The rancher took his guests’ hats, and motioned each to a seat. “Mother,” he said, directing his voice into an adjoining room, “here’s the boys.”
In a moment “Mother” appeared drying her hands. In her appearance were courage, resourcefulness, energy,—fit mate for the man who had made the Y.D. known in every big cattle market of the country. As Linder’s eye caught her and her husband in the same glance his mind involuntarily leapt to the suggestion of what the offspring of such a pair must be. The men of the cattle country have a proper appreciation of heredity....
“My wife—Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder,” said the rancher, with a courtliness which sat strangely on his otherwise rough-and-ready speech. “I been tellin’ her the fine job you boys has made in the hay fields, an’ I reckon she’s got a bite of supper waitin’ you.”
“Y.D. has been full of your praises,” said the woman. There was a touch of culture in her manner as she received them, which Y.D.‘s hospitality did not disclose.
She led them into another room, where a table was set for five. Linder experienced a tang of happy excitement as he noted the number. Linder allowed himself no foolishness about women, but, as he sometimes sagely remarked to George Drazk, you never can tell what might happen. He shot a quick glance at Transley, but the contractor’s face gave no sign. Even as he looked Linder thought what an able face it was. Transley was not more than twenty-six, but forcefulness, assertion, ability, stood in every line of his clean-cut features. He was such a man as to capture at a blow the heart of old Y.D., perhaps of Y.D.‘s daughter.
“Where’s Zen?” demanded the rancher.
“She’ll be here presently,” his wife replied. “We don’t have Mr. Transley and Mr. Linder every night, you know,” she added, with a smile.
“Dolling up,” thought Linder. “Trust a woman never to miss a bet.”
But at that moment a door opened, and the girl appeared. She did not burst upon them, as Linder had half expected; she slipped quietly and gracefully into their presence. She was dressed in black, in a costume which did not too much conceal the charm of her figure, and the nut-brown lustre of her face and hair played against the sober background of her dress with an effect that was almost dazzling.
“My daughter, Zen,” said Y.D. “Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder.”