BESS FLETCHER’S NEW GUN, AND ITS FIRST VICTIM
West was standing near a tall pine tree, fastening a small square of
white paper against it with a pin. James stood near, holding a 38 Smith
and Wesson in his hands. Bess stood back some fifteen yards with a
22-caliber repeating rifle rested across her left arm.
“She said she did, Henry,” said James as he lifted his eye-brows in a
smile of incredulity.
“Yes, I did yesterday—hit the mark, not only three but four times, if
you please.”
“Well, the test is at hand. You have to ‘show us’ Sister, before we can
‘deliver the goods.’”
Twice had the pin dropped from West’s fingers, but the third attempt
had securely fastened the target in place.
“Now, then, Bess, three holes within an inch apart, and only three
shots,” said West, as he stepped aside. James ran and concealed himself
behind a tree, as if he really feared being shot.
For a moment Bess stood still, lifted the gun, examined it to see that
the cartridges were all right, adjusted the sights correctly, and then
with a firm, decisive movement placed the weapon against her shoulder.
A sharp report and one mark was recorded; the click of the lever and
another shot, and then the third. She stood with the butt of the gun
resting on her foot, as she watched eagerly as both boys hurried
forward to view the record. Both were pointing and measuring and
talking. She heard James say “not quite” and West replied “near enough.”
“If it is not correct, I have lost,” said Bess, as she started towards
the tree. She found two holes together and the third a little more than
one inch to the left.
“Take one more shot, Bess; I know you can hit it,” said West, as he
assured himself that the gun was loaded and handed it back to the girl.
Bess resumed her position, and the next shot cut directly between the
other two, making one large mark on the paper.
“Good,” cried both the boys at once, and they came laughingly forward
to present her the pretty new weapon. James cleared his throat
preparatory to making a presentation speech, and as the words “In
behalf of” were said, Bess threw her arms about his neck and then
placed both her hands over his mouth.
“Thanks, Henry, it is a perfect beauty,” said Bess, as she accepted the
gun. As she read engraved on one side of the handle, her name, “Bess
Fletcher” and on the other, _HW_ brand, she extended her hand and happy
tears filled her eyes.
Both men demanded that she give the pistol a trial, and both were
really astonished to see how quickly she used it and how accurate were
her aim and judgment of distance.
“See, I have the pocket in my skirt all ready for it,” and the gun slid
into the ingenious opening near the waist, leaving only the handle
inconspicuously exposed. “You see, I was determined to win, although I
really cannot see what possible use it can ever be to me. I could not
bear to shoot a bird, and as far as defense, what can harm me, Henry?”
“I have carried a gun here on the range always,” remarked West, as he
drew one from his holster, “and I have never used it but once, and
that was to shoot a rattlesnake which put up a fight. See, here are
the rattles,—eleven and the button.” Taking off his hat he showed the
interested pair where he wore it on his hat-band. “Another time I had
it drawn and cocked, but,”—he paused; “but—I replaced it.” Bess saw him
bite his lip as if the memory of the incident, even, filled him with
hate. Neither asked what the occasion was, but as he carefully looked
at the weapon his face told them that he might use it again. He thrust
it back into its leathern receptacle, giving the holster a firm pat, as
if to assure himself the gun was secure—and ready.
Bess had remounted her horse and gone back to the house to show the
prize to Mrs. West. As she left them, James turned to West, who was
re-adjusting one of his stirrups before remounting. The three had come
a short distance from the house for the shooting exhibition, and now
James and West were going on to gather up some running horses which he
wished to get in shape for the races to be held within the next few
days.
“Henry,” began James, as he walked to the man standing near Eagle,
“why can’t you tell me what troubles you? You are not like your old
self, not one bit. I have seen it ever since my return, and of late
your mood is becoming worse. Is it anything which I could help—if it
is, tell me, and you know I’ll do anything under God’s sun to help you,
old boy.”
He placed a friendly arm about the dark, silent man’s shoulder, and
with a gentle pat or two rested it there. He noted the sudden dilation
of the wide nostrils, heard the teeth as they ground together and
caught a hopeful expression in the dark, deep eyes as they were lifted
to his face for a moment.
As if to arouse the man from a dream, James gave his broad shoulder
another pat, at which West straightened himself and grasped James’ hand
in his, in a strong grip.
“You, Jim, are and have been my truest, best friend. Ever since that
first night at Harvard have you been more to me than a brother. My
trouble is something which even God could not help. Part of it is
past, part is still to come. The past cannot be forgotten, the future
is inevitable,—I must face it and—alone. I could not tell you without
causing you unnecessary pain, and believe me, I should ask your help,
if you could help me. Never mind my moods. I try hard enough to brace
up before your sister and my mother, but I know that sometimes I
fail miserably. Give me your hand again, Jim, and know—that when I
can or must tell you, nothing shall prevent my seeking you and your
confidence.”
He put his foot in the stirrup and swung with easy grace into his
saddle. James mounted and rode beside him, trying in vain to think of
something to say which might relieve the awkward silence. Either West
did not see another rider approaching them, or else he purposely reined
Eagle from the hard, beaten road, across the prairie. In response to
a signal from the horseman, James called to West. “Henry, Davis is
signaling to us. Come back and see what he wants.”
Already Fletcher had started back and was talking with Davis when West
came up slowly. He touched his hat as the Indian Agent looked up at
him, and noting that the conversation did not concern him he let Eagle
nibble at the grass at some little distance, while he waited for James.
“Thanks, Fletcher; I shall do as you suggest,” came to West’s ears, as
he looked up to see James returning and Davis going on—he knew to his
home to see the one whom he himself loved more than all the world.
“Do you know, Henry,” said James, “I think Davis is a fine man. He just
asked my consent to visit my sister and try to win her for his wife. I
told him that as far as I was concerned, he might do so, but that Bess
could and would please herself. In fact, I told him that she did not
seem to care for anyone’s addresses.”
West could not reply, his heart and lips seemed suddenly frozen. If
he only could warn this brother against that man! Yet, how could he
without revealing the deep secret of his heart? Unless he stated facts
Fletcher might think it was some personal affair which prompted his
criticism of Davis. And yet, to let Bess fall directly into the talons
of a vulture without even lifting his voice to defend her, seemed the
height of cowardice. He must have time to think—to think.
* * * * *
Mauchacho, with his saddle on, was standing at the gate waiting for
his mistress to resume her ride. He gave a long neigh of welcome as
Mr. Davis came riding up. Bess ran to the door to see what Mauchacho
wanted, just as Mr. Davis leaped to the ground and started through the
gate. With a little ejaculation of surprise she stepped down toward
him. She knew that if she could have escaped without being seen, she
would not now be shaking hands with this man.
“Mr. Fletcher told me I should find you here, and he assured me that
you would be glad to see me,” he said. He did not look directly at her
as he exaggerated the truth. “Are you not glad, little girl?”
Since the evening when the white roses had come and the card had been
read to the others, Bess had not felt so confused nor embarrassed when
Davis had been spoken of. Now that James and Henry and Mrs. West knew
that Davis cared for her and that he came purposely to see her, she
tried to overcome her aversion for the man. While he was near her he
exerted an influence which, strive as she would, she could not resist.
His manner was charming, his conversation interesting, and there was
about him that subtle, indescribable something which made him well-nigh
irresistible. Bess was even surprised at herself as she became more and
more interested in the man. And yet when he was gone she always felt
relieved and happier, as if she were freed from some undue constraint.
She never longed for him to come again and always felt a surprise when
he came, and an insane desire to run away to hide. As she did not reply
to his question, he asked again, “Is my sweetheart glad to see me?”
“Really, Mr. Davis, your conjecture is rather bold! Did I ever say I
was anyone’s sweetheart?”
“But you are, you are mine, and just now your brother congratulated me.”
“Well, indeed,” said Bess, haughtily; “is a girl compelled to assume
the role, _nolens volens_?” Her brown eyes snapped defiance at the man
standing a few steps below her.
“There, Bess, no one will compel you to do anything against your own
will,” quickly corrected Mr. Davis, for he did not wish his too slow
progress to be retarded by any whim or imagined compulsion. He had had
experience enough to know that with women, coaxing accomplishes more
than commands.
“Come, I came to take you for a ride. I see you were intending to go
anyway,” he said tactfully. Half reluctantly she permitted him to
lead her to the gate and assist her in mounting. Immediately, as she
felt her horse under her, her usual happy spirit returned and in a
short time she was laughing and merry as could be. The warm breeze
blew her white veil about her face and tossed her hair about in sweet
confusion. What a picture they made as their horses moved swiftly
along in rhythmic motion! He sat his horse well and rode without any
awkwardness, now that his ankle was strong once more. It seemed to
him that he had never seen such perfect grace before, as he saw how
beautifully the girl rode her splendid horse.
“If it were not so hot down across the flat,” said Bess, “I would
show you that Mauchacho can go twice as fast as that cayuse you are
riding,” and the twinkle in her eye was inconsistent with her assumed,
contemptuous smile.
“This is the first ride we have had together for so long that I could
not bear to hurry it,” replied Davis, as he placed a restraining hand
on Mauchacho’s bridle.
“It seems to be growing dreadfully hot! Go to the right beyond those
rocks and we shall find shade and a spring,” said the girl, as she
noticed tiny beads of sweat trickling down the horses’ necks.
Suddenly, Mauchacho, who was leading, gave a quick snort and sprang
sidewise into the air and landed several feet to the side of the
trail, nearly throwing Bess from the saddle. Astonished at the unusual
performance of her horse, she glanced quickly about to discern the
cause of this fear. The next instant she snatched the 38 Smith and
Wesson from her skirt and a sharp crack sounded as the shot created a
squirming, writhing mass in the trail only a few feet in front of her.
Davis’ horse had also become frightened at the coiled rattler and was
now almost uncontrollable. Bess sprang from Mauchacho, who had the
sense to know that the snake was now harmless, firing another shot into
the quivering streaks of drab and it lay still.
“Well, upon my word, Miss Fletcher, I take off my hat to you!” said
Davis, as he succeeded in quieting his horse. “Who taught you to be
such a ‘crack shot’ and where did you get that pretty gun? Where did
you conceal it, may I ask?”
“Come, cut the rattles off for me and put them in my hat-band, Mr.
Davis! This is the first thing I’ve shot with my pistol which Henry
West gave me only today as a present, because I had learned to shoot so
well under his directions,” answered the excited girl.
“Eleven rattles and a button! Just like his!” She could not resist
a tiny shudder of aversion as she placed the sombrero with its new
decoration upon her head. Yet she knew that Henry West’s face would
light up with gratification when he saw her trophy.