Young Andrew Lanning lived in the small, hushed world of his own
thoughts. He neither loved nor hated the people around him. He simply
did not see them. His mother--it was from her that he inherited the
softer qualities of his mind and his face--had left him a little stock
of books. And though Andy was by no means a reader, he had at least
picked up that dangerous equipment of fiction which enables a man to
dodge reality and live in his dreams. Those dreams had as little as
possible to do with the daily routine of his life, and certainly the
handling of guns, which his uncle enforced upon him, was never a part of
the future as Andy saw it.
It was now the late afternoon; the alkali dust in the road was still in
a white light, but the temperature in the shop had dropped several
degrees. The horse of Buck Heath was shod, and Andy was laying his tools
away for the day when he heard the noise of an automobile with open
muffler coming down the street. He stepped to the door to watch, and at
that moment a big blue car trundled into view around the bend of the
road. The rear wheels struck a slide of sand and dust, and skidded; a
girl cried out; then the big machine gathered out of the cloud of dust,
and came toward Andy with a crackling like musketry, and it was plain
that it would leap through Martindale and away into the country beyond
at a bound. Andy could see now that it was a roadster, low-hung,
ponderous, to keep the road.
Pat Gregg was leaving the saloon; he was on his horse, but he sat the
saddle slanting, and his head was turned to give the farewell word to
several figures who bulged through the door of the saloon. For that
reason, as well as because of the fumes in his brain, he did not hear
the coming of the automobile. His friends from the saloon yelled a
warning, but he evidently thought it some jest, as he waved his hand
with a grin of appreciation. The big car was coming, rocking with its
speed; it was too late now to stop that flying mass of metal.
But the driver made the effort. His brakes shrieked, and still the car
shot on with scarcely abated speed, for the wheels could secure no
purchase in the thin sand of the roadway. Andy's heart stood still in
sympathy as he saw the face of the driver whiten and grow tense. Charles
Merchant, the son of rich John Merchant, was behind the wheel. Drunken
Pat Gregg had taken the warning at last. He turned in the saddle and
drove home his spurs, but even that had been too late had not Charles
Merchant taken the big chance. At the risk of overturning the machine he
veered it sharply to the left. It hung for a moment on two wheels. Andy
could count a dozen heartbeats while the plunging car edged around the
horse and shoved between Pat and the wall of the house--inches on either
side. Yet it must have taken not more than the split part of a second.
There was a shout of applause from the saloon; Pat Gregg sat his horse,
mouth open, his face pale, and then the heavy car rolled past the
blacksmith shop. Andy, breathing freely and cold to his finger tips, saw
young Charlie Merchant relax to a flickering smile as the girl beside
him caught his arm and spoke to him.
And then Andy saw her for the first time.
In the brief instant as the machine moved by, he printed the picture to
be seen again when she was gone. What was the hair? Red bronze, and
fiery where the sun caught at it, and the eyes were gray, or blue, or a
gray-green. But colors did not matter. It was all in her smile and the
turning of her eyes, which were very wide open. She spoke, and it was in
the sound of her voice. "Wait!" shouted Andy Lanning as he made a step
toward them. But the car went on, rocking over the bumps and the exhaust
roaring. Andy became aware that his shout had been only a dry whisper.
Besides, what would he say if they did stop?
And then the girl turned sharply about and looked back, not at the horse
they had so nearly struck, but at Andy standing in the door of his shop.
He felt sure that she would remember his face; her smile had gone out
while she stared, and now she turned her head suddenly to the front.
Once more the sun flashed on her hair; then the machine disappeared. In
a moment even the roar of the engine was lost, but it came back again,
flung in echoes from some hillside.
Not until all was silent, and the boys from the saloon were shaking
hands with Pat and laughing at him, did Andy turn back into the
blacksmith shop. He sat down on the anvil with his heart beating, and
began to recall the picture. Yes, it was all in the smile and the glint
of the eyes. And something else--how should he say it?--of the light
shining through her.
He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward his
uncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sitting
in front of the table staring down at his hands.
"Buck Heath has been talkin' about you," said Jasper.
Andy raised his head. "Look at 'em!" he said as he spread out his hands.
"I been scrubbin' 'em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil and
the iron dust won't come out."
Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid.
"I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into your
soul," he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothin' you could understand; you need a mother to explain things to
you."
The other got up, white about the mouth. "I think I do," said Andy.
"I'm sick inside."
"Where's supper?" demanded Jasper.
Andy sat down again, and began to consider his hands once more. "There's
something wrong--something dirty about this life."
"Is there?" Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the old
ghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. "Who's been talkin'
to you?"
He thought of the grinning men of the saloon; the hidden words. Somebody
might have gone out and insulted Andy to his face for the first time.
There had been plenty of insults in the past two years, since Andy could
pretend to manhood, but none that might not be overlooked. "Who's been
talkin' to you?" repeated Uncle Jasper. "Confound that Buck Heath! He's
the cause of all the trouble!"
"Buck Heath! Who's he? Oh, I remember. What's he got to do with the
rotten life we lead here, Uncle Jas?"
"So?" said the old man slowly. "He ain't nothin'?"
"Bah!" remarked Andy. "You want me to go out and fight him? I won't. I
got no love for fighting. Makes me sort of sickish."
"Heaven above!" the older man invoked. "Ain't you got shame? My blood in
you, too!"
"Don't talk like that," said Andy with a certain amount of reserve which
was not natural to him. "You bother me. I want a little silence and a
chance to think things out. There's something wrong in the way I've
been living."
"You're the last to find it out."
"If you keep this up I'm going to take a walk so I can have quiet."
"You'll sit there, son, till I'm through with you. Now, Andrew, these
years I've been savin' up for this moment when I was sure that--"
To his unutterable astonishment Andy rose and stepped between him and
the door. "Uncle Jas," he said, "mostly I got a lot of respect for you
and what you think. Tonight I don't care what you or anybody else has to
say. Just one thing matters. I feel I've been living in the dirt. I'm
going out and see what's wrong. Good night."