King looked at him sharply. And Thornton was vaguely aware in that swift glance of something which made but little impression on him at the time, something which he forgot even as he saw it, imagining he had misread but something to be remembered in the days that followed: it was a cool, steely look of suspicion.
"Mebbe," King grunted. "It's happenin' all _aroun'_ you. I wasn't sayin' much so long's it didn't come too close the Bar X. An' now I ain't goin' to _say_ much."
Thornton finished his errand with Old Man King and saw him with his men ride away into the little hills of the range. Then he was turning back toward the Poison Hole when young King, riding around the corner of the barn, called to him.
"Hello, Bud," Thornton said casually. "What's the word?"
Bud King rode up to him before he answered. Then, sitting loosely in the saddle, his eyes meditative upon one free, swinging boot, he answered.
"There's a dance over to the school house tonight, for one thing. Coming, Buck?"
"No. Hadn't heard of it and I guess I'll be busy enough without prancing out to dances." And then, a little curiosity in his even tones, "How does it happen you're not out hunting rustlers with the old man?"
Young King lifted his head and again Thornton saw in a man's eyes a thing which was so vague that it went almost unnoted, a look of veiled suspicion.
"The old man hunts his way and I hunt mine," Bud King said briefly. "And besides, I haven't been to a shindig for six months."
A little flush ran up into his face under Thornton's level glance, and Buck laughed softly.
"Aw, go chase yourself," Bud flung back at him, but with a reddening grin. To Thornton came a swift inspiration.
"Wonder if Miss Waverly will be over from the Corners?" he asked.
"Dunno," Bud replied innocently, so innocently that Thornton laughed again.
Thornton rode back to the Poison Hole. And as he went, his thoughts ran now to the mission upon which old man King had set forth, now upon the wisdom of shaving, putting on his best suit and new hat and going to a dance....
"It isn't so much I want to see her again," he told himself, "as I want to give back her spur rowel!"
Deer Creek schoolhouse stood in a tiny, emerald valley half a dozen miles from Hill's Corners, some fifteen miles from Thornton's cabin, its handful of barefooted pupils coming from the families scattered through the valley. It was a one roomed building with two low doors and six square windows. And yet it offered ample enough floor space and bench accommodations for the valley dances, its one room being twenty-four feet long and twelve feet wide, certainly over large for the single "school marm" and her small flock, having been constructed with an eye to just such social gatherings as the one tonight.