The Cow Puncher | Page 8

she could do with them. But she
busied herself at the breakfast without a thought of the epoch-marking
nature of these purchases.
"Do you milk?" she asked, presently.
"Milk what?" he demanded, pausing with stove-lid and lifter raised in
his hand, in the half-completed act of putting wood on the fire.
"Dave!" she cried. "Put that lid down. Look at the smoke." A blue
cloud was curling under the rafters. "Yes," he said, with great
composure. "It always does that in this country."
She shot a quick glance at him. Was he making fun of her? No; plainly
not; he was just making fun with her; he had a vein of humor. And a
little before she had found his face drawn in sympathy for her father.
Perhaps for her. . . . He was not all on the surface.
He completed his operation at the stove and returned the lid to its place
with no lack of deliberation. He was evidently waiting for her to speak
again, but she worked on in silence.
"What did you say about milking?" he ventured at length.
"I asked you if you milked," she said, with an attempt at curtness. "And
you answered, 'Milk what?' as though that were clever. And we need
milk for breakfast."
"Well, I was serious enough," he said. "There isn't a cow within twenty

miles."
"No cows? Why, I thought this was the ranching country?"
"Sure thing. We sell beef and buy milk. Let me show you."
He approached a packing-case on the wall, walking softly and
extending his hands as though to touch it gently, and murmuring, "So
boss; so boss," as he went. From the box he removed a tin of condensed
milk, which he set on the table. In his pocket he found a nail, and with
a hammer quickly made two holes in the tin.
"Milkin' is finished," he announced.
At this juncture the doctor, who had been resting in the room with his
patient, entered the kitchen. During the setting of the limb he had
gradually become aware of the position of Irene in the household, but
had that not been so, one glance at the boy and girl as they now stood
in the bright morning sunshine, he with his big, wiry frame, his brown
face, his dark eyes, his black hair; she, round and knit and smooth, with
the pink shining through her fair skin and the light of youth dancing in
her grey eyes and the light of day glancing on her brown hair, must
have told him they had sprung from widely separated stock. For one
perilous moment he was about to apologize for the mistake made in the
darkness, but some wise instinct closed his lips. But he wondered why
she had not corrected him.
They were seated at breakfast when the senior Elden made his
appearance. He had slept off his debauch and was as sober as a man in
the throes of alcoholic appetite may be. He was only partially dressed;
his face had the peculiar bulginess of the hard drinker; his eyes were
watery and shifty, and several days' growth of beard, with patchy grey
and black spots, gave a stucco effect to his countenance. His moustache
drooped over a partly open mouth; the top of his large head was bald,
and the hair that hung about his ears was much darker than his
moustache. Seeing the strangers, he hesitated in his lurch toward the
water pail, steadied himself on wide-spread feet, very flat on the floor,
and waved his right hand slowly in the air. Whether this was to be

understood as a form of salutation or a gesture of defiance was a matter
of interpretation.
"Vishitors," said the old man, at length. "Alwaysh welcome, m'sure. 'Sh
scush me." He made his uncertain way to the water bench, took a great
drink, and set about washing his face and hands, while the breakfast
proceeded in silence. As his preparations neared completion Irene set a
place at the table.
"Won't you sit down here, Mr. Elden?" she said. There had been no
introductions. Dave ate on in silence.
"Thank you," said the old man, and there was something in his voice
which may have been emotion, or may have been the huskiness of the
heavy drinker's throat. The girl gave it the former explanation. Perhaps
it was his unintended tribute to that touch of womanly attentiveness to
which his old heart still beat response. As he took the proffered chair
she saw in this old man shreds of dignity which the less refined eye of
his son had not distinguished. To Dave, his father was an affliction to
be borne; an unfair load on a boy who had done nothing to deserve this
punishment. The miseries associated