He was foaled on this range,
and he's never been ridden anywhere else, has he?"
"He was foaled right here on this ranch," Grayson corrected
him, "and he ain't never been more'n a hundred mile from
it. If he ain't dead or stolen he'd a-ben back afore the
bookkeeper was. It's almighty queer."
"What sort of bookkeeper is Mr. Bridge?" asked the girl.
"Oh, he's all right I guess," replied Grayson grudgingly. "A
feller's got to be some good at something. He's probably one
of these here paper-collar, cracker-fed college dudes thet don't
know nothin' else 'cept writin' in books."
The girl rose, smiled, and moved away.
"I like Mr. Bridge, anyhow," she called back over her
shoulder, "for whatever he may not be he is certainly a well-bred
gentleman," which speech did not tend to raise Mr.
Bridge in the estimation of the hard-fisted ranch foreman.
"Funny them greasers don't come in from the north range
with thet bunch o' steers. They ben gone all day now," he
said to the boss, ignoring the girl's parting sally.
Bridge sat tip-tilted against the front of the office building
reading an ancient magazine which he had found within. His
day's work was done and he was but waiting for the gong
that would call him to the evening meal with the other
employees of the ranch.
Pages:
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423