earnest
conversation with himself, had merely overturned a half-filled cup on the
table in the course of one of his gestures.

Mollie retired him from service.

Alone with Bob for a moment in the kitchen, June whispered to him
hurriedly. "Before you an' Dud go away I want to see you a minute."

"Want to see me an' Dud?" he asked.

She flashed a look of shy reproach at him. "No, not Dud--you."

Bob stayed to help wipe the dishes. It was a job at which he had been
adept in the old days when he flunkied for the telephone outfit.
Afterward he and June slipped out of the back door and walked down to the
river.

June had rehearsed exactly what she meant to say to him, but now that the
moment had arrived it did not seem so easy. He might mistake her
friendliness. He might think there was some unexpressed motive in the
back of her mind, that she was trying to hold him to the compact made in
Blister Haines's office a year ago. It would be hateful if he thought
that. But she had to risk it if their comradeship was going to mean
anything. When folks were friends they helped each other, didn't they?
Told each other how glad they were when any piece of good luck came. And
what had come to Bob Dillon was more than good luck. It was a bit of
splendid achievement that made her generous blood sing.

This was all very well, but as they moved under the cottonwoods across
the grass tessellated with sunshine and shadow, the fact of sex thrust
itself up and embarrassed her. She resented this, was impatient at it,
yet could not escape it. Beneath the dusky eyes a wave of color crept
into the dark cheeks.

Though they walked in silence, Bob did not guess her discomposure. As
clean of line as a boy, she carried herself resiliently. He thought her
beautiful as a wild flower. The lift and tender curve of the chin, the
swell of the forearms above the small brown hands that had done so much
hard work so competently, filled him with a strange delight. She had
emerged from the awkwardness and heaviness of the hoydenish age. It was
difficult for him to identify her with the Cinderella of Piceance Creek
except by the eager flash of the eyes in those moments when her spirit
seemed to be rushing toward him.

They stood on the bank above the edge of the ford. June looked down into
the tumbling water. Bob waited for her to speak. He had achieved a
capacity for silence and had learned the strength of it.

Presently June lifted her eyes to his. "