“You said it,” grinned Ho delightedly, eager to ingratiate himself by agreeing with her, and at the same time voice his own thought regardless of the consequences. “This ain’t no cattle ranch no longer. It’s a loon ranch.”
“What’s that you say?”
Hilda’s voice had risen with excitement. Someone came out of the living-room inside, and paused half-way across the hall on his way to the verandah.
“I said—” repeated Holy Smoke, feeling a curious excitement and delight in the flaming anger he had aroused—“I said that this ain’t no longer a cattle ranch but a loon ranch.”
“How dare you say a thing like that about O Bar O. A lot you know about ranching. You come on over from the States with your wind and your brag and there’s no one believes a word you say. You dare to insinuate that my father is——”
“When I said ‘loon,’ Miss Hilda, I wasn’t mentioning no names, but s’long as you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, I’ll tell you that I was thinkin’ of that English fly, him that’s made all of the trouble here. My hands is itchin’ to lariat him and take it out o’ his hide. You say the word, Miss Hilda, and there’ll be a bunch of us turn the trick to-night!”
At the mention of Cheerio, the dark blood had rushed into the face of the girl. Her glance was full of contempt and hatred now.
“You, Holy Smoke! Yes, you’d need to rope your man. I’m thinking otherwise you’d have your hands D-d-d-d-d-full if you tried to tackle him man to man with your hands, for, take it from me, he’d make you eat your words and twist!”
Holy Smoke’s voice was husky:
“Look ahere, d’you mean to say——”