As to Josephine, Ford’s thoughts dwelt with her oftener than they did with Mrs. Kate.  The thought of her roused a certain resentment which bordered closely upon dislike.  Still, she piqued his interest; for a week she was invisible to him, yet her presence in the house created a tangible atmosphere which he felt but could not explain.  His first sight of her—­beyond a fleeting glimpse once or twice through the window—­had been that day when he had helped Mason carry her and her big chair into the dining-room.  The brief contact had left with him a vision of the delicate parting in her soft, brown hair, and of long, thick lashes which curled daintily up from the shadow they made on her cheeks.  He did not remember ever having seen a woman with such eyelashes.  They impelled him to glance at her oftener than he would otherwise have done, and to wonder, now and then, if they did not make her eyes seem darker than they really were.  He thought it strange that he had not noticed her lashes that day when he carried her from the house and back again—­until he remembered that at first his haste had been extreme, and that when he took her from the bunk-house she had stared at him so that he would not look at her.

He did not know that Ches Mason was observant of his rather frequent glances at her during the meal, and he would have resented Mason’s diagnosis of that particular symptom of interest.  Ford would, if put to the question, have maintained quite sincerely that he was perfectly indifferent to Josephine, but that she did have remarkable eyelashes, and a man couldn’t help looking at them.

After all, Ford’s interest was centered chiefly upon his work.  They were going to start the wagons out again to gather the calves for weaning, and he was absorbed in the endless details which fall upon the shoulders of the foreman.  Even the fascination of a woman’s beauty did not follow him much beyond the bridge.

Mason, hurrying from the feminine atmosphere at the house, found him seriously discussing with Buddy the diet and general care of Rambler, who had been moved into a roomy box stall for shelter.  Buddy was to have the privilege of filling the manger with hay every morning after breakfast, and every evening just before supper.  Upon Buddy also devolved the duty of keeping his drinking tub filled with clean water; and Buddy was making himself as tall as possible during the conference, and was crossing his heart solemnly while he promised, wide-eyed, to keep away from Rambler’s heels.

“I never knew him to kick, or offer to; but you stay out of the stall, anyway.  You can fill his tub through that hole in the wall.  And you let Walt rub him down good every day—­you see that he does it, Bud!  And when he gets well, I’ll let you ride him, maybe.  Anyway, I leave him in your care, old-timer.  And it’s a privilege I wouldn’t give every man.  I think a heap of this horse.”  He turned at the sound of footsteps, and lowered an eyelid slowly for Mason’s benefit.  “Bud’s going to have charge of Rambler while we’re gone,” he explained seriously.  “I want to be sure he’s in good hands.”