Molly’s visit had served him with further excuse. It had served him with another three days of respite from the work of his farm; with another three days of Barney Lake’s hotel at Hartspool; another three days of the allurements of its poker game and Rye whisky. He had forthwith ridden into the township to obtain the tickets necessary for the farmers’ dance.
On his return home there was not the smallest pretence of making up his leeway of neglected work. He was glad enough to continue his drift. He had obtained the tickets. He must forthwith convey the news to Molly and obtain her definite reassurance that she would let him take her to the dance.
He found Molly in her hay corral. She was at work in sun-bonnet and cotton overall, clearing the ground with rake and fork, and making ready for the new cut of hay, which operation was the next in the routine of the year’s labours.
He had ridden hard. And when he drew rein at the corral fence the horse under him was pretty badly tuckered. It was caked with sweat and dust on the matted remains of its thick winter coat, and looked generally the mean thing that McFardell’s neglect had reduced it to.
Had the rider been any other, the smiling eyes under the girl’s sun-bonnet would have been full of serious condemnation. But with Andy McFardell’s coming the girl’s heart was beating high. She was concerned only with the portent of his visit, and thinking of the wonderful secret which lay between her and that kindly, generous, stranger-woman, Blanche.
“Why, Andy,” she cried. “I just hadn’t a notion you’d get along so soon. Is—is it all—fixed? The dance, I mean? You—you got the tickets?”
The man laughed as he slid out of the saddle. Molly was all eagerness.
“Doesn’t that beat it?” he cried, in mock amazement. “Say, I’ve ridden hell-for-leather, worried to death guessing. You see, I’d paid for two tickets and hadn’t definite word from you I was to take you along in to that dance.”
He laughingly threw up his hands, and Molly came to the corral rail and rested her folded arms upon it. She was more than content.
Andy was good enough for any woman to gaze upon. In the saddle he had none of the horsemanship of Lightning, in spite of the latter’s sixty years. But he had the military seat of the Police. He was clad in a loose cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbows. His breeches were the uniform breeches of the Police, with the yellow stripe removed, and they fitted closely over his sturdy limbs. His top boots, too, belonged to his police days. So, too, the heavy, rusted steel spurs upon his heels.