TIM FLANDERS OFFERS INFORMATION AND OPINIONS
AFTER dinner at the Elkhorn Lodge Ruth Trovillion left her aunt reading
an installment of a magazine serial and drifted across to the large log
cabin which was used as a recreation hall by guests of the “dude” ranch.
At least she appeared to drift, to hesitate before starting, and after
arriving gave an impression of being there tentatively. The thoughts and
motives of young women are not always to be read by their manner.
Tim Flanders, owner of the ranch, was sitting on the porch smoking a
postprandial pipe, his chair tilted back and his feet propped against
one of the posts. At sight of Miss Trovillion, who was a favourite of
his, the legs of the chair and his feet came to the floor
simultaneously.
“Don’t disturb yourself on my account, Mr. Flanders,” she told him. “I’m
not staying.”
“Might as well ’light an’ stay for a while,” he said, and dragged a
chair forward.
Ruth stood for a moment, as though uncertain, before she sat down.
“Well, I will, thank you, since you’ve taken so much trouble.”
They sat in silence, the girl looking across at the dark blue-black line
of mountains which made a jagged outline against a sky not quite so
dark. She had not yet lived long enough among the high hills to have got
over her wonder at their various aspects under different lights and
atmospheres.
“It’s been kinda hot to-day for this time o’ year,” her host said at
last by way of a conversational advance.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But it will be June in a few days. Doesn’t it begin
to get warmer here then?”
“Not what you’d call real warm, ma’am. We’re a mile high, an’ then some
more on top o’ that,” he reminded her.
Presently, the subject of the weather having been exhausted, Flanders
offered another gambit.
“I hope, ma’am, you didn’t break any more cowboy hearts to-day.”
She turned eyes of amiable scorn upon him. “Cowboys! Where are they,
these cowboys you promised me?”
“They been kinda scarce down this way lately, sure enough,” he admitted.
“But you mighta seen one to-day if you’d happen’ to have been lookin’
when he passed. His name is Larry Silcott.”
Tim’s shrewd eyes rested on her. He indulged in mental gossipy
instincts, and it happened that he had seen Silcott come out of the
orchard only a few moments before Miss Trovillion had arrived at the
house, evidently also from the orchard.
Indifferently Miss Trovillion answered, her eyes again on the distant
blue-black silhouette. “Is he the one that was claiming so loudly to be
the best cowboy in the world?”
“Yes, ma’am. Larry’s liable to claim anything. He’s that-a-way.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“He’s got his nerve, Larry has.” He chuckled. “Last night, for instance,
by what the boys say.”
“Yes?”
“There was a dance at the Circle O T. I reckon Larry was pretty
scand’lous the way he shined up to another fellow’s girl.”
“I suppose he’s one of the kind that thinks he’s irresistible,” she
said, an edge of contempt in her voice.
“Maybe he has got notions along that line. Probably he’s got some basis
for them too. Larry is the sort women like, I judge.”
“What sort is that?” she wanted to know.
“They like a fellow who is gay an’ puts up a good bluff, one who has
lots of little laughin’ secrets to whisper to ’em behind his hand when
other folks are in the room.”
“You seem to know all about it, Mr. Flanders. Why don’t you write a book
about us?”
He refused to be daunted by her sarcasm. “I notice what I notice.”
“And I suppose this Mr. Silcott is really what they call a
four-flusher?” she asked.
“Well, no, he ain’t. In his way Larry is a top hand. I ain’t right keen
on his way, but that’s a matter of opinion. He’s mighty popular, an’ he
delivers the goods. None of the boys can ride a buckin’ bronco with him,
onless it’s Rowan McCoy.”
“And who’s he? Another poser?”
Flanders’ answer came instantly and emphatically. “No, _ma’am_. He’s a
genuwine dyed-in-the-wool he-man, Rowan is. If you want to see a real
Westerner, one of the best of the breed, why, Rowan McCoy is yore man.”
“Yes—and where is he on exhibit?” she asked lightly.
“He’s a cattleman. Owns the Circle Diamond Ranch—not so gosh awful far
from here. I’ll ride over with you some day when I get time.”
Ruth knew he would never find time. Tim was temperamentally indolent. He
could work hard when he once got his big body into action. But it took a
charge of dynamite to start him. His promises were made in good faith,
but he often did not quite get round to fulfilling them. He was always
suggesting some place of interest she ought to see and offering to take
her there some day. This suited Ruth well enough. She could always
organize at any time a party for a day’s horseback trip among the guests
of the “dude” ranch.
The girl referred again to her pretended grievance. “You’re a false
alarm, Mr. Flanders, and I’m going to sue you for breach of contract.
You promised me the second day we were here—you know you did—to round
up a likely bunch of cow-punchers for me to study. We dudes don’t come
out here just for the scenery, you know. We want all the local colour
there is. It’s your business to supply it. I suppose it isn’t reasonable
to ask for Indian raids any more, or hold-ups, or anything of that sort.
But the least you can do is to supply us a few picturesque cowboys, even
if you have to send to the moving-picture people to get them.”
“Say, Miss Trovillion, I’ve been readin’ about these new moving
pictures. Last time I was in Denver I went to see one. It’s great. Of
course I reckon it’s only a fad, but——”
“You’re dodging the issue, Mr. Flanders. Are you going to make good on
those cowboys or aren’t you?”
The owner of the Elkhorn Lodge scratched his gray poll. “Sure I am.
Right now most of the boys are busy up in the hills, but they’ll be
driftin’ down soon. Say, I’m sure thick-haided. I’d ought to have taken
you to that Circle O T dance last night. I expect Mrs. Flanders would
have gone if I’d mentioned it. You would have seen plenty of the boys
there. But one of these days there will be another dance. And say,
ma’am, there’s Round-up Week at Bad Ax pretty soon. They’ll come ridin’
in for a hundred miles for that, every last one of these lads that throw
a rope. That’s one real _rodeo_—ropin’, ridin’, bull-doggin’, pony
races, Indian dances, anything you like.”
“Will they let a tenderfoot attend?”
“That’s what it’s for, to grab off the tenderfoot’s dough. But honest,
it’s a good show. You’ll like it.”
“I’ll certainly be there, if Aunt is well enough,” Ruth announced with
decision.