Nan, in her
riding costume, was waiting while her father exchanged a few parting
words with the hotel manager.
"Guess you're right. It's been a darn good week this year. The best
in my memory. I'd say the Conference was a heap better attended, an'
the weather's been just great. We got through a deal o' legislation,
too. Guess things are goin' to hum, with the Obars at the head of 'em
this year. Our big play is to be dealin' with rustlers. We got a hell
of a piece o' leeway to make up. Four years ago we guessed we'd got
'em fixed where we wanted 'em. But they hatched out since like a brood
o' wolf cubs. So long."
"Mr. Masters is stopping on for a while," the manager observed, with
that intimate touch which he always practiced with his more influential
customers of the cattle world.
"Why, yes." Bud's eyes were watching Nan as she mounted her pony,
carefully held by a solicitous barn-hand. Under other circumstances
the man's attention would have afforded him amusement. Just now he was
regretting the manager's remark.
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