The fly in the ointment of this long day's ride, the third party, whose
undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat's past career
rather seriously interfered with the latter's flights of imagination,
was William McNeil, foreman of the "Bar V" ranch over on Sinsiniwa
Creek. McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his
speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady. But he
caught the eye,--a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven,
with a strong chin and bright laughing eyes,--and as he lolled
carelessly back in his bearskin "chaps" and wide-brimmed sombrero,
occasionally throwing in some cool, insinuating comment regarding
Moffat's recitals, the latter experienced a strong inclination to heave
him overboard. The slight hardening of McNeil's eyes at such moments
had thus far served, however, as sufficient restraint, while the
unobservant Miss Spencer, unaware of the silent duel thus being
conducted in her very presence, divided her undisguised admiration,
playing havoc with the susceptible heart of each, and all unconsciously
laying the foundations for future trouble.
"Why, how truly remarkable!" she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. "It's
all so different from the East; heroism seems to be in the very air of
this country, and your adventure was so very unusual. Don't you think
so, Mr. McNeil?"
The silent foreman hitched himself suddenly upright, his face unusually
solemn. "Why--eh--yes, miss--you might--eh--say that. He," with a
flip of his hand toward the other, "eh--reminds me--of--eh--an old
friend."
"Indeed? How extremely interesting!" eagerly scenting a new story.
"Please tell me who it was, Mr. McNeil."
"Oh--eh--knew him when I was a boy--eh--Munchausen."
Mr. Moffat drew in his head violently, with an exclamation nearly
profane, yet before he could speak Miss Spencer intervened.
"Munchausen! Why, Mr. McNeil, you surely do not intend to question the
truth of Mr. Moffat's narrative?"
The foreman's eyes twinkled humorously, but the lines of his face
remained calmly impassive. "My--eh--reference," he explained, gravely,
"was--eh--entirely to the--eh--local color, the--eh--expert touches."
"Oh!"
"Yes, miss. It's--eh--bad taste out here to--eh--doubt anybody's
word--eh--publicly."
Moffat stirred uneasily, his hand flung behind him, but McNeil was
gazing into the lady's fair face, apparently unconscious of any other
presence.
"But all this time you have not favored me with any of your own
adventures, Mr. McNeil. I am very sure you must have had hundreds out
on these wide plains."
The somewhat embarrassed foreman shook his head discouragingly.
"Oh, but I just know you have, only you are so modest about recounting
them. Now, that scar just under your hair--really it is not at all
unbecoming--surely that reveals a story. Was it caused by an Indian
arrow?"