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The Iowa boy, under Taterleg's tutelage, was developing into a trustworthy and capable hand, the cattle were fattening in the grassy valleys. All counted, it was the most peaceful spell that Philbrook's ranch ever had known, and the tranquility was reflected in the owner, and her house, and all within its walls.
"I've come to settle up with you on our last deal, Vesta," he said. She took him to the room in which they always transacted business, which was a library in fact as well as name. It had been Philbrook's office in his day.
Then he laid it away between the folds of his remarkable garment very carefully, and went out, his slicker across his arm, to take up his life in that strip of contention and strife between Vesta Philbrook's far-reaching wire fences. The news quickly ran over the country that Vesta Philbrook had hired the notorious Duke of Chimney Butte and his gun-slinging side partner to ride fence.
In going out to seek her in the folly of a romance too trivial for a man of his serious mien, he was guilty of an indiscretion deserving Vesta Philbrook's deepest scorn. He burned with his own shame as he dismounted to adjust the wire, like one caught in a reprehensible deed, and rode home feeling foolishly small. Kerr! He should hate the name.
Among these Lambert recognized Tom Hargus, the young man who had made the ungallant attempt to pass Vesta Philbrook's gate with his father. He had more whisky under his dark skin than he could take care of.
"Been hoofing it sence five o'clock this morning over from Philbrook's preserve and I'm too tuckered out to make Fairview." "Certainly you can stay with us," answered Snap. "Had any luck?" "A few rabbits and some ducks, that's all. Gee shoo! Do you mean to say you got them deer an' that buck to-day?" "We did." "Gosh all hemlock! No wonder a feller like me can't get nuthin!
Still, if a man should happen along who could take the lead but Vesta wouldn't have him; she wouldn't surrender. It might cost her pain to go her way with her pretty head up, her eyes on the road far beyond, but she would go alone and hide her pain rather than surrender. That would be Vesta Philbrook's way. Myrtle, the negro woman, came in with chicken broth.
He held it up and looked at it, concluding in the end that it would not serve. With his hairy chaps off, Taterleg did not appear so bow-legged, but he waddled like a crab as they went toward the house to join the companion of their ride. The Duke stopped on the high ground near the house, turned, looked off over the great pasture that had been Philbrook's battle ground for so many years.
His first business on taking charge of the Philbrook ranch had been to do a piece of fence-cutting on his own account opposite Nick Hargus' ranch, through which he had ridden and driven home thirty head of cattle lately stolen by that enterprising citizen from Vesta Philbrook's herd.
But that was one phase of his dream that never hardened into the reality of machinery and bricks. While the long lines of fence were going up, carpenters were at work building a fit seat for Philbrook's baronial aims.
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