A MATTER OF DIRECTION
If Dick Hilton had not been bewildered by passion, jealousy and rage at
thwarted desires, he might have known that his horse was not taking the
homeward way, and had the horse not been bred and raised by one of
Colonel Hunter's mares he might have carried his rider straight back to
Ute Crossing.
But he was a canny little beast, he was cold and drenched, the trip to
town was long and the range on which he had spent his happy colthood
was not far off. Horses know riders before riders know horses so, as he
went through the gate, he slyly tried out this rider and instead of
swinging to the right he bore to the left. He went tentatively through
the pitch darkness, one ear cocked backward at first but when Hilton,
collar up, hat down, bowed before the storm, gave no evidence of
detecting this plan, the beast picked up his rapid walk and took the
trail for the nearer, more satisfactory place where many times in the
past he had stood out such downpours with no great discomfort under the
shelter of a spreading cedar.
And direction was the last thing in Dick Hilton's mind. For a long
interval his thoughts were incoherent and the conflicting emotions they
provoked were distressing. Being alone, made physically uncomfortable
by the water seeping through his shoulders and breeches, sensing the
steady movement of the animal under him, brought some order to his
mental chaos and finally realization began to dawn.
Yes, he had followed his strongest impulses; there could be no question
about what he had done, but as for its wisdom: Ah, that was another
matter, and he cursed himself for a fool, at first mentally, then under
his breath and when the horse began mounting a steep incline,
clattering over rocks with his unshod hoofs, Hilton halted him and
looked about in foolish attempt to make out his whereabouts and said
aloud:
"Off the road. That's twice you've made an ass of yourself tonight!"
There was nothing for him to do but go on and trust to the horse. He
knew that this was not the highway but consoled himself that it might
be a short cut to the Crossing. Small consolation and it was dissipated
when they commenced a lurching descent with a wall of rock
uncomfortably close to his right, so close that at times his knee
scrubbed it smartly. He became alarmed for the horse went cautiously,
head low, feeling his way over insecure footing. Once his fore feet
slipped and he stopped short while loosened stones rolled before them
on the trail and Hilton heard one strike far below to his left, and
strike again and again, sounds growing fainter. He peered down into the
gloom but could see nothing, hear nothing but the hiss of rain. An
empty ache came into his viscera as he imagined the depths that might
wait to that side.
After a moment the horse went on, picking his way gingerly.
Somewhere beyond or below he made out a light. It was a feeble glow and
its location became a weird thing for lack of perceptive, but it
cheered him. He was decidedly uncomfortable and his state of mind added
to the physical need of warmth and shelter so he urged the horse on.
Finally they reached a flat and he felt wet brush slapping at his legs
as the horse, intent on the light himself, trotted forward.
Their destination was a cabin. The glow finally resolved itself into
cracks of light showing between logs and through a tarpaulin which hung
across the doorway.
Dick shouted. Movement inside; the curtain was drawn back and he rode
blinking into the light, which he could see came from a fireplace. A
woman stood outlined against the flare.
"Who's there?" she asked sharply, and Dick stopped his horse.
"My name is Hilton," he said, "but that won't do you much good. I'm a
stranger and I'm off my way, I guess."
The other did not reply as he dismounted and walked toward her.
"Without a slicker," she said. "Come in."
The first thing he saw inside was movement: A cartridge belt, swinging
from a nail. A rifle leaned handily against the door casing.
The girl who had held the curtain back for him to enter let it drop and
turned to face him. Hilton drew his breath sharply. Blue-black hair, in
a heavy, orderly mass atop a shapely, high-held head and falling down
her straight trim back in one thick plait; brown eyes, ripe red lips, a
delicate chin and a throat of exquisite proportions. His gaze traveled
down her figure, the natural grace of which could not be concealed by
the shirt and riding skirt she wore. She was wholly beautiful.
"Oh, I've seen you before," he said slowly. "You're the girl that
demanded respect and got it in the Crossing the other day!"
She eyed him in silence a moment, evidently unaware of the admiration
in his tone.
"I never saw you. I ain't been here long," she said, her expression
still defiant, as though he had challenged her. She searched his face,
his clothing, and back at his face again. "Where was you travelin'
tonight?"
"I was going to the Crossing," he said with a short laugh. "My horse
brought me here."
Without comment she walked to the fire and threw on another knot. He
watched her movements, the free rhythmic swing of her walk, the easy
grace with which her hands and arms moved, the perfect assurance in
even her smallest gesture. His eyes kindled.
"Set," she said, indicating a box by the hearth. "You're soaked. Lucky
you struck here or you'd made a night of it."
Hilton seated himself, holding his hands toward the fire. He looked
about the one room of the cabin. In two corners were beds on the
earthen floor, a table made from a packing box contained dishes, Dutch
ovens and a frying pan were on the hearth. The roof leaked.
The girl sat eyeing the fire, rather sullenly. He held his gaze on her,
watching the play of light over her throat as it threw a velvety sheen
on the wind kissed skin. Her shirt was open at the neck and he could
see the easy rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. He noticed
that her fingers were slender and that her wrists, bronzed by exposure,
indicated with all their delicacy, wiry strength. Another thing: She
was clean.
Suddenly the girl looked up.
"Think you'd know me again?" she said bruskly, and rather swaggered as
she moved.
"I don't think I shall ever forget you," he replied. "I knew I should
not the first time I saw you. I shall never forget the way you gave
that fellow what he deserved. It was great!"
His manner was kindly, showing no resentment at her belligerence and
though her only reply was a sniff he knew that what he had said pleased
her.
"I wouldn't want you to think I'm staring at you," he went on. "A man
shouldn't be blamed for looking at you closely."
"How's that?"
"You are very beautiful."
She poked at the fire with a stick.
"I reckon that'll be enough of that," she said as she walked back
toward the door.
The man smiled and followed her with his eyes, which squinted
speculatively.
"You'd better unsaddle that horse," she said. "He'll roll with your kak
if you don't."
Hilton looked about the room again.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
She whirled and looked at him with temper. Her hand, perhaps
unconsciously, was pressed against the wall near that rifle.
"What if I am?"--sharply.
"Because if you are I shall not unsaddle my horse. I'll have to go on."
When she put her question she had been rigidly expectant but at his
answer she relaxed and the fierceness that had been about her yielded
to a curiosity.
"Go on in the rain? How's that?"--in a voice that was quite different,
as though she had encountered something she did not understand.
He looked at her a lengthy interval before replying.
"Because I respect you very much. Do you understand that?"
She moved back to the fireplace, eyeing him questioningly, and he met
that look with an easy smile.
"No, I don't understand that," she said.
"You should. I saw you beat a man the other day because he didn't
respect you. No one but that type of man would refuse to respect you.
It's wise, perhaps, for you to take down that rifle when strangers come
at night ... but it isn't always necessary. Some men might stay here
with you alone, but I couldn't."
"You mean, that you'd ride on in the rain?"
"Surely."
"Well.... You ain't afraid of the gun, are you?"
He laughed outright.
"No, it's not that! It's because I'd ride any distance rather than do
something that might bring you unhappiness. Don't you see?" He leaned
forward, elbows on knees, looking up into her serious face. "Don't you
see that if I stayed here with you, alone, and people heard about it,
they might not respect you?"
"It's none of their business!"
"Neither was it any business of that man to insult you in town the
other day. But he did."
"But it's rainin' and you're cold. I ain't afraid of you."
It was raining, but he was not cold. The fire was close and, besides,
another warmth was seeping through his body as he looked earnestly into
the face of that daughter of the mountains. The ready defiance was gone
from it and the features, in repose, gave it an expression that was
little less than wistful.
"And you are a young girl who deserves the admiration of every man that
walks. If I stayed here with you, you would know it's all right, and so
would I.... Others might not understand."
She sat down abruptly, leaned back, clasped one knee with her hands and
smiled for the first time. It was a beautiful smile, in great contrast
to her earlier sullen defiance.
"I like you," she said simply, and Hilton's face grew hot.
"If you like me, my night's ride hasn't gone to waste," he replied, and
laughed.
She looked him over again, calculatingly, as closely as she had at
first, but with a different interest. Her smile faded but the lips
remained slightly parted, showing teeth of calcium whiteness.
"You're the first man that's ever talked that-a way to me. I've been
travelin' ever since I can remember, first one place, then another.
I've always had to look out for men.... I've been able to, too, since I
got big enough to be bothered.
"This is the first time any man's talked like you're talkin' to me."
"Bless you," he said very gently, "that's been tough luck. A girl like
you are doesn't deserve that."
"Don't she? Well, it ain't what you deserve that counts, it's what you
get."
"What's your name?"
"Bobby.... Bobby Cole."
"How old are you?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know ... just. About twenty. Alf knows; I ain't thought to ask
him for quite a while."
"Who's Alf?"
"My father."
"... And your mother?"
"I never had none that I recall. She died early; that was back in
Oklahoma, Alf says."
"No brothers or sisters?"
A shake of the head.
"And since then you've been alone with your father?"
She nodded. "For weeks an' months, without talkin' to another soul."
"Have you always lived so far away as that? Always in such remote
places that you didn't even see people?"
"Huh! Usually I've seen 'em, 'most every day.... But there's a
difference between seein' folks and talkin' to 'em."
He was puzzled and said so.
"Funny!" she repeated after him. "Maybe it's funny ... but I can't see
it that-a way."
"But surely you've made friends! A girl like you couldn't help make
friends."
"I've never had a friend in my life ... but Alf," she answered bitterly.
"Then it must have been because you didn't want to make friends with
people."
"Didn't want to!" she echoed almost angrily. "What else does anybody
want but friends ... an' things like that? Oh, I wanted to all right,
but folks don't make friends with ... with trash like we are. We ain't
got enough to have friends; ain't got enough even to have peace."
Hilton studied her face carefully. It was a queer blending of appealing
want and virulence.
"They won't even let you have peace?" he asked deliberately to urge her
in further revelation.
"Folks that have things don't want other folks to have 'em. In this
country when poor folks try to get ahead all they get is trouble."
"Is that always so?"
She shrugged and said, "It's always been so with us. Big cattle outfits
have drove us out time after time. They're always sayin' Alf steals;
they're always makin' us trouble. I hate 'em!
"I could get along all right. I can fight but Alf can't. He's had so
much bad luck that it's took th' heart out of him.... If it wasn't for
me he couldn't get along at all. He's discouraged."
"You must think a lot of your father."
She shook her head as if to infer that measuring such devotion was an
impossibility.
"Think a lot of him? God, yes! He's all I got. He's all I ever had.
He's the only one that hasn't chased me out ... or chased after me.
We've been on the move ever since I can recollect, stayin' a few months
or a year or two, then hittin' the trail again. Move, move, move!
Always chased out by big outfits, always made fun of, an' he's been
good to me through it all. I'd crawl through fire for Alf."
"A devotion like that is a very fine and noble thing."
"Is it? It comes sort of natural to me. I never thought about
it,"--with a weary sigh.
"How did you happen to come here?" he asked.
She looked at him and a flicker as of suspicion crossed her face.
"Just come," she replied, rather evasively, he thought.
For a time they did not speak. The fire crackled dully. Steam rose in
wisps from Hilton's soaked clothing and a cunning crept into his
expression. The rain pattered on the roof and dripped through in
several places, forming dark spots on the hard floor; the horse stamped
in the mud outside.
The man saw the regular leap of the pulse in her throat and caressed
his thumb with finger tips as delicately as though they stroked that
smooth skin.
Her lips were parted ... and _such_ lips! He told himself that she
was more beautiful than he had first thought and as filled with
contrasts as the heavens themselves. Shortly before she had been
defiant, ready for trouble, prepared to defend herself with a rifle if
necessary; now she was a child; that, and no more ... and she was
distinctive ... quite so.
"You better stay," she said rather shyly after a time. "Alf'll be back
some time before mornin'. Nobody'll know."
He shook his head.
"You and I would know, and after I've told you what I think about it,
maybe you wouldn't like me if I did stay ... you've said you did like
me."
He rose, smiling.
"Sure enough goin'?"
"Sure enough going."
"But you're soaked and cold."
"No man could do less for a girl like you."
He bowed playfully low and when he lifted his eyes to her again they
read her simple pleasure. He had touched her greatest love, the desire
to be treated by men with respect.
"I'll just ask you to show me the way."
"You come by the way, I guess. Just start back that trail and your
cayuse'll take you to the road--
"But Alf'll be back. We've never turned anybody out in the rain before."
"Then this is something new. Don't ask me again, please. When you ask a
man it makes it very hard to refuse and I must ... for your sake.
"After I strike the road, then what?"
"Follow right past the HC ranch to town. You know where that is?"
A wave of rage swept through him.
"I ought to!" he said bitterly. "I was sent away from there tonight."
"Sent away? In the _rain_?"
"In the rain."
"Why did they do that?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Because there are things which some people do not value as highly as
you do. Generosity, thoughtfulness for the desires of others,
hospitality."
He licked his lips almost greedily as he watched her.
"Did _she_ know?"
"Who do you mean?"
"That greenhorn gal."
"Yes, she knew," he answered grimly, and buttoned his coat.
He put out his hand and she took it, rather awed.
"Some time I may come back and thank you for what you've wanted to do."
"Oh, you'll come back?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes,"--eagerly.
"Then it is impossible for me to stay away for long!"
She stood watching, as, touching his hat, he rode into the night. She
let the curtain drop and returned to the fire, standing there a moment.
Then she sat down, rather weakly, and stretched her slim legs across
the hearth.
"I'll be damned!" she said, rather reverently.
Hilton did not ride far. His horse was reluctant to go at first and
then stopped and stood with head in the air, nickering softly and would
not go on when his rider spurred him. After a moment Hilton sat still
and listened. He heard the steady _plunk-plunk-plunk_ of a
trotting horse and, soon, the swish of brush; then a call, rather low
and cautious.
The canvas before the doorway was drawn back.
"You decided to stay?" Then, in surprise, "Who's there?"--sharply.
One word in answer and Hilton remembered it:
"Hepburn."
The rider dismounted and entered.
Dick rode on up the trail. When he reached Ute Crossing his clothing
was dried by the early sun. He ate breakfast and crawled into his bed,
angered one moment, puzzled the next and, finally, thrilled as he
dropped asleep with a vision of firelight playing over a deliciously
slender throat.