Two Women
It was a well-sheltered patch of ploughing. To the south a fringe of
woodland bounded it. Then came a narrow opening. And then again, on the
eastern side, a wooded hill rose up to protect it from the bitter east
and north-east. To the north stood an extensive stretch of tamarack and
pine woods, beyond which lay the farm, while its western boundary was
formed by the creek which watered the farm. There were approximately
two hundred acres of open, and the last of the ploughing had just been
harrowed down.
Lightning stood beside his team gazing over his completed work.
The man’s fringe of whisker was thrust aggressively. His eyes were
unsmiling. His gnarled, brown hands were thrust in the top of his
soil-stained trousers.
He was regarding his work with a curious contempt. It was the contempt
of the cattleman for the industry of the simple farmer. He was nursing
his memories of past glories, when his skill with both rope and gun,
and in the saddle, were bywords with the men who were as ready to fight
as drink themselves to death. How he regretted those wonderful days!
Blue Pete flung up his fiddle head, and Jane was gazing out to the
south-west. Lightning spoke a sharp word in the harsh tone the beasts
knew so well. And the break in his thought brought him back to the
meaning of the things about him.
Oh, yes. Those days were past, and he had no real right to complain.
They were days of irresponsibility. Now it was all different.
Responsibility was with him, and something more. He knew that. And he
was glad. He regretted the cattle days, but his work now was for Molly.
And Molly needed all the help he could give her.
For all she had returned home the night before with the lost cows he
still retained his obstinate conviction that there were cattle thieves
about. Who was the white-haired man she had told him she had met? The
man had learned all the information she had to supply, and had given
her in return no inkling of whence he came, or his business in the
hills, or even of his name.
Then she had told him the man was riding a coal-black horse from the
race-tracks of Kentucky. That sort of thing was by no means new to him.
Every cattle thief prided himself on his horseflesh. Doubtless the
horse had been stolen. Then his city clothes. That was sheer bluff,
only to deceive a simpleton. Disguised as a city man! Why, it was a
game that was a good deal older than he was.
No. The facts remained. She was surrounded on the one hand by a bunch
of cattle thieves who were located around Dan Quinlan’s, and on
the other lay the threat of a good-looker bad lot, who had somehow
contrived to dazzle her innocent mind. She certainly needed all the
help he could give her.
He made a sound in his throat like a chuckle. He felt he had by no
means done badly by Mister Andy McFardell. He had sown the ground well,
he felt. Set him after the cattle-thieving bunch up at Dan Quinlan’s,
get him playing the police game which belonged to him, with the
prospect of getting back into the Force as a result. The thing would
get right hold of him, and, if it succeeded, it might well rid the
neighbourhood of his detested presence. Then Molly would forget him.
But would she? Women were queer. He remembered Sadie Long, who once
chased him half-way across the States. Anyway----
His reflections were interrupted, and he thrust up a hand to push the
loose brim of his hat clear from his eyes. His startled gaze was fixed
on the approach of a horseman on a big, raking sorrel. He was emerging
from a gap in the bush lining the bank of the creek, which he had
apparently only just crossed. In his quick way Lightning also realised
that the horseman must have come from somewhere out of the south-west.
Maybe from--Dan Quinlan’s!
But as the horse came on an ejaculation of surprise broke from him. It
was not a horseman at all. The rider was a woman! A woman clad in city
clothing, and riding on a man’s saddle, with the horn and leggaderos
and stirrups which he recognised at once as of Californian make!
Blanche Pryse reined up sharply. And her greeting came with a disarming
smile. Lightning’s hat was torn from his head, to reveal the shock of
grey hair which looked never to have known the use of a comb.
“I’m looking for some place I can get feed for my horse,” Blanche
cried, “and a bite of something to eat for myself. You see, I came
further than I ought, and--and got rather mazed up with the hills
around here. I saw you with your team, and reckoned you must have a
homestead near abouts.”
Lightning’s grinning face was transparently reassuring. Had the
stranger been a man, there would have been a difference. He cleared
his throat, and, out of respect for a woman who was obviously a lady,
and a stranger, he spat out his chew of tobacco, and trod the result
underfoot.
“I’m real glad you come along, ma’am,” he said cordially. “You surely
hev come to the right place fer feed. The barn’s back o’ them woods,”
he added, pointing in a northerly direction. “An’ Molly gal’s right
to home, an’ll feel good if you’ll eat with her. I’m just quittin’ fer
feed myself, an’ making home, an’ I’ll be mighty pleased to give you a
lead.”
Lightning’s effort was in his best manner, for he was gazing up into a
face which, even to his suspicious mind, could have no association with
cattle thieves.
“Why, that’s real kind of you, and--and I’m very grateful.”
Blanche gazed interestedly down upon the tall creature. She knew him
at once. There could be no mistake. This was the Marton farm. So
this queer, grey-whiskered creature must be “Lightning” she had been
told about. The man impressed her. There was something tremendously
purposeful in the hard lines of his weather-beaten face. There was
something compelling in his eyes, and in the aquilinity of his
nose. Then there were his old guns on the belt at his waist. He was
startlingly picturesque.
“You’re the owner of this farm?” Blanche suggested shrewdly.
“Hired man, ma’am.”
“Oh. Then Molly’s not your daughter?”
Lightning shook his head, and his gaze wandered regretfully towards the
farm.
“Can’t just say she is, ma’am,” he said. “I work for her. She hires me.
But if you’ll kindly foller right along I’ll lead the way to the farm,
where Molly gal’ll be right glad to welcome you.”
* * * * *
Molly saw Lightning and the stranger approach from the doorway of the
house. She was washing out some garments, revelling in the wonderful
spring sunshine. There were already a number of articles drying on the
near-by bushes, and the iron bath, over which she was standing, was
a-froth with a lather of soap-suds.
She left her work at once and came down to the barn. The impulse was
irresistible. The sleeves of her shirt-waist were rolled up, displaying
a pair of beautifully rounded arms, and a linen sun-bonnet enveloped
her neat, dark head.
Curiosity and amazement were struggling for place in her mind. Even at
a distance she had recognised the stranger was a woman. Then, too, her
horse was so different from the bronchos she was accustomed to. And
instantly her thoughts flung back to the white-haired, city-clad man
on his black thoroughbred. Could this woman by any chance be connected
with Silver-Thatch? It must be. Where else could she have come from?
Her eyes were full of the questions in her mind as she gazed into the
stranger’s face.
“Howdy.”
A curious awkwardness had taken possession of Molly. She wanted to say
something cordial. But, strangely enough, the best she was capable of
at the moment was a simple, almost meaningless “Howdy.”
A mental reservation warned Blanche that Jim’s description of Molly
Marton had by no means been a man’s exaggeration. The sweet, shy face
gazing out of the sun-bonnet at her struck her as a picture such as she
had never before beheld.
“I’m just dying to eat, and so is Pedro,” she said with a laugh,
patting her horse. “You’re Molly Marton. He told me your name,” she
went on, indicating Lightning still waiting in the background. “Mine’s
Pryse--Blanche Pryse--and I guess I’ve ridden farther than I ought. May
I off-saddle?”
Molly thrust out a brown hand. She felt that the girl’s introduction
demanded it. And, in a moment, it was clasped in the two gauntleted
palms with which Blanche took possession of it.
“Why, surely,” Molly cried, all her shyness suddenly swept away before
the frank manner of the city woman. “But you don’t need----”
She broke off. Lightning was already at the cinchas of Pedro’s saddle.
In a moment the saddle was on the ground, while the old man passed an
appreciative hand over the creature’s back.
“That’s a rare bit o’ hossflesh, ma’am,” he commented shrewdly, as
Blanche turned about to him. “He’s the bellows of a forge. Legs? Gee!
They’re elegant, an’ as clean as young saplings. That plug can beat
a hell of a gait, or I ain’t wise. Look at them pasterns. An’ he’s
ribbed, too. Short-backed an’ ribbed to his quarters. You could ride
the prairie all day an’ night fer a week, an’ he wouldn’t blow a
lucifer out when you’re through.”
Molly laughed quietly.
“He’ll hand out that stuff all day if you listen to Lightning,” she
said. “There’s just one thing he’s crazy about. Don’t worry for your
Pedro. Lightning’ll treat him like a babe. Will you come right up to
the house? Food’s most ready. There’s nothing fancy. The beans are
right, an’ there’s good dry hash. But it’s not too bad if you feel like
eating.”
All the warmth her greeting had lacked was in Molly’s invitation.
And Blanche stepped towards her, and linked an arm under the girl’s,
and let her fingers clasp themselves on the forearm which the rolled
sleeves left bare.
“My dear,” she cried, as they moved off together, “you don’t need to
worry a thing. Food’s food. And the food that’s filled out your pretty
cheeks, and built up the swell muscles of this arm, is more than good
enough for a woman like me. Laundering?”
Molly nodded. A sudden feeling of interest and liking for Blanche
was already stirring. The way she had of saying things was quite
irresistible.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been at the wash most all morning.”
Blanche laughed happily.
“You know, I’m crazy over a wash-day. It’s been that way always. Why,
when I lived home in New York City there were times when you just
couldn’t take a bath for the laundry I’d got drying in the bathroom. My
brothers used to get mad, and bundle things out of the way, and hide
them. There isn’t a week goes by but I have an elegant laundry.”
Molly laughed.
“Now?” she cried, eyeing the quality of the girl’s riding-suit. Then
she raised her other hand and touched the fingers clasped about her
arm. There were rings on them containing beautiful stones. The fingers
were tapering, and carefully manicured, and she felt ashamed of the
roughness of her own beside them. “With these hands?” she asked
incredulously.
Blanche released the girl’s arm and spread out her hand, palm upwards.
For all their condition of care there were lines indicating utility in
them.
“Surely. And they’re strong, too. Nearly as strong as yours. Oh, yes. I
never let them get afraid of work.”
Molly sighed.
“They’re real beautiful,” she said. “Oh, I’d just love my hands to
be like yours. But they aren’t, an’ never will be. You can’t plough,
an’ milk, an’ fork hay, an’ do the chores of the farm, an’ keep swell
hands. But, my,” she went on, with a little firm setting of her lips,
“it doesn’t matter. Those things don’t really matter, do they? You’ve
got to make good in these hills, and you can’t do that right without
using the hands God gave you.” She laughed a little self-consciously.
“You know, I never used to think about hands, and feet, and pretty
fixings. I can’t think why I do now.”
They were nearing the house, which Blanche was regarding interestedly.
But now she turned, and her eyes contained all the twinkling humour of
her brother’s.
“When a girl suddenly gets worried about those things she hadn’t
bothered with before there’s mostly--a beau around,” she said slily.
Molly half halted, and turned her startled eyes upon her companion.
“How--how? I never thought that way. I----”
“Then there is a beau?”
Molly linked her arm through the other’s again and squeezed it.
“I--I like you, ma’am,” she cried impulsively. “But,” she added, with a
note of real regret, “you don’t belong around here.”
* * * * *
Blanche was lounging in the old frame rocker, with its rawhide seat,
which, years ago, George Marton had designed for his own comfort. It
was capacious beyond her needs, for all she was tall and of shapely
proportions. Molly had insisted. She had set Blanche there while
she went about her business preparing the meal which stood ready on
the cook-stove. Molly was happy. A sense of delight in this woman’s
presence thrilled her. And she chattered and laughed as she went about
her preparations, with a light-heartedness that entirely captivated the
other.
Ordinarily Lightning would have shared the meal with the girl. But,
in the circumstances, Molly knew the old man would not put in an
appearance if he waited for his food till the evening supper. The
cattleman had definite notions about eating as he had about most
things. He disliked the observation of strangers. Perhaps he realised
that years of bunk-house life had by no means added to his limited
stock of table manners. And Molly was relieved and glad.
Blanche surveyed the simple furnishings of Molly’s living-room, and
sought to learn something of the girl from her surroundings. It was
Molly she had come to see. And for the moment nothing and nobody else
mattered.
The smell of cooking was appetising. The sight of a boiling kettle on
the stove, and the warming teapot beside it, were a positive joy to
Blanche. And, rocking herself leisurely, and listening to the girl’s
chatter, she contemplated the thing she had yet to do. She knew that in
a few moments she must resort to subterfuge. It was worse than that.
It was downright lying. And to her frank nature it was an outrage.
The more so that the victim of it was a girl of such transparent
simplicity. But it could not be helped.
Molly had passed over to the stove to ladle out the hash and beans into
the hot dish prepared for them.
“You haven’t asked me yet where I come from, Molly,” Blanche said
gently. “Maybe you’re not interested. Is that so?”
Molly turned hastily. She wondered if she had displeased.
“I surely am interested,” she protested. Then the colour mounted to her
cheeks. “I just didn’t feel I’d a right to ask. You hadn’t said.”
Blanche experienced a further feeling of contrition. But she smiled and
shook her head.
“Say,” she cried, “if I lived around this farm I shouldn’t have such
scruples. I’d be scared to death of strange faces. I certainly should.
Do you know, Molly, I should always have a gun tucked somewhere handy
in my skirts. And when a strange face got peeking around I should
‘draw’ quick. It would be ‘Name!’ right away. ‘Where from?’ and ‘Why?’
Now, if you’d acted that way to me I should have told you my piece like
answers to a catechism. I’d have told you I was stopping around on a
visit to friends the other side of Hartspool. That I was on a holiday
trip from New York, my home city, and a place I get sick to death of,
and am ready to quit most any time. I should have said I had all the
things a woman mostly needs except a husband, and that these hills are
so fascinating I don’t even worry about that. That I’ve been riding
around gawking like a personally conducted tour, and didn’t guess how
far I’d come till I got yearning for dry hash and those beans you’re
fixing for us. Doesn’t it all sound dreadful? I just can’t keep my
thoughts from food. But there it is, and I guess it’s mostly human.”
Molly joined in the laugh with which Blanche finished up, while her
eyes twinkled slily.
“I knew you weren’t married,” she said.
Blanche noted the prim pursing of her lips.
“How did you know that?” she humoured her.
Molly set her dishes on the immaculate table, and glanced over it to
see that everything had been provided for.
“Guess ther’ isn’t a wedding-ring on your left hand,” she smiled
triumphantly. “Only beautiful, beautiful diamonds.”
“Well, say! Did you guess anything else?”
Molly set the chairs ready, and stood grasping the back of one of them.
Just for a moment there was hesitation.
“I--I thought someway you belonged to--to Silver-Thatch,” she said.
“Silver-Thatch? Who’s Silver-Thatch?”
Molly laughed at the look of surprise she beheld in the other’s eyes.
“Oh, it’s just my fancy,” she said. “The name, I mean. You see, he
didn’t hand me his name, an’ I felt mean about it. So I called him
‘Silver-Thatch’ to myself, just to punish him.”
Blanche stood up. Her eyes were smiling very softly.
“You queer child!” she said. “Tell me about him.”
“Oh, it’s just nothing. I was out after my fool cows yesterday. They’d
strayed, and Lightning guessed the cattle thieves had them. I was at a
water-hole along the creek, away up towards Dan Quinlan’s. While I was
there a man came to water his horse. He looked like a city man, an’
he’d a gold watch-chain, an’ a check coat and vest, an’ riding-pants,
an’ boots, and--and the whitest hair you’ve ever seen. It was just too
lovely. And he’d blue eyes that--that smiled like yours. Well, he rode
a piece with me, and when I’d located the cows he passed me a hand
rounding them up. And--and then he quit up into the hills westward. And
then I remembered I’d handed out my talk to him like a fool kid, and
he just hadn’t said a thing of himself. So--so I got mad to myself and
called him ‘Silver-Thatch.’ But he didn’t know.”
Blanche took her seat at the table, and her eyes regarded the meal set
ready.
“Silver-Thatch,” she said. “It’s--a pretty name. Why, Molly,” she
laughed, “I guess your notion of punishment would have delighted him.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t if he’d known how mad I was with myself.”
Molly helped her guest with a lavish hand. And Blanche set to work with
a will to reduce her overflowing plate. She felt it was no moment for
protest. She had no desire to upset this girl’s ideas of hospitality.
Besides, she was really hungry.
For some moments the two ate in silence. Then Molly poured out tea, and
her eagerness would no longer be denied.
“You’re the first girl I’ve seen sitting at this table, ma’am,” she
said, as she passed a cup to Blanche, and set milk and sugar near to
her hand.
Blanche looked up.
“My name’s Blanche,” she said.
Molly blushed.
“It seems queer saying ‘Blanche’ to you.”
“But you must. I called you ‘Molly’ right away.”
“But it’s diff’rent.”
“Is it?” Blanche shook her head. “It isn’t. You and I are going to be
friends. Good friends. I shall certainly be around all summer, and
maybe longer. And I’m going to see you whenever I can. So I’m ‘Blanche’
to you, and only the other to folks I don’t know and don’t care about.”
Molly’s eyes lit with delight.
“You’re goin’ to be around all summer--Blanche?”
“I certainly am--Molly.”
Both laughed happily, and Molly went on:
“Then maybe you’ll be at the swell farmers’ dance in Hartspool?”
“Dance? What dance? I--hadn’t heard.”
“Why, it’s the annual dance,” Molly cried, with a little dash of awe.
“It’s--it’s awful swell. Folks come in from all around to it. They
have a big supper--a real sit-down supper, with ice-creams, and--and
everything. I’m going to it. I--I made up my mind yesterday. Oh, I do
hope you’ll go. My, you’d be the belle of the ball. You just would.”
Blanche shook her head.
“Not with Molly Marton there,” she said. Again she saw the colour mount
to the girl’s cheeks. “But it’s a long way for you. What is it? Twenty
miles?”
Molly had finished eating, and sat with elbows on the table. She was
gazing out of the window, through which the noon sun poured on to the
whiteness of the cotton tablecloth. A surge of excitement was driving
through her young body. She was thinking of Andy McFardell, and an
irresistible desire was urging her to tell this wonderful new friend
the story of the thing that had just come into her life. She yielded
to the impulse. She flung discretion to the winds. She--she must tell
someone. And Lightning, the only other person, was denied her by reason
of his hatred of Andy.
“I’m not going alone,” she said quickly. “I’m--I’m----”
She broke off in confusion, and Blanche urged her gently.
“Yes?”
“Andy’s promised to take me. He’ll drive me in, and drive me out again.
He’s----”
“Yes?”
There was no smile in Blanche’s eyes now. They were urgent, and
something of their calm had gone. She was thinking of Jim. She was
thinking of the possible meaning of this man, Andy, whoever he was,
driving Molly into the dance.
But just on the brink Molly drew back. That which she had been about to
say remained unspoken. Instead she laughed.
“Oh, Andy’s a neighbour. He’s ten miles down the creek on Whale River.
He’s only just started his homestead about two years. He’s a great
worker, and he’ll make good. You know, Blanche, the boy who’s got the
grit to start right up on bare ground, without capital, an’ make good
farming, gets all my notions of a man. Think of it. These hills. The
awful, awful winter. It’s us folk know what it means. You don’t; you’re
a visitor. My it’s--it’s just ter’ble.”
The girl’s effort at concealment was sheer revelation.
“I must try and get to that dance,” Blanche said, avoiding the subject
of the man deliberately. “I’d just love to see you all fixed up in
your party frock. What’ll it be? Let’s see, you’re dark. And those grey
eyes of yours. You mustn’t wear white. It’s too ordinary for you. Pink?
No,” she went on critically. “It mustn’t be dark, either. I should
rather think the palest of pale blue. You can’t go wrong that way. Say,
have you a nice frock?”
Molly’s face was a study. While Blanche was talking it passed from
happy laughter to the gravest trouble. And as the older woman put her
final question she shook her head almost dejectedly.
“I’ve never been to a--real party,” she said.
“No. You live so far away from a town.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that. You see, father didn’t just think dancin’ was
right. An’ then there was always the farm. Mother died when I was a
small kid. But I got my Sunday suit,” she added, brightening. “Maybe
that would be too heavy, though. It’s black, and it isn’t a party
frock. Then I thought of a skirt and a waist. I could fix up a waist. I
got one that’s real silk. Only that’s black, too.”
A thrill of intense pity flooded Blanche’s heart. To her the pathos
of the thing she was listening to was beyond words. Their meal was
finished. They were only sitting over their tea. Suddenly she stood up,
and a joyous smile lit her eyes.
“Here, Molly,” she cried, “stand up, and let’s measure. I believe we’re
the same height.”
The girl obeyed her with a wondering smile. They stood back to back,
and Blanche measured with her hand.
“Exactly,” she cried. Then she turned and studied the girl for some
critical moments. “Yes, and just about the same build. Here,” she
hurried on, “put your foot against mine. That’s it.”
“Sure, sure,” Blanche exclaimed, as the two feet came into contact. “My
shoes will fit you, too. Oh, this is bully. My word, but you shall be
the belle of that farmers’ ball, I promise you. Sit down, my dear, and
I’ll tell you about it.”
Blanche sat again, and they gazed across the table at each other. Molly
was all smiling hope and expectation, and Blanche was happy in the
opportunity which chance had afforded her.
“Listen, Molly. I’ve got the sweetest forget-me-not blue dance frock
you’ve ever dreamed about,” she cried impressively. “It’s just the
latest thing, made by a swell New York house. I’ve--never even worn it.
I got shoes to match, and lovely, lovely silk stockings that’ll set
all the other women crazy with envy. My, you’ll just look sweet in it.
And then I’ve a beautiful fur-lined wrap. You can wear that on your
journey, under a coat. Now, when’s the dance?”
“Why soon--very soon. When seeding’s through. But----”
Blanche was in no mood to listen to any protest. She had come to see
Molly because Jim had asked her. The thing she had in mind now was out
of her own impulsive liking for the girl herself.
“It’s useless, my dear,” she laughed. “My mind’s quite made up. You’re
going to the dance in that frock, if I have to come and dress you
myself.”
The light in Molly’s eyes was ecstatic.
“But--but if I muss it?” she cried, in sudden alarm.
“Muss it? Why, you dear, simple child, that’s right up to you. It’s
a--a present, silk stockings, and shoes, and wrap, and all--with my
best love.”
* * * * *
Lightning and Molly were standing together down by the barn. The door
stood wide open. Blanche had just ridden off on her Pedro. The old man
was observing the creature’s gait with all the admiration of a real
horseman. The rider interested him far less.
Molly, too, was gazing after the departing visitor. But the horse
held none of her interest. She was thinking of Blanche. She was
contemplating again those smiling eyes. And a great joy was surging in
her heart. The whole thing seemed to her like some fairy-story, or some
happy dream from which she would surely wake up.
She drew a profound sigh, and Lightning promptly withdrew his
fascinated gaze from the departing horse.
“Ther’ ain’t nothing better’n the whole darn world than them four
legs, an’ a bar’l like that,” he said. “That plug’s worth fi’ thousand
dollars.”
Molly’s smile searched the old man’s eyes.
“An’ the girl on its back’s worth--a million,” she said decidedly.
Lightning spat.
“She’s surely an upstander,” he admitted. “But she ain’t a circumstance
beside her plug. I ain’t ever seen a human that could be. Ther’ ain’t
nothin’ better. Not in the world.”
He spat again to emphasise his opinion.
“I know something better.”
The girl’s eyes were dancing with delight. She was dying to proclaim
her good fortune and happiness to all the world. As nothing better was
to hand, Lightning would serve.
“She’s going to hand me a present of a swell gown, an’ real silk
stockings, an’ shoes, an’--an’ a fur-lined cloak. It’s for the dance.
An’ she says I’ll be the belle of the whole ball.”
“Dance? What dance?”
“Why, the farmers’ ball in Hartspool.”
The old man’s face was a study. His expression passed from astonishment
and incredulity to frank contempt and disapproval.
“Ball? Say, Molly, gal, you ain’t goin’ to that bum hoe-down?” he cried
almost desperately.
Molly’s eyes widened with resentment at the man’s contemptuous tone.
“It’s not a hoe-down,” she cried hotly. “It’s--it’s a swell ball, an’
you know it. Sure I’m going to it. And the suit’s forget-me-not blue,
and the stockings are real silk--to match.”
Quite suddenly the eyes of the old man hardened fiercely.
“How you goin’?” he demanded almost roughly.
Perhaps it was the tone. Molly was looking straight into the eyes of
her loyal old friend, and a spirit of mischief prompted her.
“Why, Andy McFardell’s going to take me. He’s getting tickets.”
There was a moment of deathly silence. Then Lightning thrust a gnarled
forefinger into his mouth and hooked the chew of tobacco out of his
cheek. He flung it on the ground and trod it underfoot. Then he hunched
his shoulders and turned away.
In an instant contrition swept through Molly’s heart.
“You haven’t eaten, Lightning,” she said gently.
The old man paused and glanced round.
“Eaten?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, Molly, gal,” he said
almost dejectedly. “Guess I don’t feel like eatin’--now.”