What Dick's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me.
“Ken, blessed if I'd have known you,” he said, shoving me back at arm's-length. “Let's have a look at you.... Grown I say, but you're a husky lad!”
While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. Dick had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his fair skin.
“Ken, didn't you get my letter—the one telling you not to come West yet a while?”
“No,” I replied, blankly. “The last one I got was in May—about the middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick, don't you want me—now?”
Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Ken, I'm glad to see you,” he said, earnestly. “It's like getting a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed—there's something doing here—I'll—”
“You needn't explain, Dick,” I replied, gravely. “I know. Buell and—” I waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.
Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.
“Ken!... You're on,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well, wait till you hear—Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner.”