TRESLER BEGINS HIS EDUCATION
But the story of the nocturnal visit of the horse thieves did not
reach the foreman next morning. Jake hailed Tresler down to the
corrals directly after breakfast. He was to have a horse told off to
him, and this matter, and the presence of others, made him postpone
his purpose to a more favorable time.
When he arrived at the corrals, three of the boys, under Jake's
superintendence, were cutting out a big, raw-boned, mud-brown mare
from a bunch of about sixty colts.
She stood well over sixteen hands--a clumsy, big-footed, mean-looking,
clean-limbed lady, rough-coated, and scored all over with marks of
"savaging." She was fiddle-headed and as lean as a hay-rake, but in
build she was every inch a grand piece of horse-flesh. And Tresler was
sufficient horseman to appreciate her lines, as well as the vicious,
roving eye which displayed the flashing whites at every turn.
Jacob Smith was after her with a rope, and the onlookers watched his
lithe, active movements as he followed her, wildly racing round and
round the corral seeking a means of escape.
Suddenly the man made a dart in to head her off. She turned to
retreat, but the other two were there to frustrate her purpose. Just
for a second she paused irresolutely; then, lowering her head and
setting her ears back, she came open-mouthed for Jacob. But he
anticipated her intention, and, as she came, sprang lightly aside,
while she swept on, lashing out her heels at him as she went. It was
the opportunity the man sought, and, in the cloud of dust that rose in
her wake, his lariat shot out low over the ground. The next moment she
fell headlong, roped by the two forefeet, and all three men sprang in
to the task of securing her.
It was done so quickly that Tresler had hardly realized her capture
when Jake's harsh voice rang out--
"That's your mare, Tresler!" he cried; "guess that plug of yours'll do
for fancy ridin'. You'll break this one to handlin' cattle. You're a
tolerable weight, but she's equal to it." He laughed, and his laugh
sent an angry flush into the other's face. "Say," he went on, in
calmly contemptuous tones; "she's wild some. But she's been saddled
before. Oh, yes, she ain't raw off the grass. You, comin' from down
east, can mebbe ride. They mostly reckon to be able to ride till they
come along to these parts."
Tresler understood the man's game; he also understood and fully
appreciated Joe Nelson's warning. He glanced at the saddle still
hanging on the corral wall. It would be simple suicide for him to
attempt to ride an outlaw with a saddle fit for a boy of fifteen. And
it was Jake's purpose, trading on his ignorance of such matters, to
fool him into using a saddle that would probably rupture him.
"I presume she's the worst outlaw on the ranch," he replied quietly,
though his blue eyes shone dangerously. "She must be," he went on, as
Jake made no answer, "or you wouldn't give her to me, and point out
that she's been saddled before."
"Kind o' weakenin'?" Jake asked with a sneer.
"No. I was just thinking of my saddle. It will be no use on her; she'd
burst the girths."
"That needn't worry you any. There's a stock saddle there, on the
fence."
"Thank you, I'll ride on a saddle that fits a man of my size, or you
can ride the mare yourself."
Tresler was round and facing his man, and his words came in a tone the
other was unaccustomed to. But Jake kept quite cool while he seemed to
be debating with himself. Then he abruptly turned away with a short,
vicious laugh.
"Guess the 'tenderfoot's' plumb scared to ride her, boys," he called
out to the men, relapsing into the vernacular as he addressed them.
"Any o' you boys lendin' a saddle, or shall we find him a rockin'-hoss
to run around on?"
Tresler fell headlong into the trap. Jake had drawn him with a skill
worthy of a better object.
"If there is anybody scared, I don't think it is I, boys," he said
with a laugh as harsh as Jake's had been. "If one of you will lend me
a man's saddle, I'll break that mare or she'll break me."
Now, Tresler was a very ordinary horseman. He had never in his life
sat a horse that knew the first rudiments of bucking; but at that
moment he would have mounted to the back of any horse, even if his
life were to pay the forfeit next moment. Besides, even in his blind
anger, he realized that this sort of experience must come sooner or
later. "Broncho-busting" would be part of his training. Therefore,
when some one suggested Arizona's saddle--since Arizona was on the
sick list--he jumped at the chance, for that individual was about his
size.
The mare was now on her legs again, and stood ready bridled, while two
men held her with the lariat drawn tight over her windpipe. She stood
as still as a rock, and to judge by the flashing of her eyes, inwardly
raging. They led her out of the corral, and Arizona's saddle was
brought and the stirrups adjusted to Tresler's requirements. She was
taken well clear of the buildings into the open, and Jacob, with the
subtlety and art acquired by long practice in breaking horses,
proceeded to saddle her. Lew and Raw Harris choked her quiet with the
lariat, and though she physically attempted to resent the indignity of
being saddled, the cinchas were drawn tight.
Tresler had come over by himself, leaving Jake to watch the
proceedings from the vantage ground of the rise toward the house. He
was quite quiet, and the boys stole occasional apprehensive glances at
him. They knew this mare; they knew that she was a hopeless outlaw and
fit only for the knacker's yard. At last Jacob beckoned him over.
"Say, ther' ain't no need fer you to ride her, mister," he said,
feeling that it was his duty as a man to warn him. "She's the worstest
devil on the range, an' she'll break your neck an' jump on you with
her maulin' great hoofs, sure. I guess ther' ain't a 'buster' in the
country 'ud tackle her fer less 'an a fi' dollar wager, she's that
mean."
"And she looks all you say of her, Jacob," replied Tresler, with a
grim smile. "Thanks for your warning, but I'm going to try and ride
her," he went on with quiet decision. "Not because I think I can, but
because that bully up there"--with a nod in Jake's direction--"would
only be too glad of the chance of taunting me with 'weakening.' She
shall throw me till she makes it a physical impossibility for me to
mount her again. All I ask is that you fellows stand by to keep her
off when I'm on the ground."
By this time Jacob had secured the saddle, and now Tresler walked
round the great beast, patting her gently and speaking to her. And she
watched him with an evil, staring eye that boded nothing good. Then he
took a rawhide quirt from Jacob and, twisting it on his wrist, mounted
her, while the men kept the choking rope taut about her throat, and
she stood like a statue, except for the heaving of her sides as she
gasped for breath.
He gathered the reins up, which had been passed through the noose of
the lariat, and sat ready. Jacob drew off, and held the end of the
rope. Tresler gave the word. The two men left her, while, with a shake
and a swift jerk, Jacob flung the lariat clear of the mare's head. In
an instant the battle had begun.
Down went the lady's head (the boys called her by a less complimentary
name), and she shot into the air with her back humped till she shaped
like an inverted U with its extremities narrowed and almost touching.
There was no seesaw bucking about her. It was stiff-legged, with her
four feet bunched together and her great fiddle-head lost in their
midst. And at the first jump Tresler shot a foot out of the saddle,
lurched forward and then back, and finally came down where he had
started from. And as he fell heavily into the saddle his hand struck
against a coiled blanket strap behind the cantle, and he instinctively
grabbed hold of it and clung to it for dear life.
Up she shot again, and deliberately swung round in the air and came
down with her head where her tail had been. It was a marvelous,
cat-like spring, calculated to unseat the best of horsemen. Tresler
was half out of the saddle again, but the blanket strap saved him, and
the next buck threw him back into his seat. Now her jumps came like
the shots from a gatling gun, and the man on her back was dazed, and
his head swam, and he felt the blood rushing to his ear-drums. But
with desperate resolve he clung to his strap, and so retained his
seat. But it couldn't last, and he knew it, although those looking on
began to have hopes that he would tire the vixen out. But they didn't
know the demon that possessed her.
Suddenly it seemed as though an accident had happened to her. Her legs
absolutely shot from under her as she landed from one terrific buck,
and she plunged to the ground. Then her intention became apparent. But
luckily the antic had defeated its own end, for Tresler was flung
wide, and, as she rolled on the ground, he scrambled clear of her
body.
He struggled to his feet, but not before she had realized his escape,
and, with the savage instinct of a man-eater, had sprung to her feet
and was making for him open-mouthed. It was Jacob's readiness and
wonderful skill that saved him. The rope whistled through the air and
caught her, the noose falling over her head with scarcely room between
her nose and her victim's back for the rawhide to pass. In a flash the
strands strung tight, and her head swung round with such a jolt that
she was almost thrown from her feet.
Again she was choked down, and Tresler, breathing desperately, but
with his blood fairly up, was on top of her almost before the man
holding her realized his intention. The mare was foaming at the mouth,
and a lather of sweat dripped from her tuckered flanks. The whites of
her eyes were flaming scarlet now, and when she was let loose again
she tried to savage her rider's legs. Failing this, she threw her head
up violently, and, all unprepared for it, Tresler received the blow
square in the mouth. Then she was up on her hind legs, fighting the
air with her front feet, and a moment later crashed over backward. And
again it seemed like a miracle that he escaped; he slid out of the
saddle, not of his own intention, and rolled clear as she came down.
This time she was caught before she could struggle to her feet, and
when at last she stood up she was dazed and shaken, though still
unconquered.
Again Tresler mounted. He was bruised and bleeding, and shaking as
with an ague. And now the mare tried a new move. She bucked; but it
was a running buck, her body twisting and writhing with curious
serpentine undulations, and her body seemed to shrink under his legs
as though the brute were drawing in her whole frame of a settled
purpose. Then, having done enough in this direction, she suddenly
stood, and began to kick violently, with her head stretched low
between her forelegs. And Tresler felt himself sliding, saddle and
all, over her withers! Suddenly the blanket strap failed him. It
cracked and gave, and he shot from the saddle like a new-fired rocket.
And when the mare had been caught again she was without the saddle,
which was now lying close to where her rider had fallen. She had
bucked and kicked herself clean through the still-fastened cinchas.
Tresler was bleeding from nose and ears when he mounted again. The
saddle was cinched up very tight, and the mare herself was so blown
that she was unable to distend herself to resist the pressure. But,
nevertheless, she fought as though a devil possessed her, and,
exhausted, and without the help of the blanket strap, he was thrown
again and again. Five times he fell; and each time, as no bones were
broken, he remounted her. But he was growing helpless.
But the men looking on realized that which was lost upon the rider
himself. The mare was done; she was fairly beaten. The fifth time he
climbed into the saddle her bucks wouldn't have thrown a babe; and
when they beheld this, they, with one accord, shouted to him.
"Say, thrash her, boy! Lace h---- out of her!" roared Jacob.
"Cut her liver out wi' that quirt!" cried Lew.
"Ay, run her till she can't see," added Raw.
And Tresler obeyed mechanically. He was too exhausted to do much; but
he managed to bring the quirt down over her shoulders, until, maddened
with pain, she rose up on her hind legs, gave a mighty bound forward,
and raced away down the trail like a creature possessed.
It was dinner-time when Tresler saw the ranch again. He returned with
the mare jaded and docile. He had recovered from the battle, while she
had scarcely energy enough to put one foot before the other. She was
conquered. To use Arizona's expression, when, from the doorway of the
bunkhouse, he saw the mare crawling up the trail toward the ranch--
"Guess she's loaded down till her springs is nigh busted."
And Tresler laughed outright in Jake's face when that individual came
into the barn, while he was rubbing her down, and generally returning
good for evil, and found fault with his work.
"Where, I'd like to know, have you been all this time?" he asked
angrily. Then, as his eyes took in the pitiful sight of the exhausted
mare, "Say, you've ruined that mare, and you'll have to make it good.
We don't keep horses for the hands to founder. D'you see what you've
done? You've broke her heart."
"And if I'd had the chance I'd have broken her neck too," Tresler
retorted, with so much heat, that, in self-defense, the foreman was
forced to leave him alone.
That afternoon the real business of ranching began. Lew Cawley was
sent out with Tresler to instruct him in mending barbed-wire fences.
A distant pasture had been broken into by the roving cattle outside.
Lew remained with him long enough to show him how to strain the wires
up and splice them, then he rode off to other work.
Tresler was glad to find himself out on the prairie away from the
unbearable influence of the ranch foreman. The afternoon was hot, but
it was bright with the sunshine, which, in the shadow of the
mountains, is so bracing. The pastures he was working in were
different from the lank weedy-grown prairie, although of the same
origin. They were irrigated, and had been sown and re-sown with
timothy grass and clover. The grass rose high up to the horse's knees
as he rode, and the quiet, hard-working animal, his own property,
reveled in the sweet-scented fodder which he could nip at as he moved
leisurely along.
And Tresler worked very easily that afternoon. Not out of indolence,
not out of any ill-feeling toward his foreman. He was weary after his
morning's exertions, and, besides, the joy of being out in the pure,
bright air, on that wondrous sea of rolling green grass with its
illimitable suggestion of freedom and its gracious odors, seduced him
to an indolence quite foreign to him. He was beyond the view of the
ranch, with two miles of prairie rollers intervening, so he did his
work without concern for time.
It was well after four o'clock when the last strand of wire was strung
tight. Then, for want of a shady tree to lean his back against, he sat
down by a fence post and smoked, while his horse, with girths
loosened, and bit removed from its mouth, grazed joyfully near by.
And then he slept. The peace of the prairie world got hold of him; the
profound silence lulled his fagged nerves, his pipe went out, and he
slept.
He awoke with a start. Nor, for the moment, did he know where he was.
His pipe had fallen from his mouth, and he found himself stretched
full length upon the ground. But something unusual had awakened him,
and when he had gathered his scattered senses he looked about him to
ascertain what the nature of the disturbance had been. The next moment
a laughing voice hailed him.
"Is this the way you learn ranching, Mr. Tresler? Oh, shame! Sleeping
the glorious hours of sunshine away."
It was the rich, gentle voice of Diane Marbolt, and its tone was one
of quiet raillery. She was gazing down at him from the back of her
sturdy broncho mare, Bessie, with eyes from which, for the moment at
least, all sadness had vanished.
Just now her lips were wreathed in a bright smile, and her soft brown
eyes were dancing with a joyous light, which, when Tresler had first
seen her, had seemed impossible to them. She was out on the prairie,
on the back of her favorite, Bessie; she was away from the ranch, from
the home that possessed so many cares for her. She was out in her
world, the world she loved, the world that was the only world for her,
breathing the pure, delicious air which, even in moments of profound
unhappiness, had still power to carry her back to the days of happy,
careless childhood; had still power to banish all but pleasant
thoughts, and to bestow upon her that wild sense of freedom such as is
only given to those who have made their home on its virgin bosom.
Tresler beheld this girl now in her native mood. He saw before him the
true child of the prairie such as she really was. She was clad in a
blue dungaree habit and straw sun-hat, and he marveled at the
ravishing picture she made. He raised himself upon his elbow and
stared at her, and a sensation of delight swept over him as he
devoured each detail of face and figure. Then, suddenly, he was
recalled to his senses by the abrupt fading of the smile from the face
before him; and he flushed with a rueful sense of guiltiness.
"Fairly caught napping, Miss Marbolt," he said, in confusion. "I
acknowledge the sloth, but not the implied laxness anent ranching.
Believe me, I have learned an ample lesson to-day. I now have a fuller
appreciation of our worthy foreman; a fair knowledge of the horse,
most accurately termed 'outlaw', as the bruised condition of my body
can testify; and, as for barbed-wire fencing, I really believe I have
discovered every point in its construction worthy of consideration."
He raised a pair of lacerated hands for the girl's inspection, and
rose, smiling, to his feet.
"I apologize." Diane was smiling again now as she noted the network of
scratches upon his outstretched palms. "You certainly have not been
idle," she added, significantly.
Then she became serious with a suddenness that showed how very near
the surface, how strongly marked was that quiet, thoughtful nature her
companion had first realized in her.
"But I saw you on that mare, and I thought you would surely be killed.
Do you know they've tried to break her for two seasons, and failed
hopelessly. What happened after she bolted?"
"Oh, nothing much. I rode her to Forks and back twice."
"Forty miles! Good gracious! What is she like now?"
"Done up, of course. Jake assures me I've broken her heart; but I
haven't. My Lady Jezebel has a heart of stone that would take
something in the nature of a sledge-hammer to break. She'll buck like
the mischief again to-morrow."
"Yes."
The girl nodded. She had witnessed the battle between the "tenderfoot"
and the mare; and, now that it was all over, she felt pleased that he
had won. And there was no mistaking the approval in the glance she
gave him. She understood the spirit that had moved him to drive the
mare that forty miles; nor, in spite of a certain sympathy for the
jaded creature, did she condemn him for it. She was too much a child
of the prairie to morbidly sentimentalize over the matter. The mare
was a savage of the worst type, and she knew that prairie horses in
their breaking often require drastic treatment. It was the stubborn,
purposeful character of the man that she admired, and thought most
of. He had carried out a task that the best horse-breaker in the
country might reasonably have shrunk from, and all to please the
brutal nature of Jake Harnach.
"And you've christened her 'Lady Jezebel'?" she asked.
Tresler laughed. "Why, yes, it seems to suit her," he said
indifferently.
Then a slight pause followed which amounted almost to awkwardness. The
girl had come to find him. Her visit was not a matter of chance. She
wanted to talk to this man from the East. And, somehow, Tresler
understood that this was so. For some moments she sat stroking
Bessie's shoulder with her rawhide riding-switch. The mare grew
restive. She, too, seemed to understand something of the awkwardness,
and did her best to break it up by one or two of her frivolous
gambols. When she had been pacified, the girl leaned forward in her
saddle and looked straight into her companion's eyes.
"Tell me," she said, abruptly; "why did you ride that animal?"
The man laughed a little harshly. "Because--well, because I hadn't
sense enough to refuse, I suppose."
"Ah, I understand. Jake Harnach."
Tresler shrugged.
"I came out purposely to speak to you," the girl went on, in a quiet,
direct manner. There was not the least embarrassment now. She had made
up her mind to avoid all chance of misunderstanding. "I want to put
matters quite plainly before you. This morning's business was only a
sequel to your meeting with Jake, or rather a beginning of the
sequel."
Tresler shook his head and smiled. "Not the beginning of the sequel.
That occurred last evening, after I left you."
Diane looked a swift inquiry.
"Yes, Jake is not an easy man. But believe me, Miss Marbolt, you need
have no fear. I see what it is; you, in the kindness of your heart,
dread that I, a stranger here in your land, in your home, may be
maltreated, or even worse by that unconscionable ruffian. Knowing your
father's affliction, you fear that I have no protection from Jake's
murderous savagery, and you are endeavoring bravely to thrust your
frail self between us, and so stave off a catastrophe. Have no fear. I
do not anticipate a collision. He is only an atrocious bully."
"He is more than that. You underestimate him."
The girl's face had darkened. Her lips were firmly compressed, and an
angry fire burned in her usually soft eyes.
Tresler, watching, read the hatred for Jake; read the hatred, and saw
that which seemed so out of place in the reliant little face. A
pronounced fear was also expressed, and the two were so marked that it
was hard to say which feeling predominated. Hatred had stirred depths
of fire in her beautiful eyes, but fear had paled her features, had
set drawn lines about her mouth and brows. He wondered.
"You are right, Mr. Tresler, in that you think I dread for your
safety," she went on presently. "It was certainly that dread that
brought me out here to-day. You do not anticipate a collision because
you are a brave man. You have no fear, therefore you give no thought
to possibilities. I am weak and a woman, and I see with eyes of
understanding and knowledge of Jake, and I know that the collision
will be forced upon you; and, further, when the trouble comes, Jake
will take no chances. But you must not think too well of me. Believe
me, there is selfishness at the root of my anxiety. Do you not see
what trouble it will cause to us; my father, me?"
Tresler looked away. The girl had a strange insistence. It seemed to
him folly to consider the matter so seriously. He was convinced that
she was holding something back; that she was concealing her real
reason--perhaps the reason of her own fear of Jake--for thus
importuning him. It did not take him long to make up his mind with
those lovely, appealing eyes upon him. He turned back to her with a
frank smile, and held out his hand. Diane responded, and they shook
hands like two friends making a bargain.
"You are right, Miss Marbolt," he said. "I promise you to do all in my
power to keep the peace with Jake. But," and here he held up a finger
in mock warning, "anything in the nature of a physical attack will be
resented--to the last."
Diane nodded. She had obtained all the assurance he would give, she
knew, and wisely refrained from further pressure.
Now a silence fell. The sun was dropping low in the west, and already
the shadows on the grass were lengthening. Tresler brought his
grazing horse back. When he returned Diane reverted to something he
had said before.
"This 'sequel' you spoke of. You didn't tell me it." Her manner had
changed, and she spoke almost lightly.
"The matter of the sequel was a trivial affair, and only took the form
of Jake's spleen in endeavoring to make my quarters as uncomfortable
for me as possible. No, the incident I had chiefly in mind was
something altogether different. It was all so strange--so very
strange," he went on reflectively. "One adventure on top of another
ever since my arrival. The last, and strangest of all, did not occur
until nearly midnight."
He looked up with a smile, but only to find that Diane's attention was
apparently wandering.
The girl was gazing out over the waving grass-land with deep,
brooding, dreamy eyes. There was no anger in them now, only her
features looked a little more drawn and hard. The man waited for a
moment, then as she did not turn he went on.
"You have strange visitors at the ranch, Miss Marbolt--very strange.
They come stealthily in the dead of night; they come through the
shelter of the pinewoods, where it is dark, almost black, at night.
They come with faces masked--at least one face----"
He got no further. There was no lack of effect now. Diane was round
upon him, gazing at him with frightened eyes.
"You saw them?" she cried; and a strident ring had replaced her
usually soft tones.
"Them? Who?"
For a moment they stared into each other's eyes. He inquiringly; she
with fear and mingled horror.
"These--these visitors." The words came almost in a whisper.
"Yes."
"And what were they like?"
The girl spoke apprehensively.
Then Tresler told his story as he had told it to Joe Nelson. And Diane
hung on every word he uttered, searching him through and through with
her troubled eyes.
"What are you going to do about it?" she asked as he finished.
Tresler was struck with the peculiarity of the question. She expressed
no surprise, no wonder. It seemed as though the matter was in nowise
new to her. Her whole solicitude was in her anticipation of what he
would do about it.
"I am not sure," he said, concealing his surprise under a leisurely
manner. "I had intended to tell Jake," he went on a moment later,
"only the Lady Jezebel put it out of my head. I told Joe Nelson last
night. He told me I had seen Red Mask, the cattle thief, and one of
his men. He also tried to get me to promise that I would say nothing
about it to Jake. I refused to give that promise. He gave me no
sufficient reasons, you see, and--well, I failed to see the necessity
for silence."
"But there is a necessity, Mr. Tresler. The greatest." Diane's tone
was thrilling with an almost fierce earnestness. "Joe was right. Jake
is the last person to whom you should tell your story."
"Why?"
"Why?" Diane echoed, with a mirthless laugh. "Pshaw!"
"Yes, why? I have a right to know, Miss Marbolt."
"You shall know all I can tell you." The girl seemed on the verge of
making an impulsive statement, but suddenly stopped; and when at last
she did proceed her tone was more calm and so low as to be little
above a whisper. "Visitors such as you have seen have been seen by
others before. The story, as you have told it, has in each case been
told to Jake by the unfortunate who witnessed these strange movements
at night----"
"Unfortunate?"
"Yes. The informant has always met with misfortune, accident--whatever
you like to call it. Listen; it is a long story, but I will merely
outline the details I wish to impress on you. Some years ago this Red
Mask appeared from no one knows where. Curiously enough his appearance
was in the vicinity of this ranch. We were robbed, and he vanished.
Some time later he was seen again, much the same as you saw him last
night. One of our boys gave the warning to Jake. Two days later the
poor fellow who informed upon him was found shot on the trail into
Forks. Later, again, another hand witnessed a somewhat similar scene
and gave information. His end was by drowning in a shallow part of the
river. Folks attributed his end to drink, but----Again Red Mask
showed up--always at night--again he was seen, and Jake was warned.
The victim this time met his death by the falling of a rock in the
foot-hills. The rock killed horse and rider. And so it has gone on at
varying intervals. Eight men have been similarly treated. The ninth,
Arizona, barely escaped with his life a little while ago. I've no
doubt but that some accident will happen to him yet. And, mark this,
in each case the warning has gone first to Jake. I may be altogether
wrong; certainly other folks do not look upon the death of these
various men with suspicion, but I have watched, and reasoned out all I
have seen. And----"
"Why, Jake must----"
"Hush!"
Diane gazed round her apprehensively.
"No, no, Mr. Tresler," she went on hurriedly, "I do not say that; I
dare not think of it. Jake has been with us so long; he cares for
father's interest as for his own. In spite of his terrible nature he
is father's--friend."
"And the man who intends to marry you," Tresler added to himself.
Aloud he asked, "Then how do you account for it?"
"That's just it. I--I don't account for it. I only warn you not to
take your story to Jake."
Tresler drew a step nearer, and stood so close to her that her
dungaree skirt was almost touching him. He looked up in a manner that
compelled her gaze.
"You do account for it, Miss Marbolt," he said emphatically.
Nor did the girl attempt denial. Just for a moment there was a
breathless silence. Then Bessie pawed the ground, and thrust her nose
into the face of Tresler's horse in friendly, caressing fashion; and
the movement broke the spell.
"Urge me no further, Mr. Tresler," Diane exclaimed appealingly. "Do
not make me say something I have no right to say; something I might
have cause to regret all my life. Believe me, I hardly know what to
believe, and what not to believe; I hardly know what to think. I can
only speak as my instinct guides me. Oh, Mr. Tresler, I--I can trust
you. Yes--I know I can."
The girl's appeal had its effect. Tresler reached up and caught the
little outstretched hands.
"Yes, you can trust me, Miss Marbolt," he said with infinite kindness.
"You have done the very best thing you could have done. You have given
me your confidence--a trouble that I can see has caused you ages of
unhappiness. I confess you have opened up suspicions that seem almost
preposterous, but you----" He broke off, and stood gazing down
thoughtfully at the two hands he still held clasped within his. Then
he seemed to become suddenly aware of the position, and, with a slight
laugh, released them. "Pardon me," he said, glancing up into the
troubled eyes with a kindly smile. "I was dreaming. Come, let us
return to the ranch. It is time. It will be pleasant riding in the
cool. By Jove, I begin to think that it is more than possible I owe
Jake considerable gratitude after all."
"You owe him nothing," answered Diane, with angry emphasis. "You owe
him nothing but obedience as a ranch hand, and that you will have to
pay him. For the rest, avoid him as you would a pest."
Tresler sprang into the saddle, and the horses ambled leisurely off in
the direction of the ranch. And, as he rode, he set aside all thoughts
of Jake and of Red Mask. He thought only of the girl herself, of her
delightful companionship.
His steady-going horse, with due regard for the sex of his companion,
allowed Bess to lead him by a neck. He traveled amiably by her side,
every now and then raising his nose as though to bite his spirited
little companion, but it was only pretense. Nor did Tresler urge him
faster. He preferred that they should travel thus. He could gaze to
his heart's content upon Diane without displaying rudeness. He could
watch the trim, erect figure, poised so easily and gracefully upon the
saddle. She rode like one born to the saddle, and by the gait of her
mare, he could see that her hands were of the lightest, yet firm and
convincing to the high-mettled animal they controlled.
The girl was a perfect picture as she rode; her rich, dark hair was
loosely coiled, and several waving ringlets had fluffed loose with the
breeze and motion of riding, and strayed from the shadow of her wide
hat. Tresler's thoughts went back to his home; and, he told himself,
none of the horsewomen he had known could have displayed such an
abundant grace in the saddle with their rigid habits and smart hats.
There was nothing of the riding-school here; just the horsemanship
that is so much a natural instinct.
And so they rode on to the ranch.