But we've got some young stuff
that would easy carry a top fire. Later in the season you may see some
tall rustling on the fire lines."
But before noon of that day a new complication arose. Up the road came a
short, hairy man on a mule. His beard grew to his high cheek bones, his
eyebrows bristled and jutted out over his black eyes, and a thick shock
of hair pushed beneath the rim of his hat to meet the eyebrows. The hat
was an old black slouch, misshapen, stained and dusty. His faded shirt
opened to display a hairy throat and chest. As for the rest he was
short-limbed, thick and powerful.
This nondescript individual rode up to the verandah on which sat Welton
and Bob, awaiting the lunch bell. He bowed gravely, and dismounted.
"Dis ees Meestair Welton?" he inquired with a courtesy at strange
variance with his uncouth appearance.
Welton nodded.
"I am Peter Lejeune," said the newcomer, announcing one of those hybrid
names so common among the transplanted French and Basques of California.
"I have de ship."
"Oh, yes," said Welton rising and going forward to offer his hand. "Come
up and sit down, Mr.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276