“Don’t I know it?” chuckled George, poking the foreman’s ribs companionably with his elbow. “Don’t I know it?” he repeated, as his mind apparently ran back over some reminiscence that verified Linder’s remark. It was evident from the pleasant grimaces of George’s face that whatever he had suffered from the uncertain sex was forgiven.
“Say, Lin,” he resumed after another pause, and this time in a more confidential tone, “do you s’pose Transley’s got a notion that way?”
“Shouldn’t wonder. Transley always knows what he’s doing, and why. Y.D. must be worth a million or so, and the girl is all he’s got to leave it to. Besides all that, no doubt she’s well worth having on her own account.”
“Well, I’m sorry for the boss,” George replied, with great soberness. “I alus hate to disappoint the boss.”
“Huh!” said Linder. He knew George Drazk too well for further comment. After his unlimited pride in and devotion to his horse, George gave his heart unreservedly to womankind. He suffered from no cramping niceness in his devotions; that would have limited the play of his passion; to him all women were alike—or nearly so. And no number of rebuffs could convince George that he was unpopular with the objects of his democratic affections. Such a conclusion was, to him, too absurd to be entertained, no matter how many experiences might support it. If opportunity offered he doubtless would propose to Y.D.‘s daughter that very night—and get a boxed ear for his pains.
The Y.D. creek had crossed its valley, shouldering close against the base of the foothills to the right. Here the current had created a precipitous cutbank, and to avoid it and the stream the trail wound over the side of the hill. As they crested a corner the silver ribbon of the Y.D. was unravelled before them, and half a dozen miles down its course the ranch buildings lay clustered in a grove of cottonwoods and evergreens. All the great valley lay warm and pulsating in a flood of yellow sunshine; the very earth seemed amorous and content in the embrace of sun and sky. The majesty of the view seized even the unpoetic souls of Linder and Drazk, and because they had no other means of expression they swore vaguely and relapsed into silence.
Hoof-beats again sounded by the wagon side. It was Transley.
“Oh, here you are, Drazk. How long do you reckon it would take you to ride down to the Y.D. on that Pete-horse?” Transley was a leader of men.
Drazk’s eyes sparkled at the subtle compliment to his horse.
“I tell you, Boss,” he said, “if there’s any jackrabbits in the road they’ll get tramped on.”