“Tex, are you Mister Frank Owens?” he queried sharply.
“I—shore—ain’t,” gasped Tex.
Springer asked each of the other boys the same question and received decidedly maudlin but negative answers. Then he turned again to the girl. “Miss Stacey, I regret to say that you are indeed the victim of a low-down cowboy trick,” he said. “I’d apologize for such heathen if I knew how. All I can say is I’m sorry.”
“Then—then there isn’t any school to teach—any place for me—out here?” she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.
“That’s another matter,” he replied, with a winning smile. “Of course there’s a place for you. I’ve wanted a school teacher for a long time. Some of the men out at the ranch have kids an’ they sure need a teacher.”
“Oh, I’m—so glad,” she murmured, in great relief. “I was afraid I’d have to go—all the way back. You see I’m not so strong as I used to be—and my doctor advised a change of climate—dry western air. I can’t go back now.”
“You don’t look sick,” he said, with the keen eyes on her. “You look very well to me.”
“Oh, indeed, I’m not very strong,” she returned, quickly. “But I must confess I wasn’t altogether truthful about my age.”
“I was wondering about that,” he said, gravely. There seemed just a glint of a twinkle in his eye. “Not over forty.”
Again she blushed and this time with confusion. “It wasn’t altogether a lie. I was afraid to mention I was only—young. And I wanted to get the position so much ... I’m a good—a competent teacher, unless the scholars are too grown-up.”