_A Slim Whip of a Girl_
When Bronson opened his door to the thin sunlight and the crisp chill of
the morning, he chuckled. He had made too many camps in the outlands to
be surprised by an unexpected gift of game out of season. His neighbor
was a ranger, and all rangers were incidentally game wardens. Bronson
believed heartily in the conservation of game, and in this instance he
did not intend to let that turkey spoil.
He called to his daughter.
Her brown eyes grew big. "Why, it's a turkey!"
Bronson laughed. "And to-day is Sunday. We'll have a housewarming and
invite the ranger to dinner."
"Did he give it to you? Isn't it beautiful! What big wings--and the
breast feathers are like little bronze flames! Do wild turkeys really
fly?"
"Well, rather. It's a fine sight to see them run to a rim rock and float
off across a cañon."
"Did you tell him about our horses? Is he nice? What did he say? But I
could never imagine a turkey like that flying. I always think of turkeys
as strutting around a farmyard with their heads held back and all puffed
out in front. This one is heavy! I can't see how he could even begin to
fly."
"They have to get a running start. Then they usually flop along and
sail up into a tree. Once they are in a tree, they can float off into
space easily. They seem to fly slowly, but they can disappear fast
enough. The ranger seems to be a nice chap."
"Did he really give the turkey to us?"
"It was hanging right here when I came out. I can't say that he gave it
to us. You see, it is closed season for turkey."
"But we must thank him."
"We will. Let's ask him to dinner. He seems to be a pleasant chap; quite
natural. He said we were welcome to keep our horses in his corral. But
if you want to have him for a real friendly neighbor, Dorothy, don't
mention the word 'turkey.' We'll just roast it, make biscuits and gravy,
and ask him to dinner. He will understand."
"Then I am going to keep the wings and tail to put on the wall of my
room. How funny, not to thank a person for such a present."
"The supervisor would reprimand him for killing game out of season, if
he heard about it."
"But just one turkey?"
"That isn't the idea. If it came to Mr. Shoop that one of his men was
breaking the game laws, Mr. Shoop would have to take notice of it. Not
that Shoop would care about one of his men killing a turkey to eat, but
it would hurt the prestige of the Service. The natives would take
advantage of it and help themselves to game."
"Of course, you know all about those matters. But can't I even say
'turkey' when I ask him to have some?"
"Oh," laughed Bronson, "call it chicken. He'll eat just as heartily."
"The ranger is up," said Dorothy. "I can hear him whistling."
"Then let's have breakfast and get this big fellow ready to roast. It
will take some time."
An hour later, Lorry, fresh-faced and smiling, knocked on the lintel of
their open doorway.
Bronson, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a diminutive apron to which
clung a fluff of turkey feathers, came from the kitchen.
"Good-morning. You'll excuse my daughter. She is busy."
"I just came over to ask how she was."
"Thank you. She is much better. We want you to have dinner with us."
"Thanks. But I got some beans going--"
"But this is chicken, man! And it is Sunday."
Lorry's gray eyes twinkled. "Chickens are right scarce up here. And
chicken sure tastes better on Sunday. Was you goin' to turn your stock
out with mine?"
"That's so!"
They turned Bronson's horses out, and watched them charge down the mesa
toward the three animals grazing lazily in the morning sunshine.
"Your horses will stick with mine," said Lorry. "They won't stray now."
"Did I hear a piano this morning, or did I dream that I heard some one
playing?"
"Oh, it was me, foolin' with Bud's piano in there. Bud's got an amazin'
music-box. Ever see it?"
"No. I haven't been in your cabin."
"Well, come right along over. This was Bud's camp when he was
homesteadin'. Ever see a piano like that?"
Bronson gazed at the carved and battered piano, stepping close to it to
inspect the various brands. "It is rather amazing. I didn't know Mr.
Shoop was fond of music."
"Well, he can't play reg'lar. But he sure likes to try. You ought to
hear him and Bondsman workin' out that 'Annie Laurie' duet. First off,
you feel like laughin'. But Bud gets so darned serious you kind of
forget he ain't a professional. 'Annie Laurie' ain't no dance tune--and
when Bud and the dog get at it, it is right mournful."
"I have seen a few queer things,"--and Bronson laughed,--"but this beats
them all."
"You'd be steppin' square on Bud's soul if you was to josh him about
that piano," said Lorry.
"I wouldn't. But thank you just the same. You have a neat place here,
Adams."
"When you say 'neat' you say it all."
"I detest a fussy camp. One gets enough of that sort of thing in town.
Is that a Gallup saddle or a Frazier?"
"Frazier."
"I used a Heiser when I was in Mexico. They're all good."
"That's what I say. But there's a hundred cranks to every make of saddle
and every rig. You said you were in Mexico?"
"Before I was married. As a young man I worked for some of the mines. I
went there from college."
"I reckon you've rambled some." And a new interest lightened Lorry's
eyes. Perhaps this man wasn't a "plumb tenderfoot," after all.
"Oh, not so much. I punched cattle down on the Hassayampa and in the
Mogollons. Then I drifted up to Alaska. But I always came back to
Arizona. New Mexico is mighty interesting, and so is Colorado.
California is really the most wonderful State of all, but somehow I
can't keep away from Arizona."
"Shake! I never been out of Arizona, except when I was a kid, but she's
the State for me."
A shadow flickered in the doorway. Lorry turned to gaze at a delicate
slip of a girl, whose big brown eyes expressed both humor and
trepidation.
"My daughter Dorothy, Mr. Adams. This is our neighbor, Dorothy."
"I'm right glad to meet you, miss."
And Lorry's strong fingers closed on her slender hand. To his robust
sense of the physical she appealed as something exceedingly fragile and
beautiful, with her delicate, clear coloring and her softly glowing
eyes. What a little hand! And what a slender arm! And yet Lorry thought
her arm pretty in its rounded slenderness. He smiled as he saw a turkey
feather fluttering on her shoulder.
"Looks like that chicken was gettin' the best of you," he said, smiling.
"That's just it," she agreed, nothing abashed. "Father, you'll have to
help."
"You'll excuse us, won't you? We'll finish our visit at dinner."
Lorry had reports to make out. He dragged a chair to the table. That man
Bronson was all right. Let's see--the thirtieth--looked stockier in
daylight. Had a good grip, too, and a clear, level eye. One mattock
missing in the lookout cabin--and the girl; such a slender whip of a
girl! Just like a young willow, but not a bit like an invalid. Buckley
reports that his man will have the sheep across the reservation by the
fourth of the month. Her father had said she was not over-strong. And
her eyes! Lorry had seen little fawns with eyes like that--big,
questioning eyes, startled rather than afraid.
"Reckon everything she sees up here is just amazin' her at every jump.
I'll bet she's happy, even if she _has_ got lungs. Now, a fella couldn't
help but to like a girl like that. She would made a dandy sister, and a
fella would just about do anything in the world for such a sister. And
she wouldn't have to ask, at that. He would just naturally want to do
things for her, because--well, because he couldn't help feeling that
way. Funny how some wimmin made a man feel like he wanted to just about
worship them, and not because they did anything except be just
themselves. Now, there was that Mrs. Weston. She was a jim-dandy
woman--but she was different. She always seemed to know just what she
was going to say and do. And Mrs. Weston's girl, Alice. Reckon I'd scrap
with her right frequent. She was still--"
Dog-gone it! Where was he drifting to? Sylvestre's sheep were five days
crossing the reserve. Smith reported a small fire north of the lookout.
The Ainslee boys put the fire out. It hadn't done any great damage.
Lorry sat back and chewed the lead pencil. As he gazed out of the window
across the noon mesa a faint fragrance was wafted through the doorway.
He sniffed and grinned. It was the warm flavor of wild turkey, a flavor
that suggested crispness, with juicy white meat beneath. Lorry jumped up
and grabbed a pail as he left the cabin. On his way back from the
spring, Bronson waved to him. Lorry nodded. And presently he presented
himself at Bronson's cabin, his face glowing, his flannel shirt neatly
brushed, and a dark-blue silk bandanna knotted gracefully at his throat.
"This is the princess," said Bronson, gesturing toward his daughter.
"And here is the feast."
"And it was a piano," continued Bronson as they sat down.
"Really? 'Way up here?"
"My daughter plays a little," explained Bronson.
"Well, you're sure welcome to use that piano any time. If I'm gone, the
door is unlocked just the same."
"Thank you, Mr. Adams, I only play to amuse myself now."
Lorry fancied there was a note of regret in her last word. He glanced at
her. She was gazing wistfully out of the window. It hurt him to see that
tinge of hopelessness on her young face.
"This here chicken is fine!" he asserted.
The girl's eyes were turned to him. She smiled and glanced roguishly at
her father. Lorry laughed outright.
"What is the joke?" she demanded.
"Nothin'; only my plate is empty, Miss Bronson."
Bronson grabbed up carving-knife and fork. "Great Caesar! I must have
been dreaming. I _was_ dreaming. I was recalling a turkey hunt down in
Virginia with Colonel Stillwell and his man Plato. Plato was a good
caller--but we didn't get a turkey. Now, this is as tender as--as it
ought to be. A little more gravy? And as we came home, the colonel, who
was of the real mint-julep type, proposed as a joke that Plato see what
he could do toward getting some kind of bird for dinner that night. And
when Plato lifted the covers, sure enough there was a fine, fat roast
chicken. The colonel, who lived in town and did not keep chickens, asked
Plato how much he had paid for it. Plato almost dropped the cover.
'Mars' George,' he said with real solicitude in his voice,' is you
sick?' And speaking of turkeys--"
"Who was speaking of turkeys?" asked Dorothy.
"Why, I think this chicken is superior to any domestic turkey I ever
tasted," concluded Bronson.
"Was you ever in politics?" queried Lorry. And they all laughed
heartily.
After dinner Lorry asked for an apron.
Dorothy shook her finger at him. "It's nice of you--but you don't mean
it."
"Now, ma wouldn't 'a' said that, miss. She'd 'a' just tied one of her
aprons on me and turned me loose on the dishes. I used to help her like
that when I was a kid. Ma runs the hotel at Stacey."
"Why, didn't we stop there for dinner?" asked Dorothy.
"Yes, indeed. All right, Adams, I'll wash 'em and you can dry 'em, and
Dorothy can rest."
"It's a right smilin' little apron," commented Lorry as Dorothy handed
it to him.
"And you do look funny! My, I didn't know you were so big! I'll have to
get a pin."
"I reckon it's the apron looks funny," said Lorry.
"I made it," she said, teasing him.
"Then that's why it is so pretty," said Lorry gravely.
Dorothy decided to change the subject. "I think you should let me wash
the dishes, father."
"You cooked the dinner, Peter Pan."
"Then I'll go over and try the piano. May I?"
"If you'll play for us when we come over, Miss Bronson."
Bronson and Lorry sat on the veranda and smoked. Dorothy was playing a
sprightly melody. She ceased to play, and presently the sweet old tune
"Annie Laurie" came to them. Lorry, with cigarette poised in his
fingers, hummed the words to himself. Bronson was watching him
curiously. The melody came to an end. Lorry sighed.
"Sounds like that ole piano was just singin' its heart out all by
itself," he said. "I wish Bud could hear that."
Almost immediately came the sprightly notes of "Anitra's Dance."
"And that's these here woods--and the water prancin' down the rocks, and
a slim kind of a girl dancin' in the sunshine and then runnin' away to
hide in the woods again." And Lorry laughed softly at his own conceit.
"Do you know the tune?" queried Bronson.
"Nope. I was just makin' that up."
"That's just Dorothy," said Bronson.
Lorry turned and gazed at him. And without knowing how it came about,
Lorry understood that there had been another Dorothy who had played and
sung and danced in the sunshine. And that this sprightly, slender girl
was a bud of that vanished flower, a bud whose unfolding Bronson watched
with such deep solicitude.