Upon her return she found the old cowboy sitting dejectedly under a liveoak bush. “Sir,” she began timidly, “you are in trouble. I should like to express my sympathy.”
He rose with suspicious nimbleness. “Now, bless your kind heart, Miss, to stop to console a sad old man.”
“I overheard what Mr. Saul said to you, sir. He is—”
“Without doubt, without doubt, he is everything you mention. Could you, now, be Mistress Patty Laughton, of Kentucky?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew your Grandfather Laughton, my child, and since I came here I have heard-of you,” he finished, with innate delicacy. Indeed, who had not heard her story?
She opened her silken reticule and drew forth a small, buckskin bag. “Will you not accept it? Yesterday, at the claims, I panned it out myself. I am sorry for your plight. I am sorry for anyone in the clutches of Slick-heels Saul.”
“But—. Can you—?”
“It does not matter. Your extremity is greater than mine.”
He stood looking after the slim girl who carried her head so high. “How like a Kentucky Laughton. Thoroughbred stock, all!” He tossed the bag in his hand. “'Tis why they are where they are today.” Then his keen old eyes softened. “And why they are what they are, today. Bless her tender heart to stoop to an old cattle man in the mire. As for this—I must see Irish Mike,” and he hurried off with surprising speed.