THE D BAR LAZY R BOYS MEET AN ANGEL
Joyce came flying to her father's arms. The white lace of a nightgown
showed beneath the dressing-robe she had hurriedly donned. A plait of
dark hair hung across her shoulder far below the waist. She threw herself
at Crawford with a moaning little sob.
"Oh Dad ... Dad ... Dad!" she cried, and her slender arms went round his
neck.
"'T's all right, sweetheart. Yore old dad's not even powder-burnt. You
been worryin' a heap, I reckon." His voice was full of rough tenderness.
She began to cry.
He patted her shoulder and caressed her dark head drawing it close to his
shoulder. "Now--now--now sweetheart, don't you cry. It's all right, li'l'
honey bug."
"You're not ... hurt," she begged through her tears.
"Not none. Never was huskier. But I got a boy out here that's beat up
some. Come in, Dave--and you, Bob. They're good boys, Joy. I want you to
meet 'em both."
The girl had thought her father alone. She flung one startled glance into
the night, clutched the dressing-gown closer round her throat, and fled
her barefoot way into the darkness of the house. To the boys, hanging
back awkwardly at the gate, the slim child-woman was a vision wonderful.
Their starved eyes found in her white loveliness a glimpse of heaven.
Her father laughed. "Joy ain't dressed for callers. Come in, boys."
He lit a lamp and drew Dave to a lounge. "Lemme look at yore haid, son.
Bob, you hot-foot it for Doc Green."
"It's nothin' a-tall to make a fuss about," Dave apologized. "Only a love
tap, compliments of Shorty, and some kicks in the slats, kindness of Mr.
Miller."
In spite of his debonair manner Dave still had a bad headache and was so
sore around the body that he could scarcely move without groaning. He
kept his teeth clamped on the pain because he had been brought up in
the outdoor code of the West which demands of a man that he grin and
stand the gaff.
While the doctor was attending to his injuries, Dave caught sight once
or twice of Joyce at the door, clad now in a summer frock of white with a
blue sash. She was busy supplying, in a brisk, competent way, the demands
of the doctor for hot and cold water and clean linen.
Meanwhile Crawford told his story. "I was right close to the club when
Doble met me. He pulled a story of how his brother Dug had had trouble
with Steelman and got shot up. I swallowed it hook, bait, and sinker.
Soon as I got into the house they swarmed over me like bees. I didn't
even get my six-gun out. Brad wanted me to sign a relinquishment. I told
him where he could head in at."
"What would have happened if the boys hadn't dropped along?" asked Dr.
Green as he repacked his medicine case.
The cattleman looked at him, and his eyes were hard and bleak. "Why, Doc,
yore guess is as good as mine." he said.
"Mine is, you'd have been among the missing, Em. Well, I'm leaving a
sleeping-powder for the patient in case he needs it in an hour or two.
In the morning I'll drop round again," the doctor said.
He did, and found Dave much improved. The clean outdoors of the
rough-riding West builds blood that is red. A city man might have kept
his bed a week, but Dave was up and ready to say good-bye within
forty-eight hours. He was still a bit under par, a trifle washed-out,
but he wanted to take the road in pursuit of Miller and Doble, who had
again decamped in a hurry with the two horses they had stolen.
"They had the broncs hid up Frio Cañon way, I reckon," explained Hart.
"But they didn't take no chances. When they left that 'dobe house they
lit a-runnin' and clumb for the high hills on the jump. And they didn't
leave no address neither. We'll be followin' a cold trail. We're not
liable to find them after they hole up in some mountain pocket."
"Might. Never can tell. Le's take a whirl at it anyhow," urged Dave.
"Hate to give up yore paint hoss, don't you?" said Bob with his friendly
grin. "Ain't blamin' you none whatever, I'd sleep on those fellows' trail
if Chiquito was mine. What say we outfit in the mornin' and pull our
freights? Maybeso we'll meet up with the thieves at that. Yo no se (I
don't know)."
When Joyce was in the room where Dave lay on the lounge, the young man
never looked at her, but he saw nobody else. Brought up in a saddle on
the range, he had never before met a girl like her. It was not only that
she was beautiful and fragrant as apple-blossoms, a mystery of maidenhood
whose presence awed his simple soul. It was not only that she seemed so
delicately precious, a princess of the blood royal set apart by reason of
her buoyant grace, the soft rustle of her skirts, the fine texture of the
satiny skin. What took him by the throat was her goodness. She was
enshrined in his heart as a young saint. He would have thought it
sacrilege to think of her as a wide-awake young woman subject to all the
vanities of her sex. And he could have cited evidence. The sweetness of
her affection for rough Em Crawford, the dear, maternal tenderness with
which she ruled her three-year-old brother Keith, motherless since the
week of his birth, the kindness of the luminous brown eyes to the uncouth
stranger thrown upon her hospitality: Dave treasured them all as signs of
angelic grace, and they played upon his heartstrings disturbingly.
Joyce brought Keith in to say good-bye to Dave and his friend before
they left. The little fellow ran across the room to his new pal, who
had busied himself weaving horsehair playthings for the youngster.
"You turn back and make me a bwidle, Dave," he cried.
"I'll sure come or else send you one," the cowpuncher promised, rising to
meet Joyce.
She carried her slender figure across the room with perfect ease and
rhythm, head beautifully poised, young seventeen as self-possessed as
thirty. As much could not be said for her guests. They were all legs and
gangling arms, red ears and dusty boots.
"Yes, we all want you to come back," she said with a charming smile. "I
think you saved Father's life. We can't tell you how much we owe you. Can
we, Keith?"
"Nope. When will you send the bwidle?" he demanded.
"Soon," the restored patient said to the boy, and to her: "That wasn't
nothin' a-tall. From where I come from we always been use to standin' by
our boss."
He shifted awkwardly to the other foot, flushing to the hair while he
buried her soft little hand in his big freckled one. The girl showed no
shyness. Seventeen is sometimes so much older than twenty.
"Tha's what us D Bar Lazy R boys are ridin' with yore paw's outfit for,
Miss--to be handy when he needs us," Bob added in his turn. "We're sure
tickled we got a chanct to go to Brad Steelman's party. I'm ce'tainly
glad to 'a' met you, Miss Joyce." He ducked his head and scraped back a
foot in what was meant to be a bow.
Emerson Crawford sauntered in, big and bluff and easy-going. "Hittin' the
trail, boys? Good enough. Hope you find the thieves. If you do, play yore
cards close. They're treacherous devils. Don't take no chances with 'em.
I left an order at the store for you to draw on me for another pair of
boots in place of those you lost in the brush, Dave. Get a good pair,
son. They're on me. Well, so long. Luck, boys. I'll look for you-all back
with the D Bar Lazy R when you've finished this job."
The punchers rode away without looking back, but many times in the days
that followed their hearts turned to that roof which had given the word
home a new meaning to them both.