer of her like she was eggs instead o’ a chicken,” he assured her, and then gave the impatient ponies their heads. They dashed away toward the sheds.
Aunt Winnie appeared at the door to welcome the old lady from Massachusetts, and they bore her into the house and showed her the room she was to occupy. Lance would bunk with the Ledgers, but he was coming up to supper.
As Dorothy came back through the wide central hall a little later, old John Dempsey appeared from the office. He had gotten everything cleaned up in there, and kept it tidy. Mrs. White was now using Colonel Hardin’s old desk as her own.
“Miss Dorothy,” whispered the veteran, “what do you think? That snake in the grass was after me agin yesterday about that old letter.”
Dorothy looked very grave at the mention of Philo Marsh. “What does he want now?” she asked.