“I must congratulate you.”  And, “Dorothy!” called Bronson.  “Come and shake hands with our next Senator from the mesa country.”

“Really?” exclaimed Dorothy.  “But we will lose our supervisor.  Still, I think Mr. Shoop will make a lovely Senator.  You are just the right size—­and—­everything.”

“I reckon you’re right, missy.  Half of the game is lookin’ the part afore election.  The other half is not sayin’ too much after election.  If any man gets a promise out of me afore election, it’ll have to be did with a stump-puller.”

“But we won’t see you any more,” said Dorothy.  “You will be so busy and so important.  Senator Shoop will speak here.  And Senator Shoop will speak there.  And—­let me see!  Oh, yes!  The Senate adjourned after a stormy session in which the Senator from Mesa County, supported by an intelligent majority, passed his bill for the appropriation of twenty thousand dollars to build a road from Jason to the Blue Mesa.  What fun!”

Bud polished his bald head.  “Now, I reckon that ain’t such a joke.  We’ll build a road plumb through to the old Apache Trail and ketch them tourists goin’ into Phoenix.”

“You see,” said Dorothy, turning to her father, “I know something about politics.  I read the local papers.  Mr. Shoop’s name is in every one of them.  I read that article about the Sterling strike.  I have been wondering—­”

Shoop immediately called attention to Bondsman, who was gently tugging at the supervisor’s pants leg.

“Now, look at that!  Do you know what he’s tellin’ me?  He’s tellin’ me I got a piano in that there cabin and we ain’t had a duet for quite a spell.  That there dog bosses me around somethin’ scandalous.”

Bondsman slipped from beneath Dorothy’s hand as she stooped to pat him.  He trotted to Shoop’s cabin, and stood looking up at the door.

“Would you be playin’ ‘Annie Laurie’ for us?” queried Shoop.

Dorothy played for them, unaccompanied by Bondsman.  Shoop shook his head.  Either the tune had lost its charm for the Airedale or else Dorothy’s interpretation differed from Bud’s own.

“Thanks, missy,” said Shoop when she had finished playing.  “Guess I’ll be movin’ along.”

“Oh, no!  You’ll stay to-night.  I’ll play for you.  Make him stay, father.”

“I wish you would, Shoop.  I’d like to talk with you about the election.”

“Well, now, that’s right neighborly of you folks.  I was aimin’ to ride back this evening.  But I reckon we’ll stay.  Bondsman and me ain’t so spry as we was.”

After supper Dorothy played for them again, with no light except the dancing red shadows from the pine logs that flamed in the fireplace.

Shoop thanked her.  “I’ll be livin’ in town,”—­and he sighed heavily,—­“where my kind of piano-playin’ would bring the law on me, most-like.  Now, that ole piano is hacked up some outside, but she’s got all her innards yet and her heart’s right.  If you would be takin’ it as a kind of birthday present, it’s yours.”