Part 7 (1/2)

Her father and mother knew her disposition, loved it, and feared for it.

They knew that there was never a rider so brave, so skilful, so strong, but some outlaw would throw him at last. So at fourteen they sent her east to a boarding-school. In two months she was back with a letter of expulsion, and the boast of having blacked the eyes of the princ.i.p.al's daughter.

”They couldn't teach me any more, Mother,” she said. ”They admitted it.

So here I am.”

Y.D. was plainly perplexed. ”It's about time you was halter-broke,” he commented, ”but who's goin' to do it?”

”If a girl has learned to read and think, what more can the schools do for her?” she demanded.

And Y.D., never having been to school, could not answer.

The sun was capping the Rockies with molten gold when the rancher and his daughter swung down the foothill slopes to the camp on the South Y.D. Strings of men and horses returning from the upland meadows could be seen from the hillside as they descended.

Y.D.'s sharp eyes measured the scale of operations.

”They're hittin' the high spots,” he said, approvingly. ”That boy Transley is a hum-dinger.”

Zen made no reply.

”I say he's a hum-dinger,” her father repeated.

The girl looked up with a quick flush of surprise. Y.D. was no puzzle to her, and if he went out of his way to commend Transley he had a purpose.

”Mr. Transley seems to have made a hit with you, Dad,” she remarked, evasively.

”Well, I do like to see a man who's got the goods in him. I like a man that can get there, just as I like a horse that can get there. I've often wondered, Zen, what kind you'd take up with, when it came to that, an' hoped he'd be a live crittur. After I'm dead an' buried I don't want no other dead one spendin' my simoleons.”

”How about Mr. Linder?” said Zen, naively.

Her father looked up sharply. ”Zen,” he said, ”you're not serious?”

Zen laughed. ”I don't figure you're exactly serious, Dad, in your talk about Transley. You're just feeling out. Well--let me do a little feeling out. How about Linder?”

”Linder's all right,” Y.D. replied. ”Better than the average, I admit.

But he's not the man Transley is. If he was, he wouldn't be workin' for Transley. You can't keep a man down, Zen, if he's got the goods in him.

Linder comes up over the average, so's you can notice it, but not like Transley does.”

Zen did not pursue the subject. She understood her father's philosophy very well indeed, and, to a large degree, she accepted it as her own. It was natural that a man of Y.D.'s experience, who had begun life with no favors and had asked none since, and had made of himself a big success--it was natural that such a man should judge all others by their material achievements. The only quality Y.D. took off his hat to was the ability to do things. And Y.D.'s idea of things was very concrete; it had to do with steers and land, with hay and money and men. It was by such things he measured success. And Zen was disposed to agree with him.

Why not? It was the only success she knew.

Transley was greeting them as they drew into camp.

”Glad to see you, Y.D.; honored to have a visit from you, Ma'am,” he said, as he helped them from the democrat, and gave instructions for the care of their horses. ”Supper is waiting, and the men won't be ready for some time.”

Y.D. shook hands with Transley cordially. ”Zen an' me just thought we'd run over and see how the wind blew,” he said. ”You got a good spot here for a camp, Transley. But we won't go in to supper just now. Let the men eat first; I always say the work horses should be first at the barn.

Well, how's she goin'?”

”Fine,” said Transley, ”fine,” but it was evident his mind was divided.

He was glancing at Zen, who stood by during the conversation.