“I want to tell father you're here before Jed gets to him with his story,” she explained. “I've asked him to ride down right away. He'll probably come in a few hours and spend the night here.”
After they had eaten supper they returned to the living room, where a great fire, built by Jim the negro horse wrangler, was roaring up the chimney.
It was almost eleven o'clock when horses galloped up and Dillon came into the house, followed by Jed Briscoe. The latter looked triumphant, the former embarrassed as he disgorged letters and newspapers from his pocket.
“I stopped at the office to get the mail as I came down. Here's yore paper, Ruth.”
Miss Dillon pounced eagerly upon the Gimlet Butte Avalanche, and disappeared with it to her bedroom. She had formerly lived in Gimlet Butte, and was still keenly interested in the gossip of the town.
Briscoe had scored one against Arlie by meeting her father, telling his side of the story, and returning with him to the house. Nevertheless Arlie, after giving him the slightest nod her duty as hostess would permit, made her frontal attack without hesitation.
“You'll be glad to know, dad, that Mr. Fraser is our guest. He has had rather a stormy time since we saw him last, and he has consented to stay with us a few days till things blow over.”
Dillon, very ill at ease, shook hands with the Texan, and was understood to say that he was glad to see him.
“Then you don't look it, dad,” Arlie told him, with a gleam of vexed laughter.
Her father turned reproachfully upon her. “Now, honey, yo' done wrong to say that. Yo' know Mr. Fraser is welcome to stay in my house long as he wants. I'm proud to have him stay. Do you think I forgot already what he done for us?”