"Don't worry-you're not. Even the cook is writing poems about me. Of all the foolish men I ever heard of Dad has certainly succeeded in corraling the prize bunch."
"I don't care a hang about that red-headed old fool of a cook," he snapped. "What I want is for you to love me."
"Oh, well, that's a horse of another color. Now we will have to change the subject."
"Please, Di, I'm in earnest," he pleaded; "won't you give me a little to hope for?"
"You never can tell about a girl, Hal," she said.
Her voice was tender and her eyes suddenly soft, and that was as near a promise as he could get.
As Bull urged Blazes up the rough trail of Cottonwood Canyon the continued crack of rifles kept the man apprised of the direction of the origin of the sounds and approximately of their ever lessening d
