CHAPTER XVII—THE WRONG ANKLE

Bud Hemmingway, the tall, red-faced young puncher who had assisted

Quinton Taylor in the sprained-ankle deception, saw the dawn breaking

through one of the windows of the bunkhouse when he suddenly opened

his eyes after dreaming of steaming flapjacks soaked in the sirup he

liked best. He stretched out on his back in the wall-bunk and licked

his lips.

“Lordy, I’m hungry!”

But he decided to rest for a few minutes while he considered the

cook—away with the outfit to a distant corner of the range.

He reflected bitterly that the cook was away most of the time, and

that a man fared considerably better with the outfit than he did by

staying at the home ranch. For one thing, when a man was with the

outfit he got “grub,” without having to rustle it himself—that was why

it was better to be with the outfit.

“A man don’t git nothin’ to eat at all, scarcely—when he’s got to

rustle his own grub,” mourned Bud. “He’s got the appetite, all right,

but he don’t know how to rassle the ingredients which goes into good

grub. Take them flapjacks, now.” (He licked his lips again.) “They’re

scrumptuous. But that damned hyena which slings grub for the outfit

won’t tell a man how he makes ’em, which greediness is goin’ to git

him into a heap of trouble some day—when I git so hungry that I feel a

heap reckless!”

Bud watched the dawn broaden. He knew he ought to get up, for this was

the day on which Marion Harlan was to visit the Arrow—and Taylor had

warned him to be on hand early to bandage the ankle again—Taylor

having decided that not enough time had elapsed to effect a cure.

But Bud did not get up until a glowing shaft entering the window

warned him that the sun was soon to appear above the horizon. Then he

bounded out of the bunk and lurched heavily to an east window.

What he saw when he looked out made him gasp for breath and hang hard

to the window-sill, while his eyes bulged and widened with

astonishment. For upon the porch of the ranchhouse—seated in the

identical chairs in which they had sat during their previous visit,

were Marion Harlan and the negro woman!

Bud stepped back from the window and rubbed his eyes. Then he went to

the window again and looked with all his vision. And then a grin

covered his face.

For the two women seemed to be asleep. Bud would have sworn they were

asleep! For the negress was hunched up in her chair—a big, almost

shapeless black mass—with her chin hidden in the swell of her ample

bosom; while the girl was leaning back, her figure slack with the

utter relaxation that accompanies deep sleep, her eyes closed and her

hat a little awry. Bud was certain _she_ was asleep, for no girl in

her waking moments would permit her hat to rest upon her head in that

negligent manner.

Bad scratched his head many times while hurriedly getting into his

clothing.

“I’m bettin’ _they_ didn’t wait for flapjacks _this_ morning!” he

confided to himself, mentally. “Must like it here a heap,” he

reflected. “Well, there’s nothin’ like gittin’ an early start when

you’re goin’ anywhere!” he grinned.

Stealthily he opened the door of the bunkhouse, watching furtively as

he stepped out, lest he be seen; and then when he noted that the women

did not move, he darted across the yard, vaulted the corral fence, ran

around the corner of the ranchhouse, carefully opened a rear door, and

presently stood beside a bed gently shaking its tousled-haired

occupant.

“Git up, you sufferin’ fool!” he whispered hoarsely; “they’re here!”

Taylor’s eyes snapped open and were fixed on Bud with a resentful

glare, which instantly changed to reserved amusement when he saw Bud’s

bulging eyes and general evidence of suppressed excitement.

He yawned sleepily, stretching his arms wide.

“The outfit, eh? Well, tell Bothwell I’ll see him——”

“Bothwell, hell!” sneered Bud. “It ain’t the outfit! It ain’t no

damned range boss! It’s _her_, I tell you! An’ if you’re figgerin’ on

gittin’ that ankle bandaged before— That starts you to runnin’, eh?”

he jeered.

For Taylor was out of bed with one leap. In another he had Bud by the

shoulders and had crowded him back against the wall.

“Bud,” he said, “I’ve a notion to manhandle you! Didn’t I tell you to

have me up early?”

“Git your fingers out of my windpipe,” objected Bud. “Early! Sufferin’

shorthorns! Did you want me to git you up last night? It’s only four,

now—an’ they’ve been here for hours, I reckon—mebbe all night. How’s a

man to know anything about a woman?”

Taylor was getting into his clothes. Bud watched him, marveling at his

deft movements. “You’re sure a wolf at hustlin’ when _she’s_ around!”

he offered.

But he got no reply. Taylor was dressed in a miraculously short time,

and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stuck a foot out

toward Bud.

“Shut up, and get the bandage on!” he directed.

Bud dove for a dresser and pulled out a drawer, returning instantly

with a roll of white cloth, which he unfolded as he knelt beside the

bed. For an instant after kneeling he scratched his head, looking at

Taylor’s feet in perplexity, and then he looked up at Taylor, his face

thoughtfully furrowed.

“Which ankle was it I bandaged before?” he demanded; “I’ve forgot!”

Taylor groaned. He, too, had forgotten. Since he had talked with Neil

Norton about the ankle directly after the fight with Carrington in

front of the courthouse he had tried in vain to remember which ankle

he had bandaged for Miss Harlan’s benefit. Driven to the necessity of

making a quick decision, his brain became a mere muddle of desperate

conjecture. Out of the muddle sprang a disgust for Bud for _his_ poor

memory.

“You’ve forgot!” he blurted at Bud. “Why, damn it, you ought to know

which one it was—you bandaged it!”

“Well,” grinned Bud gleefully, “it was _your_ ankle, wasn’t it?

Strikes me that if I busted one of _my_ ankles I wouldn’t forget which

one it was! Leastways, if I’d busted it just to hang around a girl!”

Taylor sneered scornfully. “You wouldn’t bust an ankle for a girl—you

ain’t got backbone enough. Hell!” he exploded; “do something! Take a

chance and bandage one of them—I don’t care a damn which one! If she

noticed the other time, I’ll tell her that one was cured and I busted

the other one!”

“She’d know you was lyin’,” grinned Bud. He stood erect, his eyes

alight with an inspiration. “Wrap up both of ’em!” he suggested. “If

she goes to gittin’ curious—which she will, bein’ a woman—tell her you

busted both of ’em!”

“It won’t do,” objected Taylor; “I couldn’t lie that heavy an’ keep a

straight face.”

Bud began to wrap the left ankle. As he worked, the doubt in his eyes

began to fade and was succeeded by conviction. When he finished, he

stood up and grinned at Taylor.

“That’s the one,” he said; “the left. I mind, now, that we talked

about it. You go right out to her, limpin’, the same as you done

before, an’ she’ll not say a word about it. You’ll see.”

Taylor grunted disbelievingly, and hobbled to the front door. He

looked back at Bud, who was snickering, made a malicious grimace at

him, and softly opened the door.

Miss Harlan had been asleep, but she was not asleep when Taylor opened

the door. Indeed, she was never more wide awake in her life. At the

sound of the door opening she turned her head and sat stiffly erect,

to face Taylor.

Taylor looked apologetically at his ankle, his cheeks tinged with a

flush of embarrassment.

“This ankle, ma’am—it ain’t quite well yet. You’ll excuse me not being

gone. But Bud—that’s my friend—says it won’t be quite right for a few

days yet. But I won’t be in your way—and I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Miss Harlan was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself despite the

shadow of the tragedy that had almost descended upon her. And mirth,

routing the bitter, resentful emotions that had dwelt in her heart

during the night, twitched mightily at her lips and threatened to

curve them into a smile.

For during her last visit to the Arrow she had noted particularly that

it had been Taylor’s _right_ ankle which had been bandaged, and now he

appeared before her with the _left_ swathed in white cloth!

But even had she not known, Taylor’s face must have told her of the

deception. For there was guilt in his eyes, and doubt, and a sort of

breathless speculation, and—she was certain—an intense curiosity to

discover whether or not she was aware of the trick.

But she looked straight at him, betraying nothing of the emotions that

had seized her.

“Does it pain you _very_ much?” she inquired.

Had not Taylor been so eager to make his case strong, he might have

noted the exceedingly light sarcasm of her voice.

“It hurts a heap, ma’am,” he declared. “Why, last night——”

“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to lie about an ankle,” she

said, coldly.

Taylor’s face went crimson, and in his astonishment he stepped heavily

upon the traitor foot and stood, convicted, before her, looking very

much like a reproved schoolboy.

She rose from her chair, and now she turned from Taylor and stood

looking out over the big level, while behind her Taylor shifted his

feet, scowled and felt decidedly uncomfortable.

From where Taylor watched her she looked very rigid and indignant—with

her head proudly erect and her shoulders squared; and he could almost

_feel_ that her eyes were flashing with resentment.

Yet had he been able to see her face, he would have seen her lips

twitching and her eyes dancing with a light that might have puzzled

him. For she had already forgiven him.

“There’s lies—_and_ lies,” he offered palliatively, breaking a painful

silence.

There was no answer, and Taylor, desperately in earnest in his desire

for forgiveness, and looking decidedly funny to Bud Hemmingway, who

was watching from the interior of the room beyond the open door,

walked across the porch with no suspicion of a limp, and halted near

the girl.

“Shucks, Miss Harlan,” he said. “I’m sure caught; and I’m admitting it

was a sort of mean trick to pull off on you. But if you wanted to be

near a girl you’d taken a shine to—that you liked a whole lot, I mean,

Miss Harlan—and you couldn’t think of any _good_ excuse to be around

her? You couldn’t blame a man for that—could you? Besides,” he added,

when peering at the side of her face, he saw the twitching lips, ready

to break into a smile, “I’ll make it up to you!”

“How?” It was a strained voice that answered him.

“By manhandling Bud Hemmingway for wrapping up the wrong ankle,

ma’am!” he declared.

Both heard a cackle of mirth from the room behind them. And both

turned, to see Bud Hemmingway retreating through a door into the

kitchen.

It might have been Bud’s action that brought the smile to Miss

Harlan’s face, or it might have been that she had forgiven Taylor. But

at any rate Taylor read the smile correctly, and he succeeded in

looking properly repentant when he felt Miss Harlan’s gaze upon him.

“I won’t play any more tricks—on you,” he declared. “You ain’t holding

it against me?”

“If you will promise not to harm Bud,” she said.

“That goes,” he agreed, and went into the house to get his discarded

boot.

When he reappeared, Miss Harlan was again seated in the chair. Swiftly

her thoughts had reverted to the incident of the night before, and her

face was wan and pale, and her lips pressed tightly together in a

brave effort to repress the emotions that rioted within her. In spite

of her courage, and of her determination not to let Taylor know of

what had happened to her, her eyes were moist and her lips quivering.

He stepped close to her and peered sharply at her, standing erect

instantly, his face grave.

“Shucks!” he said, accusingly; “I wouldn’t be called hospitable—now,

would I? Standing here, talking a lot of nonsense, and you—you must

have started _early_ to get here by this time!” Again he flashed a

keen glance at her, and his voice leaped.

“Something has happened, Miss Harlan! What is it?”

She got up again and faced him, smiling, her eyes shining mistily

through the moisture in them. She was almost on the verge of tears,

and her voice was tremulous when she answered:

“Mr. Taylor, I—I have come to ask if you—still—if your offer about the

Arrow is still open—if—I could stay here—myself and Martha; if I could

accept the offer you made about giving me father’s share of the Arrow.

For—for—I can’t go back East—to Westwood, and I won’t stay in the

Huggins house a minute longer!”

“Sure!” he said, with a grim smile, aware of her profound emotion;

aware, too, that something had gone terribly wrong with her—to make

her accept what she had once considered charity—an offer made out of

his regard for her father.

“But, look here,” he added. “What’s wrong? There’s something——”

“Plenty, Mr. Squint.”

This was Martha. She had been awake for some little time, sitting back

with her eyes closed, listening. She was now sitting erect, her eyes

shining with eagerness to tell all she knew of the night’s happenings.

“Plenty, Mr. Squint,” she repeated, paying no attention to Miss

Harlan’s sharp, “Martha!” “That big rapscallion, Carrington, has been

makin’ things mighty mis’able for Missy Harlan. He come to the house

las’ night an’ bust the door down, tryin’ to git at missy, an’ she’s

run away from him like a whitehead. Then, when he finds he can’t

diskiver where I hide missy he run the hosses off an’ we have to walk

heah. That’s all, Mr. Squint, ’ceptin’ that me an’ missy doan stay in

that house no more—if we have to walk East—all the way!”

Miss Harlan saw a flash light Taylor’s eyes; saw the flash recede, to

be replaced by a chilling glow. And his lips grew straight and

stiff—two hard lines pressed firmly together. She saw his chest swell

and noted the tenseness of his muscles as he stepped closer to her.

“Was your uncle there with you, Miss Harlan?”

She nodded, and saw his lips curve with a mirthless smile.

“What did Carrington do?” The passion in his voice made an icy shiver

run over her—she felt the terrible earnestness that had come over him,

and a pulse of fear gripped her.

She had never felt more like crying than at this instant, and until

this minute she had not known how deeply she had been affected by

Carrington’s conduct, nor how tired she was, nor how she had yearned

for the sympathy Taylor was giving her. But she felt that something in

Taylor’s manner portended violence, and she did not want him to risk

his life fighting Carrington—for her.

“You see,” she explained, “Mr. Carrington did not really _do_

anything. He just came there, and was impertinent, and impudent, and

insulting. And he told me that he had bought the house; that it didn’t

belong to uncle—though I thought it did; and that the people of

Dawes—and everywhere—would think—things—about me—as the people of

Westwood had—thought. And I—I—why, I just couldn’t stay——”

“That’s enough, Miss Harlan. So Carrington didn’t do anything.” His

voice was vibrant with some sternly repressed passion.

“So you walked all the way here, and you have had no breakfast,” he

said, shortly. He turned toward the front door, his voice snapping

like the report of a rifle:

“Bud!”

And, looking through the doorway, Miss Harlan saw Bud jump as though

he had been shot. He appeared in the doorway, serious-faced and alert.

“Rustle some breakfast—quick! And hoe out that spare bedroom. Jump!”

Taylor understood perfectly what had happened, for he remembered what

he had overheard between Carrington and Parsons on the train. To be

sure, Miss Harlan knew nothing about the conversation, and so she

mentally commended Taylor’s quickness of perception, and felt grateful

to him because he had spared her the horror of explaining further.

She sat down again, aware of the startling unconventionality of this

visit and of the conversation that had resulted from it, but oppressed

with no sense of shame. For it seemed entirely natural that she should

have come to Taylor, though she supposed that was because he had been

her father’s friend, and that she had no other person to go to—not

even if she went East, to Westwood. But she would not have mentioned

what had happened at the big house if Martha had not taken the

initiative.

She was startled over the change that had come in Taylor. Watching him

covertly as he stood near her, and following his movements as he

walked around in the room, helping Bud, generously leaving her to

herself and her thoughts, she looked in vain for that gentleness and

subtle thoughtfulness that hitherto had seemed to distinguish him. She

had admired him for his easy-going manner, the slow deliberateness of

his glances, the quizzical gleam of his eyes.

But she saw him now as many of the men in this section of the country

had seen him when he faced the necessity for rapid, determined action.

It was the other side of his character; before she had heard his

voice, and before she had seen him smile—the stern, unyielding side of

him which she had discovered always was ready for the blows of

adversity and enmity—his fighting side.

And when she went into the house to breakfast, feeling the strangeness

of it all—of the odd fate which had led her to the Arrow; the queer

reluctance that affected her over the action in accepting the

hospitality of a man who—except for his association with her

father—was almost a stranger to her—she found that he did not intend

to insinuate his presence upon her.

He called her, and stood near the table when she and Martha went in.

Then he told her gravely that the house was “hers,” and that he and

Bud would live in the bunkhouse.

“And when you get settled,” he told her, as he stood in the doorway,

ready to go, “we’ll write those articles of partnership. And,” he

added, “don’t you go to worrying about Carrington. If he comes here,

and Bud or me ain’t here, you’ll find a loaded rifle hanging behind

the front door. Don’t be afraid to use it—there’s no law against

killing snakes out here!”