“At my convenience, sir.”
An upward swing brought him to the fork of the tree. Yet a moment, and he was beside her among the blossoms. Her eyes swept him in one swift glance, curiously, a little shyly.
“With not even a by-your-leave. You are a claim jumper,” she said.
“No, ma’am. I’m locatin’ the one adjoinin’ yores.”
“You may have mine, since I’m vacating it.”
“Now don’t you,” he protested. “Let yoreself go once an’ be natural. Like a human being. Hear that meadow-lark calling to his mate. He’s tellin’ his lady friend how strong he is for her. Why even the irrigation ditch is singin’ a right nice song about what a peach of a day it is.”
The girl’s eyes appraised him without seeming to do so. So far the cow-punchers she had met had been shy and awkward, red-faced and perspiring. But this youth was none of these. The sun and the wind of the Rockies had painted the tan on face and neck and hands, had chiselled tiny humorous wrinkles that radiated from the corners of his eyes. Every inch of the broad-rimmed felt hat, of the fancy silk kerchief, of the decorated chaps, certified him a rider of the range. But where had he picked up that spirited look of gay energy, that whimsical smile which combined deference and audacity?
“He travels fast,” the girl announced to the world at large. “Which reminds me that so must I.”
Larry too made a confidant of his environment. “I wonder how she’ll get past me—unless she really has wings.”
“I’ve heard that all Westerners are gentlemen at heart,” she mused aloud. “Of course he’ll let me past.”