not answer Transley's question, but she gave no evidence of displeasure.

"You boys must be hungry," Y.D. was saying. "Pile in."

The rancher and his wife sat at the ends of the table; Transley on the
side at Y.D.'s right; Linder at Transley's right. In the better light
Linder noted Y.D.'s face. It was the face of a man of fifty, possibly
sixty. Life in the open plays strange tricks with the appearance. Some
men it ages before their time; others seem to tap a spring of perpetual
youth. Save for the grey moustache and the puckerings about the eyes
Y.D.'s was still a young man's face. Then, as the rancher turned his
head, Linder noted a long scar, as of a burn, almost grown over in the
right cheek.... Across the table from them sat the girl, impartially
dividing her position between the two.

A Chinese boy served soup, and the rancher set the example by "piling
in" without formality. Eight hours in the open air between meals is a
powerful deterrent of table small-talk. Then followed a huge joint
of beef, from which Y.D. cut generous slices with swift and dexterous
strokes of a great knife, and the Chinese boy added the vegetables from
a side table. As the meat disappeared the call of appetite became less
insistent.

"She's been a great summer, ain't she?" said the rancher, laying down
his knife and fork and lifting the carver. "Transley, some more meat?
Pshaw, you ain't et enough for a chicken. Linder? That's right, pass
up your plate. Powerful dry, though. That's only a small bit; here's
a better slice here. Dry summers gen'rally mean open winters, but you
can't never tell. Zen, how 'bout you? Old Y.D.'s been too long on the
job to take chances. Mother? How much did you say, Transley? About two