Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyes toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Cæsar rattled his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest morsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood. Presently the man's eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty of her still averted face.
"Say," he went on presently, "you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin' would be to kill some one?" He smiled. "That's how I feel, when I know Beasley's been talkin' to you."
Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her.
She shook her head.
"No," she said frankly. "I--don't think I ever feel that way. But I don't like Beasley."
Buck's heat had passed. He laughed.
"That was sure a fool question to ask," he said. "Say, it 'ud be like askin' a dove to get busy with a gun."
"I've heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them."
"Guess ther's doves--an' doves," Buck said enigmatically. "I can't jest see you bustin' to hurt a fly."
"Not even Beasley?"
Joan laughed slily.
But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust his fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open. He withdrew them, and shifted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatient movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.
"Guess I can't say these things right," he gulped out with a swift, impulsive rush. "What I want to say is that's how I feel when anything happens amiss your way. I want to say it don't matter if it's Beasley, or--or jest things that can't be helped. I want to get around and set 'em right for you----"
Joan's eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile on her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.
"You've always done those things for me, Buck," she interrupted him hastily. "You've been the kindest--the best----"
"Don't say those things," Buck broke in with a hardly restrained passion. "It hurts to hear 'em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feels same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here," he tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. "They drive a man nigh crazy. A man don't want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes, loves!"