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You catch breakfast quick!" During the meal they made plans for the day. In the morning Casey was going to shift the water to his oats; in the afternoon he would drive them over to Talapus. They would have supper there, and return by moonlight. Meanwhile they were to consider the place theirs, to go where and do what they liked. "I'll help you," Wade offered. "We'll all help you," said Clyde.
Casey pulled a handful of photographs from a drawer, and shuffled them. He handed one to Mrs. Wade. "That's Sheila McCrae. I'll drive you over to Talapus, her father's place, one of these days." Clyde, moved by an interest which she could not understand, bent over Kitty Wade's shoulder. The picture was an enlarged snapshot, but a splendid likeness.
I suppose Casey has gone to Talapus." "Kitty's busy cleaning your riding clothes," Clyde replied. "Casey has gone; I haven't seen him." It was the first time she had used his given name to a third person. It slipped out naturally, and she coloured a trifle, but Sheila did not appear to notice. They breakfasted together, and later sat on the veranda enjoying the perfect morning after the storm.
For some time he had not seen Sheila McCrae, but he found himself thinking of her constantly. And so, one evening he rode over to Talapus. Somewhat to his relief, neither McCrae nor Sandy was visible. Mrs. McCrae was calmly civil. Her manner gave no hint that he was unwelcome. Sheila, she told him, had gone for a walk somewhere along the ditch.
Half an hour of this slow progress brought him in sight of Talapus Ranch. It had been pointed out to him before; but it was with considerable reluctance that he decided, for his mount's sake, to turn into the trail to the house. Sheila was on the veranda, and Farwell raised his hat. "Miss McCrae, I think. You may remember me Farwell. I'm sorry to trouble you, but my horse has picked up a nail.
"We'll get the men responsible for it one of these days." "You made a beginning with young McCrae," Casey reminded him. "I don't know what you mean." "Don't you know that Glass tried to arrest him?" "What?" cried Farwell. His surprise was too genuine to be feigned. Thereupon Casey told him what had occurred in the last few hours both at Talapus and Chakchak.
The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.
"There's one man, though," said Farwell, "whom I'd like to see get a fair price. That's McCrae, who owns Talapus Ranch. It's the biggest and best in the country." "Will he sell now?" "He might." "What has he got, and what does he want for it?" Farwell told him. "What is it worth, Sleeman?" And at his agent's appraisal, Carrol looked shocked and grieved. "Why, good Lord!
And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin. Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.
Why, girl, you've saved Talapus to the McCraes, and their ranches for the men who made them. We can't repay you; we won't try." "Excuse me," said Wade, who had anticipated his entrance by many preliminary noises, "excuse me, my dear young friends, and, incidentally, accept my sincerest congratulations, felicitations, and er jubilations. Kindly listen to the following observations. Ahem!
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