He talked about tramps, and
dogs that barked o' nights, and touched gallantly upon feminine
timidity and the natural, protective instincts of men.
Peaceful Hart may have heard half of what he said--but more
likely he heard none of it. He sat drawing his white beard
through his hand, and his mild, blue eyes were turned often to
Phoebe in mute question. Phoebe herself was listening, but not
to Baumberger; she was permitting Evadna to tuck in stray locks
of her soft, brown hair, but her face was turned to the door
which opened upon the porch. At the first clatter of running
footsteps on the porch, she and Peaceful pushed back their chairs
instinctively.
The runner was Donny, and every freckle stood out distinctly upon
his face.
"There's four of 'em, papa!" he shouted, all in one breath.
"They're jumpin' the ranch for placer claims. They said so.
Each one's got a claim, and they're campin' on the corners, so
they'll be close together. They're goin' to wash gold.
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