Joan's complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. Buck saw the reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and only answer her lighter manner.
"If you'd only asked me these things I'd have told you right away," he protested, smiling. "Y' see you never asked me."
"I--I was trying to," Joan said feebly.
Buck paused in the act of securing Kitty's harness.
"That old--your housekeeper wouldn't ha' spent a deal of time trying," he said dryly.
Joan ignored the allusion.
"I don't believe you intend to tell me now," she said.
Buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. His eyes were still smiling though his manner was tremendously serious.
"You're wantin' to know who I am," he said. Then he paused, glancing out of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtful expression which she had come to associate with his usual manner. "Wal," he said at last, in his final way, "I'm Buck, and I was picked up on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the Padre. He's raised me, an' we're big friends. An' now, since we sold his farm, we're living at the old fur fort, back ther' in the hills, and we're goin' to get a living pelt hunting. I've got no folks, an' no name except Buck. I was called Buck. All I can remember is that my folks were farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and--burnt to death. That's why I was on the trail starving when the Padre found me."
Joan's eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered no word.
"'Bout the other," the man went on, turning back to the girl, and letting his eyes rest on her fair face, "that's easy, too. I was at the shack of the boys in the storm. You come along an' wer' lying right ther' on the door-sill when I found you. I jest carried you right here. Y' see, I guessed who you wer'. Your cart was wrecked on the bank o' the creek----"
"And the teamster?" Joan's eyes were eagerly appealing.
Buck turned away.
"Oh, guess he was ther' too." Then he abruptly moved toward the horses. "Say, I'll get on an' cut that hay."
Joan understood. She knew that the teamster was dead. She sighed deeply, and as the sound reached him Buck looked round. It was on the tip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that Joan had understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under the influence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. She rose from her seat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness.