"You look kinder peaky-faced. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing," replied Mintie.
"You ain't a-worryin' about your Pap, air ye? I reckon he kin take
keer of himself."
"I reckon he kin; so kin his daughter."
"Shall I put my plug into the barn?"
"We're mighty short of hay," said Mintie inhospitably.
Smoky Jack stared at her and laughed. Then he slipped from the saddle,
pulled the reins over the horse's head, and threw the ends on the
ground. With a deprecating smile he said softly--
"Air you very extry busy, Mints?"
"Not very extry. Why?"
"I've a notion to read ye something. It come to me las' Sunday week in
the middle of the night. An' now it's slicked up to the Queen's
taste."
"Poetry?"
"I dunno as it's that--after the remarks you passed about that leetle
piece I sent to the _Tribune_."
"You sent it? Of all the nerve----! Did they print it?"
Smoky Jack shook his head.
"Never expected they would," he admitted mournfully. "I won't deny
that it was kind o'----"
"Slushy?" hazarded Mintie.
"Wal--yes. You'd made all sorts of a dodgasted fool outer me."
"Yer father and mother done that."
"I've said as much to Maw, many's the time. 'Maw' I'd say, 'I ain't a
masterpiece--and I know it.' But las' Sunday night I was
_in_spired."
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Mintie frowned. With a shy
glance and heightened colour the man who had been inspired whispered
softly--
"It's entitled, 'To My Own Brown Bird.'"
"And who's your brown bird?" demanded Mintie sharply.
"As if you didn't know."
"Meanin' me?"
"Couldn't naturally be nobody else."
"I'm not yours; and as for bein' brown, why, my skin is white as
milk."
"I'll bet my life it is."
"As for bein' a bird, that ain't no compliment. Birds is first cousins
to snakes. Never knew that, did ye?"
"Never--s'elp me! Is that really so?"
Covered with mortification, he put the paper back into his pocket.
"Read it," commanded the young lady. "Let's get it over an' done with.
Then, mebbe, I'll help ye to rechristen the durned thing."
Emboldened by this gracious speech, Smoky began in a nasal, drawling
voice--
"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide----"
"Ananias!" said Mintie. "You was born in these yere foothills, and
raised in 'em; and you've never known enough to git out of 'em."
"Git out of 'em?"
"Git out of 'em," she repeated scornfully. "D'ye think if I was a man
I'd stop in such a God-forsaken place as yours, with nothing but
rattlesnakes and coyotes to keep me company? Go on!"
"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide--
I've dwelt in many a stately tower;
And now I turn me back to ride
To my own brown bird in her humble bower."
"That'll do," said Mintie. "You ain't improved much. Bill Shakespeare
can rest easy in his tomb. I've got my chores to do. 'Bout time you
was doin' yours."
Smoky Jack, refusing to budge, said jocosely, "Things air fixed up to
home. 'Twouldn't worry me any if I never got back till to-morrer."
Mintie frowned and went into the house. Smoky led his horse to the
barn with perplexity and distress writ large upon his face.
"Notice to quit," he muttered. Then he grinned pleasantly. "Reckon a
perfect gen'leman 'd take the hint and clear out. But I ain't a
perfect gen'leman. What in thunder ails the girl?"
* * * * *
It was nearly seven when Pap Ransom reached his corral. Smoky had
milked the cow and fed the pigs. In the kitchen Mintie was frying some
potatoes and stirring the big pot full of beans and bacon. From time
to time Smoky had caught a glimpse of her white apron as she whisked
in and out of the kitchen. Although a singularly modest youth, he
conceived the idea that Mintie was interested in his doings, whereas
we must admit that she was more concerned about her father. However,
when she saw Pap ascend the hill, carrying his rifle over his
shoulder, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and from that
minute she gave to the simple preparations for supper undivided
attention.
"Whar's the liver?" said Smoky, as the old man nodded to him.
"Liver?"
"Heard a shot, jest one, and made certain a good buck was on his
back."
"I never fired no shot," said Ransom slowly.
"Wal, I'm hanged! Is there another Sharp besides mine in these yere
hills?"
"I dessay. I heard one shot myself, 'bout two hours ago."
"Guess it was one o' them derned squatters."
"Curse 'em!" said Ransom. He spat upon the ground and walked into the
abode. Smoky nodded reflectively.
Supper was not a particularly cheery meal. Mintie, usually a nimble
talker, held her tongue. Ransom aired his pet grievance--the advent of
Easterners, who presumed to take up land which was supposed to belong
to, or at least go with, the old Spanish grants. Smoky and Mintie knew
well enough that the land was Uncle Sam's; but they knew also that
Ransom had run his cattle over it during five-and-twenty years. If
that didn't constitute a better title than a United States patent,
there was no justice anywhere. Smoky, filled with beans and bacon,
exclaimed vehemently--
"Shoot 'em on sight, that's what I say."
Mintie stared at his bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
"Do you allus mean jest what you say?" she inquired sarcastically.
"Wal," replied Smoky, more cautiously, "they ain't been monkeyin' with
me; but if they did----"
"If they did----?" drawled Mintie, with her elbows on the table and
her face between her hands.
"If they cut my fence as they've cut yours, and, after doo warnings,
kep' on trespassin' and makin' trouble, why then, by Gosh! I'd shoot.
Might give 'other feller a show, but there's trouble as only kin be
settled with shootin' irons."
"That's so" said Mintie savagely.
After supper Mintie retired to the kitchen to wash up. Ransom put a
jar of tobacco on the table, two glasses, and some whisky.
"Any call for ye to ride home to-night?"
"None," said Smoky.
"Reckon ye'd better camp here, then."