He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him.  Hitherto he had given her very little thought.  Half reluctantly he had taken her into his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered higher over the piazzas.  As for her beauty he had thought no more of it than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep.  Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the affection.  They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should understand one another.

But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own traditions and prejudices.  A Scot from his own countryside had recently settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen and approved his daughter.  To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea.  But when both fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu.  It was on this subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and not make an effort to save him.

At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined to ride on.  He might reach David while they were camping, and then he could talk matters over with more ease and freedom.  Near midnight the great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft, but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley’s camp—­a ten-acre patch of grass on the summit of some low hills.

The cattle had all settled for the night, and the “watch” of eight men were slowly riding in a circle around them.  Lorimer was immediately challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain.  Whaley rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand to his hat.  Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before.  He was evidently not a person to be trifled with.  There was a fixed look about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife.

“Captain, good night.  I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer.”

“Wall, sir, you can’t do it, not by no manner of means, just yet.  David Lorimer is on watch till midnight.”

He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating in the way Whaley named David Lorimer.  So the two men sat almost silent before the camp fire until midnight.  Then Whaley said, “Mr. Lorimer, your son is at liberty now.  You’ll excuse me saying that the shorter you make your palaver the better it will suit me.”