"Far's that goes, I'm hikin' for Barstairs myself tonight. Goin' on up to the Bull camp. We're leavin' for the States shortly, and I got to go alone."
Something was burning on the stove and she rushed to lift off the potatoes. The Bull had seated himself at the table and was buttering a chunk of bread. Nettie hesitated a moment and then, as the man apparently oblivious of or indifferent to her presence continued to munch in abstracted silence, Nettie took her place at the table. She poured out the tea and passed his cup to him, helping herself to a piece of the cold roast pork. The potato dish was to the left of him and after a moment she timidly asked him to pass it to her. He shoved the dish across without looking up and continued to "pack down"—an expression of his own—the food.
The meal came to an end in this strange silence and afterwards she cleared the table and washed the dishes, acutely aware of every move the man made in the big room. He had taken down his sheepskin riding coat and pushed his legs into fur chapps. The spurs clanked as he snapped them onto his heels. He took down the quirt and huge hat hanging to a deer head's horns, clapped the hat upon his head, and tramped to the door. All his preparations indicated a long ride. At the door he threw back an order to Nettie.
"Anyone telephones, I'll reach Barstairs by six or seven in the mornin'. They can get me there. Have Jake at the house for chores. Let 'im sleep off the kitchen."
She nodded dumbly, conscious only of a vast sense of relief. He was gone.
CHAPTER VIII
Never had the ranch house seemed so large or so empty. A wave of homesickness overwhelmed the lonely girl, a terrible longing to see her little brothers and sisters, now so widely scattered about the country, and be with them once again.
The days were gradually shortening and when the light faded about ten o'clock darkness closed silently in upon the hill country. Though the days were sunny the nights were very quiet and somewhat chilly.