"Thank you,"
he said to the teamster. "You're welcome," returned that gentleman,
regarding him curiously, "but the next time a gal like that asks to
ride in this yer wagon, I reckon I won't take the vote of any deadhead
passenger. Adios, young fellow. Don't stay out late; ye might be run off
by some gal, and what would your mother say?" Of course the young man
could only look unutterable things and walk away, but even in that
dignified action he was conscious that its effect was somewhat mitigated
by a large patch from a material originally used as a flour sack, which
had repaired his trousers, but still bore the ironical legend, "Best
Superfine."
The summer brought warmth and promise and some blossom, if not absolute
fruition, to Blazing Star. The long days drew Nature into closer
communion with the men, and hopefulness followed the discontent of their
winter seclusion. It was easier, too, for Capital to be wooed and won
into making a picnic in these mountain solitudes than when high water
stayed the fords and drifting snow the Sierran trails. At the close
of one of these Arcadian days Cass was smoking before the door of
his lonely cabin when he was astounded by the onset of a dozen of his
companions. Peter Drummond, far in the van, was waving a newspaper like
a victorious banner. "All's right now, Cass, old man!" he panted as he
stopped before Cass and shoved back his eager followers.
"What's all right?" asked Cass, dubiously.
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