“O-o-oh!” sighed the girl. “It’s all been frightfully unjust! You haven’t had fair play! I shall tell Mr. Blake.”
“No, not him!––not him!” Ashton’s voice was almost shrill. “All I wish is to slip away, before they see me.”
“You don’t mean, run away?” she said, quietly placing her little gauntlet-gloved hand on his arm. “You’re not going to run away, Lafe.”
“What else?” he asked, his eyes dark with bitter despair. “Would you have me return, to be booted off the range when they tell your father?”
“Just wait and see,” she replied, gazing at him with 136 a reassuring smile. “You’ve proved yourself a right smart puncher––for a tenderfoot. You’re in the West, the good old-style West, where it’s a man’s present record that counts; not what he has been or what he has done. No, you’re not going to run. You’re going to face it out––and going to stay to learn your new profession of puncher and––man!”
“But they will not wish to associate with me.”
“Yes, they will,” she predicted. “I shall see to that.”
He took heart a little from her cheery, positive assurance. “Well, if you insist, I shall not go until they show––”
“They’ll not recognize you at first. That will give me a chance to speak before they can say anything disagreeable. I’m sure Mr. Blake will understand.”
“But––Genevieve?”