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The Sawtooth Cattle Company had for years "covered" that eighty-acre patch of government land, never dreaming that any one would ever file on it. Swan Vjolmar was there and had his log cabin roofed and ready for the door and windows before the Sawtooth discovered his presence. Now, nearly a year afterwards, he was accepted in a tolerant, half-friendly spirit.
"Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing. The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have to settle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you look after things what's your name? Vjolmar how yuh spell it? I'll swear you in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!"
It was not Frank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon. "Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting in silence. "He's there in the wagon. We picked him up back here about three-quarters of a mile or so." "What's the matter? Is he drunk?"
As to his reason for coming, he referred them to Mr Vjolmar, whom he thought could better explain the matter. The three of them waited, five of them, since Jim and Sorry had come up, anxious to hear the doctor's opinion and anything else pertaining to the affair. Swan was coming slowly from the bunk-house, buttoning his coat. He seemed to feel that they were waiting for him and to know why.
"I could lick you good," he admitted in a stage whisper. "I'm a son-off-a-gun all right only I don't never get mad at somebody." Brit Hunter smiled at that, it was so like Swan Vjolmar. But when they were halfway to Thurman's ranch Brit on horseback and Swan striding easily along beside him, leading the blaze-faced horse, he glanced down at Swan's face and wondered if Swan had not lied a little.
Vjolmar, whom he thought could better explain the matter. The three of them waited, five of them, since Jim and Sorry had come up, anxious to hear the doctor's opinion and anything else pertaining to the affair. Swan was coming slowly from the bunk-house, buttoning his coat. He seemed to feel that they were waiting for him and to know why. His manner was diffident, deprecating even.
It was not Frank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon. "Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting in silence. "He's there in the wagon. We picked him up back here about three-quarters of a mile or so." "What's the matter? Is he drunk?"
The Sawtooth Cattle Company had for years "covered" that eighty-acre patch of government land, never dreaming that any one would ever file on it. Swan Vjolmar was there and had his log cabin roofed and ready for the door and windows before the Sawtooth discovered his presence. Now, nearly a year afterwards, he was accepted in a tolerant, half-friendly spirit.
"Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing. The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have to settle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you look after things what's your name? Vjolmar how yuh spell it? I'll swear you in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!"
"I could lick you good," he admitted in a stage whisper. "I'm a son-off-a-gun all right only I don't never get mad at somebody." Brit Hunter smiled at that, it was so like Swan Vjolmar. But when they were halfway to Thurman's ranch Brit on horseback and Swan striding easily along beside him, leading the blaze-faced horse, he glanced down at Swan's face and wondered if Swan had not lied a little.
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