Conniston rode along a graveled walk
toward her, his hat in his hand.
"Good morning," she said, as he drew in his horse near her. "Won't you
get down?"
"Good morning."
He swung to the ground with no further invitation, his horse's reins
over his arm.
His eyes were as grave as hers, and he was glad, glad that he had
ridden here through the desert.
"You came to see my father?"
Conniston colored slightly. Why had he come? What was he going to do
now that he was here? How should he seek to explain? He hesitated a
moment, and then answered, slowly:
"I am afraid that my reasons for coming at all are too complicated to
be told. You see, we just got off the train in Indian Creek out of
idle curiosity to see what the desert country was like. We're from New
York. And then we rode out toward the hills. One of your father's men
overtook us there, and, as he was coming this way and as we were
anxious to see the cattle-country and--" he broke off, smiling. "You
see, it is hard to make it sound sensible. We just came!"
She looked up at him, a little puzzled frown in her eyes.
"You have friends with you?"
"One friend. He was pretty well tuckered out, and the red-headed
gentleman who calls himself Lonesome Pete is bringing him along in his
buckboard."
"And you have no business at all out here?"
"I _had_ none," he retorted.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72