The man who had called himself Diller grew wary. “It’s a common enough name.”
“Yes. If I find you work at my father’s ranch would you be too particular about what it is?”
“Try me.”
“And your memory—is it inconveniently good?” Her glance swept as by chance over the scene of her recent operations.
“I’ve got a right good forgettery, too,” he assured her.
“You’re not in the habit of talking much about the things you see.” She put it in the form of a statement, but the rising inflection indicated the interrogative.
His black eyes met hers steadily. “I can padlock my mouth when it is necessary,” he answered, the suggestion of a Southern drawl in his intonation.
She wanted an assurance more direct. “When you think it necessary, I suppose.”
“That is what I meant to say.” 27
“Come. One good turn deserves another. What about this?” She nodded toward the dead cow.