She went out to the porch and stared after the disappearing horseman.
When he had quite vanished in the rapidly fading light of the evening
she turned back. She stopped. The stranger sat on the edge of the porch
whittling a stick.
His black hair bushed out under the brim of his sombrero, and for some
reason it stirred the latent wrath in Jac. She went to him and stood
with arms akimbo, staring down.
“Too bad,” he said, but did not look up.
“What’s too bad?”
“The red hair.”
It was a long moment before she spoke. “Huh!” she said. “If I was to
talk about _your_ hair you’d think I was discussin’ a record crop of
hay. If I was to--”
She stopped, for the twinkling eyes were smiling up to her.
“I look like the land of much rain, all right,” said the stranger.
Jac dropped to a cross-legged position with the agility of an Indian and
supporting her chin on both hands she stared impudently into the face of
the stranger.
“What does the land look like when the forest is gone?”
“It ain’t been surveyed for so long I’ve forgotten.”
He shifted a little to smile more directly into her eyes, and the
movement caused her glance to drop to his holster. It was open. With a
slow gesture--for no one, not even a woman, makes free with the weapon
of another in the mountain desert--she drew the revolver out, looked it
over with the keen eye of a connoisseur, glanced down the sights, spun
the cylinder, and tried the balance with a deft hand.
“Clean as a whistle,” she said as she restored the revolver. “_Some_
six-gun!” With a new respect she looked the man over from head to foot.
“Maybe under the mask,” she said, “you look almost human.”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
Her eyes wandered far away; came back to him, frowned; wandered off
again.
“Can you dance?” she asked conversationally.
He broke into a deep laughter. Jac gathered as if for a spring.
“Go slow, partner,” she drawled. “Maybe I ain’t big, but believe me, I
ain’t a house pet.”
“I’d as soon think of fondlin’ a wildcat,” nodded the man.
She hesitated between anger and curiosity, and then glanced around with
needless anxiety lest they should not be alone.
“Give it to me straight, pal,” she said. “How bad do I look?”
Her companion looked her over with a critical eye and a judicious frown.
“I dunno,” he said at last. “It’s pretty hard for me to tell. If those
freckles was covered up, maybe I could see your face.” As he spoke he
edged away, as if ready to spring from the porch when she attacked him.
Instead, she sighed. The other started and looked at her with a new
interest.
“How old are you?” he asked sharply.
“Three years more than you think.”
“Sixteen?”
“And three makes nineteen. You’re right the first time. How’d you do
it?”
He took off his hat and extended his hand.
“My name is Bill Carrigan,” he said.
Even in the dim light he could guess at the curiosity in her eyes.
“Mine is Jac--Jacqueline During. I’m awfully glad to shake hands with
you.”
There was a little pause.
“I suppose Maurie Gordon is nearly at the dance by this time?” he said
tentatively.
She nodded. The lump in her throat kept her silent.
“How tall are you?” he asked suddenly.
“Five feet five and a half.”
“What’s your weight?”
“One hundred and twenty. Say, Carrigan, what you drivin’ at?”
He looked away as if making a mental note.
“What size shoes?”
She looked at him with a dark frown, but the twinkle of his eyes was
irresistible. She broke into a laugh.
“Look at ’em!”
She extended to his gaze a foot clad in the heavy shoe of a man, cut
square across the toe.
“Well, Columbus, what have you discovered?”
“Land,” said Carrigan, and rose.
“You goin’ so soon?” she queried plaintively.
“But I’m coming back,” said Carrigan.
“Coming back?” repeated Jac.
“With bells.”
She watched him swing gracefully into the saddle of a clean-limbed horse
and gallop swiftly into the gloom.
“Well, I’ll be--” began Jac.
She checked herself. An instinct which was born with Eve made her raise
a hand to pat her hair.
She began again: “I must look like--” Once more she stopped, this time
with a sigh. “What words are left?” murmured Jacqueline.
Carrigan pulled his horse up before the barber shop in the little
village a mile away. He banged thunderously against the wall of the
shanty with his gun-butt.
“What the hell!” roared a voice above.
“Business,” said Carrigan. “Come on down and open your shop.”
A few moments later he sat down in the chair while the barber lighted
his lamp. The latter groaned when he saw the face of his customer.
“How much?”
“The price of your best razor,” said Carrigan instantly. “Now
start--chop off the heavy timber, saw down the undergrowth, anything to
clear the land. And do it on the jump.”
Hair flew--literally. At last the barber stepped back, perspiring, and
looked at the lean face before him.
“I feel,” he said, “more as if I’d made a man than shaved him.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Carrigan, and started on the run for the
general merchandise store across the street, the only clothiers within a
hundred miles, a place that carried everything from horseshoes to
hairpins. The proprietor was locking up the front door.
“What’s your rush, partner?” he asked. “Wait till to-morrow. I got some
business to--”
“To-morrow is next year,” said Carrigan. “Start goin’.”
The door opened.
He began shedding orders and old clothes at the same time. The
storekeeper, on the run, brought the articles Carrigan demanded.
“More light!” Carrigan said at last.
The proprietor brought a lamp and placed it close to a large mirror, the
pride of his place.
Carrigan stalked up to it, and, turning slowly around, viewed his outfit
with one long glance.
“All right,” he said. “Now I’m ready to begin buying!”
The proprietor gasped and then rubbed his hands.
“What next?” he asked.
“A beautiful girl.”
The proprietor smiled in sympathy with the somewhat obscure jest.
“A beautiful girl,” repeated Carrigan, “with red hair, weighing a trifle
over one hundred and twenty pounds, standing five feet five and a half,
and with feet--well, of the right size.”
The proprietor moistened his lips and stepped back. His eyes were very
large.
“Start for the ladies’ department.”
The proprietor was baffled, but he led the way.
“Dresses first,” said Carrigan. “Some thing fancy. Best you’ve got.
Here! Red--green! green--red!”
He picked out a gown and held it out at arm’s length, a soft, green
fabric.
“What size do you want?” asked the proprietor.
“What’s the perfect size for five foot five, eh?”
“Thirty-six.”
“What’s this gown?”
“Thirty-six.”
“How much?”
The proprietor doubled the price.
“Taken,” said Carrigan.
“But maybe the lady ain’t thirty-six, and--”
“You’re right, old-timer. The lady ain’t, but she will be. What’s next?
Petticoat?”
“Those are over here.”
“I leave it to you, partner. Something that makes a rustle and a
swishing like a light rain on leaves. You know the kind?”
“Taffeta will do that.”
“Then taffeta it is. Now for the kicks. Something light. Slippers, eh?”
“Follow me.”
He set out an array of dancing-shoes.
“What size?” he asked.
“The right size.”
The proprietor made a gesture of despair.
“There ain’t no woman in the world whose feet are the _right_ size.”
“Then we’ll set a record to-night. How big ought they to be for a
hundred and twenty pounds?”
“That all depends. If the lady is--”
“The lady ain’t,” repeated Carrigan wearily. “I’m tellin’ you we’re
making her here.”
The proprietor wiped his forehead.
“Number four?” he suggested vaguely. “Let’s have a look. Make it
something like this.”
He indicated a pair of bronze slippers, but when the storekeeper
produced the pair of number fours, Carrigan took one of them in the palm
of his brawny hand and stared at it with something between awe and
dismay.
“Are these meant for real feet?”
“Yep.”
Carrigan thought of the mighty brogans he had seen on Jac’s feet.
“Do or die,” he said, “she’ll have to wear ’em! What’s next? Stockings?”
“Here they are.”
“These green ones will do the work. And now--”
“Corsets?”
He indicated a model bust clad in a formidable corset.
Carrigan sighed.
“Friend,” he said, “did you ever hear about the days when men wore
armor?”
“Yes.”
“When I’m dancin’ with a girl that wears one of them things, I feel as
if I had my arms around a man in armor. Anything else?”
A malicious light gleamed in the eyes of the proprietor.
“There’s nothing else except these girdles that a drummer palmed off on
me. They’re jest elastic, that’s all. They don’t give a girl no figger.”
“H-m! But they’re a long way from armor-plate. I’ll take one.”
“What size?”
“How do they run? Large, small, and medium?”
“By inches.”
“Make it something extra medium in inches.”
“Most of ’em _wish_ they could wear twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one it is.”
The proprietor grinned.
“But if that’s too small--”
“Friend, what do you do when your cinch is too small for your hoss?”
“Pull.”
“Well?”
The proprietor added the girdle to the heap in mute surrender.
“And now that we’ve got down to the girdle,” he said, “the next thing
is--”
“Look here, friend,” said Carrigan, “don’t go too far!”
“Well?”
“Well, fix up the underlining any way you want, but make it the best
you’ve got. One thing more. There ain’t enough color in this outfit.
Something for her shoulders?”
“A scarf. Right here.”
Carrigan picked out a filmy, orchid-colored tissue.
“Now we’ve reached her face.”
The proprietor groaned.
“Paint?”
“Nope. I don’t want to add anything. I want to make something disappear.
Freckles.”
The storekeeper grinned.
“Vanishing cream and then rice powder. That’s the latest hitch.”