"A MINISTERING ANGEL"
Mrs. Blake surveyed her surroundings with the surface calm which comes
from seeing and disbelieving. These were depths to which she never had
expected to descend. She allowed herself half a moment of speculation
on the possibility of there existing, somewhere in the world, a real
lack of accommodations as appalling as her imagination could now
conceive. "I have often thought Mr. Blake somewhat careless in his
choice of a hotel during our wanderings, but the worst of them never
even suggested--Margie, did you ever in your life imagine such a room
could exist?"
"It is only for an hour or so," returned Margaret, listlessly.
"Oh, I don't complain, my dear. You are an equal sufferer. And I am
distinctly relieved at the thought of removing some of this terrible
dust before we--before--we--"
Her voice trailed off into silence as she caught sight of a motto over
the door; it was one of those affairs worked in colored worsted over
perforated cloth; the colors had been chosen with less regard to harmony
than is usually exhibited by an artist; perhaps it was contrast that was
sought; as a study in contrasts it was a blasting success. Mrs. Blake
glared at it with the fascinated interest of a spectator within the
danger zone of a bursting bomb. "'God bless our home,'" she read, in
awed undertone. "Perhaps He will, but it is more than it deserves."
She mounted laboriously onto a chair and turned the motto to the wall,
hastily facing it about again with a suppressed scream: if the front
were chaos the back was a cataclysm. In a spasm of indignation she
jerked it loose from its fastening and dropped it out of sight behind
the evil-looking washstand. In this position her glance fell on the
crude specimen of basin provided. She picked it up doubtfully and
struck it against the side of the washstand. "Tin!" she exclaimed. "A
dishpan!" and went off into peals of laughter, banging the pan and
calling "Dinner!" in an unnaturally deep voice, when she could speak
from laughing.
Margaret turned a sullen face from the window. She had seen the French
Rose in animated conversation with a tall, good-looking man in flannel
shirt and overalls, who had ridden away up the road, evidently in
obedience to her orders; while Rose, herself, rode in the direction
taken by Whitby. The soft, broad-brimmed hat, the waist but little
different from the flannel shirt of the man, the ill-fitting skirt, the
mannish gloves and clumsy boots--the superb health of the splendid
figure proclaimed itself through all these disadvantages. The woman was
a perfect counterfoil for Whitby, and Margaret hid the ache in her heart
under a sullenness of demeanor that a less astute companion might have
attributed to the annoyances and inconveniences of the journey.
"For heaven's sake, Aunt, don't make such a noise," she insisted; "my
head aches as if it would split."
"Your head aches! I 'm sorry, my dear. Still, there are worse things
than head-aches, now are n't there?"
Margaret stared. "No doubt," she admitted, tartly; "but it is the worst
I have to submit, at present. When a greater evil befalls me I will
tell you."
"Why, that's honest," said Mrs. Blake, cheerfully; "and as long as we
are to be honest, you are sure it is not your conscience that is at
fault?"
"My conscience?" asked Margaret. "What has my conscience to do with a
head-ache?"
"First class in Physical Geography, rise. Jessie, what is the origin of
the islands of head-aches that vex the pacific waters of the soul? They
are due to volcanic action of bad conscience."
"Oh, Aunt! how can you be so absurd?"
"I would rather be absurd than unjust, Margaret."
"I don't understand you."
"You understood me very well. Because you see Whitby talking to a
pretty woman, is that a reason to condemn him?"
"Talking! He kissed her before my very eyes, in the public street."
"You cannot say that, Margaret. I saw the meeting as plainly as you
did."
"How could you? You were inside! Why has he never mentioned her in his
letters?"
"Has he ever mentioned anything but business? He would scarcely mention
her to George, and you know he has not written to you."
"No, he had something better to do. This is an unprofitable discussion.
I am utterly indifferent to Mr. Booth's actions, past, present, and to
come, as well as the reasons for them. If you intend to use that basin
for something other than a dinner-call, do so. I 'm not hungry, but we
might as well get it over with. We have a long drive before us."
"With all my heart, my dear; unless the water is on a par with the
other--er--conveniences."
* * * * *
"Seems like Buck Peters might be in a hurry," observed Slick Milligan,
sufficiently interested to come from behind the bar and walk out onto
the porch. "Which it's th' first time I see him use a quirt."
"None o' thea punchers think aucht o' a horse," was Sandy's opinion,
based on a wide experience.
If Margaret had chanced to overhear Slick's remark it would have
explained much. Mrs. Blake was resting, preparatory to sallying forth
on the last stretch of their journey, and Margaret was about to make
inquiries regarding a conveyance, when the rapid drumming of a horse's
feet drew her to the window as Buck went past. Margaret had never met
Buck but she was far too good a horsewoman to fail to recognize the
pony. She had noted every detail when she had first seen Rose and you
may be sure no point, good or bad, of the Goat as a saddle pony, had
escaped her critical judgment. Her first thought, as the Goat went
past, was one of surprise that he should make so little of the weight of
his rider, a full-grown man and no light-weight, either; lean and hard
as Buck was, Margaret's estimate of the number of pounds the pony
carried was very near the mark; and then, in a flash, she knew him: the
very animal that the French Rose had ridden. Margaret knew it to be out
of the question that he had travelled to the Double Y ranch and back;
they must have exchanged horses on the road. But, why?
The consideration of this enigma and the many possibilities it offered
as collateral questions, occupied her fully, to the very grateful
content of Mrs. Blake, who was genuinely tired and ashamed to say so.
It was a consideration so perplexing that Margaret was prepared to allow
Whitby to explain, when he was so unfortunate as to appear in company
with Rose. He had overtaken her, a half-mile down the trail, but
Margaret could not, of course, know this. They remained in earnest
conversation for two or three minutes, when Rose went on and Whitby went
around to the shed to put up his pony. Margaret ran down stairs and
went out onto the porch. She felt better able to face him in the open.
It was thus that Whitby, coming in at the back door, was directed out
through the front one. Rapidly as Margaret moved, she was too great an
attraction to escape instant notice. Whitby advanced with outstretched
hand. "Ripping idea, taking us by surprise, Miss McAllister. Awful
journey, you know, really."
"We wished to avoid giving trouble. You are looking very well, Mr.
Booth."
"Fit as a fiddle, thank you. But--I say--you 'll excuse me,--but are
n't you feeling a little--ah--seedy, now? I mean--"
"I quite understand what you mean. Am I looking a little--ah--seedy,
Mr. Booth?"
"No, certainly not! Very stupid of me, I'm sure. I--ah--rather
fancied--but of course I 'm wrong. This confounded dust gets in a chap's
eyes so--"
"Do you mean that my eyes look dusty, Mr. Booth?"
"Oh, I say! Now you 're chaffing me. As if--"
"Not in the least. Chaffing is an art in which I fail to excel. But if
you mean that I look a little pale and dragged with the journey, you
must remember that I do not pretend to have the vitality of a cow-girl."
"Ah! Just so. And Mrs. Blake--she is with you, I presume."
"The presumption is justified. Aunt's vitality was even less equal to
the journey than my own. She is resting and begs to be excused until
she can say 'How do' at the ranch."
"Why--ah--how did Mrs. Blake know I called in?"
Margaret bit her lip. "I happened to be looking from the window as you
rode up," she explained, carelessly.
"Ah! Just so. Miss McAllister, you don't know me very well, not
really; perhaps no better than I know you. I 'm no good at this sort of
thing, this fencing with words, you know; I discovered that long ago;
and I long ago adopted the only other method: to smash right through the
guard. My presumption does n't presume so far as to imagine you are
jealous; I am not seeking causes; all I know is, you made me a promise
when I came West, a conditional promise, I grant you: I was to make
good. Well, I have n't done half bad, really. I fancy Mr. McAllister
would admit as much. Buck Peters admits more; and one has to be
something of a man, you know, to merit that from Peters. He 's the
finest man I ever knew, myself, bar none. It is very good of you to
hear me so patiently. I 'm coming to the kernel of the difficulty just
now:
"Rose LaFrance, the cow-girl you mentioned, is the right sort. She
brought word this morning that will save Peters a goodish bit of money;
incidentally Mr. McAllister, also. Buck had to be in Wayback at the
earliest possible moment and I was fortunate enough to overtake him.
Miss LaFrance not only was thoughtful enough to ride to meet Buck and
give him a fresh mount and to send a man ahead with whom Buck will
change again, but she insists that we follow him, which is a jolly good
idea; these fellows are very careless with their fire-arms and he might
require help. If the blackguard he is after succeeds in withdrawing the
entire deposit from the bank and it is given to him in cash, before
Peters gets there, he will certainly require help. I leave you to
reflect on these facts, Miss McAllister. Give my kindest regards to
Mrs. Blake."
He stalked back the way he had come, in the characteristic wooden manner
which precluded any appeal, if Margaret had felt like making one; but
her mind was too fully occupied with what she had heard to understand
that he was actually leaving. He was splashing through the ford before
she realized the significance of this part of his defence. Thoughtful,
and without resentment, she went to rejoin Mrs. Blake.
Whitby pushed his horse sufficiently to overtake Rose who, he knew, was
riding slowly. Just outside the town he met Cock Murray, astride the
Goat; the Goat was a very tired pony and showed it.
"My dear man! Why are n't you following Peters?" asked Whitby, in
surprised remonstrance.
"My dear Brit! I sorta allowed it was n't healthy," answered Cock. "I
tells you th' same as I tells th' French Rose: 'When Buck says "Scoot
for th' ranch an' tell Cassidy to hit Wayback _pronto_ an' he 'll get
news o' me at th' bank,"' it 'pears like, to my soft-boiled head, that's
what I oughta do."
"I beg your pardon. Of course. Rather odd Peters didn't tell me."
"He meant to. I 'm sorry he did n't. So long."
"So long," echoed Whitby, mechanically. He pulled up to shout after
Cock: "You won't get far on that horse; he 's done, you know."
"I ain't goin' far on that 'oss," Cock shouted back; "an' they 're never
done till they 're down, you know."
"Impudent beggar, but a good man. They grow 'em good out here. I fancy
the bad-plucked ones don't last." And Whitby hastened on to overtake
Rose.
He had left Two Fork Creek four miles behind him before sighting her; in
her impatience she had gone faster than she knew. Whitby had almost
caught up, when he saw Rose bend forward, wave to him, and then dash
away, as if she were inviting him to a race.
"Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction. "It's Buck as sure
as little apples Kesicks." Fifty yards' advance showed him that he was
right. The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly Buck, and
beside him was his dead pony. Rose flung herself from the saddle and
ran to him; and Whitby, wearing the terribly savage expression of the
man slow to anger, was not far behind. Together they laid the
unconscious figure at full length.
[Illustration: Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him]
"It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right thigh.
"Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief. He cut the cloth but
forbore to tear it away, the coagulated blood having stopped the
bleeding. "Drilled through!" he exclaimed. "Why, the swine must have
been near enough to do better than that. How ever did he miss? We 'll
bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it properly at--now, should
you say take him to the doctor at Wayback?"
"No. He is a drunken beast. I will nurse him."
"Very well. A good nurse is better than a drunken doctor. Just cut
this sleeve from my shirt, will you?"
Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch strip from the bottom
of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile producing a flask, from which he
carefully fed Buck small quantities of whiskey. Rose tendered him the
bandage. "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance! Have you been taught this sort
of thing?" Rose silently nodded her head. "My word! Buck is in luck.
You apply the bandage then, while I give him this. You 'll make a
better job of it than I should."
Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby's face bending over his. "Got
away, Whit," he whispered, weakly; "ambushed me, by G--d," and relapsed
into unconsciousness.
"Much blood! He have lose much blood," murmured Rose.
"Yes," assented Whitby. "How shall we carry him? He can never ride."
"Travois," said Rose. "I show you."
Buck again regained consciousness and his voice was distinctly stronger.
"Get after him, Whit. He must n't get away."
"Oh, nonsense, Buck. They know the cat's out of the bag by this time
and they will never be such asses as to try it on now. As for Dave, he
can't get away. The agency will be jolly glad to do something for the
money they have had by turning over Dave if I ask it of them. And
McAllister will think you are worth a good bit more than the money, I
lay. I know I do."
Buck was attempting feeble remonstrance when Rose returned from her
survey of the timber available and swiftly placed her hands over his
lips. "Do not talk," she commanded. "It is bad to talk, now."
"What price the nurse--eh, Buck? Oh, you lucky beggar!"
"Rose," murmured Buck. "Why, that's right kind."
Admonishing him with raised forefinger, Rose gave instructions to Whitby
and he hastened away to gather material for the travois.
* * * * *
When Margaret returned to Mrs. Blake she was carrying a pair of driving
gloves and a jaunty sailor hat which Mrs. Blake knew had been packed in
one of the trunks. "Are we going to start, Margie?" she asked, with
languid interest.
"_I_ am going to start but I am going the other way. We shall not be
able to leave for the ranch before morning, probably."
Mrs. Blake sat up with a suddenness that surprised even herself. "The
morning!" she echoed. "If you think that I shall stay in this horror of
a room until morning, Margaret, you are mistaken. I will go, if I
walk."
"It's a long walk," commented Margaret, carelessly.
"And may I ask why you are going the other way and when you purpose to
return?"
"I am going to Wayback to telegraph. Some thief has planned to get all
of papa's money from the bank there, and of course he will try to escape
on the train. We shall catch him by telegraphing to the officers at the
next town."
"If you do he is a fool. And who are 'we'? How did you learn all
this?"
"Whitby told me."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Was Whitby here?"
"Yes."
"And never asked for me?"
"I told him you begged to be excused."
"You told him I--now see here, Margaret. There is such a thing as going
too far, and this is an example of it. 'Beg to be excused'! What will
he think of me? Where is he now?"
"He has gone on to Wayback. But he never will have the sense to
telegraph. That is why I am going."
"Did you quarrel?"
"Well--we were n't exactly friendly."
"Oh!--oh!--oh!" The three exclamations were long-drawn, with pauses
between them and in three different keys.
"Aunty!" cried Margaret, furiously, stamping her foot. "How dare you
insinuate--I said I was going to _telegraph_!"
"All right, my dear. Have it your own way. I 'll immolate myself on
the altar of friendship: in this case, a particularly uncomfortable bed.
Please remember, Margaret, as you speed away on your errand of avarice,
I said a _particularly_ uncomfortable bed."
Margaret went out and slammed the door. Mrs. Blake chuckled until she
laughed, and laughed until she gasped for breath and was obliged to
loosen her corsets. "I am as bad as Margie," she sighed; "I don't know
when I am well off. Now I shall have to stay marooned in this pesky
room until Margie returns. I never can fasten these outrageous things
without help."
In her fetching gown of figured brown cloth, bordered with beaver fur,
with slanting drapery of plain green, above which a cutaway jacket
exposed a full vest, and topped by a high beaver toque--with flush due
to the recent passage-at-arms still in her cheeks and the fire of
indignation in her eyes--Margaret presented a _chic_ daintiness that met
with the entire approval of the burly Sandy, who hastened from the
bar-room at the sound of her descent.
"I want a hitch of some kind," requested Margaret; "something with speed
and bottom, and the sooner the better."
"A hitch?" queried Sandy. He had ominous visions of the dainty figure
being whirled to destruction behind a pair of unruly bronchos.
"A horse, a team, a rig, something to drive, and at once," explained
Margaret, impatiently.
"Oh, ay! I ken ye meanin' richt enough. I ken it fine; but I hae doots
o' yer abeelity."
"Very well, then I will buy it, only let me have it immediately."
"It's no' th' horses, ye ken. What would I tell yer mither, gin ye 're
kilt?"
"Bosh!" said Margaret, scornfully. "I can drive anything you can
harness."
"Oh, ay! Nae doot, nae doot. But it willna be ane o' Sandy's, I telt
ye that."
Here a voice was heard from out front, roaring for Slick and demanding a
cayuse, in a hurry.
"Losh! yon 's anither. They must theenk I keepit a leevery," and Sandy
hastened out to the porch to see who was desirous of further depleting
his stock. When he saw the condition of the Goat his decision was quick
and to the point: "Ma certes! Ye 'll no run th' legs of ony o' my
cattle, Cock Murray, gin ye crack yer throat crawin'. Tut, tut! Look
at yon!" He shook his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the dejected
appearance of the Goat.
"Won't, hey!" shouted Cock, slapping back the saddle, "then I 'll borrer
Dutch Fred's, an' Buck Peters 'll burn yore d--d ol' shack 'bout yore
ears when he knows it." A man, watching interestedly from the bar-room,
left by the hall exit, running.
"Buck Peters! Weel, in that case--Slick, ye can lend him yer ain."
"I was just a-goin' to," declared Slick, hurrying off; "which yore
d--very generous when it don't cost you nothin'."
Cock loosened the cinch. "Generous as--Miss McAllister!" he exclaimed,
aghast.
"Why, of all the people! How delightful! What on earth are _you_ doing
out here?" Margaret ran down to him, extending both hands in warm
greeting.
Cock took them as if in a dream. "Miss McAllister--Chicago--Oh, what a
fool I 've been!"
The man who had left the bar-room tore around the corner of the hotel on
a wicked-looking pinto which lashed out viciously at the Goat when
brought to a stop, a compliment the Goat promptly returned, though with
less vigor. "Here y' are, Cock. He 'll think he 's headin' for th'
Cyclone an' he 'll burn th' earth." The Cyclone puncher pushed the
straps into Murray's hand and led away the Goat to a well-earned rest.
"I have to go, Miss McAllister. See you at the ranch. I 'm punching
for the Double Y. They call me Cock Murray. It--it's a name I took."
"I 'll remember. Cock Murray: it fits you like a glove," and Murray
mounted to her ripple of laughter. "We shall be out there to-morrow.
Aunt is with me," she called to him, while the pinto worked off a little
of its superfluous deviltry, before getting down to its work. She
watched him admiringly, Cock sitting firm and waiting, until presently
the pony straightened out and proceeded to prove his owner's boast.
"Tip-top, Ralph," praised Margaret; "but you always could ride." She
turned and faced the dour Sandy. "See here! Do you _ever_ intend to
get out that rig?"
"Weel--gin ye 're a relative o' Buck Peters, I jalouse ye 'll gang yer
ain gait, onyway," and he went grumbling through the hall to do her
bidding.
A roaring volley of curses, instantly checked and rolling forth a second
time with all the sulphur retained to add rancor to the percolator, drew
Margaret curiously to overlook the cause. Seeing, she thought she
understood Sandy's reluctance to let his team to her: a pair of
perfectly matched bays, snipped with white in a manner that gave to
their antics an air of rollicking mischief, they were lacking the
angularity of outline Margaret already had come to expect in Western
ponies, and their wild plunging seemed more the result of overflowing
vitality than inherent vice. Drawn by the uproar, Slick appeared beside
her.
"No team for a lady to drive," he declared, shaking his head.
"Ridiculous!" asserted Margaret. "Go help them." A devitalized
imprecation from Sandy hastened his steps. Margaret was in doubt which
amused her most: the trickiness of the ponies or Sandy's heroic endeavor
to swear without swearing. She understood him far better than either of
the others, who worked silently and with well directed efforts.
With Slick's invaluable assistance their object was soon accomplished,
the team being hitched to a new buckboard that was the pride of Sandy's
heart. "'T is a puir thing," he protested, eying it sourly. "I hae
naething better."
"Why, it is perfect," declared Margaret, "but I shall want a whip."
"Ye 'll want nae whup," denied Sandy, shaking his head ominously.
The Cyclone puncher at the head of the nigh horse called to her: "Take
'em out o' th' corral, miss? They 'll go like antelopes when they
start."
Margaret laughed in gay excitement. "No, no! please don't," she
entreated, drawing on her gloves. "I could drive that pair through the
eye of a needle."
Sandy glanced from her to the team and back again.
"Havers! I 'll gie ye ma ain whup," he promised. He was back in half a
minute with a lash whip whose holly stock never grew in America.
"What a beauty!'" exclaimed Margaret. She ran down the steps, gathered
up the lines, and sprang into the buckboard, bracing herself for the
inevitable jerk. "Ready," she warned. "Let go."
It was lucky for Mrs. Blake that she had loosened her corset strings and
was confined to her room; had she seen the start--and she knew
Margaret's skill as well as any one--she certainly would have burst them
in her fright. With the three men it was otherwise; they vented their
admiration in a ringing cheer. The ponies, gathering speed in the short
stretch to the ford, were coaxed over so near the I-Call that Dirty Snow
tumbled precipitately from his box and fled around the corner of the
saloon; missing the box by a foot, the wheels began a wide arc toward
the water through which the rig whirled in an avalanche of spray, to
shave the front of the Why-Not as closely as it had the I-Call. To the
delighted astonishment of Twin River--by this time the entire
inhabitants, excepting only Mrs. Blake, were more or less interested in
the proceedings--the team was no sooner going in the straight than
Margaret cracked the lash to right and left and the startled ponies
bellied to the ground in their efforts to escape an unknown danger.
Sandy guffawed in pride of ownership; Slick gazed with his soul in his
eyes; the puncher danced up and down in his joy, thumping first one and
then the other.
"Did you see it?" he demanded, "Did you see it?" The others admitted
eyesight equal to the occasion. "Say," asseverated the puncher, "if I
owned all Montany, from here to th' line, I gives it to get that gal.
That's th' kind of a hair-pin I am. You hear me!"
* * * * *
Margaret's sudden exclamation hastened the speed of the ponies but she
drew them firmly in and approached the group on the trail at an easy
lope. Whitby ran up from the river bank as she pulled the team to a
stand.
"Who is it, Miss LaFrance? How did it happen?" asked Margaret, guessing
the answer to her own questions.
"It is M'sieu Peters, ma'am'selle. He is wounded," replied Rose.
"Just in time, Miss McAllister," said Whitby, coming up at that moment.
"We 'll commandeer that wagon as an ambulance."
"Miss McAllister!" exclaimed Buck, wonderingly. Then, energetically:
"Whit, you get after that pole-cat. I can get to th' ranch, now. Get
a-goin'."
"Buck, I 'm like Jake: 'sot in my ways.' There is no necessity to
follow that pole-cat, as you so aptly call him. And you are not going
to the ranch, you know. Miss LaFrance has kindly volunteered expert
service in nursing and I intend that you shall get it. Miss McAllister,
Miss LaFrance, whose services you already know; and Mr. Peters, your
father's partner."
"You must not think of going on to the ranch, Mr. Peters," persuaded
Margaret. "I only hope it is not too far to Miss LaFrance's home. If
we could lift you--I 'm afraid these horses won't stand."
"Lift! I reckon I got one good laig, Miss McAllister--" he fell back
with a grunt.
"Dash it all, Buck! Do you want to break open that wound? 'Pon my
word, I don't envy you your patient, Miss LaFrance. You lie still, you
restless beggar. I 've packed more than one man with a game leg and gone
it alone. Do you think you can manage those dancing jackasses?" He
looked doubtingly from them to Margaret.
Margaret dimpled. "Ask Sandy," she advised, demurely.
"Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into bubbling laughter that
reflected from Rose's face in the faint shadow of a smile.
"Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters," apologized
Margaret, correctly interpreting the expression of Rose, whose glance
had turned to Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I least
expected it that I forgot for the moment you are wounded."
She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus unobserved, displayed
a grin more fittingly adapted to the countenance of the famous Cat of
Cheshire. Rose glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two
women were already aware of that which the men would never guess in each
other.
"Shucks! I been shot up worse 'n this, Miss McAllister," assured Buck;
"if that pig-headed Britisher would on'y take orders like he oughta. He
's obstinater nor a cow with a suckin' calf."
"Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his preparations for the
lift. "Now, Miss LaFrance."
He had managed to pass the blanket under Buck's middle, looping it over
his own neck; while this arrangement eased but little weight from Rose,
it had the advantage of keeping Buck comparatively straight. Whitby,
backing up into the buckboard, his hands tightly grasping Buck beneath
the arms, was ably assisted by Rose, who moved and steadied her load
without apparent effort. Margaret was genuinely surprised. "How strong
you are!" she exclaimed, admiringly.
"Gentle as rain," commended Buck. "If you got that flask handy, Whit, I
'd like to feel it."