" A hot look had crept into Ford's face--a tinge
which was not a flush--and a glow into his eyes. "I know the
cow-business, far as that goes. It's me; you can't--why, Lordy me! You
ought to be sent to Sulphur Springs and get your think-tank hoed out.
Any man that will offer a foreman's job to a--a--"
"'A rooting, tooting, shooting, fighting son-of-a-gun, and a good one!'"
assisted Mason equably. "'The only original go-getter--' Sure. That's
all right."
The flush came slowly and darkened Ford's cheeks and brow and throat. He
threw his half-smoked cigarette savagely at the hearth of the rusty
box-stove, and scowled at the place where it fell. "Well, ain't that
reason enough?" he demanded harshly, after a minute.
Mason had been studying that flush. He nodded assent to some question he
had put to himself, and crowded tobacco into his pipe. "No reason at
all, one way or the other. I need a foreman--one I can depend on. I've
got to make a trip out to the Coast, this fall, and I've got to leave
somebody here I can trust."
Ford shot him a quick, questioning glance, and bit his lip. "That," he
said more calmly, "is just what I'm driving at.
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