THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
or eight, altogether, countin' two that run restauraws and one that done my warshin'. I got a kind o' cur'osity about 'em, but I don't take no personal interest in 'cm. Why—Gosh—a'mighty—"
Bowers nearly kicked the stove over in his embarrassed denial.
Kate looked after him speculatively as he made his escape in a relief that was rather obvious. His protests had been too vehement to be convincing. Was he growing discontented? Didn't her friendship satisfy him any longer?
There was something of the patient trust of a sheepdog in Bowers's fidelity. "The queen can do no wrong," was his attitude. Kate was so accustomed to his devotion and admiration that it gave her a twinge to think of sharing it.
She called after him as he was leaving:
"If you meet that freighter, tell him for me he'll get his check if he gets in again as early as he did last trip. I won't have a horse left with a sound pair of shoulders."
"And I fergot to tell you that somebody's 'salted' over in Burnt Basin," he answered, turning back. "There's a hunerd head o' cattle eatin' off the feed there. We'll need that, later."
"Tsch! tsch!" Kate frowned her annoyance at the information.
"Be sure and warn Neifkins's herder as soon as you can get around to it," she reminded him.
"You bet!" Bowers responded cheerfully, and went on.
Yes, she certainly would miss Bowers if anything happened that he left her, she thought as she turned inside to her market report and her letters.
It was days, however, before Bowers found the oppor-
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