“War if they fight,” Transley replied, unconcernedly. “Y.D. said cut the hay; ‘spite o’ hell an’ high water,’ he said. That goes.”
Slowly the great orb of the sun sank until the crest of the mountains pierced its molten glory and sent it burnishing their rugged heights. In the east the plains were already wrapped in shadow. Up the valley crept the veil of night, hushing even the limitless quiet of the day. The stream babbled louder in the lowering gloom; the stamp and champing of horses grew less insistent; the cloudlets overhead faded from crimson to mauve to blue to grey.
Transley tapped the ashes from his pipe and went to bed.
CHAPTER IV
“How about a ride over to the South Fork this afternoon, Zen?” said Y.D. to his daughter the following morning. “I just want to make sure them boys is hittin’ the high spots. The grass is gettin’ powerful dry an’ you can never tell what may happen.”
“You’re on,” the girl replied across the breakfast table. Her mother looked up sharply. She wondered if the prospect of another meeting with Transley had anything to do with Zen’s alacrity.
“I had hoped you would outgrow your slang, Zen,” she remonstrated gently. “Men like Mr. Transley are likely to judge your training by your speech.”
“I should worry. Slang is to language what feathers are to a hat—they give it distinction, class. They lift it out of the drab commonplace.”
“Still, I would not care to be dressed entirely in feathers,” her mother thrust quietly.