“Carey and Gordon roped, tied, and branded,” said Carrigan. “But don’t
forget that powder puff.”
“Carrigan, let me talk. I’ve been passing such a line of fancy lingo
that my throat is dusty. I’ve been rememberin’ everything that I ever
read in love stories an’ if I can’t be myself for a minute I’ll choke
for want of fresh air.”
“Thought you were having a pretty fair sort of a time,” said Carrigan,
absently.
His eyes were traveling over her head. She caught a glimpse of
bright-haired Dolly Maxwell as they whirled. He was drifting away from
her--that was plain.
“I’ve just been stringin’ ’em along,” said Jac. “But you’re different,
Carrigan!”
And here her eyes rose slowly to his. Far away she sensed the somber
face of Ben Craig. She had not much time. Carrigan was looking down at
her now.
“Look here,” he said bluntly, “you can’t tie every steer in the corral
to one rope, Miss Silvestre. Keep the brandin’ iron away from me. The
fire ain’t hot enough to hurt me yet. The iron won’t make no mark.”
Jac thought of Maude Merriam at the great moment when her husband tells
her that he loves another woman. She caught her breath. She made her
eyes grow wide. “Do you really think that I would--”
“Damn it, Jac, ain’t Maurie and Carey enough for you? And there’s Ben
Craig lookin’ at you like a wolf at a calf.”
“Carrigan!”
The timbre of her voice made him start. She knew that he would not
forget her to look after Dolly Maxwell for some time.
“Well?”
“Do you think I’m a flirt?”
“Jac, I’m warnin’ you now. Don’t feed me the spur no more. I’m the fairy
godmother. I ain’t the prince in the story.”
“Is it all a story?”
He groaned.
“I thought I would find one man who wasn’t just part of the fairy tale.”
“There you go with your book English. Jac, you can’t rope me. I see the
shadow of the noose flyin’ over my head an’ I’m goin’ to duck out from
under.”
She turned away with a far-off sorrow in her face.
“There’s tears in your eyes!”
A pathetic smile quivered an instant at the corners of her lips.
“Honest, ain’t you jest throwin’ a rope, Jac?”
“I thought _you_ would understand me, Carrigan.”
He was breathing hard. She remembered a caption which had been flashed
on a Maude Merriam screen.
“I thought you were _big_ enough to understand!”
“My God!” whispered Carrigan.
“What?”
“The rope’s on me!”
“Carrigan, why do you play with me like this?”
“_Me_ play with _you?_”
“Yes. Is it fair?”
The keen eyes searched her intently. She felt as the duellist felt when
the rapier of a foe slithered up and down his steel. The violin started
a run.
“The Carrigan Cut!” she cried.
He went through with it automatically. “No one can dance like you!” she
whispered, as the hand of Ben Craig fell on Carrigan’s arm, and as she
moved away with the solemn-faced cow-puncher, she saw Carrigan standing
as Dave Carey had done, with the faraway look, like a man who says
farewell to everything that matters in his life.
Maurie Gordon and Dave Carey, their eyes fixed upon one object on the
dancing-floor, came together at a corner of the hall. She drew closer.
They started forward at the same time, then stopped and glared at each
other with bitter understanding.
“Maurie,” said Carey gently, “take my tip. Don’t bother Miss Silvestre
no more to-night. It won’t bring you nothin’.”
Maurie smiled from the deeps of his pity.
“Jacqueline,” he said, with marked emphasis, “has found one man who
understands her.”
Carey shook his head slowly. He spoke carefully, as one would explain a
difficult problem to a child. Jac was making the second circuit of the
hall with Craig. She had reached the point: “But don’t westerners as a
rule call each other by the given name, Mr. Craig?”
“She’s had a sad life, Maurie,” said Carey, his eyes following the
graceful vision in green. “You, with your bringin’ up, you couldn’t
understand how to take to a swell girl like--”
He stopped, stiffening, and changed of face.
“I guess that’ll hold you, Maurie. Did you see her smile at me?”
“Smile at you?” said Maurie with unutterable scorn. “Why, you poor
sawed-off runt, that was all for me. She smiled at me like that before.
They’ve tried to--to--bury her in the West, but she’s found--”
“One real man!”
“Me!” said Maurie.
The music stopped.
“Maurie, aside from bein’ a little thick in the head, you’re a pretty
straight feller in most ways. I don’t want to see you make no fool out
of yourself.”
The smile of big Gordon came from an infinite distance, from a height of
almost sacred compassion.
“Jacqueline and me,” he said softly, “we understand. She’s led a
sad--what the hell!”
For as the dancers returned to their chairs, Harry During, lurching
across the floor, stopped in front of Jacqueline. He had found it
difficult to get dancing partners that evening and for consolation and
excitement he had retreated to the bar and attended seriously and
conscientiously to the matter of quenching his thirst. That thirst was
deep-seated and it had taken him a long time to reach the seat of the
dryness. Now, however, he had become convinced that he had done his duty
by his parched insides, and he started toward the door to take horse and
ride home. On the way a vision crossed his path--a vision in green, with
a floating mist of dainty coloring over her shoulders. He paused to
admire. He remained to stare.
If he had been sober he would have resumed his course with a shrug of
the shoulders. But he was not sober. There was a film across his eyes
and a mighty music swelling within him. Reason was gone, and only
instinct remained. But the eyes of instinct are far surer thar the eyes
of reason. He moved closer with a shambling step. He leaned over his
sister.
“It’s Jac!”
He burst into Homeric laughter. Ben Craig rose slowly, a dangerous man
and a known man in the mountain-desert. Even through the mists of
“red-eye,” Harry During sobered a little under the crushing pressure of
the hand which fell on his shoulder. He pointed, grinning for sympathy.
“Look!” he said. “Ain’t it funny? That’s my shister! That’s Jac!”
Craig turned for an instant’s glance at Jac. She had not changed color.
There was a grave but impersonal sympathy in her steady eyes.
She said: “Please don’t hurt the poor fellow--Ben!”
Craig turned back to Harry.
“It’s a disgrace,” he said, “to let a drunk like you wander around
insultin’ helpless girls. By God, it’s got to stop.”
“My own shister--” protested Harry weakly.
“On your way!” thundered Craig, for he was conscious that many eyes were
upon him.
Two formidable figures appeared on either side of him. They were Maurie
Gordon, black of face with wrath, and Dave Carey, his lip lifted from
his teeth like a wolf about to snarl. They were three formidable
animals, facing the swaying figure of Harry. When men act under the eyes
of a woman, the careful veil of civilization is lifted. The lovely Miss
Silvestre was nearby. The three became ravening beasts.
“Out with him!” said Dave Carey.
“Move!” said Maurie.
“Start!” said Ben Craig.
But the same thing that made the hair of Jacqueline red made the blood
of Harry hot.
“I’ll see you damned first,” he said thickly.
Instantly six iron hands gripped him. He was whirled, and, struggling
vainly, borne across the floor toward the door. A universal clapping of
hands came from the edges of the hall. It was understood that Harry had
insulted the lovely stranger, and in the West, a woman, whether
beautiful or ugly, _may_ be treated with familiar words but _must_ be
treated with reverent thought.
At the very threshold of the door that led from the main hall into the
little anteroom where guns and hats were piled, Harry managed to wriggle
loose. The fury of his anger was sobering him a little and restoring the
nerves to his muscular control. He broke loose with a curse and swung
feebly, uncertainly, at the nearest of his prosecutors. Carey and Craig
ducked to rush and grapple with Harry; but big Maurie, with the thought
of Miss Silvestre and “real men” floating in his brain, drew back his
sledge-hammer right fist and smashed it into the face of young During.
Harry pitched back through the door as if a dozen hands had thrown him.
The three turned and made straight for Jac like three little boys
returning to their mother for praise due to a virtuous act after a day
of naughtiness and spankings. The women around the hall were silent.
They had heard the dull thud as that fist drove home. The men applauded
the murmurs. It was the custom to applaud Maurie Gordon.
But when the three reached Jac, she sat white of face and still of eye.
“This don’t happen often,” began Carey.
“I never see anything like it before,” added Craig.
“Anyway,” said Maurie complacently, “I’ve taught him a lesson.”
A hard voice sounded at his shoulder. He turned to stare into the
furious eyes of Carrigan. There was nothing bulky about the latter, but
now, with his lean, almost ugly face white with anger and his gleaming
eye, he seemed strangely dangerous.