He took off his boots, while Marion drew a fresh bucket of water. His feet were so swollen that he could hardly get the boots off, and his silk socks were in shreds.
He sat on the edge of the curb and soaked his feet in the cold water of the trough, while Marion found him a pair of Buck’s socks.
“Do you still think there is romance?” she asked, as he grimaced over his blisters. He looked up at her, forgetting the pain in his feet.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “You are the Beautiful Lady, and I am the Knight of the Blistered Feet.” He laughed softly. “As soon as I can get my boots on, I shall try and slay a dragon for you.”
“It isn’t going to be a hard season on dragons,” smiled the girl. “Unless all signs fail, you are going to have a hard time getting those boots on.”
There was no one else at the ranch. A mocking-bird sang from the patio wall, and a huge pepper tree threw a shade across the two at the well.
“Let’s forget about blistered feet,” said Jimmy Legg. “Tell me about this country, Miss Taylor. I’m a tenderfoot—and, oh so tender just now,” he laughed ruefully. “But I don’t mind. I didn’t know there were girls like you in this country. I’ve read stories of Arizona, where the handsome hero fought forty men, and won the heroine, who was very beautiful. But it doesn’t seem true to me, because I haven’t seen forty men since I came.”
“And there are no beautiful heroines,” she said.
“Well,” smiled Jimmy, “they didn’t have to do any heroic things. They were merely the central figure—some one to do great things for, don’t you see.”
“I suppose so,” smiled the girl. “But forty Arizona men would be rather a handful for one man to whip.”