A moment later "Lord" Bill, lazily cheerful as was his wont, stepped in through the open French window. The selling up of his ranch seemed to have made little difference to his philosophical temperament. In his appearance, perhaps, for now he no longer wore the orthodox dress of the rancher. He was clad in a tweed lounging suit, and a pair of well-polished, brown leather boots. His headgear alone pertained to the prairie. It was a Stetson hat. He was smoking a cigarette as he came up, but he threw the insidious weed from him as he entered the room.
"Morning, John. How are you, Jacky? I needn't ask you if you have heard the news. I saw Sergeant Horrocks and old Shylock leaving your veranda. Hot lot—isn't it? And all Lablache's cattle, too."
A look of deep concern was on his keen face. Lablache might have been his dearest friend. Jacky smiled over at him. "Poker" John looked pained.
"Guess you're right, Bill," said the rancher. "Hot—very hot. I pity the poor devil if Lablache lays a hand on him. Excuse me, boy, I'm going down to the barn. We've got a couple of ponies we're breaking to harness."
The old man departed. The others watched the burly figure as he passed out of the door. His whole personality seemed shrunken of late. The old robustness seemed a thing of the past. The last two months seemed to have put ten years of ageing upon the kindly old man. Jacky sighed as the door closed behind him, and there was no smile in her eyes as she turned again to her lover. Bill's face had become serious.
"Well?" in a tone of almost painful anxiety.
The girl had started forward and was leaning with her two brown hands upon the back of a chair. Her face was pale beneath her tan, and her eyes were bright with excitement. For answer, Bunning-Ford stepped to the French window and closed it, having first glanced up and down the veranda to see that it was empty. Not a soul was in sight. The tall pines, which lined the approach to the house, waved silently in the light breeze. The clear sky was gloriously blue. On everything was the peace of summer.
The man swung round and came towards the girl. His eagle face was lit up by an expression of triumph. He held out his two hands, and the girl placed her own brown ones in them. He drew her towards him and embraced her in silence. Then he moved a little away from her. His gleaming eyes indexed the activity of his mind.
"The cattle are safe—as houses. It was a grand piece of work, dear. They would never have faced the path without your help. Say, girlie, I'm an infant at handling stock compared with you. Now—what news?"
Jacky was smiling tenderly into the strong face of the man. She could not help but wonder at the reckless daring of this man, who so many set down as a lazy good-for-nothing. She knew—she had always known, she fancied—the strong character which underlay that indolent exterior. It never appealed to her to regret the chance that had driven him to use his abilities in such a cause. There was too much of the wild half-breed blood in her veins to allow her to stop to consider the might-have-beens. She gloried in his daring, and something of the spirit which had caused her to help her half-brother now forced from her an almost worshiping adoration for her lover.