"
The somewhat embarrassed foreman shook his head discouragingly.
"Oh, but I just know you have, only you are so modest about recounting
them. Now, that scar just under your hair--really it is not at all
unbecoming--surely that reveals a story. Was it caused by an Indian
arrow?"
McNeil crossed his legs, and wiped his damp forehead with the back of
his hand. "Hoof of a damn pack-mule," he explained, forgetting
himself. "The--eh--cuss lifted me ten feet."
Moffat laughed hoarsely, but as the foreman straightened up quickly,
the amazed girl joined happily in, and his own face instantly exhibited
the contagion.
"Ain't much--eh--ever happens out on a ranch," he said, doubtfully,
"except dodgin' steers, and--eh--bustin' broncoes."
"Your blame mule story," broke in Moffat, who had at last discovered
his inspiration, "reminds me of a curious little incident occurring
last year just across the divide. I don't recall ever telling it
before, but it may interest you, Miss Spencer, as illustrative of one
phase of life in this country. A party of us were out after bear, and
one night when I chanced to be left all alone in camp, I did n't dare
fall asleep and leave everything unguarded, as the Indians were all
around as thick as leaves on a tree.
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