“Shore you have!” jeered Gowan.
“But about Mr. Blake, Daddy?” interposed Isobel. “I’m certain he’ll find that no irrigation project is possible; and if he says so, you will be able to give up worrying about it.”
“So that’s your idea,” he replied. “Of course, honey, you meant well. But he’s a pretty big man, according to all the reports. What if he––” The cowman stopped, unable to state the calamity he dreaded.
“Yes, what if?” bravely declared his daughter. “Isn’t it best to know the worst, and have it over?”
“Well––I don’t know but what you’re right, honey.”
“It’s your say, Mr. Knowles,” put in Gowan. “If you want the tenderfeet on your range, all right. If you don’t, I’ll engage to head back any bunch of engineers agoing, and I don’t care whether they’re dogies or longhorns.”
“There is to be no surveying party,” explained Isobel. “Mr. Blake is coming to visit us with his wife and baby. Here is his letter.”
“Hey?” ejaculated Knowles. He read the letter with frowning deliberation, and passed it on to Gowan. “Well, he seems to be square enough. Guess we’ll 124 have to send over for him, honey, long as you asked him to come.”
“Oh, you will, Daddy!” she cried. She gave him a delicious kiss and cuddled against his shoulder coaxingly. “You’ll let me go over in the buckboard for them, won’t you?”
“Kind of early in the season for you to begin hankering after city folks,” he sought to tease her.