“Forget th’ gun man, Burt,” said Billy, “this feller’s a heap more interestin’ to me, for I’ve got a hunch he’s a poet. Now who on this footstool but a poet would come ridin’ into Lost Valley with his badge o’ beets an’ his line o’ talk about ‘fringes o’ pines’ an’ ‘runnin’ streams,’ to quote Tharon?”
“Even poets are human, you young limb,” drawled Curly in his soft voice, “an’ I’m sorry for him if he starts your ‘interest,’ so to speak. He’ll need all his poetic vision t’ survive.”
“I hope, Billy,” said Tharon severely, and with lofty inconsistency, “that you’ll remember your 98 manners an’ not start anything. Last’s is in for trouble enough without any side issues.”
“True,” said the boy instantly, “I’ll promise to leave th’ poet alone.”
Then the talk fell about the new well that had taken the place of the old Crystal and which was proving a huge success.
“Can’t draw her dry,” said Bent Smith, “pulled all of three hours with Nick Bob an’ Blue Pine yesterday an’ never even riled her.
“She’s good as th’ Gold Pool or th’ Silver Hollow now.”
“You’re some range man t’ make any such a comparison,” said Curly with conviction, “there ain’t no artificial water-well extent that can hold a candle t’ th’ real livin’ springs of a cattle country, when they’re such bubblin’, shinin’ beauties as th’ Springs of Last’s.”
“You’re right, Curly,” said Tharon quietly from under the light, “there’s nothin’ like them. They must be th’ blessin’s of God, an’ no mistake. They’re th’ stars at night, an’ th’ winds an’ th’ sunshine. They’re th’ lovers of th’ horses, th’ treasure of th’ masters. I love my springs.”
“So do th’ herds,” put in Jack Masters. “They’ll come fast at night now because they can smell th’ water far off, an’ it’s gettin’ pretty dry on th’ range.” 99