“Ahuh! Shore I get your hunch,” he returned, with a change of tone. “But I asked you to marry me?”
“Yes y’u did. The first day y’u got heah to my dad’s house. And y’u asked me to marry y’u after y’u found y’u couldn’t have your way with me. To y’u the one didn’t mean any more than the other.”
“Shore I did more than Simm Bruce an’ Colter,” he retorted. “They never asked you to marry.”
“No, they didn’t. And if I could respect them at all I’d do it because they didn’t ask me.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” ejaculated Daggs, thoughtfully, as he stroked his long mustache.
“I’ll say to them what I’ve said to y’u,” went on Ellen. “I’ll tell dad to make y’u let me alone. I wouldn’t marry one of y’u—y’u loafers to save my life. I’ve my suspicions about y’u. Y’u’re a bad lot.”
Daggs changed subtly. The whole indolent nonchalance of the man vanished in an instant.
“Wal, Miss Jorth, I reckon you mean we’re a bad lot of sheepmen?” he queried, in the cool, easy speech of a Texan.
“No,” flashed Ellen. “Shore I don’t say sheepmen. I say y’u’re a BAD LOT.”
“Oh, the hell you say!” Daggs spoke as he might have spoken to a man; then turning swiftly on his heel he left her. Outside he encountered Ellen’s father. She heard Daggs speak: “Lee, your little wildcat is shore heah. An’ take mah hunch. Somebody has been talkin’ to her.”