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Already the dusk was painting deep shadows in the woods across the opening, and turning the sky a darker blue. Skinner rolled over twice, got up and shook himself with a satisfied snort and went away to feed. She might, if she were patient, run to the horse when Al's back was turned, she thought.
"Nell, wasn't he glorious!" she burst out, with eyes shining. "I'd hardly call him that, but he was nice," replied Helen, much relieved that Bo had apparently not taken offense at her. It appeared plain that Bo resisted a frantic desire to look out of the window and to wave her hand. But she only peeped out, manifestly to her disappointment. "Do you think he he'll come to Uncle Al's?" asked Bo.
A tremor ran all through Dale. It seemed another painful yet thrilling connection between his past and this vaguely calling future. His emotions had been broodings dreams, longings. This thing his friend said had the sting of real life. "Then old Al's dead?" he asked. "Long ago I reckon around the middle of February. The property went to Helen. She's been doin' fine.
She would have loved it if only the man opposite were Lone, or Swan, or some one else whom she knew and trusted. She watched the firelight dancing on Al's sombre face, softening its hardness, making it almost wistful when he gazed thoughtfully into the coals. She thrilled when she saw how watchful he was, how he lifted his head and listened to every little night sound.
"I know there ain't no medals on Joe, Babe, but if you don't stop listenin' to town talk, you're going to get them pretty little ears of yours all sooty." "I know, Blutch; but I could tell you things about him back in the days when my mother " "Me and him are goin' over to Al's to-night and try to win my babe the first chicken for her farm. Whatta you bet?
"Miss Rayner, I can't blame you for takin' Al's word against mine," said Beasley. "An' your stand is natural. But you're a stranger here an' you know nothin' of stock deals in these ranges. It ain't fair to speak bad of the dead, but the truth is thet Al Auchincloss got his start by stealin' sheep an' unbranded cattle. Thet was the start of every rancher I know. It was mine.
I coulda loved this little girl. I could " He was down, bleeding and coughing and trying to talk. Swan had shot him, and two of the deputies who had been there through half of Al's bitter talk. Lorraine, unable to get up and run, too sturdy of soul to faint, had rolled over and away from him, her lips held tightly together, her eyes wide with horror. Al crawled after her, his eyes pleading.
It had been a day of sudden and enervating heat, and the city had done its worst to them. Pa's pink gills showed a hint of purple. Al's flimsy silk shirt stuck to his back, and his glittering pompadour was many degrees less submissive than was its wont. But Floss came in late, breathless, and radiant, a large and significant paper bag in her hand.
He glanced furtively behind him at Swan, and found that guileless youth ready to poke him in the back with the muzzle of a gun. Lone, he observed, had another. He looked back at Al, whose eyes were ablaze with resentment. With an effort he smiled his disarming, senatorial smile, but Al's next words froze it on his face.
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