"Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper."
Miss Blake sank back into the hammock. "How perfectly dreadful!
And yet—it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you."
Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver is almost like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes our foreman!"
Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzled mustache, came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beaten chaps were much too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar of his faded flannel shirt lacked an inch of meeting at the throat, its sleeves were shrunken until his hairy hands hung down like tassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.
"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"
"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do anything for you?"
"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into motion again.
"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss
Chapin.
"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I reckon my sperret's broke, that's all."
"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"