But she might as well have attempted to stem the tide of the river that had wrecked her journey as stay the irate woman's tongue.

"But it's him!" she cried. "Him, that low-down scallawag that carried you in his arms an' walked right into this yere bedroom an' laid you on your own virgin bed without no by your leave nor nuthin'. Him, as saw your trunks drownded an' you all mussed up with water, without raisin' a hand to help, 'less it was to push you further under----"

But Joan was equal to no more. She pushed the well-meaning creature on one side and hurried out of the house, while the echoes of the other's scathing indictment died down behind her.

Joan did not hesitate. It was not her way to hesitate about anything when her mind was made up. And just now she was determined to find out the real story of what had happened to her. She was interested. This man had carried her. He had brought her trunks up. And--yes, she liked the look of him.

But she felt it necessary to approach the matter with becoming dignity. She was not given much to standing on her dignity, but she felt that in her a.s.sociation with the men of these parts she must harden herself to it. All friendships with men were banned. This she was quite decided upon. And she sighed as she pa.s.sed round the angle of the barn.

Her sigh died at its birth, however, and she was brought to a short and terrified halt. Two p.r.o.ngs of a hayfork gleamed viciously within three inches of her horrified eyes, and, behind them, with eyes no less horrified, stood the dark-haired stranger.

CHAPTER XI

THE SHADOW OF THE PAST

The gleaming p.r.o.ngs of the fork were sharply withdrawn, and a pleasant voice greeted the girl.

"Guess that was a near thing," it said half-warningly.

Joan had started back, but at the sound of the voice she quickly recovered herself.

"It was," she agreed. Then as she looked into the smiling eyes of the stranger she began to laugh.

"Another inch an' more an' you'd sure have been all mussed up on that pile of barn litter," he went on, joining in her laugh.

"I s'pose I should," Joan nodded, her mirth promptly sobering to a broad smile.

She had almost forgotten her purpose so taken up was she in observing this "scallawag," as Mrs. Ransford had called him. Nor did it take her impressionable nature more than a second to decide that her worthy housekeeper was something in the nature of a thoroughly stupid woman.

She liked the look of him. She liked his easy manner. More than all she liked the confident look of his dark eyes and his sunburnt face, so full of strength.

"Hayforks are cussed things anyway," the man said, flinging the implement aside as though it had offended him.

Joan watched him. She was wondering how best to approach the questions in her mind. Somehow they did not come as easily as she had antic.i.p.ated. It was one thing to make up her mind beforehand, and another to put her decision into execution. He was certainly not the rough, uncouth man she had expected to find. True, his language was the language of the prairie, and his clothes, yes, they surely belonged to his surroundings, but there was none of the uncleanness about them she had antic.i.p.ated.

It was his general manner, however, that affected her chiefly. How tall and strong he was, and the wonderful sunburn on his clean-cut face and ma.s.sive arms! Then he had such an air of reserve. No, it was not easy.

Finally, she decided to temporize, and wait for an opening. And in that she knew in her heart she was yielding to weakness.

"My housekeeper tells me it was you who handed the farm over to her?"

she said interrogatively.

The man's eyes began to twinkle again.

"Was that your--housekeeper?" he inquired.

"Yes--Mrs. Ransford."

Joan felt even less at her ease confronted by those twinkling eyes.

"She's a--bright woman."

The man casually picked up a straw and began to chew it.

Joan saw that he was smiling broadly, and resented it. So she threw all the dignity she could summon into her next question.

"Then you must be Mr. Moreton Kenyon!" she said.

The man shook his head.

"Wrong. That's the 'Padre,'" he announced curtly.

Joan forgot her resentment in her surprise.

"The 'Padre'! Why, I thought Mr. Kenyon was a farmer!"

The man nodded.

"So he is. You see folks call him Padre because he's a real good feller," he explained. Then he added: "He's got white hair, too. A whole heap of it. That sort o' clinched it."

The dark eyes had become quite serious again. There was even a tender light in them as he searched the girl's fair face. He was wondering what was yet to come. He was wondering how this interview was to bear on the future. In spite of his easy manner he dreaded lest the threats of Mrs. Ransford were about to be put into execution.

Joan accepted his explanation.

"I see," she said. Then, after a pause: "Then who are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm 'Buck,'" he responded, with a short laugh.

"Buck--who?"

"Jest plain 'Buck.'" Again came that short laugh.

"Mr. Kenyon's son?"

The man shook his head, and Joan tried again.

"His nephew?"

Again came that definite shake. Joan persisted, but with growing impatience.

"Perhaps you're--his partner?" she said, feeling that if he again shook his head she must inevitably shake him.

But she was spared a further trial. Buck had been quick to realize her disappointment. Nor had he any desire to inspire her anger. On the contrary, his one thought was to please and help her.

"You see we're not related. Ther's nuthin' between us but that he's jest my great big friend," he explained.