Two men sat on it, one white-haired,
hawk-faced, spreading a broad blueprint before the other; and this man
was middle-aged, with a sleek, young face. A very good-looking fellow,
she thought.
"Maybe you-all could tell me," said Kate Pollard, lounging in the saddle,
"where I'll find the lady that owns this here place?"
It seemed to her that the sleek-faced man flushed a little.
"If you wish to talk to the owner," he said crisply, and barely touching
his hat to her, "I'll do your business. What is it? Cattle lost over the
Blue Mountains again? No strays have come down into the valley."
"I'm not here about cattle," she answered curtly enough. "I'm here about
a man."
"H'm," said the other. "A man?" His attention quickened. "What man?"
"Terry Hollis."
She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal
it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start
and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably
strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in
the hands of his companion alone.
"I am Vance Cornish," he told her.
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