INTRODUCING ROWAN McCOY TO RUTH TROVILLION
McCOY followed a road that led from Bovier’s Camp into the hills. He was
annoyed at the altercation with Tait that had flared up in the store.
Between the sheep and cattle interests on the Fryingpan there had been a
good deal of bickering and recrimination, some night raiding, an
occasional interchange of shots. But for the most part there had been so
far at least a decent pretense of respect for the law.
Except for Tait a compromise settlement might have been effected. But
the big sheepman was not reasonable. Originally a cattleman himself, he
had quarrelled violently with all of his range neighbours, and at last
gone into sheep out of spite. There was no give-and-take about him. The
policy of live and let live did not commend itself to his turbulent
temper. What he wanted he intended to take with a high hand.
There were personal reasons why McCoy desired no trouble with him. Rowan
had not seen Norma half a dozen times since she had run away with Tait
in anger after a quarrel between the lovers. If she regretted her folly,
no word to that effect had ever reached McCoy or any other outsider. On
the few occasions when she came out into her little neighbourhood world
it was with a head still high. Without impertinence, one could do no
more than guess at her unhappiness. Upon one thing her former lover was
determined: there would be no trouble of his making between him and the
man Norma had chosen for a husband.
The cattleman turned up a cañon, followed it to its head, cut across the
hills, and descended into the valley of the Fryingpan. The river was
high from the spring thaw of the mountain snows. Below him he could see
its swirling waters tumbling down in agitated hurry.
On the road in front of him a trap was moving toward the stream. He
recognized the straight back of the slim driver as that of the girl he
had seen at the post office. Evidently she was taking the cut-off back
to the ranch, unaware that the bridge had been washed out by the
freshet. Would she turn back or would she try the ford just below the
bridge? He touched his horse with the spur and put it to a canter.
The girl drew up and viewed the remains of the bridge, then turned to
the ford. Presently she drove slowly down to its edge. After a moment’s
apparent hesitation she forced the reluctant horse to take the water. As
the wheels sank deeper, as the turbid current swept above the axles and
into the bed of the trap, the heart of the young woman failed. She gave
a little cry of alarm and tried to turn back.
The man galloping toward the ford shouted a warning: “Keep going! Swing
to the right!”
It is likely the driver did not hear his call. She tried to cramp to the
left. The horse, frightened, plunged forward into the deep pool below
the ford. The force of the stream swept horse and rig down. The girl
screamed and started to rise, appalled by the whirling torrent.
Miraculously, a horse and rider appeared beside her. She was lifted
bodily from the trap to the arms of a rescuer. For a few moments the cow
pony struggled with the waters. It fought hard for a footing, splashed
into the shallows nearer shore, and emerged safely at the farther bank.
She found herself lifted to the ground and deserted. The Heaven-sent
horseman unfastened the rope at his saddle, swung it round his head, and
dropped a large loop over the back of the trap. The other end he tied to
the pommel of the saddle. The cow pony obeyed orders, braced its legs,
and began to pull. The owner of the animal did not wait for results, but
waded deep into the river and seized the bridle of the exhausted buggy
horse.
Even then it was a near thing. The Fryingpan fought with a heavy
plunging suction to keep its prey. The man and the horses could barely
hold their own, far less make headway against the current. As to the
girl, she watched the battle with big, fascinated eyes, the blood driven
from her heart by terror. Soon it flashed across her brain that these
three creatures of flesh and blood could not win, for while they wore
out their strength in vain the cruel river pounded down on them with
undiminished energy.
She flew to the rope and pulled, digging her heels into the sand for a
better purchase. After what seemed to her a long time, almost
imperceptibly, at first by fitful starts, the rope moved. McCoy inched
his way to the shallower water and a more secure footing. Man, horse,
and trap came jerkily to land.
Almost exhausted, the cattleman staggered to his bronco and leaned
against its heaving flanks. His eyes met those of the girl. Her
tremulous lips were ashen. He guessed that she was keeping a tight rein
on a hysterical urge to collapse into tears.
“It’s all right,” he said, and she liked the pleasant smile that went
with the words. “We’re all safe now. No harm done. None a-tall.”
“I thought—I was afraid——” She caught her lip between her white
teeth.
“Sure. Anybody would be. You oughtn’t to have tried the ford. There
should be a sign up there. I’ll get after the road commissioners.”
Ruth knew he was talking to give her time to recover composure. He went
on, casually and cheerfully.
“The Fryingpan is mighty deceiving. When she’s in flood she certainly
tears along in a hurry. More than one cow-puncher has been drowned in
her.”
She managed a smile. “I’ve been complaining because I couldn’t find an
adventure. This was a little too serious. I thought, one time,
that—that you might not get out.”
“So you pulled me out. That was fine. I won’t forget it.”
The girl looked at the blisters on her soft palms, and again a faint
little smile twitched at her face. “Neither shall I for a day or two. I
have souvenirs.”
He began to arrange the disordered harness, rebuckling a strap here and
pulling the leather into place there. Dark eyes under long, curved
lashes observed him as he moved, lean-loined and broad of shoulder, the
bronze of the eternal outdoors burned into his hands and neck and lean
face.
“My name is Trovillion; Ruth Trovillion,” she said shyly. “I’m staying
at Elkhorn Lodge, or the Dude Ranch, as you people call it.”
He shook hands without embarrassment. “My name is Rowan McCoy.”
Level eyes, with the blue of Western skies in them, looked straight into
hers. A little wave of emotion beat through her veins. She knew, warned
by the sure instinct of her sex, that this man who had torn her from the
hands of death was to be no stranger in her life.
“I think I saw you at the store to-day. And I’ve heard of you, from Mr.
Flanders.”
“Yes.”
She abandoned that avenue of approach, and came to a more personal
one—came to it with a face of marble except for the live eyes.
“But for you I would have drowned,” she said, and shuddered.
“Maybe so; maybe not.”
“Yes. I couldn’t have got out alone,” she insisted. “Of course I can’t
thank you. There’s no use trying. But I’ll never forget—never as long
as I live.”
About her there was a proud, delicate beauty that charmed him. She was
at once so slender and so vital. Her face was like a fine, exquisitely
cut cameo.
“All right,” he agreed cheerfully. “Honours are easy then, Miss
Trovillion. I lifted you out and you pulled me out.”
“Oh, you can _say_ that! As if I did anything that counted.” The fount
of her feelings had been touched, and she was still tremulous. It was
impossible for her to dismiss this adventure as casually as he seemed
ready to do. After all, it had been the most tremendous hazard of her
young, well-sheltered life.
When he had made sure the trap was fit for the road, McCoy turned to his
companion and helped her in. She drove slowly. The cattleman rode beside
her. He was going out of his way, but he found for himself a sufficient
excuse. She was a slim slip of a girl who had lived her nineteen or
twenty years in cities far from the primitive dangers of the wild.
Probably she was unstrung from her experience and might collapse.
Anyhow, he was not going to take the chance of it.