"Well," he drawled; "mebbe I wouldn't go that far. Mostly I don't care for a handsome man, anyway. I wouldn't say he's ugly, an' I won't say he's handsome. I'd light on a spot about halfway between them two extremes. I'd say he ain't a bad looker. That would be about right." "He _is_ handsome, Linton!" "Well, likely he is--to a woman. I've heard that there's _been_ women which thought him a heap good lookin'." "Where, Linton?" she asked, quickly. "Why, in Pardo, ma'am. There was a biscuit shooter in a eatin'-house there that was sure wild about Harlan--she followed him around a heap." "He didn't have anything to do with her, Linton?" she questioned, stiffening. "Shucks! Not him. Women never bothered him none. He always fought shy of them--until now. He's changed a lot. I don't understand him no more. Keeps a-moonin' regular about you. I'm gettin' a heap sick of hangin' around him. Ain't you?" "No!" "Well, that's a heap odd, ma'am. I was thinkin' you didn't like him a heap. Accordin' to that, I reckon you'd be right glad to see him--comin' home from Pardo--where's he been to have that gold assayed?" "He ought to be here before dark, Linton. And I shall be glad to see him." "Hopin' the gold will assay good, I reckon?" "Hoping he will come back, safe." "You don't care about the gold?" "No." "Only about him?" "Yes, Linton," she said, gently. "Well, that's odd, ma'am," drawled Linton. "What is?" "That I feel the same way about the cuss." She looked keenly at him, saw the dancing, wayward gleam in his eyes, and gave him a reproachful glance. "You've been pumping me, Linton," she charged. "Well," he defended; "he's my friend, ma'am; an' I was sure worried, thinkin' you wouldn't take him--if he offered himself." She smiled, wisely. "He did that long ago, Linton--right after he--well, the day he got up, after the doctor told him he could." "That he could offer himself?" "That he could get up. Linton," she said, severely; "you want to know too much." Linton did not answer. He took her by an arm, raised her to her feet, and turned her face toward the northeast--where a rider came, not more than two or three miles distant. Linton left her to stand there, while he made his way into one of the bunkhouses, where, with an appearance of unconcern that he did not feel, he watched the coming rider. And when he saw the rider head his horse straight for the gate of the patio, Linton grinned widely and sought some of the other men in the cook-house. The sun was between the two huge mountains at the western end of the big valley when Harlan dismounted at the _patio_ gate and dropped, tired and dusty, to the bench upon which Barbara sat. Had Linton seen what occurred when Harlan dismounted he would have ceased to speculate over certain phases of the relations between the man and the girl. Barbara did not seem to mind the dust on Harlan's sleeve, nor did she feel it on his shoulder where her head was nestling.