“That’s what father thought,” the girl confessed. “He never would have been the man to bring sheep in, but after they got into the country he saw it was a question of whether he was going to get the government reserve range for his sheep, or another man, some new-comer like Mr. Morse, for his. It was going to be sheep anyhow.”
“Well, I’m glad your father took the chance he saw.” He added reminiscently: “We got to be right good friends again last night before we parted.”
She took the opening directly. “If you’re so good a friend of his, you must not excite him about Mr. 71 Morse. You know he’s a Southerner, and he is likely to do something rash—something we shall all be sorry for afterward.”
“I reckon that will be all right,” he said evasively.
Her eyes swept to his. “You won’t get father into trouble will you?”
The warm, affectionate smile came back to his face, so that as he looked at her he seemed a sun-god. But again there was something in his gaze that was not the frankness of a comrade, some smoldering fire that strangely stirred her blood and yet left her uneasy.
“I’m not liable to bring trouble to those you love, girl. I stand by my friends.”
Her pony began to move toward the house, and he strode beside, as debonair and gallant a figure as ever filled the eye and the heart of a woman. The morning sun glow irradiated him, found its sparkling reflection in the dark curls of his bare head, in the bloom of his tanned cheeks, made a fit setting for the graceful picture of lingering youth his slim, muscular figure and springy stride personified. Small wonder the untaught girl beside him found the merely physical charm of him fascinating. If her instinct sometimes warned her to beware, her generous heart was eager to pay small heed to the monition except so far as concerned her father.
After breakfast he came into the office to see her before he left. 72
“Good-by for a day or two,” he said, offering his hand.