"If only she was safe from the sharks!" says he. "If I found any young
man that I thought was after her money, not after her--why, I don't know
what I'd do to him!"
"I know what you'd do, Colonel," says I; and I was glad I hadn't told
him.
"Well, maybe. The trouble is to find any young man that's halfway as
good as her, with some sort of folks back of him and some sort of way of
making a living. You see, Curly, you can't tell much about things ten or
twenty years ahead. A pore man may get money or a rich man may lose
money. Now her ma married me when I didn't have no chance on earth ever
to be anybody or to have any money; but we got on and was right
happy--anyways I was--and I wasn't rich then.
"I'm awful rich now, Curly," says he, "though I don't know as I'm any
happier. It bores me. For instance, I was looking around today for a
chance to invest a little more money; not much, only about half of this
here last deferred payment that come in--all Old Man Wisner's money--and
I seen in the papers that we haven't got no potash works in America to
amount to much, and that potash is shore worth plenty of money--whatever
potash is. So I went out to look over things and I concluded to invest a
few hundred thousand dollars in making potash. I've got a good man, with
specs, that knows how to make it out of seaweed, or something that
grows raw and is plenty, I reckon. I suppose pretty soon we'll be making
forty to fifty per cent; maybe more. That's what bothers me--I can't
find no hard game to play. I can't hardly take no interest in life.
"I was looking around some more and I seen where this country ain't got
no dye works--the kind of dyes they make outen coal tar, which is made
outen coal. Yet we've got plenty of coal and I own several coal mines
out in Wyoming. I got another man, with specs, and I shouldn't wonder if
we'd be making plenty of dyes before long, same as they used to import.
"Well," says he, filling up his pipe again, "I'd be happy enough fooling
around this way, pushing in a few white checks once in a while--a few
hundred thousand dollars. Anyways, I'd like it if I could lose once in a
while--but then there's the kid."
"It comes around to her after all, Colonel, don't it?" says I.
"That's right," he says. "I play the game; she uses the winnings. She's
going to be one of the richest girls in this whole town."
Seems like I couldn't get to tell him what I ought to. Every time he
came around to the same place, talking about the kid. He didn't know as
much as I did. I knew what'd make Old Man Wisner the happiest man
alive--he'd feel that way if he knowed his hired man had got thick with
our girl! He'd of encouraged that any way he could if he'd knowed
anything about it. That would of pleased him. I had in my mind, too, how
Bonnie Bell had looked at that hired man. So I set there, not having
said a word yet and not daring to. It just seemed like I couldn't tell
the old man.
It was getting towards night now before long and I hadn't made no break
at all. I set and set, and didn't have no nerve. By and by it was too
late to say anything that night.
We heard Bonnie Bell coming down the staircase, and we went to the door
to meet her, like we did usual, because we liked to do that; she was so
pretty when she was ready for dinner. The servants didn't look up to her
pa and me very much, but they'd jump through hoops all the time for her.
She was dressed all up now in a pale blue dress, some sort of soft silk,
and she had on all her diamonds, for she was shining all over. Her hair
was high up and it had a little band on it, and a little pile of it
stuck up behind on her head. Her neck was cut low, like they wore 'em at
the hotel where we lived once, and her dress didn't have no sleeves in
it. She had rings on her fingers, though not no bells on her toes--only
little blue slippers; and her socks was pale blue, like we could see
when she come down the stairs.
I don't expect there was any handsomer woman in the world than she was
then--they don't make 'em any handsomer. We stood looking at her, us two
cowmen, both in clothes that was always getting mussed up, and with
tobacco in the pockets. We couldn't say a word. We got scared of her, I
said; you would, often, when you looked at Bonnie Bell, she was so
pretty. Yet she didn't know she had such looks.
"Daughter," says Old Man Wright, and he went up to her slow, like he was
afraid of her, "you're very beautiful tonight," says he. "What makes you
pale? You're a mighty fine girl. Dast you kiss your old pa before he
goes in and gets into togs fit to eat with you?"
She looks at me and then at him, and she knows I haven't said nothing
about that talk with the hired man. She was pale and didn't smile. She
went up to her pa like she was tired--she didn't have much color that
night in her face--and she just puts up her arms around her pa's neck
and laid her head down on his shoulder, and didn't say a word. She
didn't cry; she just let her head lay there.
I seen his arm go around on her bare shoulders easylike--he didn't
hardly touch her for fear she'd break; and he didn't say a word. He was
that sort of man that almost any sort of woman would like to put her
arms around his neck and lay her head on him if she was in trouble.
"What is it, Honey?" says he at last.
"Why, nothing, dad," says she. "I love you--that's all. You believe it,
don't you?"
"Will you always, sis?" says he, sort of funny.
"Always," says she, quiet. "Now," says she, "run off and get dressed up.
Have you forgotten that the Kimberlys are coming for dinner tonight with
us? Curly, you must go get on some dark clothes, you know."
You see, I was one of the family. I maybe gave them plenty of trouble,
but they never'd let me eat anywheres but with them all the time. By
this time I'd learned quite a few things from Bonnie Bell--about how not
to put a napkin up too high, or to break my bread up into little pieces
and pile them up, or to pour out my coffee, or to use the same spoon for
coffee and other vittles, or to sidle up my plate for the last drop of
soup there was in it--oh, several tricks like that; though I knew the
game was a heap complicated and I hadn't learned it all yet.
She looks at me when I went out the door and I shook my head to show I
hadn't said nothing. She set down, all in her silk and her shining rings
and things, right on our old hide lounge; and she was looking at our
painting of the Yellow Bull Valley and the old ranch house. I left her
there, all in her diamonds, her hair tied up high--about the richest
girl in Chicago and, like enough, the miserablest right then. But she
didn't have nothing on me at that.
When we come back, all fixed up the best we could, she was still setting
there. She was pretty--Lord, how pretty!--but sad.
She gets up now and begins to laugh and talk right fast to the old man,
and by and by, before anything broke, Old Man Kimberly and Old Lady
Kimberly drifted in.
"The young folks'll be over before long," says he; "we didn't wait for
'em, because I just wanted a taste of the old bourbon that I find here
and can't find anywheres else. Where did you get it, Colonel?" says he.
Most everybody called him Colonel now, from me doing it first, and then
Katherine.
"We had a few barrels out on the old ranch," says the boss. "A little of
it escaped in the massacree. I'm glad you like it."
It come now about time for dinner, which was always pulled off on the
tick of the clock. On the ranch in camp the cook always calls "Grub
pile!" for the hands. In the home ranch he's more particular, and he
says, "Come and git it!" when dinner's ready. But here, in our new
house, our butler, William, always'd gumshoe in and say it so low you
couldn't hardly hear him: "Dinner is served, Miss Wright." But, as them
kids was a little late in coming, Old Man Kimberly finds time to take
another nip.
"Why, Wilfred!" says his wife to him, "I'm surprised!"
"It's funny how you're surprised," says he, chuckling in his shirt
front; "but I'm glad to have you keep up my reputation by saying you're
surprised."
Somehow it was with them like it is with plenty of folks in the
States--the women always seem finer, more delercate than the men; yet
they seem to like men that ain't fussy. Old Man Kimberly was a good
sort; but to look at her you'd wonder why she married him. She always
set up straight, away from a chair or a sofa back, and she had a face
that was clean-cut, like one of them cameo faces on cuff buttons.
Katherine was some like her pa, and a good sort too.
"How sweet you look tonight!" says Old Lady Kimberly to Bonnie Bell
after a time.
She always seemed to want to reach out and touch Bonnie Bell, or kiss
her once in a while--they natural liked each other--Bonnie Bell
especial, from never having no ma of her own, very much.
But after a time our William come to the door and stood there like he
was a pointer dog and had found some birds; and says he, with a stop
between, like he always did:
"Miss Kimberly--ahum! Mr. Thomas Kimberly--ahum!"