Tresler seated himself on the bunk and looked into the gray face. At last he rose and prepared to go, but Joe detained him with a look.
“Say—they’re gone?” he murmured.
The other sat down again. “Yes.”
“Good.” Joe sighed and reclosed his eyes; but it was only for a second. He opened them again and went on. “Say, you won’t tell her—Miss Dianny. Don’t you tell her. Pore little soul, she’ll wep them pretty eyes o’ hers out, sure. Y’ see, I know her. Y’ see, I did git drunk yesterday. I knew I’d git it. So it don’t signify. Don’t tell her.”
“She’ll be sure to hear of it.”
“Say, Tresler,” Joe went on, ignoring the other’s objection. “Go easy; jest say nothin’. Kind o’ fergit this thing fer the time. Ther’s other work fer you. I’d a heap sooner I’d bin killed than you git roped into this racket. It’s Miss Dianny you’re to look to, not me; an’ now, mebbe, they’ll run you off’n the ranch.”
Tresler shook his head decidedly. “Don’t be afraid; they can’t get rid of me, Joe,” he said.
“Ah! Wal, I guess meanwhile you’d best git off to work. I’ll pull round after a while. You see, you must go dead easy wi’ Jake, ’cos o’ her. Mind it’s her—on’y her. You sed it last night. Mebbe this thing’s goin’ to make trouble. Trouble fer you; an’ trouble fer you means trouble fer her.”
“I’m going.”