EAST AND WEST
When Miranda Bailey heard the news she announced her determination of
coming over to the Three Star to prepare for the visitors.
"I reckon my reputation'll stand it," she said, "seein' I'm older than
two of you an' the third is still a married man. That spineless
governess'll be writin' back to the Keith woman about everything she
sees, eats, sits or sleeps on. Pedro's cookin' is enough to give any
easterner dyspepsy. The whole house wants reddin' up, it ain't been
swept proper fo' a year."
Abashed, the partners gave her full sway. They lived on the porch in
their spare waking moments, they ate cold victuals, and the lives of
Pedro and Joe were made miserable. But the ranch-house was scoured from
top to bottom. Miranda's car brought over curtains for the windows,
flowers for the window-sills, odds and ends that made the place look
homely, cheerful, inviting. Pedro was given lessons at the stove that he
at first took sulkily but, being praised and his wages raised, took
pride in.
"He'll do," vouchsafed Miranda at last, the evening before the arrival.
"He's no hand at cookies or doughnuts an' never will be, but I'll bring
them over from time to time. He can make a pie an' biscuit an' he can
broil meat. I've taught him to mash his pertaters with milk 'stead of
water an' to put butter in his hot cakes. I'm stayin' over till supper
ter-morrer to see everything has a good staht."
"She's stayin' over to git a good look at the Nicholson party," Sam said
to Mormon. "All this ain't jest for Molly."
"There's nothin' between Miss Mirandy an' myse'f," replied Mormon with
dignity. "She's a wonderful housekeeper."
"She sure is. Me, I'm so I'm afeard to come into my own house, it's so
golderned clean. If that third wife of yor'n...."
The long-suffering Mormon turned upon his partner. They were seated on
the broad top rail of the breaking corral, waiting the call to supper.
Mormon clutched Sam by his collar and jerked him off the rail, catching
the slack cloth of his pants at the seat, holding him firmly gripped and
bending him across his padded lap. Despite Sam's kicks and squirms, he
paddled him unmercifully and then dropped him sprawling into the corral.
"I ain't done that to you, Sam Manning," he said sternly, "fo' five-six
years. An' you've got too all-fired fresh. Nex' time I'll do it in front
of Mirandy, you ornery, bow-laiged, hornin'-in son of a lizard."
Sam said nothing. His face, as he stooped somewhat painfully, was fiery
red. He took hold of a post to help himself up, pretending disability.
On the post a horsehair lariat hung from the snub of a lopped-off bough
of the tree that made the heavy stake. He fumbled with this while Mormon
shook with laughter like a great jelly. The next moment the lariat came
flying, circling, settled down over Mormon's head, over his body and
arms. Sam, working like a jumping-jack, took a quick turn, flung a coil
about Mormon's legs and in a few seconds, had him trussed helplessly to
the rail.
"Paddle me, you overgrown buzzard, will you? There you roost till
Mirandy comes to look for you."
Mormon pleaded and Sam pretended to be inflexible. At last they came to
a capitulation. Mormon promised to keep his hands off Sam, and the
latter vowed he would gibe no more about Mormon's matrimonial affairs,
past, present or future.
"An' don't _look_ nothin', neither," added Mormon as Joe glided into
sight and grunted his message.
"Grub piled. Squaw she say hurry."
For the life of him Sam could not resist a side glance of mirthful
suggestion at Miranda's tendency to issue orders. Mormon did not notice
it.
"There's room for five--supposed to be--in my car," said Miranda. "An'
there's four of us an' six to come back. The other car's in use. How we
goin' to manage it?"
"Mormon c'ud take the Nicholson party on his lap, if she ain't too
finicky," suggested Sam. This was hewing close to the line, and Mormon
glared at him while the spinster sniffed.
"Molly'll ride in with me," said Sandy. "I'm goin' over early on Pronto
an' take the white blazed bay along that Molly rode over the Goats'
Pass."
"Ride in?"
"She wrote she was jest waitin' fo' the minute she c'ud climb into a
real saddle, astride a range-bred hawss," said Sandy.
"She won't be dressed for it, travelin' on the train," said Mirandy.
"I've got a hunch she will," Sandy answered simply. "They got their own
private car. If she ain't, why, Sam can ride the bay back. But me an'
Pronto, the bay an' Grit are goin' thataway."
There were certain tones of Sandy's voice that gave absolute finality to
his statements. He used them on this occasion. The argument dropped. In
a way Sandy was making the matter a test of Molly. If she was as anxious
as she wrote to "fork a bronco," if she understood Sandy and he her, she
would feel that he would be waiting with her mount for her to return to
the ranch western fashion. If not, it meant that she was out of the
chrysalis and had become, not the busy bee that belongs to the mesquite
and the sage, but a gaudier, less responsible flutterer among eastern
flower-beds.
The bay with the white blaze had been groomed by Sandy until his hide
was glossy and rich as polished mahogany, while the blaze on his nose
shone like a plate of silver. His dark mane and tail had been braided
and combed until it crinkled proudly, the light shone from his curves
as he moved, reflecting the sky in the high-lights. Hoofs had been oiled
and Sandy had attended to his shoeing. The bay had been up for a month
and fed until he was almost pampered, save that Sandy took the excess
pepper out of him every morning.
A new saddle came from Cheyenne, most famous of all cities for making of
saddles that are tailor-made, the leather carved cunningly into
arabesques of cactus design, bossed and rimmed here and there with
silver, the pattern carried over into the tapideros that hooded the
stirrups, even into the bridle. It was a masterpiece of art craft, that
saddle, "made for a lady to ride astride," and it cost Sandy an even
quarter of a thousand dollars.
Sam and Mormon knew of the grooming of the horse but, when the saddle,
cinched above a Navajo blanket, smote their vision, they blinked and
complained. They too had gifts for the homecomer, but Sandy's outshone
them as a newly minted five-dollar gold piece does a silver coin.
"If that don't win her to stay west there ain't no use a-tryin',"
declared Sam as Sandy mounted and rode away, leading the bay. Grit,
newly washed also, sorely against his will, since he did not know the
occasion of the bath at the time of suffering it, went bounding on pads
of rubber, leaping up, tearing ahead and back, a shuttling streak of
gold and silver.
Miranda's caravan started an hour later, she driving, Mormon and Sam in
the back, each dressed in his best, minus chaparejos and spurs, but
otherwise most typically the cowboy and therefore out of place--and
feeling it--as they sat stiffly in the leatherette-lined tonneau.
Miranda was in starched linen, destitute of all ornament, a dark red
ribbon at her throat the only touch of color, looking extremely
efficient and, as Sam whispered to Mormon, "a bit stand-offish." He
wanted to add, "'count of the Nicholson party," but dared not.
The train rolled in majestically, the private car gleaming with varnish
and polished glass and brass, with a white-coated darky flashing white
teeth on the platform as the fussy local engine took the detached luxury
to the side-track designated for its Hereford location. There,
forewarned by the agent, much of Hereford assembled to witness the
arrival of the magnate who had helped to place them more definitely on
the map and increased their revenues as supply depot for Casey Town. The
flivver was parked and Miranda, Mormon and Sam made one group a little
ahead of the others, recognized by the crowd as privileged. Sandy sat
Pronto, talking to the restive bay, proudly conscious of its new
trappings and the remarks of the onlookers.
If Wilson Keith, clad in tweeds tailored on Fifth Avenue, a little
portly, square-faced, confident, a trifle condescending, typified the
East, Sandy was the West. A good horse is the incarnation of symmetry,
grace and power. Sandy, erect in the saddle, lean and keen, matched all
of Pronto's fitness. Man and mount both eminently belonged to the land,
shimmering with sage, far-stretching to the mountains, a land that
demanded and bred such a combination.
Sandy's clean-shaven face was sharp with obstacles faced and overcome,
his eyes held clean fine spirit, his jaw showed determination and the
good lines of his mouth belied obstinacy. He wore the regalia of his
cow-punching holidays, soft-collared shirt of blue, silk bandanna of
dark weave in lieu of tie, leather gauntlets, leather chaps, fringed and
buttoned with leather and trimmed with disk of silver, silver spurs on
his high-heeled boots, trousers of dark gray stripe, a quirt with the
handle plaited in black and white diamonds of horsehair dangling from
one wrist, and the blue Colts in the twin holsters. He could not avoid
being picturesque, yet there was nothing of the masquerader, the
moving-picture cowboy. He held the eye, even of Hereford, but only
because they liked to gaze upon a good man on a good horse. His body
responded to every shift of Pronto, jigging impatiently, showing off,
pretending to be afraid of the panting locomotive, body shining like
metal of bronze and aluminum, his nostrils pink as the inside of a
shell, ears twitching, rider and mount one in every movement. Grit stood
with plumy tail erect and waving gently, ears up, red tongue playing
between white teeth, his eyes like jewels; braced on his feet, tiptoe on
his pads, watching the parking of the private car with now and then a
glance of inquiry at Sandy.
Keith stood by the railing of his platform, the darky ready with the
dismounting stool. He surveyed the crowd affably, with the poise of a
successful candidate assured of welcome, waving his hand in demi-salute
to Sandy, Sam and Mormon, lifting his hat graciously to Miranda Bailey.
The man and the car emanated prosperity. Yet, for all the booming of
Casey Town, the finding of pay-ore, the sale of shares, Keith's present
financial status was not all that he trusted it might be within a short
time. It was part of the technique of his profession to assume a mask
and manner of financial success, and of late he had worn these until at
times they jaded him, but they were well designed, well worn, and no one
doubted but that Wilson Keith was a man of ready millions.
Keith was essentially a gambler. He knew that those who bought his
shares were largely tinctured with the same spirit that exists, more or
less, in almost every man. They were amateurs and Keith the
professional, that was the main difference. The average man likes to
believe himself lucky. Keith was no exception. He knew the prevalence of
the trait and traded upon it. Also he knew the gold mining game from
prospect to prospectus and possible profit. But the expert faro-dealer,
after his trick is over, is apt to take his wages to the roulette wheel
of an opposition house and buck a game that his experience tells him is,
like his own, run with the percentages against the player.
Keith had dallied with oil, had speculated, plunged, been persuaded to
invest heavily. He was beginning to have a vague fear of not being so
certain as he would have wished as to which end of the line he had
taken, that of the baited hook, or the end that was attached to the reel
that automatically plays the fish.
He sold gold and he was buying oil. More, he was sinking wells, infected
with the fever of the game, whereas, with his own mines, he was cool
with the poise of the physician who takes count of a pulse. Others,
partners with him in new enterprises in the petroleum field, were making
sudden fortunes. His turn had not come yet, but they assured him that
his ventures promised even more than those that had enriched them.
Faster than gold came out of Casey Town, Keith used it in Oklahoma and
Texas. He had come west to view his resources, to strain them to the
utmost, to overlook the ground with the eye of the past-master of
promotion, who could conjure up visions of wealth from the barest
indication of pay-ore, trusting to find inspiration for further
flotation on his return to New York, his market-place, "fresh from the
field of operations."
The engine uncoupled and panted off, leaving the car at rest on the
spur-track. The fox-faced secretary came out, held the door open. Some
one followed Molly Casey. Sandy surmised it must be Donald Keith, but he
had sight for nothing except the slender figure whose radiant face,
between a Panama hat and a dustcoat of pongee silk, shone straight at
him. It was Molly, but a glorified Molly, woman not girl. The freckles
had gone, the snub nose had become defined, the eyes of Irish blue
seemed to have deepened in hue back of their smudgy lashes. The wide
mouth was the same, scarlet and soft as cactus blossom, smiling, opening
in a glad cry....
"Sandy!" Her arms went out toward him in greeting over the brass
railing. Then Grit, catapulting from ground to platform, with frantic
yaps of welcome, fairly bowled over the darky with his mounting block
and bounded up into Molly's embrace. There was confusion on the platform
for a moment with Grit as the nucleus. Another person had come out,
evidently Miss Nicholson. She was neither undernourished nor thin, she
was medium-sized and her bones were well covered. She had the general
appearance of a white rabbit and the manners of a maternally intentioned
but none too efficient hen. "Amenable" described her in one word. The
darky was bringing out kitbags and suit-cases, piling them on the
ground. Sam tackled him and showed him the flivver.
"There's a cupple of trunks," said the porter.
"We'll come back for them," Sam told him and helped him pile in the
smaller baggage.
Keith descended first, Molly darted by his extended hand and ran
straight to Sandy, who had dismounted.
"I'm going to hug you, and Mormon and Sam, as soon as we get home to the
ranch," she cried. "Home! I'm so glad to be here. Pronto, you beauty,
and my own bay, Blaze! Do you remember the trip over the mesa, Blaze?
How did you know I wanted to ride to Three Star instead of drive?"
"Took a chance," said Sandy. "Do you?" The old woman-shyness had come
over him, fighting with his knowledge of the child who had changed into
a woman. And the pongee duster deceived him.
"Do I? Didn't I write you I was aching to fork a saddle? Look!"
She unbuttoned the duster with swift fingers and stripped it off,
standing revealed in riding togs of smallest black and white checks,
coat flaring out from the trim waist, slim straight legs in breeches and
riding boots, a white stock about the slender, rounded neck. She gave
one hand to Mormon, the other to Sam, gazing at her in admiration that
was radiant and goggle-eyed.
"You're losing weight, Mormon," she said. "I believe you must be in
love."
"I allus was, with you," gallantried Mormon.
"You stand aside, you human chuckawalla!" said Sam. "Miss Molly, you
sure look good to sore eyes. An' I'm sure happy you're in my debt, if
you ain't grown up too fur to pay yore dues."
"I always pay my debts, Sam. What do you mean?"
"It was me kissed the dawg," said Sam. "I give the animile somethin' I
hadn't received."
Molly laughed at him reassuringly. Sandy, looking down at her, saw her
eyes crinkle at the corners in the old way. Keith and his son joined
them, coming from the car, the Amenable Nicholson hovering behind
ingratiatingly.
"Glad to see you, Bourke," he said. "And you, Manning. You too, Peters.
Meet my son, Donald."
The three partners shook hands gravely with the boy, appraising him
without his guessing it.
"Glad to see you out west," said Mormon. "We'd sure admire to have you
visit us fo' a spell."
"I was hoping for a bid," said young Keith. "Thanks. The car is here, or
will be within an hour or two. Father shipped it ahead. Sims wired us it
was at the junction. He will drive it over for us to go on to Casey Town
as soon as he overhauls it. Then I'll run in from the mines, as soon as
Dad can spare me."
"Donald has to get acquainted with a real mining property," said Keith
affably. "Molly was certain you would have a horse for her, Bourke.
Don't wait round for us. We have to get some supplies and we'll wait in
my car till the machine comes. Er"--he looked around, and Miss Nicholson
fluttered up--"this is Molly's companion, Miss Nicholson. She goes with
you to the ranch. How...?"
Sandy indicated the flivver and introduced Miranda Bailey, who had been
directing the stowage of the grips and the proper subordination of the
porter, who had not seemed appreciative of the flivver.
Molly held out a gloved hand for the reins of the fretful Blaze. Young
Keith advanced with the proffer of a palm of her mounting. She shook her
head at him.
"Blaze wouldn't know what you were trying to do, Don," she said. She
turned the stirrup, set in her foot, grasped mane and horn and raised
herself lightly, holding her body close to the bay's withers for a
second as he whirled, then lifting to the saddle, firm-seated, with a
laugh for Blaze's plungings.
"I see they didn't unteach you ridin' back east," said Mormon
admiringly.
The pair rode out of the crowd that opened for them, with whispered
comments upon Molly's appearance, or rather, her reappearance. There
were few stings in the remarks; the girl's spontaneous gaiety, her
absolute unconsciousness of effort or cause, her evident delight in her
return and reunion with the Three Star partners, disarmed all criticism
of her costume. The Amenable Nicholson clambered into the flivver beside
Miranda Bailey. Sam, Mormon and the grips packed the tonneau, and Keith
and his son were left standing by the private car.
Keith was soon surrounded with a crowd, making himself popular,
flattering them until they finally went away convinced that they had all
constituted a first-class reception committee to meet the illustrious,
the energetic, good-fellow-well-met promoter and engineer of other
people's fortunes.
Some of them were invited into the car for a private talk. It is certain
that cigars were handed round and it was hinted that some private stock
had found its way upon the car. When, three hours later, the big machine
with Sims the chauffeur, imperturbable as ever, at the wheel, departed
with the promoter and his heir, the name of Keith was, for a time at
least, a household word in Hereford.
There was not much spoken between Molly and Sandy on the way back to the
ranch. She seemed content to breathe in deep the herb-scented air and
gaze at the mountains.
Sandy, riding a little to one side, a little back of her, so that he
could see her better without appearing to stare, echoed, for the time,
her happiness. It seemed to him as if this ride had been dreamed of by
him, long ago, as if he had always known this was to happen, the gallop,
side by side, the wind in their faces, their gaze toward the range, he
and a woman who was all the world to him. Even the dog, leaping beside
them as they loped, ranging when the pinto and the bay broke to a
breathing walk, belonged in that picture. It was, he told himself, as if
a boy had long cherished an illustration seen in a book and, suddenly,
the beloved picture had become real and he a part of it.
This was Molly, the girl, who had sworn when she told them of her
father's death. He could recall the tone of the words at will.
"The damned road jest slid out from under. He didn't have a
hell-chance!"
Molly, who had put arms about his neck and kissed him good-by when she
went to school--how long ago that seemed--and said, "Sandy, I don't want
to go, but I'll be game."
Game! Sandy looked at the supple strength of her, so subtly knit in
curves of graciousness, alert and upright in the new saddle, Panama hat
in one hand, the better to get the wind full in her face, her cheeks
flushed with the caress of it, the thick brown braids fluffing here and
there;--she was the essence of gameness. He had quoted _Lasca_ to her
once--a line or two. More came to him now.
To ride with me and forever ride,
From San Saba's shore to Valacca's tide.
Molly, who had told him, the first time the woman-look had come into her
eyes, "Yo're sure a white man. I'll git even with you some time if I
work the bones of my fingers through the flesh fo' you. Thanks don't
'mount to a damn 'thout somethin' back of them 'em. I'll come through."
That Molly, and yet another Molly, swiftly maturing, with all life
opening up before her to wider horizons than would have been hers if she
had stayed back west.
I want free life and I want free air,
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of whips like shots in battle,
The melee of horns and hoofs and heads.
Pronto's hoofs beat out the cantering rhythm of the poem.
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads,
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger and life and----
He had stopped the quotation there before. Now he finished the stanza,
----and life and love
And Lasca!
Only it was Molly! The knowledge swept over Sandy and left him tingling.
Love came to him, the first, clean white flame of first love, burning
like a lamp in the heart of a man. It was for this, he knew, that he had
been woman-shy, that he had cherished his own thought of womanhood as
something so rare a thought might tarnish it. First love, shorn of boy
fallacies, strong, irresistible, protective, passionate. He closed his
eyes and, for the first time in his life, touched leather, gripping the
horn of his saddle as if he would squeeze it to a pulp.
Game and dainty, tender, true, a girl-woman, partner--what a partner she
would make, western-bred...!
He checked himself there. She was western born but, what had the
transplanting done? Would she ever now be satisfied with western ways?
She would come to him, Sandy knew that. Whatever he asked her she would
not refuse. But would that be fair to her? And he did not want her to
come to him out of gratitude. He wanted her nature to fuse with his.
Swiftly maturing as she had done, out of the ruggedness of her early
years, she was still young in Sandy's eyes.
It seemed no time since he had taken her from her saddle and carried
her, a tired heartsore child, in his arms. She must have a fair chance
to see if the East, with all it could offer her of amusement and
interest, would not outbid the claims of the West. He must wait and
watch and hold himself in hand though his love and his knowledge of it
thrilled through him, charging him as if with an electric current that
strove to close all gaps between him and Molly, struggling ever, in mind
and body, to complete the circle.
Molly reined up Blaze and turned in her saddle toward him, her eyes
sparkling, the color of lupines damp with the dew of dawn. Their eyes
met, the glance held, welded. For a moment the circuit was formed,
polarity effected. For a moment Sandy looked deep and then Molly's eyes
hazed with tenderness, with a yearning that made Sandy's heart
constrict, that warned him his emotions were getting beyond control, his
own eyes betraying him. He summoned his will. His face hardened to the
effort, his eyes steeled. Molly's face flushed rose, from the line of
her white linen riding stock up to her hair, then it paled, her eyes
seemed to hold surprise, then hurt. Their expression changed, Sandy
could not read it now as long lashes veiled them. He spoke with an
effort, his voice sounded strange to himself, phonographic.
"How's the saddle?" he heard himself asking.
"It's wonderful. I'm not going to begin to thank you for it, now,
Sandy."
"Glad to be back?"
She shook her head at him.
"No words for that, Sandy." Her eyes crinkled at him, with a hint of
mischief, the old Molly looking out. "If you want to find that out, just
you watch my smoke," she said, and set her heels sharply to the flanks
of her mount. The astonished Blaze responded with a snort and a leap and
cut loose his speed, Sandy after them on the pinto.
They got to the ranch ahead of the flivver by a scant margin. Miranda
Bailey inducted Molly and her chaperon governess into the quarters she
had helped prepare for them, Molly giving little cries of delight at the
improvements she saw down-stairs. Miranda came down first and joined the
partners.
"Molly is certainly sweet," she said. "She's grown into a woman an'
she's grown away from the old Molly. Can't say as how she's affected
none an' her speech an' manners is sure fine. That gel's natcherally got
a grand disposition.
"The Nicholson person--her first name is Clarice--is well-meanin'
enough. She ain't shif'less, but she ain't what you'd call practical. I
reckon she does fine in teachin' Molly some things, but she'd be plumb
wasted out West. She never saw a churn an' she'd likely die of thirst
before she'd ever learn how to milk a cow. She's like the rest of 'em
back East, I imagine, goes fine so long as folks can be hired to do
everything fo' you. I'll say she never washed out anything bigger than a
hankychif or cooked a thing larger'n an egg. An' she c'udn't boss a sick
lizard. But she's easy to git along with, I suppose."
There was a certain complacency about the spinster's summing up of the
Amenable Nicholson that made Sam wink covertly at Sandy, watching Mormon
at the same time. Sam was convinced that, despite the handicap of a
third wife, present whereabouts unknown, Miranda had made up her mind to
marry Mormon and regarded all other women as possible rivals.
"That Donald is a good-lookin' lad," went on Miranda. "It must take him
an awful waste of time to fix his clothes every time he puts 'em on. I
don't know how smart he is inside, but he's got some of them
movin'-picture heroes beat on appearance. I'm wonderin' what Molly
thinks about him. As for his father, he's smart enough inside an' out.
But he talks too much like a politician to suit me. I'm mighty glad we
got cash for our claims. Keith's too slick an' smooth an' smilin' to
suit me. So long as he had lots he'd give you some to help the game
erlong but, when the grazin' gits short, he'll hog the range or quit it.
That's my opinion. Or ruther, it ain't my opinion, for I ain't done a
heap of thinkin' on it, it's the way I feel. Some apples sets my teeth
on aidge before I know it, some victuals riles my stomach jest to
mention 'em. I never c'ud abear castor-ile, jest the mention of it makes
me squirmy. Keith affects me that way, on'y in my mind, well as in the
pit of my stomach."
It was a lengthy diatribe from Miranda Bailey, accustomed as they were
to hear her state opinions freely. The trio at Three Star had
universally come to respect her decisions and also her intuitions and
none of them had felt especially cordial toward Keith as a man, though
they considered him good in his profession.
"The writer, Kiplin'," said Sandy, "wrote a poem about East an' West,
sayin' that never the two c'ud meet. I reckon he meant White Man an'
Yeller Man but, seems to me, sometimes they do breed mighty different
east an' west of the Mississippi. The man in New York is sure a heap
different from the man in Denver or San Francisco or Phoenix. Out here
we reckon a man is square till we find him out different an', back East,
they figger he's a crook till he proves he ain't--which is apt to be
some job. I don't cotton to Keith myse'f, because he ain't my kind of a
hombre. He don't talk my talk, or think my line of thought, any mo' than
he wears the same clothes or does the same work. Give him a cow pony or
strand me alongside one of them stock-market tickers an' we'd both look
foolish. I'm playin' him as square till I find he ain't. Ef he tries to
flamjigger Molly out of anything that's comin' to her by rights, why, I
reckon that's one time the West an' East is goin' to meet--an' mebbe lap
over a bit. So fur, he's put money in our pockets. Here's Molly...."
"I'm goin' home," said Miranda, as the girl entered the room. "I've got
you started an' I'll run over once in a while to see how Pedro is makin'
out."
She said good-by to Molly, who had swiftly changed out of her riding
clothes into a gown that looked simple enough to Sandy, though he sensed
there were touches about it that differentiated it from anything turned
out locally. With the dress she looked more womanly, older, than in the
boyish breeches. Miss Nicholson had made some changes also, but she had
a chameleon-like faculty of blending with the background that preserved
her alike from being criticized or conspicuous. As she shook hands with
Miranda the two presented marked contrasts. Miranda was
twentieth-century-western, of equal rights and equal enterprise; Miss
Nicholson mid-Victorian, with no more use for a vote than for one of
Sandy's guns. Yet likable.
"I'm going to Daddy's grave," said Molly, when Miranda had flivvered
off. "I wish the three of you would come there to me in about ten
minutes. Miss Nicholson, everybody's at home here. Please do anything
you want to, nothing you don't want to. She rides, Sandy. And rides
well. Can you get up a horse for her to-morrow?"
Miss Nicholson's face flushed, the suggestion of a high-light came into
her mild eyes.
"I used to ride a good deal," she said. "But I have no saddle, no habit,
and I am afraid--" She hesitated looking at them in embarrassment.
"Nicky, dear, you must learn to ride western fashion. With divided
skirts, if you like. We can get you a khaki outfit in Hereford."
"I should like to try it," said Miss Nicholson, her face still flaming,
the high-light quite apparent.
"Up to you, Sam," said Sandy. "I sh'ud think the blue roan w'ud suit."
"I'll have her gentled to a divvy-skirt this time ter-morrer," said Sam
gallantly. "You've got pluck, marm--I mean, miss--an' once you've forked
a saddle, you'll never ride otherwise."
Miss Nicholson gasped at Sam's metaphor and Mormon kicked him on the
shin.
"What's the idea?" he demanded after Molly had gone out and Miss
Nicholson had ensconced herself on the veranda with a book.
"You're plumb indelicut. You ought to be ashamed of yorese'f. You got to
be careful round females, Sam Mannin', with yore expressions. Speshully
one like this Nicholson party. She's a lady."
"Who in hell said she ain't?" demanded Sam. "Me--I guess I know how to
treat a lady, well as the nex' man. I don't notice you ever made a grand
success of it with yore three-strikes-an'-out."
Mormon disdained to reply. They went outside and, at the end of the ten
minutes, walked together toward the cottonwoods. Grit was lying on the
grave, and they saw Molly kneeling by the little railing. They advanced
silently over the turf and stood in a group about her with their hats
off and their heads bowed. Grit made no move and Molly did not look up
for two or three minutes. Then she greeted them with a smile. There were
no tear-signs on her face though her eyes were moist.
"I wanted to thank you all," she said, "and to tell you how glad I am
to be back. I have met lots of people, of all sorts and kinds, but not
one of them who could hold a candle to any of you three kind,
true-hearted friends. I wanted to do it here where Daddy is in the place
you gave him and made for him under the trees, close to the running
water. I was only a girl--a kiddie--when I went away. I think I am a
great deal older now, perhaps, than other girls of my age. And I realize
all you have done for me. The only thing is, I don't know how to begin
to thank you."
She went to Mormon and took hold of both his hands, her head raised,
lips curved to kiss him. Mormon stooped and turned his weathered cheek,
but Molly kissed him full on the lips. So with Sam, despite the enormous
mustache. Then she came to Sandy, taller than the others, his face
grave, under control, the eagerness smothered in his eyes, desire
checked by reverence for the pure affection of the offered salute. He
fancied that her lips trembled for a moment as they rested softly warm,
upon his own. But the tremor might have been his own. He knew his heart
was pounding against the slight touch of her slenderness that was
manifest with womanhood. His arms ached with the restraint he set upon
them, despite the presence of Mormon and Sam.
Grit surveyed the gift of thanks gravely, as a ceremony, as some ancient
lineaged noble might have looked upon the bestowal of sacrament and
accolade for honorably deserved knighthood. Perhaps it was that and the
dog knew it. To Sandy, the little space about the grave, where the great
cottonwoods waved overhead like banners, their trunks like pillars, the
dappled carpet of the turf, with the sweet air blowing through the
clearing and peeps of blue above through the boughs, was like a
sanctuary. That the two others, men of rough life and free habit, yet of
clean thought and decent custom, were touched with the same sensation,
their eyes attested.
"I've brought some things for you," said Molly. "Just presents that I
bought in shops. But I wanted to thank you out here where Daddy lies."
She sought their glances, searching to see if they understood,
satisfied.
"We're sure glad to git back the Mascot of the Three Star," said Mormon.
"An' the sooner you git through bein' eddicated an' come back fo' keeps,
the better," amended Sam.
Sandy said nothing but smiled at her and Molly smiled back again.
"I think you have been my mascot rather than me yours," she demurred.
"Shucks!" said Mormon. "Yore mine, warn't it? He found it," he added,
setting a brown big hand on the headstone. "You wait till you see what
we bought with our share of the Molly Mine. Prime stock an' machinery.
Look at the new corrals an' buildin's. Wait till you've gone over the
place. An' we sure have been lucky with everythin'. I'll say you're a
mascot."
"I've still got my lucky piece," she said and pulled out of her neck,
suspended by the fine chain of gold, the gold piece with which Sandy had
won the stake that had started her east. "Now show me all the
improvements. We'll get Kate Nicholson. She's a first-class scout if you
ever get her out of the shell she crawled into a long time ago when her
folks suddenly lost everything they had. If we had a piano, Sam, she'd
play the soul out of your body. Wait until she gets at the harmonium
to-night. You and she will have to play duets, Sam, you on the
three-decked harmonica I got for you."
"Aw, shucks!" protested Sam? "I'm no musician."
"You are," she said gaily. "You are my Three Wise Men of the West. You
are all magicians. You took me out of the desert, you have made life
beautiful for me. Don't dispel the illusion, Soda-Water Sam. I'd rather
hear you play _El Capitan_ than listen to the Philharmonic Orchestra."
"Whatever that is," answered Sam.
Molly's words were light but her eyes were frankly wet now and so were
those of the three men.
"Come, Grit," she said, and the dog bounded to her, licking her hand,
and so to the rest of them cementing the alliance in his own way.
"Some day!" speculated Mormon as they went to the ranch-house. He got a
good deal into those two words, for all three of them.