"I believe," I rallied enough to answer, "that 'father' would give a good
deal to see _me_." Then that seemed to shut off our conversation too
abruptly to suit me; there are occasions when prickly chills have a
horrible fascination for a fellow; this was one of the times.

"He's not at home, I'm very sorry to say," she retorted in the same
liquid-air voice as before, and turned to go back to the house.

I thanked the Lord for that, in a whisper, and kept pace with her. It was
plain she hated the sight of me, but I counted on her being enough like
her dad not to run away.

"May I trouble you for a drink of water?" I asked, in the orthodox tone of
humility.

"There is no need to trouble me; there is the creek, beyond the house; you
are welcome to all you want."

"Thanks." I watched the pink curve of her cheek, and knew she was dying
for a chance to snub me still more maliciously. We were at the steps of
the veranda now, but still she would not hurry; she seemed to hate even
the semblance of running away.

"Can you direct me to the Bay State Ranch?" I hazarded. It was my last
card, and I let it go with a sigh.

She pointed a slim, scornful finger at the brand on Shylock's shoulder.

"If you are in doubt of the way, Mr. Carleton, your horse will take you
home--if you give him his head."