She shook hands frankly, first with Transley, then with Linder, as had been the order of the introduction. In her manner was neither the shyness which sometimes marks the women of remote settlements, nor the boldness so readily bred of outdoor life. She gave the impression of one who has herself, and the situation, in hand.
“We’re always glad to have guests at the Y.D.” she was saying. “We live so far from everywhere.”
Linder thought that a strange peg on which to hang their welcome. But she was continuing—
“And you have been so successful, haven’t you? You have made quite a hit with Dad.”
“How about Dad’s daughter?” asked Transley. Transley had a manner of direct and forceful action. These were his first words to her. Linder would not have dared be so precipitate.
“Perhaps,” thought Linder to himself, as he turned the incident over in his mind, “perhaps that is why Transley is boss, and I’m just foreman.” The young woman’s behavior seemed to support that conclusion. She did not answer Transley’s question, but she gave no evidence of displeasure.
“You boys must be hungry,” Y.D. was saying. “Pile in.”
The rancher and his wife sat at the ends of the table; Transley on the side at Y.D.‘s right; Linder at Transley’s right. In the better light Linder noted Y.D.‘s face. It was the face of a man of fifty, possibly sixty. Life in the open plays strange tricks with the appearance. Some men it ages before their time; others seem to tap a spring of perpetual youth. Save for the grey moustache and the puckerings about the eyes Y.D.‘s was still a young man’s face. Then, as the rancher turned his head, Linder noted a long scar, as of a burn, almost grown over in the right cheek.... Across the table from them sat the girl, impartially dividing her position between the two.
A Chinese boy served soup, and the rancher set the example by “piling in” without formality. Eight hours in the open air between meals is a powerful deterrent of table small-talk. Then followed a huge joint of beef, from which Y.D. cut generous slices with swift and dexterous strokes of a great knife, and the Chinese boy added the vegetables from a side table. As the meat disappeared the call of appetite became less insistent.
“She’s been a great summer, ain’t she?” said the rancher, laying down his knife and fork and lifting the carver. “Transley, some more meat? Pshaw, you ain’t et enough for a chicken. Linder? That’s right, pass up your plate. Powerful dry, though. That’s only a small bit; here’s a better slice here. Dry summers gen’rally mean open winters, but you can’t never tell. Zen, how ‘bout you? Old Y.D.‘s been too long on the job to take chances. Mother? How much did you say, Transley? About two thousand tons? Not enough. Don’t care if I do,”—helping himself to another piece of beef.