It took the sound of running horses, many of them coming up along the slopes, to bring Kenset back to the present with a snap, to make the woman reach swiftly for the bonnet and clap it on her head.
“Mrs. Courtrey,” said Kenset hurriedly, “this has been the first real talk I have had with any of my neighbours, and I want to thank you for it.”
“Oh,” quavered the woman, “I don’t know as I’d ought to a-let you stayed! Mebby I’d oughtn’t. But––but seems like you bein’ so different, an’ I not seein’ no one, come day in day out, w’y I––I––”
“Sure,” he returned quickly, understanding. “You did just right. I wanted to stay.”
Then he rose to his feet and there came the thunder of the horses, the noise of men stopping from a run, dismounting.
Ellen rose and he followed her around the corner of the house to the door yard.
As they waited, Courtrey, clad in dark leather chaps, his guns swinging, came toward them. At sight of Kenset he stopped short and an oath rolled from his lips. The kerchief at his neck was turned knot-back and hung like a glob of crimson blood upon his breast. 126
Under his hat, set at an angle, his dark hair fluffed strangely.
He was a splendid figure of a man, broad shouldered, slim hipped.
Now he looked hard at the stranger and a slow grin lifted his upper lip.