“My name is Adams,” said Lorry, shaking hands.

“The ranger up here.  Yes.  Well, I’m glad to meet you, Adams.  My daughter and I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have a neighbor.  I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Bronson.  Just help yourself.”

“Thank you.  Dorothy—­my daughter—­has been under the weather for a few days.  She’ll be up to-morrow, I think.  She has been worrying about our using your corral.  I told her you would not mind.”

“Sure not.  She’s sick, did you say?”

“Well, over-tired.  She is not very strong.”

“Lungs?” queried Lorry, and immediately he could have kicked himself for saying it.

“I’m afraid so, Adams.  I thought this high country might do her good.”

“It’s right high for some.  Folks got to take it easy at first; ’specially wimmin-folk.  I’m right sorry your girl ain’t well.”

“Thank you.  I shouldn’t have mentioned it.  She is really curious to know how you live, what you do, and, in fact, what a real live ranger looks like.  Mr. Shoop told her something about you while we were in Jason.  They became great friends while the camp was building.  She says she knows all about you, and tries to tease me by keeping it to herself.”

“Bud—­my boss—­is some josher,” was all that Lorry could think of to say at the time.

Bronson went back to his cabin.  Lorry, entering his camp, lighted the lamp and built a fire.  The camp looked cozy and cheerful after a week on the trail.

When he had eaten he sat down to write to his mother.  He would tell her all about the new cabin and the city folks.  But before he had written more than to express himself “that it was too darned bad a girl had to stay up in the woods without no other wimmin-folks around,” he became drowsy.  The letter remained unfinished.  He would finish it to-morrow.  He would smoke awhile and then go to bed.

A healthy young animal himself, he could not understand what sickness meant.  And as for lungs—­he had forgotten there were such things in a person’s make-up.  And sick folks couldn’t eat “regular grub.”  It must be pretty tough not to be able to eat heartily.  Now, there was that wild turkey he had shot near the Big Spring.  He tiptoed to the door.  The lights were out in the other cabin.  It was closed season for turkey, but then a fellow needed a change from bacon and beans once in a while.

He had hidden the turkey in a gunny-sack which hung from a kitchen rafter.  Should he leave it in the sack, hang it from a rafter of their veranda, out of reach of a chance bobcat or coyote, or—­it would be much more of a real surprise to hang the big bird in front of their door in all his feathered glory.  The sack would spoil the effect.

He took off his boots and walked cautiously to the other cabin.  The first person to come out of that cabin next morning would actually bump into the turkey.  It would be a good joke.