Knowles had gone with Gowan to cut out and drive back the stray cattle belonging to the adjoining range. They returned during the regular supper hour. The cowman washed quickly and hastened in to the table. Gowan, however, loitered just outside the door, fastening and refastening his neckerchief. He entered the dining-room while Isobel was in the midst of telling her father about the snake.
“Did you hear, Kid?” she asked, when she finished her vivid account.
“Yes, Miss Chuckie. I was slicking-up close ’longside the door. I heard all you told,” he replied as he took his seat at the corner next to the animated girl. “We shore have got one mighty lucky tenderfoot on this range.”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed Ashton. “Had not Miss Chuckie chanced to be passing as the monster rattled––You know, she says that she might not have heeded it but for your killing the other snake yesterday. That put her on the alert.”
The puncher stared across the table at the city man 111 with a coldly speculative gaze. “You shore are a lucky tenderfoot,” he repeated. “’Tain’t every fellow gets that close to a rattler this time of year and comes out of it as easy as you have. All I can see is you’re kind of pale yet around the gills.”
Ashton held up his bandaged left hand. “Ah, but I have also this memento of the occasion. It is far from a pleasant one, I assure you.”
“Feels ’most as bad as a bee sting, don’t it?” ironically condoled the puncher.
“What I can’t make out,” interposed Knowles, “is how that rattler got up into Mr. Ashton’s bunk.”
Gowan again stared across at the tenderfoot, this time with unblinking solemnity. “Can’t say, Mr. Knowles,” he replied. “Except it might be that desperado guide of his came around in the night and brought him Mr. Rattler for bedfellow.”
“Oh, Kid!” remonstrated Isobel. “It’s not a joking matter!”