Her breath caught as she read. The caption beneath the photograph was, “Captain Thurston K. Hollister, awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for Gallantry in France.” The story below mentioned the fact that the man who had been given this recognition had disappeared and could not be found.
The girl’s blood sang. She had known from that first day he was of good blood, but she had not been sure that his record was worthy of him. He had not only fought in France; he had covered himself with glory. It was almost too good to be true.
She was on the porch to meet her father before he had swung down from the saddle. He told her details of the affair at Elk Creek as far as he had heard them.
Betty had cut the Hollister story out of the paper. She handed it to her father, all but the picture folded under.
“Who is this, Daddy?”
Reed glanced at it and answered promptly. “Looks like that young fellow Jones.”
Triumphantly she nodded. “That’s who it is. Read what it says about him.”
The cattleman read. “Hmp!” he grunted. “An’ I called him a slacker.”
“It doesn’t matter now what you called him, Dad. But I’m awf’ly glad he wasn’t one.”
“Some li’l’ stunt that—breakin’ up a German machine-gun nest and sittin’ tight for two days under fire till the boys reached him.” Clint smiled sardonically, the memory of the tongue-lashing he had given this man still vividly with him. “I reckon I can be more kinds of a durn fool in an hour than ’most anybody you know, Bess.”