CHAPTER XXII

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Cow Puncher . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

These long rides afforded her many side-lights on the remarkable nature

of her escort.

"You aren't talking to-day . . . what's wrong?"

"There is only one answer, Dave. Because I love you."

THE COW PUNCHER

CHAPTER ONE

The shadows of the spruce trees fell north-eastward, pointing long,

cool fingers across belts of undulating prairie, or leaning lazily

against the brown foothills. Like an incandescent globe the afternoon

sun hung in the bowl of a cloudless heaven, filmy with heat, but the

hot rays were met by the high altitude of the ranch country and lost

their force like a blow half struck. And among the spruce trees it was

cool and green, and clear blue water rippled over beds of shining

gravel.

The ranch buildings lay a little to the rear, as though the trees stood

sentinel between them and the prairies. The house was of round

straight logs; the shingles of the squat roof were cupped and blistered

with the suns of many summers. Refuse loitered about the open door;

many empty tins; a leaky barrel, with missing hoops; boxes, harness,

tangled bits of wire. Once there had been a fence; a sort of picket

fence of little saplings, but wild bronchos had kicked it to pieces and

range steers had straggled unscarred across its scattered remnants.

Forward, and to the left, was the corral; mill slabs on end, or fences

of lodge-pole pine; a corner somewhat covered in, offering vague

protection from the weather. The upper poles were worn thin with the

cribbing of many horses.

The sunlight bathed the scene; nursed it in a soft, warm silence. The

desertion seemed absolute; the silence was the silence of the unspoken

places. But suddenly it was broken by a stamping in the covered part

of the corral, and a man's voice saying, "Hip, there; whoa, you cayuse;

get under your saddle! Sleepin' against a post all day, you

sloppy-eye. Hip, come to it!"

Horse and rider dashed into the sunlight. The boy--for he was no more

than a boy--sat the beast as though born to it, his lithe frame taking

every motion of his mount as softly as a good boat rides the sea. His

red shirt and thick hairy schaps could not disguise the lean

muscularity of his figure; the broad felt hat, and the revolver at his

belt, gave just the touch of romance. With a yell at his horse he

snatched the hat from his head, turning to the sun a smooth, brown face

and a mane of dark hair, and slapped the horse across the flank with

his crumpled headgear. At the signal the animal sprang into the air,

then dashed at a gallop down the roadway, bearing the boy as

unconcerned as a flower on its stem.

Suddenly he brought his horse to a stop; swung about, and rode back at

a gentle canter. A few yards from the house he again spurred him to a

gallop, and, leaning far down by the animal's side, deftly picked a

bottle from among the grass. Then he circled about, repeating this

operation as often as his eye fell on a bottle, until he had

half-a-dozen; then down the road again, carefully setting a bottle on

each post of the fence that skirted it to the right.

Again he came back to the house, but, when he turned, his eye was on

the row of posts, and his right hand lay on the grip of his revolver.

Again his sharp yell broke the silence and the horse dashed forward as

though shot from a gun. Down the road they went until within a rod of

the first bottle; then there was a flash in the sunlight, and to the

clatter of the horse's hoofs came the crack-crack of the revolver. Two

bottles shivered to fragments, but four remained intact, and the boy

rode back, muttering and disappointed.

He reasoned with his horse as he rode. "'Taint no use, you ol'

slop-eye; a fellow can't get the bede if he ain't got the fillin';

cooked meals an' decent chuck. I could plug 'em six out o' six--you

know that, you ol' flop-ears; don't you argue about it, neither--when

I'm right inside my belt I smash 'em six out o' six, but I ain't right,

an' you know it. You don't know nothin' about it; you never had a

father, leastways, you never had to be responsible for one. . . .

Well, it's comin' to a finish--a damn lame finish, you know that. You

know--"

But he had reloaded his revolver and set up two more bottles. This

time he broke four, and was better pleased with himself. As he rode

back his soliloquy was broken by a strange sound from beyond the belt

of trees. The horse pricked up his ears, and the boy turned in the

saddle to listen.

"Jumpin' crickets, what's loose?" he ejaculated. He knew every sound

of the foothill country, but this was strange to him. A kind of snort,

a sort of hiss; mechanical in its regularity, startling in its

strangeness, it came across the valley with the unbroken rhythm of a

watch-tick.

"Well, I guess it won't eat us," he ventured at last. "We'll just run

it down and perhaps poke a hole in it." So saying, he cantered along

the road which skirted the spruce trees, crossed the little stream and

swung up the hill on the farther side.

He was half way up when a turn in the road brought him into sudden

sight of the strange visitor. It was the first he had seen, but he

knew it at once, for the fame of the automobile, then in its

single-cylinder stage, had already spread into the farthest ranching

country. The horse was less well informed. Whether or not in that

moment he recognized the great rival of his race must be left to some

analyst of horse character, but he bucked and kicked in rage and

terror. But the boy was conscious not so much of the horse as of two

bright eyes turned on him in frank and surprised admiration.

"What horsemanship!" she exclaimed, but the words had scarce left her

lips when they were followed by a cry of alarm. For the car had taken

a sudden turn from the road and plunged into a growth of young poplars

that fringed the hillside. The oldish man at the wheel gave it a

violent wrench, but left his motor in gear, and the car half slid, half

plowed its way into semi-vertical position among the young trees. The

two occupants were thrown from their seat; the girl fell clear, but her

father was less fortunate.

In an instant the boy had flung himself from his horse, dropping the

reins to the ground, and the animal, although snorting and shivering,

had no thought of disgracing his training by breaking his parole. With

quick, ungainly strides the boy brought himself to the upturned

machine. It was curious that he should appear to such disadvantage on

his feet. In the saddle he was grace personified.

For a moment he looked somewhat stupidly upon the wreck. Had it been a

horse or a steer he would have known the procedure, but this experience

was new to his life. Besides, there were strangers here. He had no

fear of strangers when they wore schaps and coloured handkerchiefs, but

a girl in a brown sweater and an oldish man with a white collar were

creatures to be approached with caution. The oldish man was lying on

the ground, with a leg pinned under the car, and Brown Sweater raised

his head against her knee and pressed his cheeks with small white

fingers and looked at the boy with bright grey eyes and said, "Well,

aren't you going to do anything?"

That brought him back. "Sure," he said, springing to her side. "Whada

ye' want me to do?"

"I am afraid my leg is broken," said the man, speaking calmly

notwithstanding his pain. "Can you get the jack out of the tool box

and raise the car?"

The girl pointed to the box, and in a moment he had the jack in his

hand. But it was a new tool to him and he fumbled with it stupidly.

The handle would not fit, and when it did fit it operated the wrong way.

"Oh, let me have it," she cried, impatiently. In a moment she had it

set under the frame of the car and was plying the handle up and down

with rapid strokes. The machine began to groan with the pressure, and

the boy looked on, helpless and mortified. He was beginning to realize

that there were more things in the world than riding a horse, and

shooting bottles. He felt a sudden desire to be of great service. And

just now he could be of no service whatever.

But the foot of the jack began to sink in the soft earth, and the girl

looked up helplessly. "It won't lift it," she said. "What shall we

do?"

It was his chance. He was eighteen, and his wild, open life had given

him muscles of steel. "Here," he said, roughly, "move his leg when I

get it clear." He turned his back to the machine and crouched down

until he could get his hands under the steel frame. Then he lifted.

The car was in a somewhat poised position, and he was able to swing it

up far enough to release the injured leg.

"Very good, my boy," said the man. "That was a wonderful lift. The

leg is broken--compound. Can you get some way of moving me to shelter?

I will pay you well."

The last words were unfortunate. Hospitality in the ranching country

is not bought and sold.

"You can't pay me nothin'," he said rudely. "But I can bring a light

wagon, if you can ride in that, and put you up at the ranch. The old

man's soused," he added, as an afterthought, "but it's better than

sleepin' out. I won't be long."

He was back at his horse, and in a moment they heard the clatter of

hoofs galloping down the hillside.

The girl sat on the ground and rested her father's head in her lap.

Tears made her bright eyes brighter still.

"Don't cry, Reenie," he said, gently. "We are very lucky to be so

close to help. Of course, I'll be laid up for awhile, but it will give

you a chance to see ranch life as it really is"--He winced with pain,

but continued, "I fancy we shall find it plain and unveneered. What a

horseman! If I could run an automobile like he does a horse we should

not be here. Did you notice that I didn't release the clutch? Just

ambled into this predicament--embraced it, I might say."

"He's strong," she said. "But he's rude."

"The best fields for muscle are often poor schools for manners," he

answered. "But manners are no substitute for hospitality, and he seems

to have that, all right. It is something that belongs to the open

country, the big, open country. In cities they _entertain_, but in the

ranching country they, why, there isn't any word for it, but you will

see for yourself."

He was soon back with a wagon and a stretcher. He avoided the eyes of

his guests, but quickly and gently enough he placed the injured man on

the stretcher. "I guess you'll have to take the feet," he said. The

words were for the girl, although he did not look at her. "I could

hustle him myself, but it might hurt 'im."

But the injured man interrupted. "I beg your pardon," he said, "that I

did not introduce my daughter. I am Doctor Hardy--this is my daughter,

Irene, Mr.----?"

"They don't call me mister," said the boy. "Misters is scarce in these

woods. My name is Elden--Dave Elden."

He was for dropping it at that, but the girl came up with extended

hand. He took it shyly, but it made him curiously bold. "I'm glad to

meet you, Mr. Elden," she said.

"I'm glad to meet you, too," he answered. "Misses is scarcer than

misters in this neck o' the woods."

Carefully they lifted the injured man into the wagon, and Dave drove to

the ranch building with an unwonted caution that must have caused

strange misgivings in the hearts of his team.

"It ain't much of a place," he said, as they pulled up at the door. "I

guess you can see that for yourself," he added, with a grin. "You see,

there's just Dad and me, and he's soused most of the time, and I handle

a lasso better'n a scrubbin' brush." He was already losing his

shyness. "Now, you take the feet again. Steady, don't break any more

bones. Look out for that barrel hoop. This way, now."

He led into the old ranch house, kicking the door wider open with his

heel as he passed. A musty smell fell on the senses of the girl as she

entered, and she was conscious of the buzzing of innumerable flies. A

partition from east to west divided the house, and another partition

from north to south divided the northern half. In the north-east room

they set the stretcher on the floor.

"Now," Said the boy, "I'm goin' for the doctor. It's forty miles to

town, and it'll likely be mornin' before I'm back, but I'll sure burn

the trail. You'll have to make the best of it," he continued,

impersonally addressing the much-spotted window. "There's grub in the

house, and you won't starve--that is, if you can cook." (This was

evidently for Irene. There was a note in it that suggested the girl

might have her limitations.) "Dig in to anythin' in sight. And I hope

your father's leg won't hurt very much." Irene wondered afterwards why

the hope concerning her father should have been expressed to her. Did

he already feel--what was it?--better acquainted with her?

"Oh, I'll stand it," said Doctor Hardy, with some cheerfulness. "We

medical men become accustomed to suffering--in other people. You are

very kind. My daughter may remain in this room, I suppose? There is

no one else?"

"No one but the old man," he answered. "He's asleep in the next room,

safe till mornin'. I'll be back by that time. That's my bed,"

indicating a corner. "Make yourselves at home." He lounged through

the door and they heard his spurs clanking across the hard earth.

The girl's first thought was to assure as much comfort for her father

as the circumstances would permit. She removed his boot and stocking,

and, under his direction, slit the leg of his trousers above the

injury. It was bleeding a little. In the large room of the house she

found a pail with water, and she bathed the wound, wiping it with her

handkerchief, and mingling a tear or two with the warm blood that

dripped from it.

"You're good stuff," her father said, pressing the fingers of her

unoccupied hand. "Now, if you could find a clean cloth to bandage it--"

She looked about the place, somewhat hopelessly. Her expedition to the

main part of the house, when she had found the water pail, had not

reassured her as to the housekeeping of the Eldens. Her father read

her perplexity.

"It seems as though you would be in charge here for awhile, Reenie," he

said, "so you will save time by getting acquainted at once with your

equipment. Look the house over and see what you have to work with."

"Well, I can commence here," she answered. "This is Dave's room. I

suppose I should say Mr. Elden's, but--what was it he said about

'mistering'? It would be splendid if it were cleaned up," she

continued, with kindling enthusiasm. "These bare logs, bare floors,

bare rafters--we've got back to essentials, anyway. And that's his

bed." She surveyed a framework of spruce poles, on which lay an old

straw mattress and some very grey blankets. "I suppose he is very

tired when he goes to bed," she said, drolly, as though that could be

the only explanation of sleep amid such surroundings. "And the walls

give one a clue to the artistic side of his nature." A poster

advertising a summer fair, with a prodigious bull occupying the centre

of the picture, hung on one wall, and across from it a lithograph of a

young woman, with very bright clothing and very alabaster skin and very

decollete costume tendered a brand of beer with the assurance that it

goes to the spot. "I ought to drape it," she said, and the curl on her

lip showed smooth white teeth.

"I was forgetting I have to find a bandage for you," she suddenly

remembered. "There's his trunk; it might produce something, but we

will save it for a last resort. Now I will explore this main room,

which I suppose is the kitchen, dining room, living room, everything."

In the south end of the larger room stood a fireplace, crudely made of

slabs of native rock. The fires of many winters had crumbled the rock,

so that it had fallen in in places, and was no longer employed for its

original purpose. A very rusty and greasy stove now occupied the space

immediately in front of the fireplace, the stove-pipe leading into the

ample but tottering chimney. Near the stove was a bench supporting a

tin wash-basin, a wooden pail, and certain fragments of soap--evidently

all the equipment necessary for the simple ablutions of the Elden

household. The remnant of a grain bag, with many evidences of use and

abuse, performed the functions of towel, and a broken piece of

looking-glass gave the faintest intimation that a strain of fundamental

relationship links the sexes. By the western wall was a table, with

numerous dishes; and to the wall itself had been nailed wooden

boxes--salmon and tomato cases--now containing an assortment of

culinary supplies. A partially used sack of flour, and another of

rolled oats, leaned against the wall, and a trap-door in the floor gave

promise of further resources beneath. There was a window in the east

and another in the west, both open and unscreened; myriads of flies

gave the only touch of life to the dismal scene.

Irene looked it all over, then leaned against the window sill and

laughed. Her father had brought her west for holidays with the promise

of changed surroundings and new experiences, but he had promised her no

such delight as this. With the Elden kitchen still photographed in her

mind she called up the picture of her own city home; the green lawn,

faultlessly trimmed by a time-serving gardener; the floral borders, the

hedges; the two stately trees; the neat walk, the wide verandah, the

dim, mysterious hall; the rooms, heavily shaded to save the rich

carpets; the order, the precision, the fixedness, the this-sits-here

and that-stands-thereness--the flatness and emptiness and formality of

it all, and she turned again to the Elden kitchen and laughed--a soft,

rippling, irrepressible laugh, as irrepressible as the laughter of the

mountain stream amid the evergreens. Then she thought of her mother;

prim, sedate, conventional, correct--"Always be correct, my dear; there

is a right way and a wrong way, and a well-bred person always chooses

the right"--and her eyes sobered a trifle, then flashed in brighter

merriment as they pictured her mother amid these surroundings.

"She would be so shocked, oh, dreadfully shocked," she rippled to

herself. "I am quite sure she would never approve of Father breaking

his leg with such consequences. It wasn't the correct thing--very

commonplace, I should say--and think of Irene! Why, the child--she's

but a child, Andrew, a very beautiful child, but with just a little

weakness for the--ah--unconventional--she must be restrained--she needs

her mother's guidance to protect her from the suggestion of

maybe--shall I say?--vulgarity. That's a very dreadful word. Think of

all the vulgar people there are in the world. . . . And here is dear

little Irene right in the midst of it, and--horrors--revelling in it."

Then she looked again from the open window, this time with eyes that

saw the vista of valley and woodland and foothill that stretched down

into the opening prairie. Suddenly she realized that she was looking

down upon a picture--one of Nature's obscure masterpieces--painted in

brown and green and saffron against an opal canvas. It was beautiful,

not with the majesty of the great mountains, nor the solemnity of the

great plains, but with that nearer, more intimate relationship which is

the peculiar property of the foothill country. Here was neither the

flatness that, with a change of mood, could become in a moment

desolation, nor the aloofness of eternal rocks towering into cold

space, but the friendship of hills that could be climbed, and trees

that lisped in the light wind, and water that babbled playfully over

gravel ridges gleaming in the August sunshine. The girl drew a great

breath of the pure air and was about to dream a new day-dream when the

voice of her father brought her to earth.

"Can't you find anything that will do for a bandage?" he asked.

"Oh you dear Daddykins," she replied, her voice tremulous with

self-reproach. "I had forgotten. There was a spell, or something; it

just came down upon me in the window. That's a good idea, blaming

one's negligence on a spell. I must remember that. But the bandage?

Dear, no; the only cloth I see is the kitchen towel, and I can't

recommend it. But what a goose I am! Our grips are in the car, or

under it, or somewhere. I'll be back in a jiffy." And she was off at

a sharp trot down the trail along which she had so recently come in

Dave Elden's wagon.

At the little stream she paused. A single log was the only bridge, and

although the water was not deep it ran swiftly, and still with the

coldness of its glacier source. She ventured along the log, but near

the centre she was seized with an acute sense of her temerity. Perhaps

she had been foolish in attempting this passage without the aid of a

stick. A stick, which could be shoved against the gravel below that

blue water, would have been a very practical aid. Suddenly, the

waverings of the mind were transmuted to the body. She felt an

impetuous desire to fall upstream, which she resisted so successfully

that she promptly fell down stream. The water was deeper than it

looked, and colder than it looked, and when she scrambled up the

farther bank she was a very wet young woman indeed. She was conscious

of a deep annoyance toward young Elden. A fine bridge, that! She

would tell him--but this thought died at its birth with the

consciousness that Elden would be amused over the incident, and would

be at little pains to disguise his merriment. And then she laughed,

and ran along up the road.

The grips were duly found, and Irene congratulated herself that she and

her father were in the habit of traveling with equipment for over

night. She had even a spare skirt along, with which she was able to

disguise her mishap at the stream, although she took the precaution not

to make the change until she was safe back over the narrow bridge. And

this time she used a stick. Arrived at the house, she deftly wrapped a

bandage about her father's injury, and set to work at the preparation

of supper--a task not strange to her, as her mother considered it

correct that her daughter should have a working knowledge of kitchen

affairs. Her equipment was meagre, and she spent more time scouring

than cooking, but her heart beat high with the spirit of adventure.

Once, during the evening, she took a glance into the other room. It

was even less inviting than Dave's, with walls bare of any adornment,

save dirty garments that hung from nails driven in the logs. On the

rude bed lay an old man; she could see only part of his face; a grey

moustache drooping over an open mouth, and a florid cheek turned to the

glow of the setting sun. On a chair beside the bed sat a bottle, and

the room reeked with the smell of breath charged with alcohol. She

gently closed the door, and busied herself through the long evening

with reforms in the kitchen, and with little ministrations designed to

relieve the sufferings of her father.

The sun sank behind the Rockies, and a darkness, soft and mystical and

silent, stole up the valley, hushing even the noiseless day. Presently

the glow of the rising moon burst in ruddy effulgence over the

foothills to the east, first with the effect of fire upon their crests,

and then as a great, slowly-whitening ball soaring high into the

fathomless heaven. The girl stood framed in the open window, and the

moonlight painted her face to the purest ivory, and toyed with the rich

brown fastness of her hair, and gleamed from a single ornament at her

throat. And she thought of the young horseman galloping to town;

wondered if he had yet set out on his homeward journey, and the eerie

depths of the valley communicated to her a fantastic admiration for his

skill and bravery. She was under the spell. She was in a new world,

where were manhood, and silence, and the realities of being; and

moonlight, and great gulfs of shadow between the hills, and large,

friendly stars, and soft breezes pushing this way and that without

definite direction, and strange, quiet noises from out of the depths,

and the incense of the evergreens, and a young horseman galloping into

the night. And conventions had been swept away, and it was correct to

live, and to live!

CHAPTER TWO

The first flush of dawn was mellowing the eastern sky when the girl was

awakened from uneasy sleep by sounds in the yard in front of the ranch

house. She had spent most of the night by her father's side, and

although he had at last prevailed upon her to seek some rest for

herself, she had done so under protest and without undressing. Now,

after the first dazed moment of returning consciousness, she was on her

feet and through the door.

The stars were still shining brightly through the cold air. In the

faint light she could distinguish a team and wagon, and men unhitching.

She approached, and, in a voice that sounded strangely distant in the

vastness of the calm night, called, "Is that you, Dave?"

And in a moment she wondered how she had dared call him Dave. But she

soon had other cause for wonder, for the boy replied from near beside

her, in that tone of friendly confidence which springs so spontaneously

in the darkness, "Yes, Reenie, and the doctor, too. We'll have Mr.

Hardy fixed up in no time. How did he stand the night?"

How dared he call her Reenie? A flush of resentment rose in her breast

only to be submerged in the sudden remembrance that she had first

called him Dave. That surely gave him the right to address her as he

had done. But with this thought came recognition of the curious fact

that Dave had not presumed upon her frankness; that it was not by her

word that he would attempt to justify his. Indeed, she was convinced

that he would have called her Reenie anyway,--just as she had called

him Dave, without premeditation or intention. Then she remembered she

was in the ranch country, in the foothills, where the conventions--the

conventions she hated--had not yet become rooted, and where the souls

of men and women stood bare in the clear light of frank acceptance of

the fact. It would be idle--dangerous--to trifle with this boy by any

attempt at concealment or deception. And what were conventions but a

recognized formula of concealment and deception?

She could see his form now, as he led the horses toward the corral.

How straight he was, and how bravely his footsteps fell on the hard

earth! The poetry of his motion reached her through the darkness. She

heard the harness jingle as the horses rubbed between the posts of the

corral gate.

"He's a wonderful boy," said the doctor, of whose presence she had been

unconscious. "Cat's eyes. Full gallop through the dark; side hills,

mountain streams, up and down; break-neck. Well, here we are." The

doctor breathed deeply, as though this last fact were one to occasion

some wonderment. "Your brother tells me you have an injured man here;

accident; stranger, I believe? Well, shall we go in?"

Brother! But why should she explain? Dave hadn't bothered. Why

hadn't he? He had told about the stranger; why had he not told about

both strangers? Why had he ignored her altogether? This time came

another flush, born of that keen womanly intuition which understands.

With a commonplace she led the doctor into the house and to the bedside

of her father. She was struck by the change in attitude of the

visiting physician when he learned that his patient was of his own

profession. It was like the meeting of brothers in a secret order.

There was an exchange of technical terms that might have served as

password or sign into some fine fraternity, and the setting of the limb

was accompanied by a running fire of professional comment as effective

upon the nerves of the sufferer as an opiate.

When the operation was completed the girl turned her attention to the

kitchen, where she found Dave, sweating in vicarious suffering. He had

helped to draw the limb into place, and it had been his first close

contact with human pain. It was different from branding calves, and he

had slipped out of the room as soon as possible. The morning sun was

now pouring through the window, and the distraught look on the boy's

face touched her even more than the frankness of the words spoken in

the darkness. She suddenly remembered that he had been up all

night--for her. She would not deceive herself with the thought that it

was for her father's sake Dave had galloped to town, found a doctor,

secured a fresh team and driven back along the little-used foothill

trails. She recalled the doctor's terse description of that journey.

No doubt Dave would have done it all for her father, had her father

been there alone, but as things were she had a deep conviction that he

had done it for her. And it was with a greater effort than seemed

reasonable that she laid her fingers on his arm and said, "Thank you,

Dave."

"What for?" he asked, and she could not doubt the genuineness of his

question.

"Why, for bringing the doctor, and all that. Driving all night on

those awful roads. We fell off them in day time. I am sure I

can't--Father won't be able to--"

"Oh, shucks," he interrupted, with a manner which, on the previous

afternoon, she would have called rudeness. "That's nothin'. But say,

I brought home some grub. The chuck here was pretty tame; guess you

found that out last night." He looked about the room, and she knew

that he was taking note of her house-cleaning, but he made no remark on

the subject.

"Well, let's get breakfast," she said, after a moment's pause, and for

lack of other conversation. "You must be hungry."

Dave's purchases had been liberal. They included fresh meat and

vegetables, canned goods, coffee, rice and raisins. He laid the last

three items on the table with a great dissembling of indifference, for

he was immensely proud of them. They were unwonted items on the Elden

bill of fare; he had bought them especially for her. From somewhere

the knowledge had been borne in upon him that city people frequently

drink coffee for breakfast, and the rice and raisins were an

inspiration quite his own. He would see what she could do with them.

But she busied herself at the breakfast without a thought of the

epoch-marking nature of these purchases.

"Do you milk?" she asked, presently.

"Milk what?" he demanded, pausing with stove-lid and lifter raised in

his hand, in the half-completed act of putting wood on the fire.

"Dave!" she cried. "Put that lid down. Look at the smoke." A blue

cloud was curling under the rafters. "Yes," he said, with great

composure. "It always does that in this country."

She shot a quick glance at him. Was he making fun of her? No; plainly

not; he was just making fun _with_ her; he had a vein of humor. And a

little before she had found his face drawn in sympathy for her father.

Perhaps for her. . . . He was not all on the surface.

He completed his operation at the stove and returned the lid to its

place with no lack of deliberation. He was evidently waiting for her

to speak again, but she worked on in silence.

"What did you say about milking?" he ventured at length.

"I asked you if you milked," she said, with an attempt at curtness.

"And you answered, 'Milk what?' as though that were clever. And we

need milk for breakfast."

"Well, I was serious enough," he said. "There isn't a cow within

twenty miles."

"No cows? Why, I thought this was the ranching country?"

"Sure thing. We sell beef and buy milk. Let me show you."

He approached a packing-case on the wall, walking softly and extending

his hands as though to touch it gently, and murmuring, "So boss; so

boss," as he went. From the box he removed a tin of condensed milk,

which he set on the table. In his pocket he found a nail, and with a

hammer quickly made two holes in the tin.

"Milkin' is finished," he announced.

At this juncture the doctor, who had been resting in the room with his

patient, entered the kitchen. During the setting of the limb he had

gradually become aware of the position of Irene in the household, but

had that not been so, one glance at the boy and girl as they now stood

in the bright morning sunshine, he with his big, wiry frame, his brown

face, his dark eyes, his black hair; she, round and knit and smooth,

with the pink shining through her fair skin and the light of youth

dancing in her grey eyes and the light of day glancing on her brown

hair, must have told him they had sprung from widely separated stock.

For one perilous moment he was about to apologize for the mistake made

in the darkness, but some wise instinct closed his lips. But he

wondered why she had not corrected him.

They were seated at breakfast when the senior Elden made his

appearance. He had slept off his debauch and was as sober as a man in

the throes of alcoholic appetite may be. He was only partially

dressed; his face had the peculiar bulginess of the hard drinker; his

eyes were watery and shifty, and several days' growth of beard, with

patchy grey and black spots, gave a stucco effect to his countenance.

His moustache drooped over a partly open mouth; the top of his large

head was bald, and the hair that hung about his ears was much darker

than his moustache. Seeing the strangers, he hesitated in his lurch

toward the water pail, steadied himself on wide-spread feet, very flat

on the floor, and waved his right hand slowly in the air. Whether this

was to be understood as a form of salutation or a gesture of defiance

was a matter of interpretation.

"Vishitors," said the old man, at length. "Alwaysh welcome, m'sure.

'Sh scush me." He made his uncertain way to the water bench, took a

great drink, and set about washing his face and hands, while the

breakfast proceeded in silence. As his preparations neared completion

Irene set a place at the table.

"Won't you sit down here, Mr. Elden?" she said. There had been no

introductions. Dave ate on in silence.

"Thank you," said the old man, and there was something in his voice

which may have been emotion, or may have been the huskiness of the

heavy drinker's throat. The girl gave it the former explanation.

Perhaps it was his unintended tribute to that touch of womanly

attentiveness to which his old heart still beat response. As he took

the proffered chair she saw in this old man shreds of dignity which the

less refined eye of his son had not distinguished. To Dave, his father

was an affliction to be borne; an unfair load on a boy who had done

nothing to deserve this punishment. The miseries associated with his

parentage had gone far to make him sour and moody. Irene at first had

thought him rude and gloomy; flashes of humor had modified that

opinion, but she had not yet learned that his disposition was naturally

a buoyant one, weighed down by an environment which had made it soggy

and unresponsive. In years to come she was to know what unguessed

depths of character were to be revealed when that stoic nature was

cross-sectioned by the blade of a keen and defiant passion. This

morning she foresaw nothing of those future revelations, but in the old

man her instinct detected qualities which perhaps were awaiting only

some touch of sympathetic understanding to flash forth even yet like

that burst of sunset radiance which sometimes marks the close of a

leaden day.

Mr. Elden promptly engaged the doctor in conversation, and in a few

moments had gleaned the main facts in connection with the accident and

the father and daughter which it had brought so involuntarily under his

roof. He was quite sober now, and his speech, although slovenly, was

not indelicate. He was still able to pay to woman that respect which

curbs the coarseness of a tongue for years subjected to little

discipline.

After breakfast Irene attended to the wants of her father, and by this

time the visiting doctor was manifesting impatience to be away. Other

fees were calling him, and he assured Doctor Hardy, what the latter

quite well knew, that nothing more could be done for him at present.

He would come again at any time if summoned by the young man, or if his

professional duties should bring him into the neighborhood of the Elden

ranch. But Dave declared with prompt finality that the horses must

rest until after noon, and the doctor, willy-nilly, spent the morning

rambling in the foothills. Meanwhile the girl busied herself with work

about the house, in which she was effecting a rapid transformation.

After the mid-day dinner Dave harnessed the team for the journey to

town, but before leaving inquired of Irene if there were any special

purchases, either personal or for the use of the house, which she would

recommend. With some diffidence she mentioned one that was uppermost

in her thoughts: soap, both laundry and toilet. Dr. Hardy had no

hesitation in calling for a box of his favorite cigars and some new

magazines, and took occasion to press into the boy's hand a bill out of

all proportion to the value of the supplies requested. There was an

argument in the yard, which the girl did not fully hear, between father

and son, but she gathered that the old man insisted on going to town,

and, failing that, that Dave should replenish his stock of whiskey, to

neither of which would the young man consent. It was evident that Dave

was the responsible person in the affairs of the Elden ranch.

The day was introductory to others that were to follow. Dave returned

the next afternoon, riding his own horse, and heavily laden with

cigars, magazines, soap, and with a soft little package which proved to

be a sponge, which he had bought on his own initiative, and which he

tendered to Irene. She took it with slowly rising color, and with a

strange misgiving whether this was a bona fide contribution to the

toilet equipment of the house, or a quiet satire designed to offset the

effect of the appeal for soap.

The following day it was decided that the automobile, which since the

accident had lain upturned by the roadway, should be brought to the

ranch buildings. Dave harnessed his team, and, instead of riding one

of the horses, walked behind, driving by the reins, and accompanied by

the girl, who had proclaimed her ability to steer the car. When they

reached the stream she hesitated, remembering her mishap, but the boy

slipped his unoccupied hand firmly under her arm, and they walked the

log in safety. It seemed to Irene that he continued his assistance

when it was no longer needed, but she accepted the courtesy without

remark.

With the aid of the team and Dave's lariat the car was soon righted,

and was found to be none the worse for its deflection from the beaten

track. Irene presided at the steering wheel, watching the road with

great intentness, and turning the wheel too far on each occasion, which

gave to her course a somewhat wavy or undulating order, such as is

found in bread knives, or perhaps a better figure would be to compare

it to that rolling motion affected by fancy skaters. However, the mean

of her direction corresponded with the mean of the trail, and all went

merrily until the stream was approached. Here was a rather steep

descent, and the car showed a sudden purpose to engage the horses in a

contest of speed. The animals were suspicious enough at best of their

strange wagon, and had no thought of allowing it to assume the

initiative. Now, Irene knew perfectly well where the brake was, and

how to use it. In fact, there were two brakes, operated by different

members, and perhaps it was this duplication, intended to insure

safety, that was responsible for her undoing. Her first impulse was to

use the emergency, but to do so she must remove her hand from the

steering wheel, where it was very fully occupied. She did start to put

this impulse into effect, but an unusually violent deflection caused

her to reconsider that intention. She determined to use the foot

brake, a feat which was accomplished, under normal conditions, by

pressing one foot firmly against a contraption somewhere beneath the

steering post. She shot a quick glance downward, and to her alarm

discovered not one, but three contraptions, all apparently designed to

receive the pressure of a foot--if one could reach them--and as similar

as the steps of a stair. This involved a further hesitation, and in

automobiling he who hesitates invites a series of rapid experiences.

By this time all Irene's attention was required to bring the car to

some unanimity of direction. It was quite evident that it was running

away. It was quite evident that the horses were running away. The

situation assumed the qualities of a race, and the only matter of grave

doubt related to its termination. Dave, still holding fast to the

reins, ran beside the car with prodigious strides which enabled him to

bring but little restraint upon the team, and Irene held to the

steering wheel with a grip of desperation.

Then they struck the water. It was not more than two feet deep, but

the extra resistance it caused, and the extra alarm it excited in the

horses, resulted in the breaking of the lariat. Dave still clung fast

to his team, and, now that the terrifying rival no longer pursued them,

they were soon brought to a standstill. Having pacified them he tied

them to a post and returned to the stream. The car sat in the middle;

the girl had put her feet on the seat beside her, and the swift water

flowed by a few inches below. She was laughing merrily when Dave, very

wet in parts, appeared on the bank.

"Well, I'm not wet, except for a little splashing," she said, "and you

are. Does anything occur to you?" Without reply he walked stolidly

into the cold water, took her in his arms, and carried her ashore. The

lariat was soon repaired and the car hauled to the ranch buildings

without further mishap.

Later in the day he said to her, "Can you ride?"

"Some," she answered. "I have ridden city horses, but don't know about

these ranch animals. You know, a city horse has to do as he is told,

but a ranch horse seems to do pretty much as he likes. But I would

like to try--if I had a saddle."

"I have an extra saddle," he said. "But it's a man's. . . . They all

ride that way here."

She made no answer, and the subject was dropped for the time. But the

next morning she saw Dave ride away, leading a horse by his side. He

did not return until evening, but when he came the idle horse carried a

saddle.

"It's a strad-legger," he said when he drew up beside Irene, "but it's

a girl's. I couldn't find anythin' else in the whole diggin's."

"I'm sure it will do--splendidly--if I can just stick on," she replied.

But another problem was already in her mind. It apparently had not

occurred to Dave that women require special clothing for riding,

especially if it's a "strad-legger." She opened her lips to mention

this, then closed them again. He had been to enough trouble on her

account. He had already spent a whole day scouring the country for a

saddle. . . . She would manage some way.

Late that night she was busy with scissors and needle.

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. Hardy recovered from his injuries as rapidly as could be expected,

and, while he chafed somewhat over spending his holidays under such

circumstances, the time passed not unhappily. Had he sought the world

over for a haven from the intrusion of business or professional cares

he could have found it nowhere in greater perfection than in the

foothill country centering about the Elden ranch. Here was an Arcadia

where one might well return to the simple life; a little bay of still

water sheltered from the onrushing tide of affairs by the warm brown

prairies and the white-bosomed mountains towering through their

draperies of blue-purple mist. It was life as far removed from his

accustomed circles as if he had been suddenly spirited to a different

planet. It was life without the contact of life, without the crowd and

jostle and haste and gaiety and despair that are called life; but the

doctor wondered if, after all, it did not come nearer to filling the

measure of experience--which is life.

A considerable acquaintanceship had sprung up between him and the

senior Elden. The rancher had come from the East forty years before,

but in turning over their memories the two men found many links of

association; third persons known to them both; places, even streets and

houses common to their feet in early manhood; events of local history

which each could recall, although from different angles. And Elden's

life in the West had been a treasury of experience, in which he now

dipped for the first time in years, regaling his guest with tales of

the open range long before barbed wire had stuck its poisoned fang into

the heart of the ranchman; tales of horse-stealing and cattle-rustling,

with glimpses of sudden justice unrecorded in the official documents of

the territory; of whiskey-running and excess and all those large

adventures that drink the red blood of the wilderness. In his grizzled

head and stooping frame he carried more experiences than would fill a

dozen well-rounded city lives, and he had the story-teller's art which

scorns to spoil dramatic effect by a too strict adherence to fact. But

over one phase of his life he kept the curtain resolutely down. No ray

of conversation would he admit into the more personal affairs of his

heart, or of the woman who had been his wife, and even when the talk

turned on the boy he quickly withdrew it to another topic, as though

the subject were dangerous or distasteful. But once, after a long

silence following such a diversion, had he betrayed himself into a

whispered remark, an outburst of feeling rather than a communication.

"I've been alone so much," he said. "It seems I have never been

anything but alone. And--sooner or later--it gets you--it gets you."

"You have the boy," ventured the doctor.

"No," he answered, almost fiercely. "That would be different, I could

stand it then. But I haven't got him, and I can't get him. He

despises me because--because I take too much at times." He paused as

though wondering whether to proceed with this unwonted confidence, but

the ache in his heart insisted on its right to human sympathy. "No, it

ain't that," he continued. "He despises me because he thinks I wasn't

fair to his mother. He can't understand. He doesn't know yet that

there's things--pulls and tugs of life, that lead a man as helpless as

a steer chokin' in his lasso. I was like that. I wanted to be good to

her, to be close to her. Then I took to booze, as natural as a steer

under the brandin' iron roars to drown his hurt. But the boy don't

understand." The old man got up and stood at the western window,

watching the gold of approaching sunset gather on the mountains. . . .

"He despises me." Then, after a long silence, "No matter. I despise

myself."

The doctor approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. But Elden was

himself again. The curtains of his life, which he had drawn apart for

a moment, he whipped together again rudely, almost viciously, and

covered his confusion by plunging into a tale of how he had led a breed

suspected of cattle rustling on a little canter of ten miles with a

rope about his neck and the other end tied to the saddle. "He ran

well," said the old man, chuckling still at the reminiscence. "And it

was lucky he did. It was a strong rope."

The morning after Dave had brought in the borrowed saddle Irene

appeared in a sort of bloomer suit, somewhat wonderfully contrived from

the spare skirt to which allusion has been made, and announced a

willingness to risk life and limb on any horse that Dave might select

for that purpose. He provided her with a dependable mount, and their

first journey, taken somewhat gingerly along the principal trail, was

accomplished without incident. It was the fore-runner of many others,

plunging deeper and deeper into the fastnesses of the foothills, and

even into the passes of the very mountains themselves. These long

rides through the almost untracked wilderness, frequently along paths

on which the element of danger was by no means a mere fancy, and into

regions where the girl's sense of distance and direction were totally

confused, afforded her many side-lights on the remarkable nature of her

escort. His patience was infinite, and, although there were no silk

trappings to his courtesy, it was a very genuine and manly deference he

paid her. She was quite sure that he would at any moment give his life

if needed to defend her from injury--and accept the transaction as a

matter of course. His physical endurance was inexhaustible, and his

knowledge of prairie and foothill seemed to her almost uncanny. When

she had been utterly lost for hours he would suddenly swing their

horses' heads about and guide them home with the accuracy of the wild

goose on its nights to the nesting grounds. He read every sign of

footprint, leaf, water, and sky with unfailing insight. He had no

knowledge of books, and she had at first thought him ignorant, but as

the days went by she had found in him a mine of wisdom which shamed her

ready-made education.

[Illustration: These long rides afforded her many side-lights on the

remarkable nature of her escort.]

After such a ride they one day dismounted in a grassy opening among the

trees that bordered a mountain canyon. The waters of ages had

chiselled a sharp passage through the rock, and the green stream now

swirled in its rapid course a hundred feet below. Fragments of rock,

loosened by the sun and wind and frost of centuries, had fallen from

time to time, leaving sheltered nooks and shelves in the walls of the

canyon. In one of these crevices they found a flat stone that gave

comfortable seating, and here they rested while the horses browsed

their afternoon meal on the grass above. Little irregular bits of

stone had broken off the parent rock, and for awhile they amused

themselves with tossing these into the water. But both were conscious

of a gradually increasing tension in the atmosphere. For days the boy

had been moody. It was evident he was harbouring something that was

calling through his nature for expression, and Irene knew that this

afternoon he would talk of more than trees and rocks and footprints of

the wild things of the forest.

"Your father is gettin' along well," he said at length.

"Yes," she answered. "He has had a good holiday, even with his broken

leg. He is looking ever so much better."

"You will be goin' away before long," he continued.

"Yes," she answered, soberly, and waited.

"Things about here ain't goin' to be the same after you're gone," he

went on. He was avoiding her eyes and industriously throwing bits of

crumbled rock into the canyon. He wore no coat, and the neck of his

shirt was open, for the day was warm. Had he caught her side-long

glances even his slow, self-deprecating mind must have read their

admiration. But he kept his eyes fixed on the green water.

"You see," he said, "before you came it was different. I didn't know

what I was missin', an' so it didn't matter. Not but what I was

dog-sick of it at times, but still I thought I was livin',--thought

this was life, and, of course, now I know it ain't. At least, it won't

be after you're gone."

"That's strange," she said, not in direct answer to his remark, but as

a soliloquy on it as she turned it over in her mind. "This life, now,

seems empty to you. All my old life seems empty to me. This seems to

me the real life, out here in the foothills, with the trees, and the

mountains, and--and our horses, you know."

She might have ended the sentence in a way that would have come much

closer to him, and been much truer, but conventionality had been bred

into her for generations and she did not find it possible yet freely to

speak the truth. Indeed, as she thought of her position here it seemed

to her she had become shamelessly unconventional. She thought of her

mother, careful, correct,--"Always be correct, my dear,"--and wondered

what she would say could she see her only child on these wild,

unchaperoned rides and in these strange confidences where she was a

girl and Dave was a boy and all the artificialities with which society

aims to protect itself had been stripped away. There was a dash of

adventure which added to the relish of the situation.

"It's such a wonderful life," she continued. "One gets so strong and

happy in it."

"You'd soon get sick of it," he said. "We don't see nothin'. We don't

learn nothin'. Reenie, I'm eighteen, an' I bet you could read an'

write better'n me when you was six."

"Did you never go to school?" she asked, in genuine surprise. She knew

his speech was ungrammatical, but thought that due to careless training

rather than to no training at all.

"Where'd I go to school?" he demanded bitterly. "There ain't a school

within forty miles. Guess I wouldn't have went if I could," he added

as an afterthought, wishing to be quite honest in the matter. "School

didn't seem to cut no figure--until jus' lately."

"But you have learned--some?" she continued.

"Some. When I was a little kid my father used to work with me at

times. He learned me to read a little, an' to write my name, an' a

little more. But things didn't go right between him an' mother, an' he

got to drinkin' more an' more, an' just makin' hell of it. We used to

have a mighty fine herd of steers here, but it's all shot to pieces.

We don't put up hardly no hay, an' in a bad winter they die like

rabbits. When we sell a bunch the old man'll stay in town for a month

or more, blowin' the coin and leavin' the debts go. But I've been

fixin' him this year or two. I sneak a couple of steers away now an'

then, an' with the money I keep our grocery bills paid up, an' have a

little to rattle in my jeans. My credit's good at any store in town,"

and Irene thrilled to the note of pride in his voice as he said this.

The boy had real quality in him. "But I'm sick of it all," he

continued. "Sick of it, an' I wanna get out."

"You think you are not educated," she answered, trying to meet his

outburst as tactfully as possible. "Perhaps you are not, the way we

think of it in the city. But I guess there's a good many things you

can't learn out of books, and I guess you could show the city boys a

good many things they don't know, and never will know."

For the first time he looked her straight in the face. His dark eyes

met her grey ones, and demanded truth. "Irene," he said, "do you mean

that?"

"Sure I do," she answered. "College courses, and all that kind of

thing; they're good stuff, all right, but they make some awful nice

boys--real live boys, you know--into some awful dead ones. Either they

get the highbrow, and become bores, or the swelled head, and become

cads. Not all, you know, but lots of them. And then when they get out

they have to start learning the real things of life--things that you

have been learning here for ever so long. My father says about the

best education is to learn to live within your income, pay your debts,

and give the other fellow a chance to do the same. They don't all

learn that in college. So when they get out they have to go and work

for somebody who has learned it, like you have. Then there's the

things you do, just like you were born to it, that they couldn't do to

save their lives. Why, I've seen you smash six bottles at a stretch,

you going full gallop, and whooping and shooting so we could hardly

tell which was which. And ride--you could make more money riding for

city people to look at than most of those learned fellows, with letters

after their names like the tail of a kite, will ever see. But I

wouldn't like you to make it that way. There's more useful things to

do."

He was comforted by this speech, but he referred to his accomplishments

modestly. "Ridin' an' shootin' ain't nothin'," he said.

"I'm not so sure," she answered. "Father says the day is coming when

our country will want men who can shoot and ride more than it will want

lawyers or professors."

"Well, when it does, it can call on me," he said, and there was the

pride in his voice which comes to a boy who feels that in some way he

can take a man's place in the world. "Them is two things I sure can

do."

Years later she was to think of her remark and his answer, consecrated

then in clean red blood.

They talked of many things that afternoon, and when at last the

lengthening shadows warned them it was time to be on the way they rode

long distances in silence. Both felt a sense which neither ventured to

express, that they had travelled very close in the world of their hopes

and sorrows and desires. Perhaps, as they rode along the foothill

trail, they were still journeying together down the long, strange

trails of the future; dim, visionary, exquisite trails; rough, hard,

cruel trails hidden in the merciful mirage of their young hopefulness.

The shadows had deepened into darkness, and the infinite silence of the

hills hung about them as they dropped from their saddles at the Elden

door. A light shone from within, and Dr. Hardy, who was now able to

move about with the aid of a home-made crutch, could be seen setting

the table, while Mr. Elden stirred a composition on the stove. They

chatted as they worked, and there was something of the joy of little

children in their companionship. The young folks watched for a moment

through the window, and in Dave's heart some long-forgotten emotion

moved momentarily at the sight of the good fellowship prevailing in the

old house. Irene, too, was thinking; glimpses of her own butlered

home, and then this background of primal simplicity, where the old

cow-man cooked the meals and the famous specialist set the plates on

the bare board table, and then back of it all her mother, sedate and

correct, and very much shocked over this mingling of the classes. But

the girl's reverie was cut short by a sudden affectionate licking of

her fingers, and glancing downward she found Brownie, adopted early in

her visit at the Eldens', expressing its fondness in the only fashion

at its command.

The calf had been an incident in her ranch experience. It was a late

comer, quite unable to keep pace with the earlier fruits of the herd,

and had the additional misfortune to be born of an ambitious mother,

who had no thought of allowing her domestic duties to impair her social

relationships with the matrons and males of her immediate set. She had

no place for old-fashioned notions; she was determined to keep up with

the herd and the calf might fare as best it could. So they rambled

from day to day; she swaggering along with the set, but turning now and

then to send an impatient moo toward the small brown body stuck on four

long, ungainly legs,--legs which had an unfortunate habit of folding

up, after the fashion of a jack knife, upon unforeseen occasions, and

precipitating the owner in a huddled mass on the ground. At rare

times, when heaven must have stooped close about the herd, the mother

instinct would assert itself, and the cow would return to her

offspring, licking it lavishly and encouraging it with mooings of deep

affection, but such periods of bliss were of short duration. The lure

of "the life" was too great for her; she felt herself born for more

important roles than mere motherhood, and she would presently rush away

to her favourite circle, leaving her begotten to such fates as might

befall.

It was on such an occasion, when left far behind, that one of the

ungainly legs found its way into a badger hole. The collapse was

harder and more complete than usual, and the little sufferer would have

died there had he not been found by Dave and Irene in the course of

their rides. Dave, after a moment's examination, drew his revolver,

but Irene pled for the life of the unfortunate.

"Oh, don't kill it, Dave," she cried. "You couldn't kill it! Let's

get the wagon and take it home. It'll get all right, won't it?"

"Never be worth a----," said Dave, checking his vocabulary in the nick

of time. "Once they begin to give trouble you might's well knock 'em

on the head."

"But it's cruel," she protested. "Just to kill it because it's hurt."

"I don't know about the cruel," he answered. "You see, they're all

raised, every one of 'em, to be killed, anyway. Jus' like people, I

guess. Sooner or later. But if your heart's set on this little

crittur, we'll save it's long as we can."

So the calf was taken home and became Irene's special care. The mother

was captured and tied up in the corral, and the calf, although lame,

began to thrive and wax strong. It would gallop in its ungainly way

about the yard, in its exuberation of youthful innocence, while the

mother pined for the latest scandal from the great fields over the

hills.

"Brownie, we'll call it," said Irene, "on account of its colour."

"All right," said Dave, "on account of your sweater. That'll sort o'

show the connection."

So this night she rubbed its nose, and scratched its forehead, and then

reproved its affection, which had a habit of running to extremes. And

the mother cow mooed from the corral, and Brownie forgot his

benefactress and ambled away at the call of the blood.

"Well, you youngsters must have this country pretty well explored,"

said Dr. Hardy, as they entered the house. "Where was it today: the

prairies, the foothills, or the real fellows behind?"

"The canyon, up the river," said Irene, drawing off her sweater.

"What's the eats? Gee, I'm hungry. Getting pretty supple, Daddykins,

aren't you?"

"Yes, an' I'm sorry for it, Miss," said the old rancher. "Not wishin'

him any harm, or you neither. We was jus' talkin' it over, an' your

father thinks he's spry enough for the road again. Ain't ever goin' to

be like it use to be after he's gone, an' you."

So the afternoon's conversations in the canyon and the cabin had been

on the same theme, although prompted by very different emotions. Yet

the girl wondered whether the loneliness in the old man's heart, which

cried out to his own sex, might not bear some relationship to a

strange, new sense she herself was experiencing; a sense which reminded

her that she was incomplete--and alone. And it called across the

barrier of sex for completion.

"We'll be sorry to go," said the doctor. "That's what I've been saying

all day, and thinking, too. If misfortunes can be lucky, ours was one

of that kind. I don't know when I've enjoyed a holiday so much. What

do you say, girl?" he asked, as he rested an arm on her round, firm

shoulder and looked with fatherly fondness into the fine brown of her

face.

"I've never known anything like it," she answered. "It's wonderful.

It's life." Then with a sudden little scream she exclaimed, "Oh,

Daddy, why can't you sell your practice and buy a ranch? Wouldn't that

be wonderful?"

"Your mother might not see it that way," he replied, and her eyes fell.

Yes, that was the obstacle. She would have to go back to the city, and

talk by rule, and dress by rule, and behave by rule, and be correct.

She wondered how often her father had turned from the path of the true

adventure because her mother "might not see it that way."

"It's been a good time," the doctor continued, when they had commenced

supper, "but I've already overstayed my holiday. Well, I had good

excuse. I feel that I can travel now, and my leg will be pretty strong

by the time I am back East. If Dave will oblige us by going to town

to-morrow and bringing back someone who can drive a car we will be able

to start the following morning. I will just take the car to town and

either sell it there or ship it."

The following morning found Dave early on the trail, leading a saddled

horse by his side. The hours were leaden for the girl all that day,

and looking into the future she saw the spectre of her life shadowed

down the years by an unutterable loneliness. How could she ever drop

it all--all this wild freedom, this boundless health, this great

outdoors, this life, life, how could she drop it all and go back into

the little circle where convention fenced out the tiniest alien

streamlet, although the circle itself might lie deep in mire? And how

would she give up this boy who had grown so imperceptibly but so

intimately into the very soul of her being; give him up with all his

strength, and virility, and--yes, and coarseness, if you will--but

sincerity too; an essential man, as God made him, in exchange for a

machine-made counterfeit with the stamp of Society? Deeply did she

ponder these questions, and as the day wore on she found herself

possessed of a steadily growing determination that she would not follow

the beaten trail, let the by-paths lead where they might.

Darkness, save for a white moon, had settled over the foothills when

the boy returned with another young man. The stranger ate a ravenous

supper, but was not too occupied to assay conversation with Irene.

Indeed, from their meeting at the doorway his eyes scarcely left her.

He chose to call her cook.

"Swell pancakes, cook," was his opening remark. "Can you find another

for yours truly?"

She refilled his plate without answer.

"Used to know a girl mighty like you," he went on. "Waitress in the

Royal Edward. Gee, but she was swell! A pippin! Class! Say, she had

'em all guessing. Had me guessing myself for awhile. But just for

awhile." He voiced these remarks with an air of intense self-approval

more offensive than the words.

Irene felt the colour rise about her neck and cheeks and run like an

over-flowing stream into her ears and about her hair. It was evident

that, for a second time, Dave had chosen to say nothing to strangers

about her presence at the ranch. But that was not what brought the

colour. She was addressed as a menial, as a hired helper in the Elden

household! Her own honesty told her that even that was not what

brought the colour. It was not even the man's insolent familiarity; it

was his assumption that his familiarity would not be resented. Her

father and Mr. Elden were in Dave's room; Dave had stopped eating and

she saw the veins rising in his clenched fists. But the challenge was

to her, and she would accept it; she felt no need of his protection.

"Fill your stomach," she said, passing more pancakes; "your head is

hopeless."

He attempted a laugh, but the meal was finished in silence. The

stranger lit a cigarette, and Irene went to the door with Dave. An

over-lace of silver moonlight draped the familiar objects near at hand

and faded into the dark, vague lingerie of night where the spruce trees

cut their black wedge along the valley.

"Come for a walk," he whispered. "The horses are tired, so let's walk.

. . . It's our last chance."

She ran for her sweater and rejoined him in a moment. They walked in

silence down a path through the fragrant trees, but Dave turned from

time to time to catch a glimpse of her face, white and fine as ivory in

the soft light. He had much to say; he felt that the ages could not

utter all he had to say to-night, but he was tongue-tied under the

spell of her beauty.

"You squelched him, all right," he broke out at length.

"Just in time, too, I think," she replied. "I was watching your hands."

He smiled a quiet but very confident smile. "Reenie," he said, "that

fellow makes me sick. All the way out he talked about girls. If it

hadn't been that I was makin' the trip for your father I'd 'a' licked

him on the road, sure. He's a city chap, an' wears a white collar, but

he ain't fit to speak your name. Another minute an' I'd 'a' had 'im by

the neck." He seized a spruce limb that stuck across their path. It

was the size of a stout stick but he snapped it with a turn of his

wrist. It was very tough; it oozed sticky stuff where he broke it.

"His neck," he said, between his teeth. "Jus' like that."

They reached an open space. Something black--or was it red?--lay on

the ground. Dave bent over it a moment, then looked up to her white,

clear face, whiter and clearer than ever since witnessing the strength

of his hate.

"It's Brownie," he said, as calmly as he could. "Half et up. Wolves,

I guess."

He saw her eyes grow slowly larger in the moonlight. Without a word

she sank to her knees. He saw her fingers about her head, burrowing in

her hair. Then she looked up, over the black trees, to the sky with

its white moon and its few great stars.

"The poor, poor thing," she breathed. "The poor, innocent thing. Why

did it have to die?"

"It's always the innocent things 'at suffers," he answered.

"Always the innocent things," she repeated mechanically. "Always--"

She sprang to her feet and faced him. "Then what about the justice of

God?" she demanded.

"I don' know nothin' about the justice of God," he answered, bitterly.

"All I know is the crittur 't can't run gets caught."

There was a long pause. "It doesn't seem right," she said at length.

"It ain't right," he agreed. "But I guess it's life. I see it here on

the prairies with every living thing. Everything is a victim, some way

or other. Even the wolves 'at tore this little beast 'll go down to

some rancher's rifle, maybe, although they were only doing what nature

said . . . I guess it's the same way in the cities; the innocent bein'

hunted, an' the innocenter they are the easier they're caught. An'

then the wolves beggin' off, an' sayin' it was only nature."

The girl had no answer. No one had ever talked to her like this. What

did this country boy know? And yet it was plain he did know. He had

lived among the fundamentals.

"I guess I was like that, some," he went on. "I've been caught. I

guess a baby ain't responsible for anything, is it? I didn't pick my

father or my mother, did I? But I got to bear it."

There was something near a break in his voice on the last words. She

felt she must speak.

"I think your father is a wonderful old man," she said, "and your

mother must have been wonderful, too. You should be proud of them

both."

"Reenie, do you mean that?" he demanded. His eyes were looking

straight into hers. Once before he had faced her with that question,

and she had not forgotten.

"Absolutely," she answered. "Absolutely, I mean it."

"Then I'm goin' to say some more things to you," he went on, rapidly.

"Things 'at I didn't know whether to say or not, but now they've got to

be said, whatever happens. Reenie, I haven't ever been to school, or

learned lots of things I should 'a' learned, but I ain't a fool,

neither. I know 'at when you're home you live thousands of miles from

me, but I know 'at in your mind you live further away than that. I

know it's like all the prairies an' all the oceans were between us.

But I know, too, that people cross prairies an' oceans, an' I'm wantin'

to cross. I know it takes time, an' I'll be a slow traveller, but I'm

a mighty persistent crittur when I start out. I didn't learn to break

all those bottles in a day. Well, I can learn other things, too, an' I

will, if only it will take me across. I'm goin' to leave this old

ranch, someway, jus' as soon as it can be arranged. I'm goin' to town,

an' work. I'm strong; I can get pretty good wages. I've been thinkin'

it all over, and was askin' some questions in town to-day. I can work

days and go to school nights. An' I'll do it if--if it'll get me

across. You know what I mean. I ain't askin' no pledges, Reenie, but

what's the chance? I know I don't talk right, an' I don't eat

right--you tried not to notice, but you couldn't help--but Reenie, I

think right, an' I guess with a girl like you that counts more than

eatin' and talkin'."

She had thought she could say yes or no to any question he could ask,

but as he poured forth these plain passionate words she found herself

enveloped in a flame that found no expression in speech. She had no

words. She was glad when he went on.

"I know I'm only a boy, an' you're only a girl. That's why I don' ask

no pledge. I leave you free, only I want you to stay free until I have

my chance. Will you promise that?"

She tried to pull herself together. "You know I've had a good time

with you, Dave," she said, "and I've gone with you everywhere, like I

would not have gone with any other boy I ever knew, and I've talked and

let you talk about things I never talked about before, and I believe

you're true and clean, and--and--"

"Yes," he said. "What's your answer?"

"I know you're true and clean," she repeated. "Come to me--like

that--when I'm a woman and you're a man, and then--then we'll know."

He was tall and straight, and his shadow fell across her face, as

though even the moon must not see. "Reenie," he said, "kiss me."

For one moment she thought of her mother. She knew she stood at the

parting of the ways; that all life for her was being moulded in that

moment. Then she put both her arms about his neck and drew his lips to

hers.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dave's opportunity came sooner than he expected. After the departure

of the Hardys things at the old ranch were as both father and son had

predicted, very different. They found themselves on a sort of good

behaviour; a behaviour which, unhappily excited in each other grave

suspicions as to purpose. Between these two men rude courtesies or

considerations of any kind had been so long forgotten that attempts to

reintroduce them resulted in a sort of estrangement more dangerous than

the old open hostility. The tension steadily increased, and both

looked forward to the moment when something must give way.

For several weeks the old man remained entirely sober, but the call of

the appetite in him grew more and more insistent as the days went by,

and at last came the morning when Dave awoke to find him gone. He

needed no second guess; the craving had become irresistible and his

father had ridden to town for the means to satisfy it. The passing

days did not bring his return, but this occasioned no anxiety to Dave.

In the course of a carouse his father frequently remained away for

weeks at a stretch, and at such times it was Dave's custom to visit the

boys on a ranch a dozen miles over the foothills to the southward.

These boys had a sister, and what was more natural than that Dave

should drown his loneliness in such company?

But this time he did not ride southward over the hills. He moped

around the ranch buildings, sat moodily by the little stream, casting

pebbles in the water, or rode over the old trails on which she had so

often been his companion. The season was bright with all the glory of

the foothill September; the silver dome of heaven, cloudless morning

and noon, ripened with the dying day into seas of gold on which floated

cloud-islands of purple and amethyst, and through the immeasurable

silence of the night moon and stars bathed the deep valleys in

celestial effulgence. But in the heart of the boy was neither sun, nor

moon, nor stars, but only the black gulfs of loneliness from which his

light had gone out.

Then the old man's horse came home. Dave saw it coming up the trail,

not running wildly, but with nervous gallop and many sidelong turnings

of the head. As the boy watched he found a strange emptiness possess

him; his body seemed a phantom on which his head hung over-heavy. He

spoke to the horse, which pulled up, snorting, before him; noted the

wet neck and flanks, and at last the broken stirrup. Then, slowly and

methodically, and still with that strange sensation of emptiness, he

saddled his own horse and set out on the search. . . .

After the last rites had been paid to the old rancher Dave set about at

once to wind up his affairs, and it was not until then that he

discovered how deeply his father had been involved. The selling of the

cattle and the various effects realized only enough to discharge the

liabilities, and when this had been done Dave found himself with a

considerable area of unmarketable land, a considerable bundle of paid

bills, and his horse, saddle and revolver. He rode his horse to town,

carrying a few articles of wear with him. It was only after a stiff

fight he could bring himself to part with his one companion. The last

miles into town were ridden very slowly, with the boy frequently

leaning forward and stroking the horse's neck and ears.

"Tough doin's, ol' Slop-eye," he would say. "Tough doin's. But it's

got to be done. I can't keep you in town; 't ain't like out on the old

ranch. An' I got a bigger job now than ever you an' me stood in on,

an' we've stood in on some big ones, too, ain't we? But that's gone

an' done; that old life's all busted, all of a sudden, like a bottle.

Busted an' run out. I got a big job on now, an' you can't take no

part. You jus' got to get out. You're done, see?" He sold horse and

saddle for sixty dollars and took a room at a cheap hotel until he

should find work and still cheaper lodgings.

In the evening he walked through the streets of the little cow-town.

It was not altogether new to him; he had frequently visited it for

business or pleasure, but he had never felt the sense of strangeness

which oppressed him this night. In the past he had always been in the

town as a visitor; his roots were still in the ranch; he could afford

to notice the ways of the town, and smile to himself a whimsical smile

and go on. But now he was throwing in his lot with the town; he was

going to be one of it, and it stretched no arms of welcome to him. It

snubbed him with its indifference. . . . He became aware that he was

very lonely. He became aware that the gathering twilight in the great

hills had never seemed so vague and empty as the dusk of this strange

town. He realized that he had but one friend in the world; but one,

and of her he knew not so much as her address. . . . He began to

wonder whether he really had a friend at all; whether the girl would

not discard him when he was of no further use just as he had discarded

his faithful old horse. Tears of loneliness and remorse gathered in

his eyes, and a mist not of the twilight blurred the street lamps now

glimmering from their poles. He felt that he had treated the horse

very shabbily indeed. He wanted old Slop-eye back again. He suddenly

wanted him with a terrific longing; wanted him more than anything else

in the world. For a moment he forgot the girl, and all his

homesickness centred about the beast which had been so long his

companion and servant and friend.

"I'll buy him back in the mornin', I will, sure as hell," he said in a

sudden gust of emotion. "We got to stick together. I didn't play fair

with him, but I'll buy him back. Perhaps I can get a job for him, too,

pullin' a light wagon, or somethin'."

The resolution to "play fair" with Slop-eye gradually restored his

cheerfulness, and he walked slowly back to the hotel, looking in at

many window displays as he went. Half shyly he paused before a window

of women's wear; fine, filmy things, soft and elusive, and, he

supposed, very expensive. He wondered if Reenie bought clothes like

that to wear in her city home. And then he began to look for a brown

sweater, and to move from window to window. And presently he found

himself at his hotel.

The men's sitting room now presented a much more animated picture than

when he had registered earlier in the evening. It was filled with

ranchers, cowboys, and cattlemen of all degree; breeders, buyers,

traders, owners and wage-earners, with a sprinkling of townspeople and

others not directly engaged in some phase of the cattle business. The

room was strong with smoke and language and expectoration and

goodfellowship, to which the maudlin carousal of the line-up at the bar

furnished appropriate accompaniment. Through the smoke he could see

another room farther back, in which were a number of pool tables; loud

voices and loud laughter and occasional awe-inspiring rips of profanity

betokened deep interest in the game, and he allowed himself to drift in

that direction. Soon he was in a group watching a gaudily dressed

individual doing a sort of sleight-of-hand trick with three cards on a

table.

"Smooth guy that," said some one at his side. The remark was evidently

intended for Dave, and he turned toward the speaker. He was a man

somewhat smaller than Dave; two or three years older; well dressed in

town clothes; with a rather puffy face and a gold filled tooth from

which a corner had been broken as though to accommodate the cigarette

which hung there. He blew a slow double stream of smoke from his

nostrils and repeated, "Smooth guy that."

"Yes," said Dave. Then, as it was apparent the stranger was inclined

to be friendly, he continued, "What's the idea?"

The stranger nudged him gently. "Come out of the bunch," he said, in a

low voice. When they had moved a little apart he went on, in a

confidential tone: "He has a little trick with three cards that brings

him in the easy coin. He's smooth as grease, but the thing's simple.

Oh, it's awful simple. It's out of date with the circuses in the

States--that was where I got wise to it--but it seems to get 'em here.

Now you watch him for a minute," and they watched through an opening in

the crowd about his table. The player held three cards; two red ones

and a black. He passed them about rapidly over the table, occasionally

turning his hand sideways so that the on-lookers could see the position

of the cards. Then he suddenly threw them, face down, on the table,

each card by itself.

"The trick is to locate the black card," Dave's companion explained.

"It's easy enough if you just keep your eye on the card, but the

trouble with these rubes is they name the card and then start to get

out their money, and while they're fumbling for it he makes a change so

quick they never see it. There's just one way to beat him. Get up

close, but don't say you're going to play; just pretend you're getting

interested. Then when you're dead sure of a card, crack your fist down

on it. Glue yourself right to it, and get out your money with the

other hand. When he sees you do that he'll try to bluff you; say you

ain't in on it, but you just tell him that don't go, this is an open

game and he's got to come through, and the crowd'll back you up. I

stuck him one--a whole hundred first crack--and then he barred me.

Watch him."

Dave watched. Saw the black card go down at one corner of the board;

saw a bystander fumbling for a five dollar bill; saw the bill laid on

the card; saw it turned up--and it was red.

"That _is_ smooth," he said. "I'd 'a' sworn that was the black card."

"So it was--when you saw it," his companion explained. "But you were

just like the sucker that played him. You couldn't help glancing at

the jay getting out his money, and it was in that instant the trick was

done. He's too quick for the eye, but that's how he does it."

Dave became interested. He saw two or three others lose fives and

tens. Then his companion pinched his arm. "Watch that new guy," he

whispered. "Watch him. He's wise."

A new player had approached. He stood near the table for some minutes,

apparently looking on casually; then his left fist came down on one of

the cards. "A hundred on this one," he said, and began thumbing out a

roll with his other hand.

"You ain't playin'," said the dealer. "You ain't in on this."

"Ain't I? What do you say, fellows?" turning to the crowd. "Am I in

or not?"

"Sure you're in," they exclaimed. "Sure you're in," repeated a big

fellow, lounging forward. "If this guy ain't in we clean you out, see?"

"It's on me," said the dealer, with an ugly smile. "Well, if I must

pay, I pay. Turn 'er up."

It was black. The dealer paid out a hundred dollars to the new player,

who quickly disappeared in the crowd.

Dave had made his decision. It was plain his companion's tip was

straight. There was just one way to beat this game, but it was simple

enough when you knew how. He sidled close to the table, making great

pretense of indifference, but watching the cards closely with his keen

black eyes. The dealer showed his hand, made a few quick passes, and

the black card flew out to the right. This was Dave's chance. He

pounced on it with his left hand, while his other plunged into his

pocket.

"Sixty dollars on this one," he cried, and there was the triumphant

note in his voice of the man who knows he has beaten the other at his

own game.

"You ain't playin'," said the dealer. "You ain't in on this."

"That don't go," said Dave, very quietly. "You're playin' a public

game here, an' I choose to play with you, this once. Sixty dollars on

this card." He was fumbling his money on the table.

"You ain't playin'," repeated the dealer. "You're a butt-in. You

ain't in this game at all."

"Sure he's in," said the crowd.

"Sure he's in," repeated the big fellow who had interfered before.

"He's a stranger here, but you play with him or you don't play no more

in this joint, see?"

"That's hittin' me twice in the same spot, an' hittin' me hard," whined

the dealer, "but you got it on me. Turn 'er up."

The card was red.

Dave looked at it stupidly. It was a moment or two before he realized

that his money was gone. Then, regardless of those about, he rushed

through the crowd, flinging by-standers right and left, and plunged

into the night.

He walked down a street until it lost itself on the prairie; then he

followed a prairie trail far into the country. The air was cold and a

few drops of rain were flying in it, but he was unconscious of the

weather. He was in a rage, through and through. More than once his

hand went to his revolver, and he half turned on his heel to retrace

his steps, but his better judgment led him on to fight it out with

himself. Slop-eye was now a dream, a memory, gone--gone. Everything

was gone; only his revolver and a few cents remained. He gripped the

revolver again. With that he was supreme. No man in all that town of

men, schooled in the ways of the West, was more than his equal while

that grip lay in his palm. At the point of that muzzle he could demand

his money back--and get it.

Then he laughed. Hollow and empty it sounded in the night air, but it

was a laugh, and it saved his spirit. "Why, you fool," he chuckled.

"You came to town for to learn somethin', didn't you? Well, you're

learnin'. Sixty dollars a throw. Education comes high, don't it? But

you shouldn't kick. He didn't coax you in, an' gave you every chance

to back away. You butted in and got stung. Perhaps you've learned

somethin' worth sixty dollars."

With these more philosophical thoughts he turned townward again, and as

he tramped along his light heartedness re-asserted itself. His sense

of fairness made him feel that he had no grievance against the card

sharper, and in his innocence of the ways of the game it never occurred

to him that the friendly stranger who had showed him how to play it,

and the big fellow who insisted on his being "in", and the other player

who had won a hundred dollars a few minutes before, were all partners

with the sharper and probably at this moment were dividing his sixty

dollars--the price of old Slop-eye--between them.

Early next morning he was awake and astir. The recollection of his

loss sent a sudden pang through his morning spirits, but he tried to

close his mind to it. "No use worryin' over that," he said, jingling

the few coins that now represented his wealth. "That's over and gone.

I traded sixty dollars for my first lesson. Maybe it was a bad trade,

but anyway, I ain't goin' to squeal." He turned that thought over in

his mind. It suddenly occurred to him that it expressed a principle

which he might very well weave into his new life. "If I can jus' get

that idea, an' live up to it," he said, "never to squeal, no matter

what hits me, nor how, I guess it's worth sixty dollars." He whistled

as he finished dressing, ate his breakfast cheerfully, and set out in

search of employment.

CHAPTER FIVE

Almost the first person he met was the stranger who had schooled him in

the gambling game the night before. He greeted Dave cordially; his

voice had a soft, sedulous, almost feminine quality which Dave had not

noticed in their whispered conversation in the pool room. There was

something attractive about his personality; something which invited

friendship and even confidence, and yet beneath these emotions Dave

felt a sense of distrust, as though part of his nature rebelled against

the acquaintanceship.

"That was the rottenest luck you had last night," the stranger was

saying. "I never saw the beat of it. I knew you were wrong the moment

you had your hand down, but I couldn't butt in then. I was hoping

you'd stay and raise him next time; you might have got your money back

that way."

"Oh, I don't mind the money," said Dave, cheerfully. "I don't want it

back. In fact, I figure it was pretty well spent."

"Lots more where it came from, eh?" laughed the other. "You're from

the ranches, I see, and I suppose the price of a steer or two doesn't

worry you a hair's worth."

"_From_ is right," Dave replied. "I'm from them, an' I'm not goin'

back. As for money--well, I spent my last nickle for breakfast, so

I've got to line up a job before noon."

The stranger extended his hand. "Shake," he said. "I like you.

You're no squealer, anyway. My name is Conward. Yours?"

Dave told his name, and shook hands. Conward offered his cigarette

box, and the two smoked for a few moments in silence.

"What kind of a job do you want?" Conward asked at length.

"Any kind that pays a wage," said Dave. "If I don't like it I'll chuck

it as soon as I can afford t' be partic'lar, but just now I've got to

get a grub-stake."

"I know the fellow that runs an employment agency down here," Conward

answered. "Let's go down. Perhaps I can put you in right."

Conward spoke to the manager of the employment agency and introduced

Dave.

"Nothing very choice on tap to-day," said the employment man. "You can

handle horses, I suppose?"

"I guess I can," said Dave. "Some."

"I can place you delivering coal. Thirty dollars a month, and you

board with the boss."

"I'll take it," said Dave.

The boss proved to be one Thomas Metford. He owned half a dozen teams

and was engaged in the cartage business, specializing on coal. He was

a man of big frame, big head, and a vocabulary appropriate to the

purposes to which he applied it. Among his other possessions were a

wife, numerous children, and a house and barn, in which he boarded his

beasts of burden, including in the term his horses, his men, and his

wife, in the order of their valuation. The children were a by-product,

valueless until such time as they also would be able to work.

Dave's duties were simple enough. He had to drive a wagon to a coal

yard, where a very superior young man, with a collar, would express

surprise that he had been so long gone, and tell him to back in under

chute number so-and-so. It appeared to be always a matter of great

distress to this young man that Dave did not know which chute to back

under until he was told. Having backed into position, a door was

opened. There was a fiction that the coal in the bin should then run

into the wagon box, but, as Dave at once discovered, this was merely a

fiction. Aside from a few accommodating lumps near the door the coal

had to be shovelled. When the box was judged to be full the wagon was

driven on to the scales. If the load were too heavy some of it had to

be thrown off, while the young man with the collar passed remarks

appropriate to the occasion. If the load were too light less distress

was experienced. Then Dave had to drive to an address that was given

him, shovel the coal down a chute located in the most inaccessible

position the premises afforded, and return to the coal yard, where the

young man with the collar would facetiously inquire whether Mrs. Blank

had invited him in to afternoon tea, or if he had been waiting for a

change in the weather.

Conditions in the boarding-house had the value of distracting Dave's

attention from the unpleasantness of his work. Mrs. Metford,

handicapped by her numerous offspring, embittered by the regular

recurrence of her contributions to the State, and disheartened by

drudgery and overwork, had long ago ceased to place any store on

personal appearance or even cleanliness. As Dave watched her slovenly

shuffle to and from the kitchen, preceded and pursued by young Metfords

in all degrees of childish innocence, his mind flew back to dim

recollections of his own mother, and the quiet, noiseless order of

their home. Even in the latter days, when he and his father had been

anything but model housekeepers, they had never known such squalor as

this.

Metford's attitude toward his wife fluctuated from course humour to

brutality, but there was left in the woman no spark of spirit to

resist. With neither tongue nor eye did she make any response, and her

shufflings back and forth were neither hastened nor delayed by the

pleasure of her lord. Her bearing was that of one who has suffered

until the senses are numb, who has drunk the last dregs of bitterness,

for whom no possible change of condition can be worse. Her

indifference was tragic.

The sleeping accommodations had the virtue of simplicity. The Metford

tribe was housed in a lean-to which supported one wall of the kitchen,

and the eight boarders slept upstairs over the main part of the house.

The room was not large, but it had four corners, and in each corner

stood a cheap iron bed with baggy springs and musty mattress. The

ceiling, none too high at any part, sloped at the walls almost to the

edges of the beds. One table and wash basin had to serve for the eight

lodgers; those who were impatient for their turn might omit their

ablutions altogether or perform them in the horse-trough at the barn.

All Metford's employees, with the exception of Dave, were foreigners,

more or less inconversant with the English language. Somewhat to his

surprise, they maintained an attitude of superiority toward him,

carrying on their conversations in a strange tongue, and allowing him

little part in their common life. Dave's spirit, which had always been

accustomed to receive and be received on a basis of absolute equality,

rebelled violently against the intangible wall of exclusion which his

fellow workers built about themselves, and as they had shown no desire

for his company, he retaliated by showing still less for theirs, with

the result that he found himself very much alone and apart from the

life of his new surroundings.

His work and supper were over by seven o'clock each evening, and now

was the opportunity for him to begin the schooling for which he had

left the ranch. But he developed a sudden disinclination to make the

start; he was tired in the evening, and he found it much more to his

liking to stroll down town, smoke cigarettes on the street corners, or

engage in an occasional game of pool. In this way the weeks went by,

and when his month with Metford was up he had neglected to find another

position, so he continued where he was. He was being gradually and

unconsciously submerged in an inertia which, however much it might hate

its present surroundings, had not the spirit to seek a more favourable

environment.

So the fall and winter drifted along; Dave had made few acquaintances

and no friends, if we except Conward, whom he frequently met in the

pool rooms, and for whom he had developed a sort of attachment. His

first underlying sense of distrust had been lulled by closer

acquaintanceship; Conward's mild manner and quiet, seductive voice

invited friendship, and it became a customary thing for the two to play

for small stakes, which Dave won as often as he lost.

One Saturday evening as Dave was on the way to their accustomed resort

he fell in with Conward on the street. "Hello, old man," said Conward,

cheerily, "I was just looking for you. Got two tickets for the show

to-night. Some swell dames in the chorus. Come along. There'll be

doings."

There were two theatres in the town, one of which played to the better

class residents. In it anything of a risque nature had to be presented

with certain trimmings which allowed it to be classified as "art," but

in the other house no such restrictions existed. It was to the latter

that Conward led. Dave had been there before, in the cheap upper

gallery, but Conward's tickets admitted to the best seats in the house.

Dave had adopted town ways to the point where he changed his clothes

and put on a white collar Saturday evenings, and he found himself amid

the gay rustle and perfumes of the orchestra floor with a very pleasant

sense of being somebody among other somebodies. The orchestra played a

swinging air, to which his foot kept tap, and presently the curtain

went up and the show was on with a rush of girls and colour.

It was an entirely new experience. From the upper gallery the actors

and actresses always seemed more or less impersonal and abstract, but

here they were living, palpitating human beings, almost within hand

reach, certainly within eye reach, as Dave presently discovered. There

was a trooping of girls about the stage, with singing and rippling

laughter and sweet, clear voices; then a sudden change of formation

flung a line of girls right across behind the footlights, where they

tripped merrily through motions of mingled grace and acrobatics. Dave

found himself regarding the young woman immediately before him; all in

white she was, with some scintillating material that sparkled in the

glare of the spot-light; then suddenly she was in orange, and pink, and

purple, and mauve, and back again in white. And although she performed

the various steps with smiling abandon, there was in her dress and

manner a modesty which fascinated the boy with a subtlety which a more

reckless appearance would have at once defeated.

And then Dave looked in her face. It was a pretty face,

notwithstanding its grease-paint, and it smiled right into his eyes.

His heart thumped between his shoulders as though it would drive all

the air from his lungs. She smiled at him--for him! Now they were

away again; there were gyrations about the stage, he almost lost her in

the maze; a young man in fine clothes rushed in, and was apparently

being mobbed by the girls, and said some lines in a rapid voice which

Dave's ear had not been trained to catch; and then he danced about with

one of them--with the very one--with his one! My, how nimble she was!

He wondered if she knew the young man very well. They seemed very

friendly. But he supposed she had to do that anyway; it was part of

her job; it was all in the play. Certainly the young man was very

clever, but he didn't like his looks. Certainly he could dance very

well. "I could make him dance different to the tune of a six-shooter,"

Dave said to himself, and then flushed a little. That was silly. The

young man was paid to do this, too. Still it looked like a very good

job. It looked like a very much better job than shovelling coal for

Metford.

Then there was a sudden break-away in the dance, and the girl

disappeared behind a forest, and the mobbing of the young man

recommenced. Dave supposed she had gone to rest; dancing like that

must be hard on the wind. He found little to interest him now in what

was going on on the stage. It seemed rather foolish. They were just

capering around and being foolish. They were a lot of second-raters.

And the young man--it was plain he didn't care a whit for them; he was

just doing it because he had to. There was a vacant seat in front. He

wished the girl behind the forest would come down and rest there. Then

she could see the show herself. Then she could see--

But there was a whirr from the forest, and the girl re-appeared, this

time all in red, but not nearly so much in red as she had previously

been in white. My, what a quick change she had made! And how her

skirt stood out like a rim when she whirled herself! And the young man

left all the rest and went to dance with her again. Dave was not

altogether pleased with that turn of events. But presently the dance

broke up, and they were flung again in line across the stage. And

there she was, all in red--no, not all in red, but certainly not in any

other colour--right before him. And then she looked down and smiled

again at him. And he smiled back. And then he looked at Conward and

saw him smiling, too. And then he felt a very distressing uncertainty,

which brought the colour slowly to his face. He resolved to say

nothing, but watch. And his observations convinced him that the smiles

had been for Conward, not for him. And then he lost interest in the

play.

They hustled into their overcoats to the playing of the National

Anthem. "Hurry," said Conward, "let's get out quick. Ain't she some

dame? There--through the side exit--the stage door is that way. She

promised to have her chum with her--they'll be waiting if we don't

hurry."

Conward steered him to the stage entrance, where a little group was

already congregated. In a moment the girl appeared, handsomely dressed

in furs. Dave would not have known her, but Conward recognized her at

once, and stepped forward. With her was another girl, also from the

chorus, but Dave could not recall her part. He was suddenly aware of

being introduced.

"This is my friend Belton," Conward was saying. Dave was about to

correct him when Conward managed to whisper, "Whist! Your stage name.

Mine's Elward. Don't forget."

Conward took the first girl by the arm, and Dave found himself

following rapidly with the other. They cut through certain side

streets, up a stairway, and into a dark hall. Conward was rattling

keys and swearing amiably in his soft voice. Presently a door opened;

Conward pressed a button, and they found themselves in a small but

comfortably furnished room--evidently bachelor apartments.

The girls threw off their wraps and sauntered about the place,

commenting freely on the furnishings and decorations, while Conward

started a gas grate and put some water to boil.

"Sorry I've nothing for you to eat," he said, "but I've some good

medicine for the thirst."

"Eating's poor business when there's a thirst to be quenched," said one

of the girls, with a yawn. "And believe me, I've a long one."

Conward pulled a table into the centre of the room, set chairs about,

and produced glasses and a bottle. Dave experienced a sudden feeling

as of a poor swimmer beyond his depth. He had never drunk, not even

beer, not so much from principles of abstinence as from disgust over

his father's drunkenness and enmity towards the means of it. . . .

The glasses were filled and raised. "Ho!" said Conward.

"Here's looking!" said one of the girls. Dave still hesitated, but the

other girl clinked her glass against his. "Here's looking at you," she

said, and she appeared to lay special emphasis on the last two words.

Certainly her eyes were on Dave's as she raised her glass to her lips.

And under the spell of those eyes he raised his glass and drained it.

Other glasses were filled and drained. The three were chattering away,

but Dave was but vaguely conscious of their talk, and could weave no

connected meaning into it. His head was buzzing with a pleasant dreamy

sensation. A very grateful warmth surrounded him, and with it came a

disposition to go to sleep. He probably would have gone to sleep had

his eye not fallen on a picture on the wall, It was a picture of a girl

pointing her finger at him. He suspected that she was pointing it at

him, and as he looked more closely he became very sure of it. . . No

girl could point her finger at him. He arose and made a lunge across

the room. He missed her, and with difficulty retraced his steps to the

table to make a fresh start.

"She's makin' fun of me," he said, "an' I don't stand for that. Nobody

can do that with me. Nobody--see? I don't 'low it."

"Oh, you don't," laughed one of the girls, running into a corner and

pointing a finger at him. "You don't?"

He turned his attention to her, steadying himself very carefully before

he attempted an advance. Then, with wide-stretched arms, he bore down

cautiously upon her. When he had her almost within reach she darted

along the edge of the room. He attempted a sudden change in direction,

which ended disastrously, and he found himself very much sprawled out

upon the floor. He was aware of laughter, but what cared he? He was

disposed to sleep. What better place to sleep than this? What better

time to sleep than this? In a moment he was lost to all consciousness.

. . .

It was later in the night when he felt himself being dragged into a

sitting posture. He remonstrated in a mumbling voice. "'S too early,"

he said. "Altogether too early. Early. Whew! Watch 'er spin. Jus'

his job. Paid for it, ain't he?"

"Well, I ain't paid for this," said Conward, rather roughly, "and you

got to pull yourself together. Here, take a little of this; it'll put

some gimp into you." He pressed a glass to his lips, and Dave

swallowed.

"Where am I?" he said, blinking at the light.

He rose uncertainly to his feet and stared about the room in returning

consciousness.

"Where's the girls?" he asked.

"Gone," said Conward, sulkily. "Couldn't expect 'em to stick around

all night to say good bye, could you, and you sleeping off your drunk?"

Dave raised his hand to his head. A sense of disgrace was already upon

him. Then he suddenly turned in anger on Conward.

"You put this up on me," he cried. "You made a fool of me. I've a

mind to bash your skull in for you."

"Don't be silly," Conward retorted. "I didn't enjoy it any more than

you did--introducing you as my friend, and then have you go out like

that. Why didn't you tip me? I didn't know it would put you to sleep."

"Neither did I," said Dave.

"Well, the next thing is to get you home. Can you walk?"

"Sure." Dave started for the door, but his course suddenly veered, and

he found himself leaning over a chair. Conward helped him into his

overcoat, and half led, half shoved him to his boarding house.

CHAPTER SIX

Elden awoke Sunday morning with a feeling that his head had been

boiled. Also he had a prodigious thirst, which he slacked

[Transcriber's note: slaked?] at the water pitcher. It was the

practice of Metford's gang to select one of their number to care for

all the horses on Sundays, while the others enjoyed the luxury of their

one day of leisure. In consequence of this custom the room was still

full of snoring sleepers, and the air was very close and foul.

Dave sat down by the little table that fronted the open window and

rested his head on his hands. It was early spring; the snow was gone;

dazzling sunshine bathed the prairies in the distance, and near at hand

were the twitter of birds and the ripple of water. It was a day to be

alive and about.

But the young man's thoughts were not of the sunshine, nor the fields,

nor the water. He was recalling, with considerable effort, the events

of the previous night; piecing them together in impossible ways;

re-assorting them until they offered some sequence. The anger he had

felt toward Conward had subsided, but the sting of shame rankled in his

heart. He had no doubt that he had furnished the occasion for much

merriment upon the part of the young women, in which, quite probably,

Conward had joined.

"Fool," he said to himself. And because he could think of no more

specific expression to suit his feelings, and because expression of any

kind brought a sort of relief, he kept on repeating the word, "Fool,

fool, fool!" And as his self-condemnation gradually won him back to a

sense of perspective he became aware of the danger of his position. He

went over the events of the recent months, and tried to be rational.

He had left his ranch home to better himself, to learn things, to rise

to be somebody. He had worked harder than ever before, at more

disagreeable employment; he had lived in conditions that were almost

nauseating, and what had he learned? That you can't beat a card man at

his own game, price sixty dollars, and that the gallery seats are

cheaper, and sometimes safer, than the orchestra.

Then all of a sudden he thought of Reenie. He had not thought of her

much of late; he had been so busy in the days, and so tired at nights,

that he had not thought of her much. True, she was always in the back

of his mind; in his subconscious mind, perhaps, but he seemed to have

put her away, like his skill with revolver and lasso. Now she burst

upon him again with all that beauty and charm which had so magnetised

him in those glad, golden days, and the frank cleanness of her girlhood

made him disgusted and ashamed. It was to fit himself for her that he

had come to town, and what sort of mess was he making of it? He was

going down instead of up. He had squandered his little money, and now

he was squandering his life. He had been drunk. . .

Dave's nature was one in which emotions were accelerated with their own

intensity. When he was miserable his misery left no place in his soul

for any ray of sunshine. It fed on itself, and grew to amazing

proportions. It spread out from its original cause and enveloped his

whole life. It tinctured all his relationships, past, present and

future. When a cloud of gloom settled upon him he felt that it would

never lift, but became heavier and heavier until he was crushed under

its weight. And the sudden manner in which Reenie had now invaded his

consciousness intensified the blackness in which he was submerged, as

lightning darkens the storm. He saw her on that last night, with the

moonlight wooing her white face, until his own body had eclipsed it in

a warmer passion, and he heard her words, "I know you are true and

clean."

True and clean. "Yes, thank God, I am still that!" he cried, springing

suddenly to his feet and commencing to dress. "I've been spattered,

but nothing that won't wash off. Perhaps," and he stopped as the great

thought struck him, "perhaps it was the luckiest thing in the world

that the booze did put me out last night. . . It'll wash off."

There was considerable comfort in this thought. He had wasted some

precious months, but he had not gone too far, and there was still time

to turn back. But he must begin work at once on the serious business

of life. With this resolve his spirits returned with a rush, and he

found himself whistling as he completed his toilet. There was no

breakfast for the late sleepers Sunday mornings, and he went at once

into the warm air outside. The sunshine fondled his body, his limbs,

his face; the spring ozone was in his lungs; it was good to be alive.

Alive--for a purpose. Well, he would start at once; how could he begin

a life of purpose to-day? He was quite set on the necessity of doing

something, but quite at sea as to what that something should be. It

occurred to him for the first time that society had been much more

generous in supplying facilities for a boy to go down hill than to go

up.

He became aware of a bell ringing. At first the sound had fallen only

on his subconsciousness, but gradually he became aware of it, as one

being slowly recalled from sleep. Then he remembered that it was

Sunday, and that was a church bell. He had often heard them on

Sundays. He was about to dismiss the matter when a strange impulse

came into his mind. Why not go to church? He had never been in

church, and he felt that the surroundings of the pool hall would be

much more congenial. He had little stomach for church. What if the

rest of the gang should learn he had been at church?

"I believe you're afraid to go," he said to himself. That settled it.

In a few minutes he was at the church door, where an oldish man, after

surveying him somewhat dubiously, gave him a formal handshake and

passed him into the hands of an usher. The usher led him down an aisle

and crowded him into a small pew with several others. There were many

unoccupied pews, so Dave concluded it must be a church policy to fill

them full as far as they went. He also observed that the building was

filling up from the rear, notwithstanding the efforts of the ushers to

cajole the people farther down the aisles. Dave reflected that the

custom here was quite different from the theatre, especially the "rush"

gallery, where every one scrambled for the front seats.

He was very conscious of being observed, and there was an atmosphere of

formality and, as it seemed to him, of strained goodness that made him

uncomfortable. But presently the organ commenced and diverted his

interest from himself. It was very wonderful. His position commanded

a view of the organist, and Dave marvelled at the manner in which that

gentleman's feet hopped about, and how his hands flourished up and

down, and occasionally jumped from the keyboard altogether to jerk out

a piece of the machine.

Then the choir filed in. They were all dressed alike, and the men had

on a kind of gown. Dave thought that was very silly. By some mental

freak he found himself picturing a man with a gown roping a steer, and

it was only by a sudden tightening of his jaws that he prevented an

explosion of amusement. He was still feeling very happy over this when

a tall man entered from a side door and ascended the steps to the

pulpit. He moved very solemnly, and, when he sat down, rested his head

on his hand for a minute. Then he looked over the audience, and Dave

thought that his expression was one of approval. Then he looked at the

ceiling.

"He feels safe in his seat," thought Dave. "No buckin' in this bunch.

Well--"

The organ had broken forth in a great burst of sound and every one was

standing up. Dave did so too, belatedly. Then everybody sang. They

seemed to know just what to sing. It was all new to Dave, but it

sounded all right. It made him feel just like the sunshine did after

the stuffy room. Then they all sat down. Dave was becoming more

alert, and was not caught napping in this movement.

There was a short prayer, which Dave did not understand, and more

singing by everybody, and then the ushers came around for the

collection. Dave did not know how much to put on the plate, but he

supposed a good seat like this in the theatre would cost a dollar, so

he put on that amount. He noticed that his neighbour on one side put

on a nickel, and on the other side nothing at all. He began to think

he must have made a mistake. All this time the organ was playing

boisterously, but suddenly it dropped to a low, meditative theme, and

Dave began to fear it would stop altogether. But no; a young woman was

standing up in the choir; she was pretty, with quite a different air

and a finer comeliness than that of the theatre girls of the night

before. In some vague way she seemed reminiscent of Reenie Hardy.

Dave's introspection was not deep enough to know that any fine girl

would remind him of Reenie Hardy.