Their first thought,
of course, would be that the old mountain-lion, Steve's grandfather,
had come roaring down from his place in the north. Terry tossed up her
head so that they might see and know and marvel and speculate and do
and say anything which pleased them. Having crossed her Rubicon, she
didn't care the snap of her pretty fingers who knew.
"I want Steve Packard," she called to them. "Where is he?"
It was young Barbee who answered, Barbee of the innocent blue eyes.
"In the ranch-house, Miss Terry," he said. And he came forward,
patting his hair into place, hitching at his belt, smiling at her after
his most successful lady-killing fashion. "Sure I won't do?"
"You?" Terry laughed. "When I'm looking for a man I'm not going to
stop for a boy, Barbee dear!"
And she jumped down and knocked loudly at Steve's door, while the men
at the bunk-house laughed joyously and Barbee cursed under his breath.
Steve, supposing that it was one of his own men grown suddenly formal,
did not take his stockinged feet down from his table or his pipe from
his lips as he called shortly--
"Come in!"
And Terry asked no second invitation. In she went, slamming the door
after her so that those who gawked at the bunk-house entrance might
gawk in vain.
And now Steve Packard achieved in one flashing second the removal of
his feet from the table, the shifting of his pipe from his teeth, the
swift buttoning of his shirt across his chest.
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