They tossed their guns to the ground, swung from the saddle and approached with their hands in the air. The presence of a woman caused Shorty to blush confusedly, but Tad seemed to rather enjoy the situation. Once through the barbed-wire fence, they kept to the road. A bend in the road brought them in view of the buildings.
The sun was just rising and both cowpunchers gazed in surprise at the scene spread before them. Low walled, log buildings, the sod roofs covered with green grass and wild mustard. Well-built horse corrals, branding shute and branding pen beyond. A well-irrigated alfalfa patch, blooming and ripe for cutting. A small blacksmith shop surrounded by mowers, rakes, and two round-up wagons. Everything neat and orderly, rare indeed, for a cattle ranch.
The ranch house and adjacent bunk house were whitewashed, and climbing the walls were masses of morning glories. Wild rose bushes, pink blossoms wet with the early morning dew, lined the gravel walk that led to the doors. All around were the tall cottonwoods.
“Gosh!” whispered Shorty, and removed his hat.
Tad followed suit. They halted on the threshold of the open door, carefully wiping their feet on the burlap sack mat. Tad sniffed the warm air that came from the kitchen.
From the service-berry brush behind the cowpunchers, stepped the oddly mated couple with their shotguns.
Hank Basset, shorter by six inches and lighter by some eighty pounds than his wife, was clad in faded flannel shirt and freshly laundered, neatly patched overalls. Slightly bent over, tanned the color of an old saddle, a bald patch showing in the center of his silvery hair, he was anything but warlike in appearance. His mild blue eyes twinkled with humor, but there was a look about his straight mouth and square chin that told of hidden determination and a fearless spirit if he were roused.
Ma Basset, red of cheek, her well-combed, abundance of gray hair glistening in the morning sun, was as neat as her rose bushes, and as fresh looking, in her red-and-white checked gingham. Despite the scowl that furrowed her wide brow, there was everything in her make-up to denote a generous, mothering personality. A bit stout, to be sure, but her step was firm and alert and her bare arms were more muscular than fat. A woman of the pioneer stock, ranch born and raised. As much at home in the saddle as in her immaculate kitchen, a fair example of the cattle man’s wife whose courage and sacrifice has played so important a role in the building of the West. Even as her mother before her had fought Indians, so now, did Ma Basset wield her sawed-off shotgun in defense of her home.