CHAPTER II

Bostil went toward the house with his daughter, turning at the door to call a last word to his riders about the care of his horses.

The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through the middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms.  The windows were small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as well as light, and they had rude wooden shutters.  The floor was clay, covered everywhere by Indian blankets.  A pioneer’s home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, and having the rare quality peculiar to desert homes it was cool in summer and warm in winter.

As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from the hearth.  This room was immense, running the length of the house, and it contained a huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and rude home-made chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and walls covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons and ornaments, and trophies of the chase.  In a far corner stood a work-bench, with tools upon it and horse trappings under it.  In the opposite corner a door led into the kitchen.  This room was Bostil’s famous living-room, in which many things had happened, some of which had helped make desert history and were never mentioned by Bostil.

Bostil’s sister came in from the kitchen.  She was a huge person with a severe yet motherly face.  She had her hands on her hips, and she cast a rather disapproving glance at father and daughter.

“So you’re back again?” she queried, severely.

“Sure, Auntie,” replied the girl, complacently.

“You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didn’t you?”

Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt.

“He was waiting for hours,” went on the worthy woman.  “I never saw a man in such a stew. . . .  No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you do.”

“I told him No!” flashed Lucy.

“But Wetherby’s not the kind to take no.  And I’m not satisfied to let you mean it.  Lucy Bostil, you don’t know your mind an hour straight running.  You’ve fooled enough with these riders of your Dad’s.  If you’re not careful you’ll marry one of them. . . .  One of these wild riders!  As bad as a Ute Indian! . . .  Wetherby is young and he idolizes you.  In all common sense why don’t you take him?”

“I don’t care for him,” replied Lucy.

“You like him as well as anybody. . . .  John Bostil, what do you say?  You approved of Wetherby.  I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and that you’d—­”

“Sure, I like Jim,” interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy’s swift look.

“Well?” demanded his sister.

Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires.  He looked sheepish, then disgusted.

“Dad!” exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully.

“See here, Jane,” said Bostil, with an air of finality, “the girl is of age to-day—­an’ she can do what she damn pleases!”