“Then what the devil kept the little swine?”
Jake’s brows suddenly lowered, and the savage tone was no less than the coarse brutality of his words. The other’s coolness grew more marked.
“That was none of my concern. He’d delivered the letter, and it was only left for me to hurry him home.”
“I’ll swear he was loafin’ around the saloon all day. Say, I guess I’ll see him later.”
Tresler shrugged and turned away. He wanted to tell this man what he thought of him. He felt positively murderous toward him. He had never met anybody who could so rouse him. Sooner or later a crisis would come, in spite of his reassurances to Diane, and then—Jake watched him go. Then he turned again to the contemplation of his great boots, and muttered to himself.
“It won’t be for long—no, not for long. But not yet. Ther’s too much hangin’ to it——” He broke off, and his fierce eyes looked after the retreating man.
The unconscious object of these attentions meanwhile reached the bunkhouse. Breakfast was well on, and he had to take his pannikin and plate round to Teddy’s cookhouse to get his food. “Slushy,” as the cook was familiarly called, dipped him out a liberal measure of pork and beans, and handed him half a loaf of new-made bread. Jinks was no niggard, and Tresler was always welcome to all he needed.
“Goin’ to ride?” the youth demanded, as he filled the pannikin with tea.
“Why, of course.” Tresler had almost forgotten the change of work that had been set out for the day. His face brightened now as the cook reminded him of it. “Wouldn’t miss it for a lot. That mare of mine has given me a taste for that sort of thing.”
“Taste!” Teddy exclaimed, with a scornful wave of his dipper. “Belly full, I tho’t, mebbe.” He turned to his stove and shook the ashes down. “Say,” he went on, over his shoulder, “guess I’m bakin’ hash in mine. Ther’ ain’t so much glory, but ther’s a heap more comfort to it.”