Sooner than his daughter should know that her father was one of those
who sometimes wore the mask of the Red Rider, Ranson, for all he
cared, could go to jail, or to hell. With this ultimatum in his mind,
Cahill confronted his would-be son-in-law with a calm and assured
countenance.
Ranson greeted him with respectful deference, and while Cahill seated
himself, Ranson, chatting hospitably, placed cigars and glasses
before him. He began upon the subject that touched him the most
nearly.
"Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast this morning,"
he said. "Has she told you of what I said to her?"
Cahill shook his head. "No, I haven't seen her. We've been taking
account of stock all morning."
"Then--then you've heard nothing from her about me?" said Ranson.
The post trader raised his head in surprise. "No. Captain Carr spoke
to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see me first
about something private." The post trader fixed Ranson with his keen,
unwavering eyes. "What might that be?" he asked.
"Well, it doesn't matter now," stammered Ranson; "I'll wait until
Miss Cahill tells you."
"Any complaint about the food?" inquired the post trader.
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