She crumpled the note in her hand thoughtfully, but, on the verge of
dropping it in the waste basket, she smoothed it again, and for the
third time went over the contents. Then she rose abruptly and confided
her place to the lad who idled at the counter.
"The wire's dead," she told him. "Besides, I'll be back in an hour or
so."
And she rode off a moment later with the boy. He had a blanket-pad
without stirrups, and he kept prodding the sliding elbows of the horse
with his bare toes while he chattered at Ruth, for the drum of the
sounder had fascinated him and he wanted it explained. She listened to
him with a smile of inattention, for she was thinking busily of Connor.
Those thoughts made her look down to the dust that puffed up from the
feet of the horses and became a light mist behind them; then, raising
her head, she saw the blue ravines of the farther mountains and the sun
haze about the crests. Connor had always been to her as the ship is to a
traveler; the glamour of strange places was about him.
Presently they left the trail, and passing about a hillside, came to an
old shack whose unpainted wood had blackened with time.
"There he is," said the boy, and waving his hand to her, turned his pony
on the back trail at a gallop.
Connor called to her from the shack and came to meet her, but she had
dismounted before he could reach the stirrup. He kept her hand in his
for a moment as he greeted her. It surprised him to find how glad he was
to see her. He told her so frankly.
"After the mountains and all that," he said cheerfully, "it's like
meeting an old chum again to see you. How have things been going?"
This direct friendliness in a young man was something new to the girl.
The youths who came in to the dances at Lukin were an embarrassed lot
who kept a sulky distance, as though they made it a matter of pride to
show they were able to resist the attraction of a pretty girl. But if
she gave them the least encouragement, the merest shadow of a friendly
smile, they were at once all eagerness. They would flock around her,
sending savage glances to one another, and simpering foolishly at her.
They had stock conversation of politeness; they forced out prodigious
compliments to an accompaniment of much writhing. Social conversation
was a torture to them, and the girl knew it.
Not that she despised them. She understood perfectly well that most of
them were fine fellows and strong men. But their talents had been
cultivated in roping two-year-olds and bulldogging yearlings. They could
encounter the rush of a mad bull far more easily than they could
withstand a verbal quip. With the familiarity of years, she knew, they
lost both their sullenness and their starched politeness. They became
kindly, gentle men with infinite patience, infinite devotion to their
"womenfolk." Homelier girls in Lukin had an easier time with them. But
in the presence of Ruth Manning, who was a more or less celebrated
beauty, they were a hopeless lot. In short, she had all her life been in
an amphibious position, of the mountain desert and yet not of the
mountain desert. On the one hand she despised the "slick dudes" who now
and again drifted into Lukin with marvelous neckties and curiously
patterned clothes; on the other hand, something in her revolted at the
thought of becoming one of the "womenfolk."
As a matter of fact, there are two things which every young girl should
have. The first is the presence of a mother, which is the oldest of
truisms; the second is the friendship of at least one man of nearly her
own age. Ruth had neither. That is the crying hurt of Western life. The
men are too busy to bother with women until the need for a wife and a
home and children, and all the physical destiny of a man, overwhelms
them. When they reach this point there is no selection. The first girl
they meet they make love to.
And most of this Ruth understood. She wanted to make some of those
lumbering, fearless, strong-handed, gentle-souled men her friends. But
she dared not make the approaches. The first kind word or the first
winning smile brought forth a volley of tremendous compliments, close on
the heels of which followed the heavy artillery of a proposal of
marriage. No wonder that she was rejoiced beyond words to meet this
frank friendliness in Ben Connor. And what a joy to be able to speak
back freely, without putting a guard over eyes and voice!
"Things have gone on just the same--but I've missed you a lot!"
"That's good to hear."
"You see," she explained, "I've been living in Lukin with just half a
mind--the rest of it has been living off the wire. And you're about the
only interesting thing that's come to me except in the Morse."
And what a happiness to see that there was no stiffening of his glance
as he tried to read some profound meaning into her words! He accepted
them as they were, with a good-natured laughter that warmed her heart.
"Sit down over here," he went on, spreading a blanket over a chairlike
arrangement of two boulders. "You look tired out."
She accepted with a smile, and letting her head go back against the
upper edge of the blanket she closed her eyes for a moment and permitted
her mind to drift into utter relaxation.
"I _am_ tired," she whispered. It was inexpressibly pleasant to lie
there with the sense of being guarded by this man. "They never guess how
tired I get--never--never! I feel--I feel--as if I were living under the
whip all the time."
"Steady up, partner." He had picked up that word in the mountains, and
he liked it. "Steady, partner. Everybody has to let himself go. You tell
me what's wrong. I may not be able to fix anything, but it always helps
to let off steam."
She heard him sit down beside her, and for an instant, though her eyes
were still closed, she stiffened a little, fearful that he would touch
her hand, attempt a caress. Any other man in Lukin would have become
familiar long ago. But Connor did not attempt to approach her.
"Turn and turn about," he was saying smoothly. "When I went into your
telegraph office the other night my nerves were in a knot. Tell you
straight I never knew I _had_ real nerves before. I went in ready to
curse like a drunk. When I saw you, it straightened me out. By the Lord,
it was like a cool wind in my face. You were so steady, Ruth; straight
eyes; and it ironed out the wrinkles to hear your voice. I blurted out a
lot of stuff. But when I remembered it later on I wasn't ashamed. I knew
you'd understand. Besides, I knew that what I'd said would stop with
you. Just about one girl in a million who can keep her mouth shut--and
each one of 'em is worth her weight in gold. You did me several thousand
dollars' worth of good that night. That's honest!"
She allowed her eyes to open, slowly, and looked at him with a misty
content. The mountains had already done him good. The sharp sun had
flushed him a little and tinted his cheeks and strong chin with tan. He
looked more manly, somehow, and stronger in himself. Of course he had
flattered her, but the feeling that she had actually helped him so much
by merely listening on that other night wakened in her a new
self-reverence. She was too prone to look on life as a career of manlike
endeavor; it was pleasant to know that a woman could accomplish
something even more important by simply sitting still and listening. He
was watching her gravely now, even though she permitted herself the
luxury of smiling at him.
All at once she cried softly: "Thank Heaven that you're not a fool, Ben
Connor!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I don't think I can tell you." She added hastily: "I'm not trying to be
mysterious."
He waved the need of an apology away.
"Tell you what. Never knew a girl yet that was worth her salt who could
be understood all the time, or who even understood herself."
She closed her eyes again to ponder this, lazily. She could not arrive
at a conclusion, but she did not care. Missing links in this
conversation were not vitally important.
"Take it easy, Ruth; we'll talk later on," he said after a time.