CHAPTER VIII

THE D BAR LAZY R BOYS MEET AN ANGEL


Joyce came flying to her father's arms. The white lace of a nightgown
showed beneath the dressing-robe she had hurriedly donned. A plait of
dark hair hung across her shoulder far below the waist. She threw herself
at Crawford with a moaning little sob.

"Oh Dad ... Dad ... Dad!" she cried, and her slender arms went round his
neck.

"'T's all right, sweetheart. Yore old dad's not even powder-burnt. You
been worryin' a heap, I reckon." His voice was full of rough tenderness.

She began to cry.

He patted her shoulder and caressed her dark head drawing it close to his
shoulder. "Now--now--now sweetheart, don't you cry. It's all right, li'l'
honey bug."

"You're not ... hurt," she begged through her tears.

"Not none. Never was huskier. But I got a boy out here that's beat up
some. Come in, Dave--and you, Bob. They're good boys, Joy. I want you to
meet 'em both."

The girl had thought her father alone. She flung one startled glance into