Y.D. shook hands with Transley cordially. “Zen an’ me just thought we’d run over and see how the wind blew,” he said. “You got a good spot here for a camp, Transley. But we won’t go in to supper just now. Let the men eat first; I always say the work horses should be first at the barn. Well, how’s she goin’?”
“Fine,” said Transley, “fine,” but it was evident his mind was divided. He was glancing at Zen, who stood by during the conversation.
“I must try and make your daughter at home,” he continued. “I allow myself the luxury of a private tent, and as you will be staying over night I will ask you to accept it for her.”
“But I have my own tent with me, in the democrat,” said Zen. “If you will let the men pitch it under the trees where I can hear the water murmuring in the night—”
“Who’d have thought it, from the daughter of the practical Y.D!” Transley bantered. “All right, Ma’am, but in the meantime take my tent. I’ll get water, and there’s a basin.” He already was leading the way. “Make yourself at home—Zen. May I call you Zen?” he added, in a lower voice, as they left Y.D. at a distance.
“Everybody calls me Zen.”
They were standing at the door of the tent, he holding back the flap that she might enter. The valley was already in shadow, and there was no sunlight to play on her hair, but her face and figure in the mellow dusk seemed entirely winsome and adorable. There was no taint of Y.D.‘s millions in the admiration that Transley bent upon her.... Of course, as an adjunct, the millions were not to be despised.
When the men had finished supper Transley summoned her. On the way to the chuck-wagon she passed close to George Drazk. It was evident that he had chosen a station with that result in view. She had passed by when she turned, whimsically.
“Well, George, how’s that Pete-horse?” she said.
“Up an comin’ all the time, Zen,” he answered.