PAINTED ROCK
Jeff broke off in the middle; and, unlike him, no stranger rode by to eke out the tale-end of the music. His father came along instead, for the old man roused himself from his bed in the old shack by the creek, and stared into the radiance of the day with one shaking hand over his eyes—
"Jeff!"
"Yep, Paw," said Jeff, as he scrambled to his feet. He was a long, lean, and lank son of the prairie, sandy, freckled, hard, and fifteen years of age.
"Get up the pinto," said old Jefferson Dexter. "I'm aimin' to go into the City."
Young Jeff was respectful because he had been so all his life. It never occurred to him to be anything else, for the old man had a heavy hand, a fierce eye, and the temper which gives his cutting edge to an American. But now he 'reared' a little, and according to his own notion there was reason for jibbing. He scratched his shock head, and put his mouth-organ away inside his shirt before he spoke. When he did speak he uttered a fact without the least sense of reproach behind it.
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