CHAPTER XI—“NO FUN FOOLING HER”

Accompanied by Martha, who rode one of the horses Parsons had bought,

Marion Harlan began her trip to the Arrow shortly after dawn.

The girl had said nothing to Parsons regarding her meeting with Taylor

the previous day, nor of her intention to pass the day at the Arrow.

For she feared that Parsons might make some objection—and she wanted

to go.

That she feared her uncle’s deterrent influence argued that she was

aware that she was doing wrong in going to the Arrow—even with Martha

as chaperon; but that was, perhaps, the very reason the thought of

going engaged her interest.

She wondered many times, as she rode, with the negro woman trailing

her, if there was not inherent in her some of those undesirable traits

concerning which the good people of Westwood had entertained fears.

The thought crimsoned her cheeks and brightened her eyes; but she knew

she had no vicious thoughts—that she was going to the Arrow, not

because she wanted to see Taylor again, but because she wanted to sit

in the room that had been occupied by her father. She wanted to look

again at his belongings, to feel his former presence—as she had felt

it while gazing out over the vast level beyond the river, where he had

ridden many times.

She looked in on Mrs. Mullarky as they passed the Mullarky cabin, and

when the good woman learned of her proposed visit to the Arrow, she

gave her entire approval.

“I don’t blame you, darlin’,” declared Mrs. Mullarky. “Let the world

jabber—if it wants to. If it was me father that had been over there,

I’d stay there, takin’ Squint Taylor at his word—an’ divvle a bit I’d

care what the world would say about it!”

So Marion rode on, slightly relieved. But the crimson stain was still

on her cheeks when she and Martha dismounted at the porch, and she

looked fearfully around, half-expecting that Taylor would appear from

somewhere, having tricked her.

But Taylor was nowhere in sight. A fat man appeared from somewhere in

the vicinity of the stable, doffed his hat politely, informed her that

he was the “stable boss” and would care for the horses; he having been

delegated by Taylor to perform whatever service Miss Harlan desired;

and ambled off, leading the horses, leaving the girl and Martha

standing near the edge of the porch.

Marion entered the house with a strange feeling of guilt and shame.

Standing in the open doorway—where she had seen Taylor standing when

she had dismounted the day before—she was afflicted with regret and

mortification over her coming. It wasn’t right for a girl to do as she

was doing; and for an instant she hesitated on the verge of flight.

But Martha’s voice directly behind her, reassured her.

“They ain’t a soul here, honey—not a soul. You’ve got the whole house

to yo’self. This am a lark—shuah enough. He, he, he!”

It was the voice of the temptress—and Marion heeded it. With a defiant

toss of her head she entered the room, took off her hat, laid it on a

convenient table, calmly telling Martha to do the same. Then she went

boldly from one room to another, finally coming to a halt in the

doorway of the room that had been occupied by her father.

For her that room seemed to hallow the place. It was as though her

father were here with her; as though there were no need of Martha

being here with her. The thought of it removed any stigma that might

have been attached to her coming; it made her heedless of the opinion

of the world and its gossip-mongers.

She forgot the world in her interest, and for more than an hour, with

Martha sitting in a chair sympathetically watching her, she reveled in

the visible proofs of her father’s occupancy of the room.

Later she and Martha went out on the porch, where, seated in

rocking-chairs—that had not been on the porch the day before—she

filled her mental vision with pictures of her father’s life at the

Arrow. Those pictures were imaginary, but they were intensely

satisfying to the girl who had loved her father, for she could almost

see him moving about her.

“You shuah does look soft an’ dreamy, honey,” Martha told her once.

“You looks jes’ like a delicate ghost. A while ago, lookin’ at you, I

shuah was scared you was goin’ to blow away!”

But Marion was not the ethereal wraith that Martha thought her. She

proved that a little later, when, with the negro woman abetting her,

she went into the house and prepared dinner. For she ate so heartily

that Martha was forced to amend her former statement.

“For a ghost you shuah does eat plenty, honey,” she said.

Later they were out on the porch again. The big level on the other

side of the river was flooded with a slumberous sunshine, with the

glowing, rose haze of early afternoon enveloping it, and the girl was

enjoying it when there came an interruption.

A cowboy emerged from a building down near the corral—Marion learned

later that the building was the bunkhouse, which meant that it was

used as sleeping-quarters for the Arrow outfit—and walked, with the

rolling stride so peculiar to his kind, toward the porch.

He was a tall young man, red of face, and just now affected with a

mighty embarrassment, which was revealed in the awkward manner in

which he removed his hat and shuffled his feet as he came to a halt

within a few feet of Marion.

“The boss wants to know how you are gettin’ along, ma’am, an’ if

there’s anything you’re wantin’?”

“We are enjoying ourselves immensely, thank you; and there is nothing

we want—particularly.”

The puncher had turned to go before the girl thought of the

significance of the “boss.”

Her face was a trifle pale as she called to the puncher.

“Who is your boss—if you please?” she asked.

The puncher wheeled, a slow grin on his face.

“Why, Squint Taylor, ma’am.”

She sat erect. “Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is here?”

“He’s in the bunkhouse, ma’am.”

She got up, and, holding her head very erect, began to walk toward the

room in which she had left her hat.

But half-way across the porch the puncher’s voice halted her:

“Squint was sayin’ you didn’t expect him to be here, an’ that I’d have

to do the explainin’. He couldn’t come, you see.”

“Ashamed, I suppose,” she said coldly.

She was facing the puncher now, and she saw him grin.

“Why, no, ma’am; I don’t reckon he’s a heap ashamed. But it’d be

mighty inconvenient for him. You see, ma’am, this mornin’, when he was

gittin’ ready to ride to the south line, his cayuse got an ornery

streak an’ throwed him, sprainin’ Squint’s ankle.”

The girl’s emotions suddenly reacted; the resentment she had yielded

to became self-reproach. For she had judged hastily, and she had

always felt that one had no right to judge hastily.

And Taylor had been remarkably considerate; for he had not even

permitted her to know of the accident until after noon. That indicated

that he had no intention of forcing himself on her.

She hesitated, saw Martha grinning into a hand, looked at the

puncher’s expressionless face, and felt that she had been rather

prudish. Her cheeks flushed with color.

Taylor had actually been a martyr on a small scale in confining

himself to the bunkhouse, when he could have enjoyed the comforts and

spaciousness of the ranchhouse if it had not been for her own

presence.

“Is—is his ankle badly sprained?” she hesitatingly asked the now

sober-faced puncher.

“Kind of bad, ma’am; he ain’t been able to do no walkin’ on it. Been

hobblin’ an’ swearin’, mostly, ma’am. It’s sure a trial to be near

him.”

“And it is warm here; it must be terribly hot in that little place!”

She was at the edge of the porch now, her face radiating sympathy.

“I am not surprised that he should swear!” she told the puncher, who

grinned and muttered:

“He’s sure first class at it, ma’am.”

“Why,” she said, paying no attention to the puncher’s compliment of

his employer, “he is hurt, and I have been depriving him of his house.

You tell him to come right out of that stuffy place! Help him to come

here!”

And without waiting to watch the puncher depart, she darted into the

house, pulled a big rocker out on the porch, got a pillow and arranged

it so that it would form a resting-place for the injured man’s

head—providing he decided to occupy the chair, which she doubted—and

then stood on the edge of the porch, awaiting his appearance.

Inside the bunkhouse the puncher was grinning at Taylor, who, with his

right foot swathed in bandages, was sitting on a bench, anxiously

awaiting the delivery of the puncher’s message.

“Well, talk, you damned grinning inquisitor!” was Taylor’s greeting to

the puncher. “What did she say?”

“At first she didn’t seem to be a heap overjoyed to know that you was

in this country,” said the other; “but when she heard you’d been hurt

she sort of stampeded, invitin’ you to come an’ set on the porch with

her.”

Taylor got up and started for the door, the bandaged foot dragging

clumsily.

“Shucks,” drawled the puncher; “if you go to _runnin’_ to her she’ll

have suspicions. Accordin’ to my notion, she expects you to come a

hobblin’, same as though your leg was broke. ‘Help him to come,’ she

told me. An’ you’re goin’ that way—you hear me! I’ll bust your ankle

with a club before I’ll have her think I’m a liar!”

“Maybe I _was_ a little eager,” grinned Taylor.

An instant later he stepped out of the bunkhouse door, leaning heavily

on the puncher’s shoulder.

The two made slow progress to the porch; and Taylor’s ascent to the

porch and his final achievement of the rocking-chair were accomplished

slowly, with the assistance of Miss Harlan.

Then, with a face almost the color of the scarlet neckerchief he wore,

Taylor watched the retreat of the puncher.

His face became redder when Miss Harlan drew another rocker close to

his and demanded to be told the story of the accident.

“My own fault,” declared Taylor. “I was in a hurry. Accidents always

happen that way, don’t they? Slipped trying to swing on my horse, with

him running. Missed the stirrup. Clumsy, wasn’t it?”

Eager to keep his word, of course, Marion reasoned. She had insisted

that he be gone when she arrived, and he had injured himself hurrying.

She watched him as he talked of the accident. And now for the first

time she understood why he had acquired the nickname Squint.

His eyes were deep-set, though not small. He did not really squint,

for there was plenty of room between the eyelids—which, by the way,

were fringed with lashes that might have been the envy of any woman;

but there were many little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which

spread fanwise toward cheek and brow, and these created the illusion

of squinting.

Also, he had a habit of partially closing his eyes when looking

directly at one; and at such times they held a twinkling glint that

caused one to speculate over their meaning.

Miss Harlan was certain the twinkle meant humor. But other persons had

been equally sure the twinkle meant other emotions, or passion.

Looking into Taylor’s eyes in the dining-car, Carrington had decided

they were filled with cold, implacable hostility, with the promise of

violence, to himself. And yet the squint had not been absent.

Whatever had been expressed in the eyes had been sufficient to deter

Carrington from his announced purpose to “knock hell out of” their

owner.

The girl was aware that Taylor was not handsome; that his attractions

were not of a surface character. Something about him struck deeper

than that. A subtle magnetism gripped her—the magnetism of strength,

moral and mental. In his eyes she could see the signs of it; in the

lines of his jaw and the set of his lips were suggestions of

indomitability and force.

All the visible signs were, however, glossed over with the deep, slow

humor that radiated from him, that glowed in his eyes.

It all made her conscious of a great similarity between them; for

despite the doubts and suspicions of the people of Westwood, she had

been able to survive—and humor had been the grace that had saved her

from disappointment and pessimism. Those other traits in

Taylor—visible to one who studied him—she knew for her own; and her

spirits now responded to his.

Her cheeks were glowing as she looked at him, and her eyes, half

veiled by the drooping lashes, were dancing with mischief.

“You were in that hot bunkhouse all morning,” she said. “Why didn’t

you send word before?”

“You were careful to tell me that you didn’t want me around when you

came.”

There was a gleam of reproach in his eyes.

“But you were injured!”

“Look how things go in the world,” he invited, narrowing his eyes at

her. “It’s almost enough to make a man let go all holds and just drift

along. Maybe a man would be just as well off.

“Early this morning I knew I had to light out for the day, and I

didn’t want to go any more than a gopher wants to go into a

rattlesnake’s den. But I had to keep my word. Then Spotted Tail gets

notions——”

“Spotted Tail?” she interrupted.

“My horse,” he grinned at her. “He gets notions. Maybe he wants to get

away as much as I want to stay. Anyhow, he was in a hurry; and things

shape up so that I’ve got to stay.

“And then, when I hang around the bunkhouse all morning, worrying

because I’m afraid you’ll find out that I didn’t keep my word, and

that I’m still here, you send word that you’ll not object to me coming

on the porch with you. I’d call that a misjudgment all around—on my

part.”

“Yes—it was that,” she told him. “You certainly are entitled to the

comforts of your own house—especially when you are hurt. But are you

sure you _worried_ because you were afraid I would discover you were

here?”

“I expect you can prove that by looking at me, Miss Harlan—noticing

that I’ve got thin and pale-looking since you saw me last?”

She threw a demure glance at him. “I am afraid you are in great

danger; you do not look nearly as well as when I saw you, the first

time, on the train.”

He looked gravely at her.

“The porter threw them out of the window,” he said. “That is, I gave

him orders to.”

“What?” she said, perplexed. “I don’t understand. What did the porter

throw out of the window?”

“My dude clothes,” he said.

So he _had_ observed the ridicule in her eyes.

She met his gaze, and both laughed.

He had been curious about her all along, and he artfully questioned

her about Westwood, gradually drawing from her the rather unexciting

details of her life. Yet these details were chiefly volunteered,

Taylor noticed, and did not result entirely from his questions.

Carrington’s name came into the discussion, also, and Parsons. Taylor

discovered that Carrington and Parsons had been partners in many

business deals, and that they had come to Dawes because the town

offered many possibilities. The girl quoted Carrington’s words; Taylor

was convinced that she knew nothing of the character of the business

the men had come to Dawes to transact.

Their talk strayed to minor subjects and to those of great importance,

ranging from a discussion of prairie hens to sage comment upon certain

abstruse philosophy. Always, however, the personal note was dominant

and the personal interest acute.

That atmosphere—the deep interest of each for the other—made their

conversation animated. For half the time the girl paid no attention to

Taylor’s words. She watched him when he talked, noting the various

shades of expression of his eyes, the curve of his lips, wondering at

the deep music of his voice. She marveled that at first she had

thought him uninteresting and plain.

For she had discovered that he was rather good-looking; that he was

endowed with a natural instinct to reach accurate and logical

conclusions; that he was quiet-mannered and polite—and a gentleman.

Her first impressions of him had not been correct, for during their

talk she discovered through casual remarks, that Taylor had been

educated with some care, that his ancestors were of that sturdy

American stock which had made the settling of the eastern New-World

wilderness possible, and that there was in his manner the unmistakable

gentleness of good breeding.

However, Taylor’s first impressions of the girl had endured without

amendations. At a glance he had yielded to the spell of her, and the

intimate and informal conversation carried on between them; the

flashes of personality he caught merely served to convince him of her

desirability.

Twice during their talk Martha cleared her throat significantly and

loudly, trying to attract their attention.

The efforts bore no fruit, and Martha might have been entirely

forgotten if she had not finally got to her feet and laid a hand on

Marion’s shoulder.

“I’s gwine to lie down a spell, honey,” she said. “You-all don’t need

no third party to entertain you. An’ I’s powerful tiahd.” And over the

girl’s shoulder she smiled broadly and sympathetically at Taylor.

The sun was filling the western level with a glowing, golden haze when

Miss Harlan got to her feet and announced that she was going home.

“It’s the first day I have really enjoyed,” she told Taylor as she sat

in the saddle, looking at him. He had got up and was standing at the

porch edge. “That is, it is the first enjoyable day I have passed

since I have been here,” she added.

“I wouldn’t say that I’ve been exactly bored myself,” he grinned at

her. “But I’m not so sure about Friday; for if you come Friday the

chances are that my ankle will be well again, and I’ll have to make

myself scarce. You see, my excuse will be gone.”

Martha was sitting on her horse close by, and her eyes were dancing.

“Don’ you go an’ bust your haid, Mr. Taylor!” she warned. “I knows

somebuddy that would be powerful sorry if that would happen to you!”

“Martha!” said Marion severely. But her eyes were eloquent as they met

Taylor’s twinkling ones; and she saw a deep color come into Taylor’s

cheeks.

Taylor watched her until she grew dim in the distance; then he turned

and faced the tall young puncher, who had stepped upon the porch and

had been standing near.

The puncher grinned. “Takin’ ’em off now, boss?” he asked.

He pointed to the bandages on Taylor’s right foot. In one of the young

puncher’s hands was Taylor’s right boot.

“Yes,” returned Taylor.

He sat down in the rocker he had occupied all afternoon, and the young

puncher removed the bandages, revealing Taylor’s bare foot and ankle,

with no bruise or swelling to mar the white skin.

Taylor drew on the sock which the puncher drew from the boot; then he

pulled on the boot and stood up.

The puncher was grinning hugely, but no smile was on Taylor’s face.

“It worked, boss,” said the puncher; “she didn’t tumble. I thought I’d

laff my head off when I seen her fixin’ the pillow for you—an’ your

foot not hurt more than mine. You ought to be plumb tickled, pullin’

off a trick like that!”

“I ain’t a heap tickled,” declared Taylor glumly. “There’s no fun in

fooling _her_!”

Which indicated that Taylor’s thoughts were now serious.