“God knows,—­and He knows also that I love her dearly,—­that looking into the future I wish sometimes she were the daughter of another man.”

The minutes passed.  The ponies shifted restlessly and then were still.  In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned its minor song, while near or far away—­no human ear could measure the distance—­a prairie owl gave its weird cry.  Then silence fell as before.

Once more Scotty turned, facing his companion.

“I’ve a question to ask you, Rankin; may I ask it without offence?”

The big man nodded.  By the starlight Baker caught the motion.

“You told me once that you were a college man, and that you had a Master’s degree.  From the very first you started cattle-raising on a big scale.  You must have had money.  Still, such being the case, you left culture and civilization far behind and came here to choose a life absolutely different.  I have told you why I wish to educate my daughter.  But why, feeling as you must have felt and must still feel, since you’re here, why do you wish to educate this waif boy you’ve picked up?  By all the standards of convention, he is at the very bottom of the social scale.  Why do you want to do this?”

It was a psychological moment.  Even in the semi-darkness, Rankin felt the other’s eyes fixed piercingly upon him.  He passed his hand over his face; he seemed about to speak.  But the habit of reticence was too strong upon him.  Even the inspiration of the Englishman’s confidence was not sufficient to break the seal of his own reserve.  He arose slowly and shook the clinging wisps of hay from his clothes.

“For somewhat the same reason as your own,” he answered at last.  “Ben, like Flossie, is a child, an odd old child to be sure, but nevertheless a child.  I have no reason to know that when he grows up his beliefs will be my beliefs.  He must see both sides of the coin, and judge for himself.”

The speaker paused, then walked slowly over to the old buckboard.  “It’s getting late, and I’ve got a long drive home.”  With an effort he mounted into the seat and picked up the reins.  “Good-night.”

Scotty hesitated a moment, and then said, “Good-night.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN

Twelve years slipped by.  Short as they seemed to those actually living them, they had brought great material changes.  No longer did the ranch cattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under stress of competition, they browsed within the confines of miles upon miles of galvanized fencing.  Neighbors, as Rankin said, were near now.  There were four within a radius of twenty miles.  To be sure, there was still plenty of land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri,—­open rough land, gradually rising in elevation, where a traveller could journey for days and days without seeing a human face.  But this was not then a part of the so-called “cattle ranges.”  In the parlance of the country, that was “West,”—­a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but as yet giving no indication of ever becoming of practical use.