ADVENTURING
If Connie truly was in pursuit of literary material, she was
indefatigable in the quest. But sometimes Carol doubted if it was
altogether literary material she was after. And David was very much
concerned,--what would dignified Father Starr, District Superintendent,
say to his youngest daughter, Connie the literary, Connie the proud,
Connie the high, the fine, the perfect, delving so assiduously into the
mysteries of range life as typified in big, brown, rugged Prince Ingram?
To be sure, Prince had risen beyond the cowboy stage and was now a "stock
man," a power on the ranges, a man of money, of influence. But David
felt responsible.
Yet no one could be responsible for Connie. Father Starr himself could
not. If she looked at one serenely and said, "I need to do this," the
rankest foolishness assumed the proportions of dire necessity. So what
could David, sick and weak, do in the face of the manifestly impossible?
Carol scolded her. And Connie laughed. David offered brotherly
suggestions. And Connie laughed again. Julia said Prince was a darling
big grandpa, and Connie kissed her.
The Frontier Days passed on to their uproarious conclusion. Connie saw
everything, heard everything and took copious notes. She was going to
start her book. She had made the acquaintance of some of the cowgirls,
and she studied them with a passionate eagerness that English literature
in the abstract had never aroused in her gentle breast.
Then she became argumentative. She contended that the beautiful lawn at
the Bijou was productive of strength for David, rest for Carol, amusement
for Julia, and literary material for her. Therefore, why not linger
after the noisy crowd had gone,--just idling on the long porches,
strolling under the great trees? And because Connie had a convincing way
about her, it was unanimously agreed that the Bijou lawn could do
everything she claimed for it, and by all means they ought to tarry a
week.
It was all settled before David and Carol learned that Prince Ingram was
tired of Frontier Days and had decided not to go on to Sterling, but
thought he too should linger, gathering up something worth while in Fort
Morgan. Carol looked at Connie reproachfully, but the little baby sister
was as imperturbable as ever.
Prince himself was all right. Carol liked him. David liked him, too.
And Julia was frankly enchanted with him and with his horse. But Connie
and Prince,--that was the puzzle of it,--Connie, fine white, immaculate
in manner, in person and in thought,--Prince, rugged and brown, born of
the plains and the mountains. Carol knew of course that Prince could
move into the city, buy a fine home, join good clubs, dress like common
men and be thoroughly respectable. But to Carol he would always be a
brown streak of perfect horsemanship. Whatever could that awful Connie
be thinking of?
The days passed sweetly and restfully on the Bijou lawn, but one day,
most unaccountably to Connie, Prince had an appointment with his business
partner down at Brush. He would ride Ruby down and be back in time for
dinner at night if it killed him. Connie was cross about that. She
thought he should have asked her to drive him down in the car but since
he did not she couldn't very well offer her services. What did he
suppose she was hanging around that ugly little dead burg for? Take out
the literary material, Fort Morgan had nothing for Connie. And since the
literary material saw fit to absent itself, it was so many hours gone for
nothing.
After he had gone, Connie decided to play a good trick on him. He would
kill himself to get back to dinner with her, would he? Let him. He
could eat it with David and Carol, and the little Julia he so adored.
Connie would take a long drive in the car all by herself, and would not
be home until bedtime. She would teach that refractory Material a lesson.
It was a bright cloudless day, the air cold and penetrating. Connie said
it was just the day for her to collect her thought, and she could do it
best of all in the car. So if they would excuse her,--and they did, of
course. Just as she was getting into the car she said that if she had a
very exceptionally nice time, she might not come back until after dinner.
They were not to worry. She knew the car, she was sure of herself, she
would come home when she got ready.
So off she went, taking a naughty satisfaction in the good trick she was
playing on that poor boy killing himself to get back for dinner with her.
An hour in the open banished her pettishness, and she drove rapidly along
the narrow, twisting, unfamiliar road, finding a wild pleasure in her
reckless speed. She loved this, she loved it, she loved it. She clapped
on a little more gas to show how very dearly she did love it.
After a long time, she found herself far out in a long stretch of gray
prairie where no houses broke the bare line of the plains for many miles.
It had grown bitterly cold, too, and a sudden daub of gray splashed
rapidly across the whole bright sky. Connie drew a rug about her and
laughed at the wind that cut her face. It was glorious,--but--she
glanced at the speedometer. She had come a long way. She would just run
on to the next village and have some luncheon,--mercy, it was three
o'clock. Well, as soon as she had something to eat, she would hurry home
and perhaps if Prince showed himself properly penitent she would not go
right straight to bed.
She pressed down on the accelerator and the car sped forward. Presently
she looked around, sniffing the air suspiciously. The sky looked very
threatening. She stopped the car and got out. The wind sweeping down
from the mountains was a little too suggestive of snow flakes, and the
broad stretch of the plains was brown, bare and forbidding. She was not
hungry anyhow. She would go home without any luncheon. So she turned
the car and started back.
Here and there at frequent intervals intersecting roads crossed the one
she was following. She must keep to the main road, the heaviest track,
she was sure of that. But sometimes it was hard to recognize the
heaviest track. Once or twice, in the sudden darkening of the ground,
she had to leap hurriedly out and examine the tracks closely. Even then
she could not always tell surely.
Then came the snow, stinging bits of glass leaping gaily on the shoulders
of the wind that bore them. Connie set her teeth hard. A little flurry
that was all, she was in no danger, whoever heard of a snow-storm the
first week in October?
But--ah, this was not the main track after all,--no, it was dwindling
away. She must go back. The road was soft here, with deep treacherous
ruts lying under the surface. She turned the car carefully, her eyes
intent on the road before her, leaning over the wheel to watch. Yes,
this was right,--she should have turned to the left. How stupid of her.
Here was the track,--she must go faster, it was getting dark. But was
this the track after all,--it seemed to be fading out as the other had
done? She put on the gas and bumped heavily into a hidden rut. Quickly
she threw the clutch into low, and--more gas-- What was that? The wheel
did not grip, the engine would not pull,--the matchless Harmer Six was
helpless. Again and again Connie tried to extricate herself, but it was
useless. She got out and took her bearings. It was early evening, but
darkness was coming fast. The snow was drifting down from the mountains,
and the roads were nearly obliterated.
Connie was stuck, Connie was lost, for once she was unequal to the
emergency. In spite of her imperturbability, her serene confidence in
herself, and in circumstances, and in the final triumph of everything she
wanted and believed, Connie sat down on the step and cried, bitterly,
passionately, like any other young women lost in a snow-storm on the
plains. It did her good, though it was far beneath her dignity.
Presently she wiped her eyes.
She must turn on the lights, every one of them, so if any travelers
happened to come her way the signal would summon them to her aid. Then
she must get warm, one might freeze on a night like this. She put up the
curtains on the car and wrapped herself as best she could in rugs and
rain coats. Even then she doubted her ability to withstand the
penetrating chill.
"Well," she said grimly, "if I freeze I am going to do it with a pleasant
smile on my lips, so they will be sorry when they find me." Tears of
sympathy for herself came into her eyes. She hoped Prince would be quite
heart-broken, and serve him right, too. But it was terrible that poor
dear Carol should have this added sorrow, after all her years of trial.
And it was all Connie's own fault. Would women ever have sense enough to
learn that men must think of business now and then, and that even the
dearest women in the world are nuisances at times?
Well, anyhow, she was paying dearly for her folly, and perhaps other
women could profit by it. And all that literary material wasted. "But
it is a good thing I am not leaving eleven children motherless," she
concluded philosophically.
If men must think of business, and they say they must, there are times
when it is sheer necessity that drives and not at all desire. Prince
Ingram hated Brush that day with a mortal hatred. Only two days more of
Connie, and a few thousand silly sheep were taking him away. Well, he
had paid five hundred dollars for Ruby and he would find out if she was
worth it. He used his spurs so sharply that the high-spirited mare
snorted angrily, and plunged away at her most furious pace. It was not
an unpleasant ride. His time had been so fully occupied with the most
wonderful girl, that he had not had one moment to think how really
wonderful she was. This was his chance and he utilized it fully.
His business partner in Brush was shocked at Prince's lack of interest in
a matter of ten thousand dollars. He wondered if perhaps King Devil had
not bounced him up more than people realized. But Prince was pliant, far
more so than usual, accepted his partner's suggestions without dissent,
and grew really enthusiastic when he said finally:
"Well, I guess that is all."
Prince shook hands with him then, seeming almost on the point of kissing
him, and Ruby was whirling down the road in a chariot of dust before the
bewildered partner had time to explain that his wife was expecting Prince
home with them for dinner.
Prince fell from the saddle in front of the Bijou and looked expectantly
at the porch. He was sentimental enough to think it must be splendid to
have a girl waiting on the porch when one got home from any place.
Connie was not there. Well, it was a good thing, he was grimy with dust
and perspiration, and Connie was so alarmingly clean. But Carol called
him before he had time to escape.
"Is it going to storm?" she asked anxiously.
Prince wheeled toward her sharply. "Is Connie out in the car?"
"Yes," said Carol, staring off down the road in a vain hope of catching
sight of the naughty little runaway in the gray car.
"When did she go?" he asked.
"About eleven. She wasn't coming home until after dinner."'
"How far was she going?"
"A long way, she said. She went that direction," Carol pointed out to
the right.
"Is it going to storm?" asked David, coming up.
"Yes, it is. But don't you worry, Mrs. Duke. I'll get her all right.
If it turns bad, I will take her to some little village or farm-house
where she can stay till morning. We'll be all right, and don't you
worry."
There was something very assuring in the hearty voice, something
consoling in his clear eyes and broad shoulders. Carol followed him out
to his horse.
"Prince," she said, smiling up at him, "you will get her, won't you?"
"Of course I will. You aren't worrying, are you?"
"Not since you got home," said Carol. "I know you will get her. I like
you, Prince."
"Do you?" He was boyishly pleased. "Does--does David?"
Carol laughed. "Yes, and so does Julia," she teased.
Prince laughed, too, shamefacedly, but he dared not ask, "Does Connie?"
He turned his horse quickly and paused to say, "You'd better get your
husband inside. He will chill in spite of the rugs. It is winter,
to-night. Good-by."
"He will get her," said Carol confidently, when she returned to David.
"He is nice, don't you think so? Maybe he would be perfectly all
right--in the city. Connie could straighten him out."
"Yes, brush off the dust, and give him an opera hat and a dinner coat and
he would not be half bad."
"He is not half bad now, only--not exactly our kind."
"Women are funny," said David slowly. "I believe Connie likes his kind,
just as he is, and would not have him changed for anything."
At first, Prince had no difficulty in following the wide roll of Connie's
wheels, for no other cars had gone that way. But once or twice he had to
drop from the saddle and examine the tracks closely to make sure of her.
Then came the snow, and the tracks were blurred out. Prince was in
despair.
"Three roads here," he thought rapidly. "If she took that one she will
come to Marker's ranch, and be all right. If she took the middle road
she will make Benton. But this one, it winds and twists, and never gets
any place."
So on the road to the left, that led to no place at all, Prince carefully
guided his weary horse, already beginning to stumble. He sympathized
with every aching step, yet he urged her gently to her best speed. Then
she slipped, struggled to regain her footing, struck a treacherous bit of
ice, and fell, Prince swinging nimbly from the saddle. Plainly she was
unable to carry him farther, so he helped her to her feet and turned her
loose, pushing on as fast as he could on foot.
Anxiously he peered into the gathering darkness, longing for the long
flash of yellow light which meant Connie and the matchless Harmer.
Suddenly he stopped. From away over the hills to his right, mingling
with the call of the coyotes, came the unmistakable honk of a siren. He
held his breath to listen. It came again, a long continued wail, in
perfect tune with the whining of the coyotes. He turned to the right and
started over the hills in the wake of the call.
Over a steep incline he plunged, and paused.
"Thank God," he cried aloud, for there he saw a little round yellow glow
in the cloudy white mist,--the Harmer Six, and Connie.
He shouted as he ran, that she might not be left in suspense a moment
longer than need be. And Connie with numbed fingers tugged the curtains
loose and leaned out in the yellow mist to watch him as he came.
We talk of the mountain peaks of life. And poets sing of the snowy crest
of life crises, where we look like angels and speak like gods, where we
live on the summit of ages. This moment should have been a summit, yet
when Prince ran down the hill, breathless, exultant, and nearly
exhausted, Connie, her face showing peaked and white in the yellow glare,
cried, "Hello, Prince, I knew you'd make it."
She held out a half-frozen hand and he took it in his.
"Car's busted," she said laconically. "Won't budge. I drained the water
out of the radiator."
"All right, we'll have to hoof it," he said cheerfully.
He relieved her of the heavier wraps, and they set out silently through
the snow, Prince still holding her hand.
"I am awfully glad to see you," she said once, in a polite little voice.
He smiled down upon her. "I am kind o' glad to see you, too, Connie."
After a while she said slowly, "I need wings. My feet are numb." And a
moment later, "I can not walk any farther."
"It is ten miles to a house," he told her gravely. "I couldn't carry you
so far. I'll take you a mile or so, and you will get rested."
"I am not tired, I am cold. And if you carry me I will be colder. You
just run along and tell Carol I am all right--"
"Run along! Why, you would freeze."
"Yes, that is what I mean."
"There is a railroad track half a mile over there. Can you make that?"
Connie looked at him pitifully. "I can not even lift my feet. I am
utterly stuck. I kept stepping along," she mumbled indistinctly, "and
saying, one more,--just one more,--one more,--but the foot would not come
up,--and I knew I was stuck."
Her voice trailed away, and she bundled against him and closed her eyes.
Prince gritted his teeth and took her in his arms. Connie was five feet
seven, and very solid. And Prince himself was nearly exhausted with the
day's exertion. Sometimes he staggered and fell to his knees, sometimes
he hardly knew if he was dragging Connie or pushing her, or if they were
both blown along by the wind. Always there was the choke in his throat,
the blur in his eyes, and that almost unbearable drag in every muscle. A
freight train passed--only a few rods away. He thought he could never
climb that bank. "One more--one--more--one more," mumbled Connie in his
ear.
He shook himself angrily. Of course he could make that bank,--if he
could only rest a minute,--he was not cold,--just a minute's rest to get
his breath again--a moment would be enough. God, what was he thinking
of? It was not weariness, it was the chill of the night that demanded a
moment's rest. He strained Connie closer in his arms and struggled up
the bank.
At the top, he dropped her beside the track, and fell with her. For a
moment the fatal languor possessed him.
A freight train rounded the curve and came puffing toward them. Prince,
roused by springing hope, clambered to his feet, pulling the little
pocket flash from his pocket. He waved it imploringly at the train, but
it thundered by them.
Resolutely bestirring himself, he carried Connie to a sheltered place
where the wind could not strike her, and wrapped her as best he could in
his coat and sweater. Then, lowering his head against the driving wind,
he plunged down the track in the face of the storm.