Buck was sprinkling the earth floor preparatory to sweeping it when the Padre let his eyes wander back into the room.
“Got things fixed?” he inquired casually.
“Mostly.” Buck began to sweep with that practiced hand which never raises a dust on an earthen floor.
The Padre watched his movements thoughtfully.
“Seems queer seeing you sweeping and doing chores like a—a hired girl.” He laughed presently.
Buck looked up and rested on his broom. He smilingly surveyed his early benefactor and friend.
“What’s worryin’?” he inquired in his direct fashion.
The Padre stirred uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail.
“Oh, nothing worrying,” he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. “The sun’ll be over the hilltops in half an hour,” he went on.
But the manner of his answer told Buck all he wanted to know. He too glanced out beyond the valley.