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As the heat from the red coals began to turn these to a crisp brown, Bob sniffed the added fragrance in the air after the manner of a hungry range-rider, or a boy with a healthy appetite. "Seems to be plenty of game around here," he remarked. "I jumped two rabbits near the spring, and they went up the rise, as usual."
The bitterness of his failure ate into the soul of the range-rider as it had done already a thousand times. It did not matter what he did. He could never atone for the desertion on their wedding day. The horrible fact was written in blood. It could not be erased. Forever it would have to stand between them. An unbridgeable gulf separated them, created by his shameless weakness.
I ant look for no trouble with no rubes." "I believe you did it on purpose." "Tank so? Val, yust one teng I lak to tell you. I got no time for damn fule talk." The Westerner started on his way. There was no use having a row with a sulky janitor. But the Swede misunderstood his purpose. At Clay's first step forward he jerked round the nozzle and let the range-rider have it with full force.
It was not the grotesque, frock-coated Overland of a recent visit, nor was it the ragged, unkempt vision Louise had conjured up for her in relating the Old Meadow story. In fact, it was not Overland Red at all, but Jack Summers, the range-rider of the old red Abilene days. He was clean-shaven, vigorous, splendidly strong, and confident.
"If you're expectin' me to throw up my hat an' shout, Blister, I got to disappoint you," Dud replied. "I like 'em man-size." "I'm p-puttin' him in yore charge." "You ain't either," the range-rider repudiated indignantly. "To m-make a man of him." "Hell's bells! I'm no dry nurse to fellows shy of sand. He can travel a lone trail for all of me." "Keep him kinda encouraged."
On his way to the diner at noon the range-rider passed her again. She was alone for the moment and as she leaned back her soft round throat showed a beating pulse. Her cheeks were burning and her starry eyes were looking into the future with a happy smile. "You pore little maverick," the man commented silently. The two had the table opposite him.
It took longer than this to rope up the husky janitor with a squirming hose, but when Clay stepped back to inspect his job he knew he was looking at one that had been done thoroughly. "I keel you, by damn, ef you don't turn me loose!" roared the big man in a rage. The range-rider grinned gayly at him. He was having the time of his young life. He did not even regret his fifty-five-dollar suit.
Steve admitted the thrust lightly. "Got time to hear all about it, captain?" "Go ahead." The range-rider told it, the whole story, so far as it could be related by him. Such details as his modesty omitted Holcomb's imagination was easily able to supply. The Texan paced up and down the room with the long, light, military stride.
It was clear that she was expecting to be manufactured into a film star in a week or two. Clay doubted whether the process was quite so easy, even with a young woman who bloomed in the diner like a rose of the desert. After they had finished eating, the range-rider turned in at the smoking compartment and enjoyed a cigar.
You will be furnished an escort to see you safely across the line. You may choose your own guard if you doubt." "And my friends?" "They go, too, of course." "All of them?" The Mexican smiled. "You're the most suspicious man I ever knew. All of them, Señor Yeager." "Including Miss Seymour?" The range-rider spoke quietly, but his eyes were like swords.
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