The young man at first thought the place was deserted for the day, but when he called a girl appeared at the door. She smiled up at him with the lively interest any ranch girl may be expected to feel in a stranger who happens to be both young and good looking.
She was a young person of soft curves and engaging dimples. Beneath the brown cheeks of Arizona was a pink that came and went very attractively.
Curly took off his dusty gray hat. “Buenos tardes; senorita! I’ll bet I’m too late to draw any dinner.”
“Buenos, senor,” she answered promptly. “I’ll bet you’d lose your money.”
He swung from the saddle. “That’s good hearing. When a fellow has had his knees clamped to the side of a bronch for seven hours he’s sure ready for the dinner bell.”
“You can wash over there by the pump. There’s a towel on the fence.”
She disappeared into the house, and Curly took care of his horse, washed, and sauntered back to the porch. He could smell potatoes frying and could hear the sizzling of ham and eggs.
While he ate the girl flitted in and out, soft-footed and graceful, replenishing his plate from time to time.
Presently he discovered that her father was away hunting strays on Sunk Creek, that the nearest neighbor was seven miles distant, and that Stone’s ranch was ten miles farther up Dead Cow.
“Ever meet a lad called Sam Cullison?” the guest asked carelessly.