“I’m a day laborer!” he went on, still more bitterly. “I’m afraid of losing even my skim milk––And two weeks ago I thought myself certain of three times the millions that he will get when her father dies!”
“No use crying over spilt milk, or spilt cream, either!” she replied.
The note of sympathetic concern under her raillery brought a glimmer of hopefulness into his moody eyes.
“If I did not think your father will drive me away!” he murmured.
“Why should he?” she asked.
“Because when Blake comes––” Ashton paused and shifted to a question. “Will you tell your father about their coming?”
“Of course. I did not tell him about writing, because it would only have increased his suspense. But now––Let’s hurry back!” 120
A cut of her quirt set her pony into a lope. Rocket needed no urging. He followed and maintained a position close behind the galloping pony without breaking out of his rangy trot. Occasionally Isobel flung back a gay remark over her shoulder. Ashton did not respond. He rode after her, silent and depressed, his eyes fixed longingly on her graceful form, ever fleeing forward before him as he advanced.
Once clear of the sagebrush, she drew rein for him to come up. They rode side by side across Dry Fork and over the divide. When they stopped at the corral she would have unsaddled her pony had he not begged leave to do her the service. As reward, she waited until he could accompany her to the house.
They found her father and Gowan resting in the cool porch after a particularly hard day’s ride. The puncher was strumming soft melodies on a guitar. Knowles was peering at his report of the Reclamation Service, held to windward of a belching cloud of pipe smoke. His daughter darted to him regardless of the offending incense.