A STRANGER
As the weeks passed, each day bringing its period of companionship, this
friendship and understanding between them became perfect in its
simplicity. Pat learned to know her wishes almost without the reins, and
he showed that he loved to carry her. Also, with these daily canters on
the mesa he developed in bodily strength, and it was not long before he
was in the pink of condition. Yet it was a perfection that was only
natural for him. The quality of his blood was shown in his nostrils,
which were wide and continuously atremble; in his eyes, which were
bright and keenly alert; and in his ears, which were fine and vibrant.
Stepping through town each morning under Helen's restraining hand, he
would pick up his hoofs with a cleanliness and place them down with a
grace that always commanded the attention of admiring eyes. But he
seemed unconscious of his quality.
Dressed in her usual dark riding-habit, Helen entered the corral one
morning for her daily canter across the mesa. Already Pat was bridled
and saddled. But as she stepped alongside to mount, Miguel appeared in
the stable door with a brief tale of trouble and a warning. It seemed
that he had experienced difficulty in preparing the horse, and between
puffs at a cigarette he strongly advised Helen to be careful.
"He's a-very fresh thees mornin'," he concluded, with an ominous shake
of his head.
Helen looked Pat over. He appeared in anything but a cantankerous mood.
He was standing quietly, eyes blinking sleepily, ears wriggling lazily,
in an attitude of superior indifference toward all the world. So,
untroubled by the hostler's tale, she slipped her foot into the stirrup.
Instantly the horse nickered queerly and stepped away.
"Steady, Pat!" she gently admonished, and again attempted to mount. But,
as before, he stepped away, this time more abruptly. He began to circle
around her, prancing nervously, pausing to paw the ground, prancing
again nervously. She held firm grip on his bridle, however, and sharply
rebuked him. "Pat," she exclaimed, "this is a new trait!" And then,
before he could resist again, she caught hold of the saddle-horn, leaped
up, hardly touching the stirrup, and gathered the reins quickly to meet
further rebellion.
But with her in the saddle Pat was quite another horse. He snapped his
ears at attention, wheeled to the gate, and cantered briskly out of the
corral.
It was a beautiful morning. The air nipped with a tang of frost, and she
rode swiftly through town and up the hill to the mesa in keen
exhilaration. Once on the mesa, Pat dashed off ecstatically in the
direction of the mountains. The pace was thrilling. The rush of the
crisp wind, together with the joy of swift motion, sent tingling blood
into Helen's cheeks, while the horse, racing along at top speed, flung
out his hoofs with a vigor that told of the riot of blood within him.
Thus they continued, until in the shadow of the mountains--just now
draped in their most delicate coloring, the pink that accompanies
sunbeams streaming through fading haze--she pulled Pat down and gave
herself over to the beauty of the scene. The horse, also appreciative,
came to a ready stop and turned his eyes out over the desert in
slow-blinking earnestness.
"Pat!" suddenly cried Helen. She pulled his head gently around in the
direction of the mountain trail. "Look off there!"
Above the distant trail hung a thin cloud of dust, and under the cloud
of dust, and rolling heavily toward town, creaked a lumber rigging,
piled high with wood and drawn by a pair of plodding horses--plodding
despite the bite and snarl of a whip swung with merciless regularity.
The whip was in the hands of a brawny Mexican, who, seated confidently
on the high load, appeared utterly indifferent to the trembling
endeavors of his scrawny team. He was inhaling the smoke of a cigarette,
and with every puff mechanically flaying the horses. The spectacle
aroused deep sympathy in the girl.
"Only consider, Pat!" she exclaimed, after a while. "Those poor,
miserable horses--half-starved, cruelly beaten, yet of God's own
making!" She was silent. "Suppose you had been born to that service,
Pat--born to that oppression! You are one of the fortunate!" And she
bent forward and stroked him. "One of the fortunate!" she repeated,
thoughtfully.
Indeed Pat was just that. But not in the way Helen meant. For such was
the whim of Fate, and such is the limit of human understanding, she did
not know, and never would know, save by the grace of that Fate, that Pat
had been born in just that service, born to just that oppression; that
only by the kindness of Fate he had been released from that service,
that oppression, that he had been guided out of that environment and
cast into a more kindly, bigger, and truer environment--her own!
But Pat only blinked stolid indifference at the spectacle. He appeared
to care nothing for the misery of other horses, nor to appreciate her
tenderness when directed elsewhere than toward himself. After a time, as
if to reveal this, he set out of his own volition toward a particularly
inviting bit of flower, dainty yellow in the brown of the desert.
Plucking this morsel, he fell to munching it in contentment, and
continued to munch it till the last vestige disappeared. Then, again of
his own volition, he broke into a canter. Helen smiled and pulled him
down.
"You're a strange horse, Pat," she declared, and fell to stroking him
again. "And not the least strange thing about you is your history.
Sometimes I wonder whether you are actually blooded. Certainly you look
it, and at times assuredly you act it; yet if you are so valuable, why
didn't somebody claim you that time? It is all very mysterious." And she
relapsed into silence, gazing at him thoughtfully.
Aroused by sudden faint gusts of wind, she glanced around and overhead.
She saw unmistakable signs of an approaching storm, and swung Pat about
toward home. As the horse broke into a canter the gusts became more
fitful and sharper, while the sun, growing dim and hazy, cast
ever-increasing shadow before her. Presently, as far as the eye could
reach, she saw the landscape spring into active life. Dust-devils
whirled about in quick eddies, stray sheets of paper leaped up,
tumbleweed began steady forward movement, rabbit-like, scurrying before
the winds, the advance occupied by largest growths, the rear brought up
with smallest clumps, the order determined by the area each presented to
the winds. It was all very impressive, but, knowing the uncertain
character of the elements, and uncertain whether this foretold violent
sand-storm or milder wind-storm, she was gripped with apprehension. She
urged Pat to his utmost.
And Pat responded, though he really needed but little urging. With each
sudden gust he became increasingly afraid. Holding himself more and more
alert to every least movement about him, he was steadily becoming keyed
up to a dangerous pitch. Rollicking tumbleweed did not worry him any
more than did the swirling dust-devils. These were things of the desert,
each the complexion of the desert. But not so with scraps of paper.
Their whiteness offered a startling contrast to the others, and,
whisking about frantically, they increased his fears. Then suddenly a
paper struck him, whipped madly across his eyes. It was unexpected, and
for an instant blinded him. Gripping the bit in his teeth, he bolted.
His sudden plunge almost unseated Helen. But, recovering, she braced
herself grimly in the stirrups and pulled mightily on the reins. But she
could not hold him. He increased his speed, if anything, and hurtled
across the desert--head level, ears flat, legs far-reaching. She braced
herself again, flinging back head and shoulders, thrusting her feet far
forward, and continued to pull. But it counted for nothing. Yet she did
not weaken, and under her vigorous striving, coupled with the jolting of
the horse, her tam-o'-shanter flew off, and her hair loosened and fell,
streaming out whippingly behind. And then suddenly, struck with terror
herself, she cried out in terror.
"Pat!" she burst out. "Pat! Pat!"
But the horse seemed not to hear. Thundering madly forward, he appeared
blind as well as fear-stricken, and Helen, suddenly seeing a barb-wire
fence ahead, felt herself go faint, for she had never taken a fence, and
she knew that Pat never had. She must get control of herself again. And
this she did. Stiffening in the stirrups, she gripped a single rein in
both hands and pulled with all her strength. But she could not swerve
the horse. On he plunged for the obstruction, evidently not seeing it.
She screamed again.
"Pat! Pat! Pat!"
But, as before, the horse did not heed. He dashed to the fence. He
hesitated, but only for an instant. Throwing up his head, he rose and
took the fence cleanly. Once on the other side, he resumed his frantic
racing--pounding along in the mountain trail, his course clearly
defined, hurtling madly straight toward town. With the fence safely
cleared, and the way ahead free of vehicles, Helen regained much of her
composure. Settling calmly to the rhythmic movement, she permitted the
horse free rein. Once she reached back to gather up her hair, but the
motion of the horse forbade this. So she fell to watching his splendid
energy, finding herself quite calm and collected again, vaguely
wondering how it would end. For the horse seemed tireless.
Wise in his knowledge of first principles, and remembering the terrible
slap across his eyes, Pat continued to rush forward. As he ran he kept
eyes alert about him, fearing another blow. He knew that the thing was
white, and he watched for a white something. Instead of a white
something, however, there presently loomed up beside him a brown
something, browner even than the desert, a something racing along beside
him, moving with a speed equal to his own--even greater than his own!
But he did not pause to analyze this. Instead, he forced himself to
greater efforts, pounding the hardened trail with an energy that hurt
his ankles, stretching neck and legs to their utmost limit of fiber--on
and on in increased frenzy. But he could not best this object beside
him. Yet that did not discourage him. He continued grimly forward, stung
to desperation now by a double purpose, which was to outrun this thing
on his right as well as get away from the other possible pursuing
object. Yet the brown thing gained upon him--drew steadily nearer,
steadily closer--he saw a hand shoot out. He felt a strong pull on his
bridle, a tearing twist on the bit in his mouth, and found himself
thrown out of his stride. But not even with this would he accept defeat.
He reared in a nervous effort to shake off the hand. Finding this
futile, he dropped back again, and at last came to a trembling, panting,
nerve-racked pause.
The thing was a horseman. He hurriedly dismounted, still retaining hold
on Pat's bridle, and smiled up at Helen.
"I--I tried to overtake you--to overtake you before you reached the
fence," he began to explain, pausing between words for breath. "This
horse of yours can--can claim--claim anything on record--for speed." And
he looked Pat over admiringly.
Helen did not speak at once. In the moment needed to regain her
self-possession she could only regard him with mute gratitude. She saw
that he was young and well-built, though lean of features, but with
frank, healthy eyes. He was not at all bad-looking. Also she observed
that he was neatly garbed in puttees and knickerbockers, and she quickly
appraised him as the usual type of Easterner come into the valley to
spend the winter. Then she suddenly remembered her hair. Woman-like, she
hastily gathered it up into a knot at the back of her head before she
answered this young man smiling up at her.
"Pat never ran like that before," she explained, a bit nervously. "I was
beginning to wonder what would happen at the railroad crossing. You
checked him just in time. I--I really owe--"
"Sure he won't charge again?" interrupted the young man, evidently
wishing to avoid any expression of gratitude on her part.
"I--I am quite certain," she replied, and then, after thanking him,
slowly gathered up the reins. But she did not ride on, for the reason
that the other, now absorbed in a cool survey of Pat's outlines,
retained his hold on the bridle. Yet neither the survey nor the grip on
the bridle displeased her.
"A splendid horse," he declared, after a moment. "A beautiful animal!"
Then, evidently suddenly mindful that he was detaining her, he stepped
back.
Helen again prepared to ride on.
"Pat is a beautiful horse," she agreed, still a little nervous. "And
like all beauty," she added, "he develops strange moods at times." Then,
her sense of deep gratitude moving her, she asked, "Were you going
toward town?"
For reply he swung into the saddle. He wheeled close, and they set out.
He appeared a little ill at ease, and Helen took the initiative.
"From the East, I take it?" she inquired. "There are not a few
Easterners down here. Some have taken up permanent residence."
"Yes," he replied, "I'm from the East--New York."
She liked his voice.
"We are here for the winter--mother and myself. Mother isn't strong, and
your delightful climate ought to improve her. I myself came along"--he
turned twinkling eyes toward her--"as guide and comforter and--I
fear--all-round nuisance." He was silent. "I like this country," he
added, after a moment.
Helen liked him for liking her country, for she had true Western pride
for her birthplace. So she said the natural thing, though without
display of pride. "Everybody likes it down here."
He looked at her hesitatingly. "You're not from the outside, then?"
"No," she rejoined. "I am a native."
He showed restless curiosity now. "Tell me," he began, engagingly,
"about this country. What, for instance, must one do, must one be,
to--to be--well, to be accepted as a native!" He said this much as one
feeling his way among a people new to him, as if, conscious of the
informal nature of their meeting, he would ease that informality, yet
did not know precisely how.
Yet Helen found herself quite comfortable in his society now, and,
permitting herself great freedom, she spoke almost with levity.
"You have asked me a difficult question," she said. "Offhand I should
say you must ride every morning, sleep some part of the early afternoon,
and--oh, well, ride the next morning again, I reckon." And she smiled
across at him. "Are you thinking of staying with us?"
He nodded soberly. Then he went on. "What else must one do?" he asked.
"Is that all?" His eyes were still twinkling.
Helen herself was sober now. "No," she replied, "not quite. One must
think a little, work a little, do a little good. We are very close
together down here--very close to one another--and very, very far from
the rest of the world. So we try to make each day register something of
value, not alone for ourselves, but for our neighbors as well." She was
silent. "We are a distinct race of people," she concluded, after a
moment.
He turned his head. "I like all that," he declared, simply. "Though I'm
afraid I won't do--much as I dislike to admit it. You see, I've never
learned to live much in the interest of others." He regarded her with
steady eyes.
Helen liked him for that, too. Evidently he had had too much breeding,
and, from his remark, knew it. So she took it upon herself at least to
offer him encouragement.
"You will learn," she rejoined, smiling. "Everybody does."
With this, Helen discreetly changed the subject. She entered upon less
intimate matters, and soon, sweeping off into a rhapsody over the
country--its attraction for Easterners, its grip on Westerners--she was
chatting with a freedom typical of the country. For by now she was
interested, and for some inexplicable reason she found herself drawn to
the smiling stranger.
Also, Pat was interested. But not in the things which appealed to his
mistress. Pat was pondering the sullen nature of the horse beside him,
and as they rode slowly toward town he stole frequent sidelong glances
at his unfriendly companion. But all he could arrive at was that, while
appearing peaceable enough, this horse was the most self-satisfied
animal chance had ever thrown his way. After a time he ceased all
friendly advances, such as pressing close beside him and now and again
playfully nipping at him, and took up his own affairs, finding deep
cause for satisfaction in the return of his breath after the long race,
and in the passing of pain from his strained legs, to say nothing of the
complete absence of flying papers around him.
They crossed the railroad track and entered the town. Here the young man
took a polite leave of Helen, and Pat, seeing the unfriendly horse
canter away at a brisk gait, himself set out briskly, feeling somehow
called upon to emulate the step of the other. And thus he continued
through town to the river trail, which he followed at an even brisker
stride, and thence to the ranch and the corral. Here his mistress took
leave of him--abruptly, it seemed--and made her way straight into the
house. Directly the Mexican came and removed his saddle and bridle. With
these things off, he shook himself vigorously, and then took up his
customary stand in the corner, and confidently awaited the reappearance
of his mistress with sugar and apples--a reward she never had denied
him.
But he waited this time in vain.