“Oh, Daddy!” she cried. “What do you think! Mr. Blake is coming to visit us!”
“Blake?” repeated the cowman, staring blankly over his pipe.
“Yes, Mr. Blake, the engineer––the great Thomas Blake of the Zariba Dam.”
“By––James!” swore Gowan, dropping his guitar 121 and springing up to confront Ashton with deadly menace in his cold eyes. “This is what comes of nursing scotched rattlers! This here tenderfoot skunk has been foreriding for that engineer! I warned you, Mr. Knowles! I told you he had sent for him to come out here and cut up our range with his damned irrigation schemes!”
“I send for Blake––I?” protested Ashton. He burst into a discordant laugh.
“Laugh, will you?” said Gowan, dropping his hand to his hip.
The girl flung herself before him. “Stop! stop, Kid! Are you locoed? He had nothing to do with it. I myself sent for Mr. Blake.”
“You!” cried Gowan.
The cowman slowly stood up, his eyes fixed on the girl in an incredulous stare. “Chuckie,” he half whispered, “you couldn’t ha’ done it. You’re––you’re dreaming, honey!”
“No. Listen, Daddy! It’s been growing on you so––your fear that we’ll lose our range. I thought if Mr. Blake came and told you it can’t be done––Don’t you see?”