Steve was on the spot to join heartily the murmur of applause, for he was too good a sportsman to grudge admiration even to his enemy.
“You're the one best bet in riders, Mr. Briscoe. It's a pleasure to watch you,” he said frankly.
Jed's narrowed eyes drifted to him. “Oh, hell!” he drawled with insolent contempt, and turned on his heel.
From the clump of firs a young woman was descending, and Jed went to meet her.
“You rode splendidly,” she told him with vivid eyes. “Were you hurt when you were jammed again the wagon? I mean, does it still hurt?” For she noticed that he walked with a limp.
“I reckon I can stand the grief without an amputation. Arlie, I got something to tell you.”
She looked at him in her direct fashion and waited.
“It's about your new friend.” He drew from a pocket some leaves torn out of a magazine. His finger indicated a picture. “Ever see that gentleman before?”
The girl looked at it coolly. “It seems to be Mr. Fraser taken in his uniform; Lieutenant Fraser, I should say.”
The cattleman's face fell. “You know, then, who he is, and what he's doing here.”