“Tell me of her.”
Jim bestirred himself. He sat up, and leant forward in his rocker. His pipe had been removed from his mouth.
“She was down at a water-hole on the creek,” he said, speaking deliberately, and with obvious appreciation. “She was riding a pinto pony. Sorrel and white. She was fixed in a riding-suit of brown, and rode astride her pony as dapper and neat a sight as you could wish for.”
He paused. Then he drew a deep breath, which the girl interrupted in her own fashion.
“When she turned and I saw her face, say—— It was roundish, and tanned with the weather. It was fresh as the russet of a beautiful apple, and studded with a pair of big, grey, laughing eyes, all fringed with dark lashes. She had dark hair and—and—— My, Sis, she was just as elegant as a swell ripe peach. And that girl helped to save my life.”
“And you talked with her?”
Blanche’s interest had become consuming. Her eyes were alight with a smile. Here was the thing she had always looked forward to. In all the years of her life she never remembered to have listened to the glowing description of a girl from Jim.
Jim’s eyes widened.
“Talked? I should say I did. I talked with her, and rode with her, and helped her round up her lost cows.”
Then a deep note of concern crept into his voice.