"I'd sure hate to pack all
this snow into Mrs. Kate's parlor," he added whimsically. "She's the
kind of housekeeper that grabs the broom the minute you're gone, to
sweep your tracks off the carpet. Awful nice little woman, but--"
"But not The One," chuckled Rock, treading close upon Ford's heels.
"And I'll bet fifteen cents," he offered rashly, looking up, "that the
person hitting the high places for the bunk-house is The One."
"How do you know?" Ford demanded, while his eyes gladdened at sight of
Josephine, with a Navajo blanket flung over her head, running down the
path through the blizzard to the bunk-house kitchen.
"'Cause she shied when she saw you coming. Came pretty near breaking
back on you, too," Rock explained shrewdly.
They reached the kitchen together, and Ford threw open the door, and
held it for her to pass.
"I came after some of Mose's mince-meat," she explained hastily. "It's a
terrible storm, isn't it? I'm glad it didn't strike yesterday. I thought
you were going to be gone for several days."
Ford, with embarrassed haste to match her own, presented Rock in the
same breath with wishing that Rock was elsewhere; for Mose was not in
the kitchen, and he had not had more than a few words with her for
twenty-four hours.
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