She had wanted
to see their tree felled. She would be too late if she did not arrive
soon. He had told her it would be ready that morning, and she had said
she surely would be there. Why, of all mornings, was she late on this?
McLean had ridden to town. If he had been there, Freckles would have
asked that they delay the felling, but he scarcely liked to ask the
gang. He really had no authority, although he thought the men would
wait; but some way he found such embarrassment in framing the request
that he waited until the work was practically ended. The saw was out,
and the men were cutting into the felling side of the tree when the Boss
rode in.
His first word was to inquire for the Angel. When Freckles said she
had not yet come, the Boss at once gave orders to stop work on the tree
until she arrived; for he felt that she virtually had located it, and
if she desired to see it felled, she should. As the men stepped back,
a stiff morning breeze caught the top, that towered high above its
fellows. There was an ominous grinding at the base, a shiver of the
mighty trunk, then directly in line of its fall the bushes swung apart
and the laughing face of the Angel looked on them.
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