Dennison Grant | Page 6

energy,--fit mate for the man who had
made the Y.D. known in every big cattle market of the country. As
Linder's eye caught her and her husband in the same glance his mind
involuntarily leapt to the suggestion of what the offspring of such a pair
must be. The men of the cattle country have a proper appreciation of
heredity. . . .
"My wife--Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder," said the rancher, with a
courtliness which sat strangely on his otherwise rough-and-ready
speech. "I been tellin' her the fine job you boys has made in the hay
fields, an' I reckon she's got a bite of supper waitin' you."
"Y.D. has been full of your praises," said the woman. There was a
touch of culture in her manner as she received them, which Y.D.'s
hospitality did not disclose.
She led them into another room, where a table was set for five. Linder
experienced a tang of happy excitement as he noted the number. Linder
allowed himself no foolishness about women, but, as he sometimes
sagely remarked to George Drazk, you never can tell what might
happen. He shot a quick glance at Transley, but the contractor's face
gave no sign. Even as he looked Linder thought what an able face it
was. Transley was not more than twenty-six, but forcefulness, assertion,
ability, stood in every line of his clean-cut features. He was such a man
as to capture at a blow the heart of old Y.D., perhaps of Y.D.'s
daughter.
"Where's Zen?" demanded the rancher.
"She'll be here presently," his wife replied. "We don't have Mr.
Transley and Mr. Linder every night, you know," she added, with a
smile.
"Dolling up," thought Linder. "Trust a woman never to miss a bet."

But at that moment a door opened, and the girl appeared. She did not
burst upon them, as Linder had half expected; she slipped quietly and
gracefully into their presence. She was dressed in black, in a costume
which did not too much conceal the charm of her figure, and the
nut-brown lustre of her face and hair played against the sober
background of her dress with an effect that was almost dazzling.
"My daughter, Zen," said Y.D. "Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder."
She shook hands frankly, first with Transley, then with Linder, as had
been the order of the introduction. In her manner was neither the
shyness which sometimes marks the women of remote settlements, nor
the boldness so readily bred of outdoor life. She gave the impression of
one who has herself, and the situation, in hand.
"We're always glad to have guests at the Y.D." she was saying. "We
live so far from everywhere."
Linder thought that a strange peg on which to hang their welcome. But
she was continuing--
"And you have been so successful, haven't you? You have made quite a
hit with Dad."
"How about Dad's daughter?" asked Transley. Transley had a manner
of direct and forceful action. These were his first words to her. Linder
would not have dared be so precipitate.
"Perhaps," thought Linder to himself, as he turned the incident over in
his mind, "perhaps that is why Transley is boss, and I'm just foreman."
The young woman's behavior seemed to support that conclusion. She
did not answer Transley's question, but she gave no evidence of
displeasure.
"You boys must be hungry," Y.D. was saying. "Pile in."
The rancher and his wife sat at the ends of the table; Transley on the
side at Y.D.'s right; Linder at Transley's right. In the better light Linder

noted Y.D.'s face. It was the face of a man of fifty, possibly sixty. Life
in the open plays strange tricks with the appearance. Some men it ages
before their time; others seem to tap a spring of perpetual youth. Save
for the grey moustache and the puckerings about the eyes Y.D.'s was
still a young man's face. Then, as the rancher turned his head, Linder
noted a long scar, as of a burn, almost grown over in the right cheek. . . .
Across the table from them sat the girl, impartially dividing her
position between the two.
A Chinese boy served soup, and the rancher set the example by "piling
in" without formality. Eight hours in the open air between meals is a
powerful deterrent of table small-talk. Then followed a huge joint of
beef, from which Y.D. cut generous slices with swift and dexterous
strokes of a great knife, and the Chinese boy added the vegetables from
a side table. As the meat disappeared the call of appetite became less
insistent.
"She's been a great summer, ain't she?" said the rancher, laying down
his knife and fork and lifting the carver. "Transley, some more meat?
Pshaw, you ain't et enough for a chicken. Linder? That's right,