Ordinarily, despite his a.s.sertion to the contrary, Scotty would have been offended; but he knew this long youth quite too well to misunderstand.

"Would you mind telling me why you refuse?" he said at last.

Ben shifted the heavy saddle to his other shoulder.

"No, I don't mind," he said bluntly. "I won't help you because I don't want you to go."

Scotty pondered, and a light dawned on his slow-moving brain. He looked at Ben sympathetically. "My boy," he said, "I'm sorry for you; by Jove!

I am."

They were even with the horse-barn now, and without a word Ben went in and hung up the saddle, each stirrup upon a nail. Relieved of his load he came back, slapping the dust from his clothes with his big gauntlets.

"If it's a fair question," he asked, "why do I merit your sympathy?"

The Englishman's hands went deeper into his pockets.

"Why?" He all but stared. "Because you haven't a ghost of a chance with Florence. She'd laugh at you!"

Ben's blue eyes were raised to a level with the other's gla.s.ses. "She'd laugh at me, you think?" he asked quietly.

Scotty shifted uneasily. "Well, perhaps not that," he retracted, "but anyway, you haven't a chance. I like you, Ben, and I'm dead sorry that she is different. She comes, if I do say it, of a good family, and you--" of a sudden the Englishman found himself floundering in deep water.

"And I am--an unknown," Ben finished for him.

At that moment Scotty heartily wished himself elsewhere, but wishing did not help him. "Yes, to put it baldly, that's the word. It's unfortunate, d.a.m.ned unfortunate, but true, you know."

Ben's eyes did not leave the other man's face. "You've talked with her, have you?" he asked.

Scotty fidgeted more than before, and swore silently that in future he would keep his compa.s.sions to himself.

"No, I've never thought it necessary so far; but of course--"

Ben Blair lifted his head. "Don't worry, Mr. Baker, I'll tell her my pedigree myself. I supposed she already knew--that everybody who had ever heard of me knew."

Scotty forgot his nervousness. "You'll--tell her yourself, you say?"

"Certainly."

The Englishman said nothing. It seemed to him there was nothing to say.

For a moment there was silence. "Mr. Baker," said Blair at last, "as long as we've started on this subject I suppose we might as well finish it up. I love your daughter; that you've guessed. If I can keep her here, I'll do so. It's my right; and if there's a G.o.d who watches over us, He knows I'll do my best to make her happy. As to my mother, I'll tell her about that myself--and consider the matter closed."

Again there was silence. As before, there seemed to the Englishman nothing to say.

Blair turned toward the ranch-house. "I saw Ma Graham motioning for dinner quite a while ago," he said. "Let's go in and eat."

CHAPTER XI

LOVE'S AVOWAL

A distinct path, in places almost a beaten road, connected the Box R and the Baker ranches. Along it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskin pony. He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted; but the shirt was of rough brown flannel. His leather trousers were creased and baggy at the knees.

At his hip protruded the b.u.t.t of a big revolver. Upon his head, seemingly a load in itself, was a broad sombrero; and surrounding it, beneath a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was now sobered by sun and rain, were stuck a score or more of matches. Despite the motion of the horse the youth was steadily smoking a stubby bull-dog pipe.

The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun was still but a little way up in the sky. The day, although the month was December, was as warm as September. There had not even been a frost the previous night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity.

Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had been by no means surrept.i.tious. "I'm going over to Baker's, and may not be back before night," he had said at the breakfast table; and, impa.s.sive as usual, the older man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went about his work. Likewise there was no subterfuge when the youth arrived at his destination. "I came to see Florence," he announced to Scotty in the front yard; then, as he tied the pony, he added: "I spoke to Grannis, and he said he'd come over and help you. Do you know exactly when you'll want him?"

"Yes, day after to-morrow. This weather is too good to waste."

Ben turned toward the house. "All right. I'll see that he's over here bright and early."

The visitor found the interior of the Baker home looking like a corner in a storage warehouse. Florence, in a big checked ap.r.o.n reaching to her chin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was busily engaged in still further dismantling the once cosey parlor. Amidst the confusion, and apparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly about. The front door was wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight.

"Good-morning," said Ben, appearing in the doorway.

Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence looked up from her work.

"Good-morning," she replied. A deliberate glance took in the new-comer's dress from head to foot, and lingered on the exposed revolver hilt. "Are you hunting Indians or bear?"

Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately.

"Bear, I judge from the question. I came in search of you."

There was no answer, and the man came in and sat down on the corner of a box. "You seem to be very busy," he said.

The girl went on with her packing. "Yes, rather busy," she said indifferently.

Ben dangled one long leg over the side of the box.

"Are you too busy to take a ride with me? I want to talk with you."

"I'm pretty busy," non-committally.

"Suppose I should ask it as a favor?"

"Suppose I should decline?"

The long leg stopped its swinging. "You wouldn't, though."

The girl's brown eyes flashed. "How do you know I wouldn't?"

Ben stood up and folded his arms. "Because it would be the first favor I ever asked of you, and you wouldn't refuse that."

They eyed each other a moment.