“Well, no, I can’t exactly say trouble,” said Transley, “but we’ve got notice it’s coming. A chap named Grant, foreman, I think, for Landson, down the valley, rode over last night, and invited us not to cut any hay hereabouts. He was very courteous, and all that, but he had the manner of a man who’d go quite a distance in a pinch.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him I was working for Y.D., and then asked him to stay for supper.”
“Did he stay?” Zen asked.
“He did not. He cantered off back, courteous as he came. And this morning we went out on the job, and have cut all day, and nothing has happened.”
“I guess he found you were not to be bluffed,” said Zen, and Transley could not prevent a flush of pleasure at her compliment. “Of course Landson has no real claim to the hay, has he, Dad?”
“Of course not. I reckon them’ll be his stacks we saw down the valley. Well, I’m not wantin’ to rob him of the fruit of his labor, an’ if he keeps calm perhaps we’ll let him have what he has cut, but if he don’t—” Y.D.‘s face hardened with the set of a man accustomed to fight, and win, his own battles. “I think we’ll just stick around a day or two in case he tries to start anythin’,” he continued.
“Well, five o’clock comes early,” said Transley, “and you folks must be tired with your long drive. We’ve had your tent pitched down by the water, Zen, so that its murmurs may sing you to sleep. You see, I have some of the poetic in me, too. Mr. Linder will show you down, and I will see that your father is made comfortable. And remember—five o’clock does not apply to visitors.”
The camp now lay in complete darkness, save where a lantern threw its light from a tent by the river. Zen walked by Linder’s side. Presently she reached out and took his arm.
“I beg your pardon,” said Linder. “I should have offered—”