A Fair Rider
Life at Cedar Mountain had dropped to normal. Charles Bylow and his wife
were regular church members now, and no warmer, truer friends on earth
had Hartigan. Pat Bylow had gone to Deadwood seeking work on the railway
and it was said that his wife was still importing an occasional flask;
but no more sprees took place. Jack Lowe had left Cedar Mountain
abruptly after the Bylow affair. Higginbotham had spread the truth about
Lowe's part in the drugged liquor and the schoolteacher had received
pointed advice to leave the town. He lost no time. Dr. Carson and Jack
Shives were alternately confronting each other with abstruse problems;
John and Hannah Higginbotham were building an addition to their house
and getting a hired girl; and old man Boyd was worrying over a possible
extension of the road to Deadwood, which might seriously hurt his
business.
Jim found life very sweet as he grew into the hearts of the townsfolk
and came to know their perfectible qualities; he was acquiring a fine
reputation for pulpit oratory. Every Thursday and every Sunday afternoon
and evening were spent at the Boyds' as their accepted son-in-law to be.
On these occasions it was his keenest pleasure to lay his sermons and
plans before Belle for her criticism and approval. When they were not
together indoors, they were in the saddle together; all the world knew,
understood, and wished them joy.
The Hoomers had come to be prominent in the church now--at least, Ma
Hoomer and Lou-Jane had. It was Lou-Jane's doing. And Hartigan, after
long delay, felt bound to pay them a pastoral visit. Lou-Jane was
heartiness and propriety combined. She chatted gaily on every subject he
opened; showed no forwardness; was even shy when, after dinner, he sat
down near her. Her riding at the racetrack was vividly in his mind and
she blushed quite prettily when he referred to it in admiration.
"You should see my pony take a fence," she said.
"Well, sure; that's what I'd like to see," was the response.
"Some day soon, maybe."
"Why not now?" he inquired.
"I must help mother with the dishes."
And he thought: "Isn't she fine? I like a girl to consider her mother."
But he lingered and chatted till the dishes were washed; then he
suggested: "If I go out and saddle your pony, will you show me that
jump?"
"Certainly," she answered, with a merry laugh.
He went to the stable, saddled and brought the bay horse. Lou-Jane put
her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle before he could offer
his help.
"Drop all the bars but the middle one." Hartigan did so, leaving only
the three-foot bar of the pasture. Lou-Jane circled off and cleared it
without an effort.
"Raise it one," she shouted.
He did so, and over she went.
"Again."
Now, at four feet, the pony rose and went over.
"Another," and he raised to four and a half feet. As before, she and her
pony sailed over like one creature.
"Again," and he raised it to five feet. The pony rose with just a hint
of effort. One front hoof touched, but he made the jump in triumph.
Lou-Jane laughed for joy and circled back, but, warned by that toe tap,
jumped no more. She leaped from the saddle before Jim could come near to
help and in his frank, beaming admiration she found what once she had
hungered for in vain.
As he rode away that day, his unvoiced thought was: "Isn't she fine--and
me misjudging her all the time! I'm ashamed of myself."
Lou-Jane watched him out of sight, waving a hand to him as he topped the
hill. The visit and Hartigan's open delight in her riding had stirred
her very much. Was it loyalty to Belle that led her to throw up a
barrier between herself and the Preacher? or was it knowledge that the
flowers are ever fairest in the fenced-in field? This much was sure, the
interest of passing attraction was giving place to a deeper feeling. A
feeling stronger every month. Lou-Jane was in the game to win; and was
playing well.
August, bright and fruit-giving, was passing; September was near with
its dryness, its payments on the springtime promises; and Belle, as she
gazed at the radiant sky or the skurrying prairie dogs that tumbled,
yapping, down their little craters, was tormented with the flight of the
glowing months. In October the young Preacher and she must say good-bye
for a long, long time, with little chance of any break till his course
was completed, and he emerged a graduate of Coulter. That was a gloomy
thought. But others of equal dread had come of late.
Hartigan was paying repeated pastoral calls at Hoomers' and last week
Jim and Lou-Jane had ridden to Fort Ryan together. It was a sort of
challenge race--on a dare--and Jim had told Belle all about it before
and after; but just the same, they had ridden there and back and,
evidently, had a joyful time.
Jim was a child. He always thought of himself as a coarse, cruel, rough
brute; but really he was as soft-hearted as a woman; and, outside of his
fighting mood, nothing pained him more than the idea of making any one
unhappy. His fighting moods were big and often; but they had existence
only in the world of men. He believed himself very wise in the ways of
life, but he had not really begun to see, and he was quite sublimely
unconscious of all the forces he was setting in motion by his evident
pleasure in the horsemanship of Lou-Jane Hoomer and in their frequent
rides together.
Lou-Jane had a voice of some acceptability and she was easily persuaded
to join the choir. A class in Sunday-school was added to her activities,
and those who believed the religious instinct to be followed closely by
another on a lower plane, began to screw up their eyes and smile when
Lou-Jane appeared with Jim.
The glorious September of the hills was waning when a landslide was
started by a single sentence from Lou-Jane. She had ridden again with
Jim to Fort Ryan. Her horse had cleared a jump that his had shied at.
Mrs. Waller had said to her across the table, half in fun and meaning it
every word:
"See here, I won't have you trifling with Mr. Hartigan's affections;
remember, he's preëmpted."
Lou-Jane laughed with delight. And, looking very handsome all the while,
she said with mock humility: "No one would consider me a rival."
Jim told Belle every word of it; he was simplicity itself in such
things; he didn't seem to have any idea of the game. He was wholly
oblivious of the little cloud which his anecdote left on her. It was a
little cloud, but many little clouds can make a canopy of gloom and
beget a storm. Then came the words. It was at one of the church evenings
in the parsonage--a regular affair, but not soaring to the glorious
heights of a sociable--that the words were uttered which wrought a
mighty change. Jim had alluded to the inevitable journey East in
October, not half a month ahead now, when Lou-Jane Hoomer announced "I'm
going East, too. My dad is giving me a trip back to Rochester to see
grandma," she said.
"Why, Rochester is just a little run across the lake from Coulter
College," exclaimed Jim.
"Maybe I'll see you when I am there," said Lou-Jane. "What fun!"
Every one applauded and Jim said: "Well, that would make a pleasant
change in the dreary grind."
Belle's only comment was, "How nice!" and she gave no sign of special
interest; but a close observer might have seen a tightening of her lips,
a sudden tensity of look. The merry chatter of the parlour ceased not
and she seemed still a factor in all its life, but the iron had entered
her very soul. She played her part as leader, she gave no outward sign
of the agony of fear that filled her heart, but she took the earliest
reasonable time to signal Jim and steal away.