Judith of Blue Lake Ranch | Page 2

bit, laddie," he said gently, a lean brown hand
resting lightly on the boy's square shoulder. "A man can't see what is on
the cards until they're tipped, but it's always a fair gamble that between
dawn and dusk I'll gather up my string of colts and crowd on. If I do,
you'll want to come along?"
He smiled at young Burkitt's eagerness and turned away toward the
ranch-house and Bayne Trevors, thus putting an early end to an
enthusiastic acquiescence. Tommy watched the tall man moving
swiftly away through the brightening dawn.
"They ain't no more men ever foaled like him," meditated Tommy, in
an approval so profound as to be little less than out-and-out devotion.
And, indeed, one might ride up and down the world for many a day and
not find a man who was Bud Lee's superior in "the things that count."
As tall as most, with sufficient shoulders, a slender body,
narrow-hipped, he carried himself as perhaps his forebears walked in a
day when open forests or sheltered caverns housed them, with a lithe
gracefulness born of the perfect play of superb physical development.
His muscles, even in the slightest movement, flowed liquidly; he had
slipped from his place on the corral gate less like a man than like some
great, splendid cat. The skin of hands, face, throat, was very dark,
whether by inheritance or because of long exposure to sun and wind, it
would have been difficult to say. The eyes were dark, very keen, and
yet reminiscently grave. From under their black brows they had the
habit of appearing to be reluctantly withdrawn from some great
distance to come to rest, steady and calm, upon the man with whom he
chanced to be speaking. Such are the serene, dispassionate eyes of one
who for many months of the year goes companionless, save for what
communion he may find in the silent passes of the mountains, in the
wide sweep of the meadow-lands or in the soul of his horse.
The gaunt, sure-footed form was lost to Tommy's eyes; Lee had passed
beyond the clump of wild lilacs whose glistening, heart-shaped leaves
screened the open court about which the ranch-house was built. A

strangely elaborate ranch-house, this one, set here so far apart from the
world of rich residences. There was a score of rooms in the great,
one-story, rambling edifice of rudely squared timbers set in field-stone
and cement, rooms now closed and locked; there were flower-gardens
still cultivated daily by José, the half-breed; a pretty court with a
fountain and many roses, out upon which a dozen doorways looked;
wide verandas with glimpses beyond of fireplaces and long expanses of
polished floor. For, until recently, this had been not only the
headquarters of Blue Lake Ranch, but the home as well of the chief of
its several owners. Luke Sanford, whose own efforts alone had made
him at forty-five a man to be reckoned with, had followed his fancy
here extensively and expensively, allowing himself this one luxury of
his many lean, hard years. Then, six months ago, just as his ambitions
were stepping to fresh heights, just as his hands were filling with newer,
greater endeavor, there had come the mishap in the mountains and
Sanford's tragic death.
Lee passed silently through the courtyard, by the fountain which in the
brightening air was like a chain of silver run through invisible hands,
down the veranda bathed in the perfume of full-blown roses, and so
came to the door at the far end. The door stood open; within was the
office of Bayne Trevors, general manager. Lee entered, his hat still far
back upon his head. The sound of his boots upon the bare floor caused
Trevors to look up quickly.
"Hello, Lee," he said quietly. "Wait a minute, will you?"
Quite a different type from Lee, Bayne Trevors was heavy and square
and hard. His eyes were the glinting gray eyes of a man who is forceful,
dynamic, the sort of man who is a better captain than lieutenant, whose
hands are strong to grasp life by the throat and demand that she stand
and deliver. Only because of his wide and successful experience, of his
initiative, of his way of quick, decisive action mated to a marked
executive ability, had Luke Sanford chosen Bayne Trevors as his
right-hand man in so colossal a venture as the Blue Lake Ranch. Only
because of the same pushing, vigorous personality was he this morning
general manager, with the unlimited authority of a dictator over a petty

principality.
In a moment Trevors lifted his frowning eyes from the table, turning in
his chair to confront Lee, who stood lounging in leisurely manner
against the door-jamb.
"That young idiot wants money again," he growled, his voice