The Ranger Captain held her off and examined the lovely flushed face.
"Dog it, you get prettier every day you live. I wisht I was thirty years younger. I'd make some of these lads get a move on 'em."
"I wish you were," she laughed. "They need some competition to make them look at me. None of them would have a chance then—even if they wanted it."
"I believe that. I got to believe it to keep my self-respect. It's all the consolation we old-timers have got. How's Clint?"
"Better. You should hear him swear under his breath because the doctor won't let him smoke more than two pipes a day, and because we won't let him eat whatever he wants to. He's worse than a sore bear," said Ramona proudly.
A moment later the Ranger and the cattleman were shaking hands. They had been partners in their youth, had fought side by side in the Civil War, and had shot plains Indians together at Adobe Walls a few years since. They were so close to each other that they could quarrel whenever they chose, which they frequently did.
"How, old-timer!" exclaimed the Ranger Captain.
"Starved to death. They feed me nothin' but slops—soup an' gruel an' custard an' milk-toast. Fine for a full-grown man, ain't it? Jim, you go out an' get me a big steak an' cook it in boilin' grease on a camp-fire, an' I'll give you a deed to the A T O."
"To-morrow, Clint. The Doc says—"