“No.” The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman’s face. The welcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could have expressed it better.
The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck’s second horse.
“For the—folks?” he inquired.
“Guess so. That’s the last of the flour.”
For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre’s face. Then it as suddenly brightened.
“How’s things?” he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.
“So,” responded Buck.
The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which had provided the other with a seat.
“Guess there’s no hurry. Let’s sit,” he said, indicating the log. “I’m a bit saddle weary.”
Buck nodded.