She lagged back, sulkily, still protesting. “It’s not settled, either. You don’t run everything.”
But in her heart she was afraid he had stormed the last trench of her resistance.
CHAPTER VII
AN ELOPEMENT
Bob Dillon was peeling potatoes outside the chuck tent when he heard a whistle he recognized instantly. It was a very good imitation of a meadow-lark’s joyous lilt. He answered it, put down the pan and knife, and rose.
“Where you going?” demanded the cook.
“Back in a minute, Lon,” the flunkey told him, and followed a cow trail that took him up the hill through the sage.
“I never did see a fellow like him,” the cook communed aloud to himself. “A bird calls, an’ he’s got to quit work to find out what it wants. Kinda nice kid, too, if he is queer.”