Near noon, when the levels had been carried up close to the top of High Mesa, Gowan rode down to the party to inquire where the new camp was to be pitched.
“I’ve brought up a lot this trip,” he stated. “I can fetch the rest by sundown, if I don’t have to meander all over the mesa with these first packs.” 251
“Where did you leave the packhorses?” asked Blake.
“Up along the cañon where Ashton shot his yearling deer,” answered the puncher. “It’s about half way between that gulch where you say you’re going down and the bend across from the head of Dry Fork Gulch.”
“We’ll camp there,” decided Blake. “It is on the shortest trail to that gulch, and you’ll not have time to get your second load farther before dark.”
The puncher started back. But Isobel, who had come riding up with Genevieve, called out to stop him: “Wait, Kid. It is almost noon. You must take lunch with us.”
“Can’t leave those hawsses standing with the packs, Miss Chuckie, if they’re to make another trip today,” he replied.
“Suppose you unload them and come back along the edge of the cañon?” suggested Blake. “We shall knock off soon and all go over to give my wife her first look at the cañon. We can eat lunch there together.”
To this Gowan nodded a willing assent, and he jogged away, with a half smile on his thin lips. But that which pleased him had precisely the opposite effect on Ashton. He did not fancy sharing the companionship and attention of Miss Knowles with the puncher. As this interference with his happiness was due to Blake, he showed a petulant resentment towards the 252 engineer that won him the girl’s sympathetic concern. She attributed his fretfulness to his wound. Blake made the same mistake.
“You’ve done quite enough for the morning, Ashton, with that head of yours,” he said. “We’re over the worst now, and can easily run on up to the camp this afternoon. We shall knock off for a siesta.”