_In the Pines_
Alice Weston pleaded headache next morning. She did not get up until
noon. Meanwhile Dorothy came, bringing hot coffee and toast.
"Does it really hurt?" queried Dorothy. "Or is it one of those headaches
that is always going to hurt, but never does?"
Alice smiled and sipped her coffee. "Oh, it's not bad. I want to rest.
Perhaps it's the altitude."
"Perhaps," said Dorothy. "I'm sorry, Alice."
They chatted awhile. Suddenly Alice thought of the letters Lorry had
given her. She had carried them to her room, and had forgotten them.
"Mr. Adams left some mail with me last night. I happened to be outside
when he rode past."
"Why, I thought he had gone!"
"He said he had to go to Jason for something or other. He left early
this morning, I think."
Dorothy glanced at the mail. "All for daddy--except this circular. H'm!
'Intelligent clothing for Intelligent People.' Isn't that awful? How in
the world do such firms get one's address when one lives 'way up here
in the sky. Do you ever get advertisements like this?"
"Oh, yes; heaps of them."
"Well, _your_ gowns are beautiful," sighed Dorothy.
"You are a darling," said Alice, caressing Dorothy's cheek.
"So are you, dear." And Dorothy kissed her. "And you coaxed Lorry to
come to dinner, after all! I don't know what made him so grumpy, though.
I would have been sorry if he hadn't come to dinner, even if he was
grumpy."
"Do you like him?" queried Alice.
"Of course; he has been so nice to us. Don't you?"
Alice's lips trembled. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands and burst
into tears.
"Why, Alice, what _is_ the matter?"
"Nothing," she sobbed. "I'm just tired--of everything."
"It must be the altitude," said Dorothy gravely. "Father says it does
make some persons nervous. Just rest, Allie, and I'll come in again."
Without telling her father anything further than that she was going for
a ride, Dorothy saddled Chinook.
Dorothy was exceedingly trustful, but she was not at all stupid. She
thought she understood Alice's headache. And while Dorothy did not dream
that her friend cared anything for Lorry, she was not so sure that
Lorry did not care for Alice. Perhaps he had said something to her.
Perhaps they had become rather well acquainted in Stacey last summer.
Dorothy rode toward the Big Spring. She had no definite object in view
other than to be alone. She was hurt by Lorry's incomprehensible manner
of leaving. What had she done to cause him to act so strangely? And why
had he refused her invitation and accepted it again through Alice? "But
I'll never, never let him know that I care about that," she thought.
"And when he comes back everything will be all right again."
Just before she reached the Big Spring her pony nickered. She imagined
she could see a horse standing back of the trees round the spring. Some
ranger returning to Jason or some cattle outfit from the south was
camped at the spring. But when Chinook nickered again and the other pony
answered, she knew at once that Lorry was there. Why had he stopped at
the spring? He had started early enough to have made a camp farther on.
Lorry saw her coming, and busied himself adjusting one of the packs. As
she rode up he turned and took off his hat. His face was flushed. His
eyes did not meet hers as she greeted him.
"I didn't look for you to ride up here," he said lamely.
"And I didn't expect to find you here," she said as she dismounted. She
walked straight to him. "Lorry, what is the matter? You're not like my
ranger man at all! Are you in trouble?"
Her question, so frank and sincere, and the deep solicitude in her
troubled eyes hurt him, and yet he was glad to feel that hot pain in his
throat. He knew now that he cared for her more than for any living
being; beyond all thought of passion or of selfishness. She looked and
seemed like a beautiful boy, with all the frankness of true comradeship
in her attitude and manner. And she was troubled because of him--and not
for herself. Lorry thought of the other girl. He had taken his pay. His
lips burned dry as he recalled that moment when he had held her in his
arms.
Dorothy saw the dull pain in his eyes, a sort of dumb pleading for
forgiveness for something he had done; she could not imagine what. He
dropped to his knee, and taking her slender hand in his kissed her
fingers.
"Don't be silly," she said, yet her free hand caressed his hair. "What
is it, ranger man?"
"I been a regular dam' fool, Dorothy."
"But, Lorry! You know--if there is anything, anything in the world that
I can do--Please, _please_ don't cry. If you were to do that I think I
should die. I couldn't stand it. You make me afraid. What is it? Surely
it is not--Alice?"
He crushed her fingers. Suddenly he stood up and stepped back. The
sunlight shone on his bared head. He looked very boyish as he shrugged
his shoulders as though to free himself from an invisible hand that
oppressed and irritated him. His sense of fair play in so far as Alice
Weston was concerned would not allow him to actually regret that affair.
To him that had been a sort of conquest. But shame and repentance for
having been disloyal to Dorothy were stamped so clearly upon his
features that she understood. She knew what he was about to say, and
checked him.
"Don't tell me," she said gently. "You have told me. I know Alice is
attractive; she can't help that. If you care for her--"
"Care for her! She was playin' with me. When I found out that--"
Dorothy caught her breath. Her eyes grew big. She had not thought that
Alice Weston--But then that did not matter now. Lorry was so abjectly
sorry about something or other. He felt her hand on his sleeve. She was
smiling. "You're just a great big, silly boy, ranger man. I'm really
years older than you. Please don't tell me anything. I don't want to
know. I just want you to be happy."
"Happy? And you say that!"
"Of course!"
"Well, mebby I could be happy if you was to set to and walk all over
me."
"Oh, but that wouldn't do any good. Tell me why you stopped here at the
spring. You didn't expect to meet any one, did you?"
"I--stopped here--because we camped here that time."
"Well, Lorry, it's really foolish of you to feel so badly when there's
nothing the matter. If you wanted to kiss Alice and she let you--why,
that isn't wrong. A boy kissed me once when I was going to school in the
East. I just boxed his ears and laughed at him. It is only when you act
grumpy or feel badly that I worry about you. I just want to be your
little mother then--and try to help you."
"You make me feel like I wasn't fit to ever touch your hand again," he
told her.
"But you mustn't feel that way," she said cheerily. "I want you to be
brave and strong and happy; just as you were that day we camped here.
And you will, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm takin' orders from you."
"But you mustn't wait for me to tell you. Just be yourself, and then I
know you will never be ashamed of anything you do. I must go now.
Good-bye, Lorry."
She gave her hand, and he drew her to him. But she turned her face away
as he bent his head above her.
"No; not now, Lorry. I--can't. Please don't."
"I--guess you're right. I reckon you showed me just where I stand. Yes,
you're plumb right about it, Dorothy. But I'm comin' back--"
"I'll wait for you," she said softly.
He turned briskly to the ponies. The pack-horses plodded up the trail as
he mounted Gray Leg and rode over to her.
She reached up and patted Gray Leg's nose. "Good-bye, everybody!" she
chirruped. And she kissed Gray Leg's nose.
Back in the ranges, far from the Big Spring, Lorry made his camp that
night. As he hobbled the horses he talked to them affectionately after
his manner when alone with them.
"And you, you old trail-hitter," he said to Gray Leg, "I reckon you
think you're some ladies' man, don't you? Well, you got a right to be
proud. Step along there, and 'tend to your grazin' and don't go to
rubbin' noses with the other horses. You're a fool if you do."