“Oh, I shore learned ’em. There wasn’t many wimmin in that country, and them that was here had plenty to do without helpin’ with mine. Packin’ a six-gun in one hand and a diaper in the other. And then—I took another, Chuckwalla. Them two was almost of an age. They couldn’t even talk English. Angel talked what sounded like a Cree language, while Lila runs pretty close to Navajo. I got so I could sabe both of ’em. It wasn’t no fun. My God, I turned milkmaid. Fact. Got me a cow.” Old Rance sighed deeply and shook his head. “She was a good cow.”
“And yuh worked like hell to raise ’em—for this.”
“Yeah. Well, I didn’t have this in mind, Chuckwalla.”
“Well, I reckon it’ll turn out all right, Rance. You’ve played the game straight with the kids. But you’re all through. They took the play away from yuh.”
Chuckwalla got up from the steps and started to go into the house, but stopped. Angel was riding in through the old ranch-house gate. He dismounted at the porch, and stood with one foot on the lower step. Old Rance glanced up from under the brim of his sombrero.
“Howdy, Angel,” he said.
“All right,” replied Angel thoughtfully, looking at Chuckwalla. “You might as well stay, Chuckwalla. I want to talk with both of yuh.”
Chuckwalla came back and leaned against a porch-post.
“I’m comin’ right down to brass tacks,” said Angel coldly. “What did you two say about me after that game the other day?”
Old Rance McCoy studied his son’s face for several moments.