"Why, yes. There's nothing difficult there. What we can't do here we can send on to Leeson Butte for. I've got some elegant samples of curtains just come along. Maybe you'll step inside?"
In spite of her dislike of the man Joan had no hesitation in passing into the storeroom. She had no desire in the world to miss the joy of inspecting a fresh consignment of dry goods. She felt almost as excited, and quite as much interested, as though she were visiting one of the great stores in St. Ellis.
In a few moments she was lost in a close inspection of the display. Nor had she any thought, or wonder, that here in the wilderness, on the banks of Yellow Creek, such things should already have found their way. For a long time the keen man of business expended his arts of persuasion upon her, and, by the time the girl had exhausted his stock, he had netted a sound order. His satisfaction was very evident, and now he was prepared to regard her rather as a woman than a customer.
"Makes you think some," he observed, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the piled-up fabrics and unopened cases. Then he laughed in a way that jarred upon the girl. "Ther's money to burn here. Money! Whew!" Then his eyes became serious. "If it only lasts!"
"Why shouldn't it?" asked Joan unsuspiciously. She had finished, and was anxious to get away. But the man seemed to want to talk, and it seemed churlish to deny him.
Beasley shook his head, while his eyes devoured her appealing beauty.
"It won't," he said decidedly. "It's too big--too rich. Besides----"
"Besides what?"
The man's eyes had lost their grin. They were the eyes of the real man.
"It's--devil's luck. I've said it all along. Only ther's sech plaguey knowalls around they won't believe it. Buck now--I got nothing against Buck. He's a good citizen. But he's got a streak o' yeller in him, an' don't hold with no devil's luck. Maybe you remember." He grinned unpleasantly into the girl's eyes.
She remembered well enough. She was not likely to forget the manner in which Buck had come to her help. She flushed slightly.
"What do you mean by 'a streak of yellow'?" she demanded coldly.
"It don't need a heap of explaining. He's soft on mission talk."
Joan's flush deepened. This man had a mean way of putting things.
"If you mean that he doesn't believe in--in superstitions, and that sort of thing, if you mean he's just a straightforward, honest-thinking man--well, I agree with you."