"Sick of you! Lord heavens! what'll I do when you leave?"
"You'll go back to your ranch. A fine foreman you must be, fooling round here like a tramp. What does your boss think?"
"Don't know and don't care. Don't care what anybody thinks—but you. You're my only landmark these days. You're my sun, moon, and stars, that's what you are. I set my watch by you."
"You're crazy!" she answered, with laughter.
"Sure thing! Locoed, we call it out here. You've got me locoed—you're my pink poison blossom. There ain't any feed that interests me but you. I'm lonesome as a snake-bit cow when I can't see you."
"Say, do you know Uncle Dan begins to notice you. He asked me to-day what you were hanging round here for, and who you were."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him you were McCoy's hired man just helping me take care of him."
"That's a lie. I'm your hired man. I'm takin' care of you—willing to work for a kiss a day."
"You'll not get even that."
"I'm not getting it—yet."
"You'll never get it."
"Don't be too sure of that. My life-work is collecting my dues. I've got 'em all set down. You owe me a dozen for extra jobs, and a good hug for overtime."
She smiled derisively, and turned the current. "The meals you eat are all of a dollar a day."
"They're worth a bushel of diamonds—when you cook 'em. But let me ask you something—is your old dad as fierce as Uncle Dan?"
She nodded. "You bet he is! He's crusty as old crust. Don't you go up against my daddy with any little bank-book. It's got to be a fat wad, and, mind you, no cloves on your breath, either. He's crabbed on the drink question; that's why he settled in Colorado Springs. No saloons there, you know."
He considered a moment. "Much obliged. Now here's something for you. You're not obliged to hand out soft words and a sweet smile to every doggone Injun that happens to call for mail. Stop it. Why, you'll have all the cow-punchers for fifty miles around calling for letters. That bunch that was in here just now was from Steamboat Springs. Their mail don't come here; it comes by way of Wyoming. They were runnin' a bluff. It makes me hot to have such barefaced swindling going on. I won't stand for it."
"Well, you see, I'm not really deputized to handle the mail, so I must be careful not to make anybody mad—"
"Anybody but me. I don't count."
"Oh, you wouldn't complain, I know that."
"I wouldn't, hey? Sure of that? Well, I'm going to start a petition to have myself made postmaster—"
"Better get Uncle Dan out first," she answered, with a sly smile. "The office won't hold you both."
At the end of a week the old postmaster was able to hobble to the window and sort the mail, but the doctor would not consent to his cooking his own meals.
"If you can stay another week," he said to Lida, "I think you'd better do it. He isn't really fit to live alone."
Thereupon she meekly submitted, and continued to keep house in the little kitchen for herself, her uncle, and for Roy, who still came regularly to her table, bringing more than his share of provisions, however. She was a good deal puzzled by the change which had come over him of late. He was less gay, less confident of manner, and he often fell into fits of abstraction.
He was, in fact, under conviction of sin, and felt the need of confessing to Lida his share in the zealous assault of the cowboys that night. "It's sure to leak out," he decided, "and I'd better be the first to break the news." But each day found it harder to begin, and only the announcement of her intended departure one morning brought him to the hazard. He was beginning to feel less secure of her, and less indifferent to the gibes of the town jokers, who found in his enslavement much material for caustic remark. They called him the "tired cowboy" and the "trusty."
They were all sitting at supper in the kitchen one night when the old postmaster suddenly said to Roy: "Seems to me I remember you. Did I know you before I was sick?" His memory had been affected by his "stroke," and he took up the threads of his immediate past with uncertain fingers.
"I reckon so; leastwise I used to get my mail here," answered Roy, a bit startled.
The old man looked puzzled. "Yes; but it seems a little more special than that. Someway your face is associated with trouble in my mind. Did we have any disagreement?"
After the postmaster returned to his chair in the office, Roy said to Lida, "They're going to throw your uncle out in a few weeks."
"You don't mean it!"
"Sure thing. He really ain't fit to be here any more. Don't you see how kind o' dazed he is? They're going to get him out on a doctor's certificate—loss of memory. Now, why don't you get deputized, and act in his place?"
"Goodness sakes! I don't want to live here."
"Where do you want to live—on a ranch?"
"Not on your life! Colorado Springs is good enough for me."
"That's hard on Roy. What could I do to earn a living there?"
"You don't have to live there, do you?"
"Home is where you are." She had come to the point where she received such remarks in glassy silence. He looked at her in growing uneasiness, and finally said: "See here, Lida, I've got something to tell you. You heard the old man kind o' feelin' around in his old hay-mow of a mind about me? Well, him and me did have a cussin'-out match one day, and he drawed a gun on me, and ordered me out of the office."
"What for?"
"Well, it was this way—I think. He was probably sick, and didn't feel a little bit like sorting mail when I asked for it. He sure was aggravatin', and I cussed him good and plenty. I reckon I had a clove on my tongue that day, and was irritable, and when he lit onto me, I was hot as a hornet, and went away swearing to get square." He braced himself for the plunge. "That was my gang of cowboys that came hell-roaring around the night I met you. They were under my orders to scare your uncle out of his hole, and I was going to rope him."
"Oh!" she gasped, and drew away from him; "that poor, sick old man!"
He hastened to soften the charge. "Of course I didn't know he was sick, or I wouldn't 'ave done it. He didn't look sick the day before; besides, I didn't intend to hurt him—much. I was only fixin' for to scare him up for pullin' a gun on me, that was all."
"That's the meanest thing I ever heard of—to think of that old man, helpless, and you and a dozen cowboys attacking him!"
"I tell you I didn't know he was ailin', and there was only six of us."
Her tone hurt as she pointed at him. "And you pretend to be so brave."
"No, I don't."
"You did!"
"No, I didn't. You said I was brave and kind, but I denied it. I never soberly claimed any credit for driving off that band of outlaws. That's one reason why I've been sticking so close to business here—I felt kind o' conscience-struck."
Her eyes were ablaze now. "Oh, it is! You've said a dozen times it was on my account."
"That's right—about eighty per cent, on yours and twenty per cent, on my own account—I mean the old man's."
"The idea!" She rose, her face dark with indignation. "Don't you dare come here another time. I never heard of anything more—more awful. You a rowdy! I'll never speak to you again. Go away!