Young Burleson drew bridle; the slim youth who sat his saddle so easily must be the deputy of the sick fire-warden; this was the time and the place.
As the young rider galloped up, Burleson leaned forward, offering his hand with an easy, pleasant greeting. The hand was unnoticed, the greeting breathlessly returned; two grave, gray eyes met his, and Burleson found himself looking into the flushed face of a young girl.
When he realized this, he took off his cap, and she inclined her head, barely acknowledging his salute.
“I am Mr. Elliott’s daughter,” she said; “you are Mr. Burleson?”
Burleson had the honor of presenting himself, cap in hand.
“I am my father’s deputy,” said the girl, quietly, gathering her bridle and wheeling her horse. “I read your note. Have you reason to believe that an attempt has been made to fire the Owl Vlaie?”
There was a ring of business in her voice that struck him as amusingly delightful—and such a sweet, clear voice, too, untinged with the slightest taint of native accent.
“Yes,” said Burleson, gravely, “I’m afraid that somebody tried to burn the vlaie. I think that a change in the wind alone saved us from a bad fire.”
“Shall we ride over?” inquired the girl, moving forward with unconscious grace.
Burleson ranged his big horse alongside; she set her mount at a gallop, and away they went, wheeling into the swale, knee-deep in dry, silvery grasses, until the deputy fire-warden drew bridle with a side-flung caution: “Muskrats! Look out for a cropper!”