They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the log.
“Quite a piece to Leeson Butte,” observed Buck casually, as he dropped upon the log beside his friend.
“It surely is,” replied the Padre, taking the young man in with a quick, sidelong glance.
Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glance of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikingly handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He was clad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the farmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tucked into the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. His upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck.
“Leeson Butte’s getting quite a city,” Buck went on presently.
“That’s so,” replied the Padre, still bent upon his own thoughts.
After that it was quite a minute before either spoke. Yet there seemed to be no awkwardness.
Finally it was the Padre who broached the matters that lay between them.
“I got ten thousand dollars for it!” he said.
“The farm?” Buck’s interrogation was purely mechanical. He knew well enough that the other had purposely gone to Leeson Butte to sell the farm on which they had both lived so long.