Bob had
never seen her before, but he recognized her as a mountain woman. She
rode a pinto, guided by a hackamore, and was attired quite simply in the
universal broad felt hat and a serviceable blue calico gown. In spite of
this she rode astride; and rode well. A throwing rope, or riata, hung in
the sling at the right side of her saddle pommel; and it looked as
though it had been used.
"Where's Charley?" she asked promptly as she rode up. "Is that you? You
look like a nigger. How you feeling? You just mind me, and don't you try
to do too much. You don't get paid for overtime at this job."
"Hullo, Lou," replied Charley Morton; "I thought it was about time you
showed up."
The woman nodded at the others.
"Howdy, Mrs. Morton," answered Tom Carroll, Pollock and Ware. Bob and
Elliott bowed.
By now the fire had been left far in the rear. The crackling of flames
had died in the distance; even the smoke cleared from the atmosphere.
All the forest was peaceful and cool. The Douglas squirrels scampered
and barked; the birds twittered and flashed or slanted in long flight
through the trees; the sun shone soft; a cool breeze ruffled the
feathery tips of the tarweed.
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