She led them into a little sitting-room, where on a couch underneath a window Roy Beeman lay. He was wide awake and smiling, but haggard. He lay partly covered with a blanket. His gray shirt was open at the neck, disclosing bandages.
“Mornin'—girls,” he drawled. “Shore is good of you, now, comin' down.”
Helen stood beside him, bent over him, in her earnestness, as she greeted him. She saw a shade of pain in his eyes and his immobility struck her, but he did not seem badly off. Bo was pale, round-eyed, and apparently too agitated to speak. Carmichael placed chairs beside the couch for the girls.
“Wal, what's ailin' you this nice mornin'?” asked Roy, eyes on the cowboy.
“Huh! Would you expect me to be wearin' the smile of a fellar goin' to be married?” retorted Carmichael.
“Shore you haven't made up with Bo yet,” returned Roy.
Bo blushed rosy red, and the cowboy's face lost something of its somber hue.
“I allow it's none of your d—darn bizness if SHE ain't made up with me,” he said.
“Las Vegas, you're a wonder with a hoss an' a rope, an' I reckon with a gun, but when it comes to girls you shore ain't there.”
“I'm no Mormon, by golly! Come, Ma Cass, let's get out of here, so they can talk.”