"MISS HAZEL"
Gordon was in no mood to take things easily. Something of the
atmosphere of the place had already got into his blood. His was
similar to the mood of those whom he had seen hurrying unnecessarily in
the town. Those whom he had seen exchanging hurried words and passing
on.
Although he lived in the age of automobiles and aeroplanes, nothing of
his education had been forgotten by his father. He was a perfect whip
with a four-in-hand, and now, as he handled a "bright" team of livery
horses, it was child's play to him. He bustled his horses until he had
left the ragamuffin town behind him, then he settled down to a steady,
round gait, and gave himself up to the prospect of the contemplation of
those scenes of industry which he shortly hoped to discover.
Within ten minutes of leaving the town he discovered the first signs.
Men and horses appeared in the distance upon the hills. At one point
he discerned a traction engine hauling a string of laden wagons. It
was the first breaking up of the monotonous green of the low hills.
And it promptly suggested that, in the hidden hollows, he would
probably discover far more energetic signs of the work of the coal
corporation, which doubtless must have already begun in real earnest.
Things were becoming interesting. He wondered how much work had been
done. There was no sign of the coal itself yet. He remembered to have
visited coal mines once, and then everything had been black and gloomy.
Vast heaps of slack had been piled everywhere, and the pit heads had
been surmounted by hauling machinery. There had been great black
wastes dotted by houses and streets, which seemed to have taken to
themselves something of the hue of the deposits which had brought them
into existence. Even the men and women, and particularly the children,
had been living advertisements for the great industry which supported
them. Here, as yet, there were no such signs. However, doubtless
further on there would----
All in a moment his thoughts of coal were broken off, and all his
interest vanished like a puff of that coal's smoke in a gale. Coal no
longer meant anything to him. He didn't care if the whole wide world
starved for coal for all eternity. A chestnut horse was on the trail
ahead, and a figure was stooping beside it examining its nearside
forefoot. The figure was clad in a _fawn-colored riding-costume_.
The electric current of his feelings communicated itself to his team
through the whip as its conductor. The team reared and plunged, then,
under his strong hands, they bowled merrily along the dusty trail at a
great though well-controlled speed towards the distant figures.
The girl dropped the horse's hoof and straightened herself abruptly.
She turned with a quick movement, and gazed back over the trail, her
eyes alert and questioning. Her wide prairie hat was thrust slightly
from her forehead, and a coil of abundant auburn hair was displayed
beneath its brim. Her finely penciled eyebrows were drawn together in
an unmistakable question, and her pretty eyes were obviously
speculative.
She waited while the buggy drew nearer. She recognized the team as
from Mike Callahan's barn, but the occupant of the vehicle was a
stranger to her.
The latter fact drew her attention more closely. For a moment she had
hoped that it was someone she knew. She needed someone she knew just
now. Anyway, a stranger was always interesting, even though he could
not afford her the assistance she just now happened to need.
She descried a boyish, eager face on the top of a pair of wonderful
shoulders. But that which made a strong appeal to her was the manner
in which he was handling his horses. There was nothing here of the
slovenly prairie teamster. The stranger, whoever he was, was a master
behind a good team of horses. She delighted in a horseman, whether he
were in the driving-seat or the saddle.
But all of a sudden she became aware that her regard had been observed,
and, with a little smile twinkling in the depths of her hazel eyes, she
picked up her horse's forefoot again, and once more probed with her
gauntleted finger for the cause of the desperate lameness with which he
had been suddenly attacked.
She heard the buggy come up. She was aware that the team had swung out
to avoid collision. Then a cheery voice greeted her ears with its
pleasant and welcome inquiry--
"You seem to be in a fix. Can I help any?"
Before the girl looked round she was aware that the teamster had
alighted. Then when she finally released her hold of the injured hoof,
and stood up, she found herself confronted by Gordon's smiling blue
eyes, as he stood bare-headed before her.
Somehow or other a smiling response was unavoidable.
"That's real kind of you," she said, "but I don't guess you can. You
see, poor Sunset's dead lame with a flint in his frog, and--and I just
can't get the fool thing out."
Gordon endeavored to look serious. But the trouble was incomparable in
his mind with the delightful charm of this girl, in her divided
riding-suit. However, his effort to conceal his admiration was not
without some success.
"I don't guess we can stand for any old thing like an impertinent
flint," he said impulsively. "Sunset must be relieved. Sunset must be
put out of pain. I'm not just a veterinary surgeon, but I'm a
specialist on the particular flint which happens to annoy you. Just
grab these lines while I have a look."
The frank unconventionality of the man was wholly pleasing, and the
girl found herself obeying him without question.
"It's the nearside," she explained.
Then she remained silent, watching the assured manner in which the
stranger set about his work. He picked up the hoof and examined it
closely. Then he drew out a folding button-hook from a trouser pocket.
Then, for a few moments, she watched his deft manipulation of it.
Presently he stood up holding a long, thin, sharp splinter of flint
between finger and thumb.
"Say," he remarked, as he returned the buttonhook to his pocket, while
his eyes shone merrily, "I believe if some bright geologist were to set
out chasing these flints to their lair, I've a notion he'd pull up
in--in--well, aspirate a certain measure in cloth and I'd guess you get
the answer right away. It's paved with 'em. That's my secret belief.
I could write a treatise on 'em. I've discovered every breed and every
species. I tell you if you want to study these rocks right, you need
to run an automobile, and find yourself in a hurry, having forgotten to
carry spare tires. Ugh!" He flung the stone away from him and turned
again to the horse.
Still watching him, the girl saw him deliberately tear off a piece of
his handkerchief, and, with the point of his pocket-knife, stuff it
into the jagged gash in poor Sunset's frog.
"That'll keep out some of Snake's Fall," he observed, returning the
rest of his handkerchief to his pocket. "We'll take it out when we get
him home." Then he deliberately turned to his team and tied Sunset
alongside. After that, in the most practical manner, he moved the
wheels of the buggy apart. "Jump right in. Guess you know the way, so
you can show it me. You see, I'm a stranger. Say, it's an awful thing
to be a stranger. Life's rotten being a stranger."
The girl was gazing at him with wide, wondering eyes that were half
inclined to resentment. She was not accustomed to being ordered about
in this cavalier fashion. She had no intention of being incontinently
swept off her feet.
"Thanks," she said, with an assumption of hauteur. "If you'll untie
Sunset I'll ride home."
"Ride home? Say, you're joking. Why, you can't ride Sunset with that
gash in his frog. Say, you couldn't be so cruel. Think of the poor
fellow silently suffering. Think of the mute anguish he would endure
at each step. It--it would be a crime, an outrage, a--a----" He broke
off, his eyes twinkling merrily.
The girl wanted to be annoyed. She told herself she was annoyed, but
she nevertheless began to laugh, and Gordon knew he was to have his way.
"I really couldn't think of accepting your---- Besides, you weren't
going to Buffalo Point. You know you weren't."
"Do I?" Gordon's eyes were blankly inquiring. "Now how on earth do I
know where I was going? Say, I guess it's true I had in my mind a
vision of the glinting summer sun, tinting the coal heaps with its
wonderful, golden, ripening rays--though I guess it would be some work
ripening stove coal--but as to my ever getting there--well, that just
depended on the trail I happened to take. As I said, I'm a stranger.
And I may as well admit right here that I've a hobby getting mussed up
with wrong trails."
The girl's laughter dispelled her last effort at dignity.
"I knew you were a stranger. You see, I get to know everybody here--by
sight."
Gordon made a gesture of annoyance.
"There," he exclaimed in self-disgust, "I ought to have thought of that
before. How on earth could I expect you to ride in a stranger's buggy,
with said stranger on the business end of the lines? Then the hills
are so near. Why, you might be spirited off goodness knows where, and
your loving relatives never, never hear of you no more, and---- Say,
we can easily fix that though. My name's--Van Henslaer. Gordon Van
Henslaer from New York. Now if you tell me--what's the matter?"
A merry peal of laughter had greeted his announcement, and Gordon
looked on in pretended amazement, waiting for her mirth to subside.
"Oh dear, oh dear," the girl cried at last. "I might have known. Say,
of course I ought to have known. You came here yesterday on the
train--by mistake. You----"
"That's so. I'd booked through to Seattle, but--some interfering pack
of fools guessed I'd made a--mistake,"
The girl nodded. Her pretty eyes were still dancing with merriment.
"Father came by the same train, and told me of someone who got mixed up
in--in a fight, and they threw----"
"Don't say another word," Gordon cried hurriedly. "I'm--I'm the man.
And your father is----?"
"Mallinsbee--Silas Mallinsbee!"
"Then you are Hazel Mallinsbee."
"How do you know my first name?"
"Why, I saw you in town, and the livery man told me you were 'Miss
Hazel.' Say, this is bully. Now we aren't strangers, and you can ride
in my buggy without any question. Jump right in, and I'll drive
you--where is it?"
Hazel Mallinsbee obeyed without further demur. She sprang into the
vehicle, and Gordon promptly followed. The next moment they were
moving on at a steady, sober pace.
"It's Buffalo Point," the girl directed. "It's only four miles. Then
you can go on and enjoy your beautiful pathetic picture of the coal
workings. But you won't have much time if we travel at this gait," she
added slyly.
Gordon shook his head.
"It's Sunset," he said. "We must consider his poor foot."
There was laughter in Hazel's eyes as she sighed.
"Poor Sunset. Perhaps--you're right."
"Without a doubt," Gordon laughed. "He might get blood poisoning, or
cancer, or dyspepsia, or something if we bustled him."
Hazel pointed a branching trail to the north.
"That's the trail," she said. "Father's at home. He'll be real glad
to see you. Say, you know father ought to know better--at his age.
He--he just loves a scrap. He was telling me about you, and saying how
you 'hammered'--that's the word he used--the 'sharp.' He was most
upset that the train crew spoiled the finish. You know father's a
great scallywag. I don't believe he thinks he's a day over twenty.
It's--it's dreadful--with a grown-up daughter. He's--just a great big
boy for all his gray hair. You should just see him out on the range.
He's got all the youngsters left standing. It must be grand to grow
old like he does."
Gordon listened to the girl's rich tones, and the enthusiasm lying
behind her words, and somehow the whole situation seemed unreal. Here
he was driving one of the most perfectly delightful girls he had ever
met to her home, within twenty-four hours of his absurd arrival in a
still more absurd town. Nor was she any mere country girl. Her whole
style spoke of an education obtained at one of the great schools in the
East. Her costume might have been tailored on Fifth Avenue, New York.
Yet here she was living the life of the wonderful sunlit prairie, the
daughter of an obscure rancher in the foothills of the Rockies.
"Say, your father is just a bully feller," he agreed quickly. "He
didn't know me from--a grasshopper, but he did me all sorts of a good
service. It don't matter what it was. But it was one of those things
which between men count a whole heap."
The girl's enthusiasm waxed.
"Father's just as good as--as he's clever. But," she added tenderly,
"he's a great scallywag. Oh dear, he'll never grow up." A few minutes
later she pointed quickly ahead with one gauntleted hand.
"That's Buffalo Point," she said. "There where that house is. That's
our house, and beyond it, half a mile, you can see the telegraph poles
of the railroad track."
Gordon gazed ahead. They still had a good mile to go. The lonely
house fixed his attention.
"Say, isn't there a village?" he inquired. "Buffalo Point?"
The girl shook her head.
"No. Just that little frame house of ours. Father had it built as--a
sort of office. You see, we're both working hard on his land scheme.
You see, it's--it's our hobby, the same as losing trails is yours."
Gordon laughed.
"That's plumb spoiled my day. I'd forgotten the land business. Now
it's all come over me like a chill, like the drip of an ice wagon down
the back of my neck. I s'pose there'll always be land around, and
we've always got to have coal. It seems a pity, doesn't it. Say,
there hasn't been a soul I've met in twenty-four hours, but they've
been crazy on--on town sites. They're most ridiculous things, town
sites. Four pegs and four imaginary lines, a deal of grass with a
substrata of crawly things. And for that men would scrap, and cheat,
and rob, and--and graft. It's--a wonder."
Hazel Mallinsbee checked her inclination to laugh again. Her eyes were
gazing ahead at the little frame house, and they grew wistfully serious.
"It isn't the land," she said simply. "The scrap, and cheat, and rob,
and graft, are right. But it's the fight for fortune. Fortune?" she
smiled. "Fortune means everything to a modern man. To some women,
too, but not quite in the way it does to a man. You see, in olden days
competition took a different form. I don't know if, in spite of what
folks say about the savagery of old times, they weren't more honest and
wholesome than they are now. However, nature's got to compete for
something. Human nature's got to beat someone. Life is just one
incessant rivalry. Well, in old times it took the form of bloodshed
and war, when men counted with pride the tally of their victories. Now
we point with pride to our civilization, and gaze back in pity upon our
benighted forefathers. Instead of bloodshed, killing, fighting,
massacring and all the old bad habits of those who came before us, we
point our civilization by lying, cheating, robbing and grafting."
Gordon smiled.
"Put that way it sounds as though the old folks were first-class saints
compared with us. There's a deal of honesty when two fellers get right
up on their hind legs and start in to mush each other's faces to a
pulp. But it isn't just the same when you creep up while the other
feller isn't wise and push the muzzle of a gun into his middle and
riddle his stomach till it's like a piece of gruyere cheese."
Hazel shook her head. Her eyes were still smiling, but Gordon detected
something of the serious thought behind them. He vainly endeavored to
sober his mood in sympathy.
"Guess it's the refinement of competition due to the claims of our much
proclaimed culture and civilization. I think civilization is a--a
dreadful mockery. To call it a whitewash would be a libel on a
perfectly innocent, wholesome, sanitary process. That's how I always
feel when I stop to think. But--but," her eyes began to dance with a
joyous enthusiasm, "I don't often think--not that way. Say, I just
love the battle, I mean the modern battle for fortune. It's--it's
almost the champagne of life. I know only one thing to beat it."
Gordon had forgotten the team he was driving, and let them amble
leisurely on towards the house, now so rapidly approaching.
"What's--the real champagne?" he inquired.
The girl turned and gazed at him with wide eyes.
"Why," she cried. "Life--just life itself. What else? Say, think of
the moment your eyes open to the splendid sunlight of day. Think of
the moment you realize you are living--living--living, after a long,
delicious night's sleep. Think of all the perfect moments awaiting you
before night falls, and you seek your bed again. It is just the very
essence of perfect joy."
"It's better after breakfast, and you've had time to get around some."
The ardor of the girl's mood received a sudden douche. Just for a
moment a gleam of displeasure shadowed her eyes. Then a twinkling
smile grew, and the clouds dispersed.
"Isn't that just a man? Where's your enthusiasm? Where's your joy of
life? Where's your romance, and--and spirit of hope?"
A great pretense of reproach lay in her rapid questions.
"Oh, they're all somewhere lying around, I guess," returned Gordon
simply. "Those things are all right, sure. But--but it's a mighty
tough proposition worrying that way on--on an empty stomach. It seems
to me that's just one of life's mistakes. There ought to be a law in
Congress that a feller isn't allowed to--to think till he's had his
morning coffee. The same law might provide for the fellow who fancies
himself a sort of canary and starts right in to sing before he's had
his bath. I'd have him sent to the electric chair. That sort of
fellow never has a voice worth two cents, and he most generally has a
repertoire of songs about as bright as Solomon's, and a mighty deal
older. Sure, Miss Mallinsbee, I haven't a word to say against life in
a general way, but it's about as wayward as a spoilt kid, and needs as
much coaxing."
Hazel Mallinsbee watched the play of the man's features while he
talked. She knew he meant little or nothing of what he said. The
fine, clear eyes, the smiling simplicity and atmosphere of virile youth
about him, all denied the sentiments he was giving vent to. She nodded
as he finished.
"At first I thought you meant all--that," she said lightly. "But now I
know you're just talking for talking's sake." Then, before he could
reply, she pointed excitedly at the house, now less than a hundred
yards away. "Why, there's father, standing right there on the
veranda!" she exclaimed.
Gordon looked ahead. The old man was waving one great hand to his
daughter.