“Howdy, little one!” said a lazy, drawling voice. “So y’u-all got home?”
Ellen looked up. A superbly built man leaned against the doorpost. Like most Texans, he was light haired and light eyed. His face was lined and hard. His long, sandy mustache hid his mouth and drooped with a curl. Spurred, booted, belted, packing a heavy gun low down on his hip, he gave Ellen an entirely new impression. Indeed, she was seeing everything strangely.
“Hello, Daggs!” replied Ellen. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s playin’ cairds with Jackson an’ Colter. Shore’s playin’ bad, too, an’ it’s gone to his haid.”
“Gamblin’?” queried Ellen.
“Mah child, when’d Kurnel Jorth ever play for fun?” said Daggs, with a lazy laugh. “There’s a stack of gold on the table. Reckon yo’ uncle Jackson will win it. Colter’s shore out of luck.”
Daggs stepped inside. He was graceful and slow. His long’ spurs clinked. He laid a rather compelling hand on Ellen’s shoulder.
“Heah, mah gal, give us a kiss,” he said.
“Daggs, I’m not your girl,” replied Ellen as she slipped out from under his hand.
Then Daggs put his arm round her, not with violence or rudeness, but with an indolent, affectionate assurance, at once bold and self-contained. Ellen, however, had to exert herself to get free of him, and when she had placed the table between them she looked him square in the eyes.