Soon after guard-mounting on the following morning, Arthur Glenham,
faultlessly attired, cantered down officers’ row to Colonel Pelham’s
quarters, dismounted and gave his horse to the orderly. Almost at the
same moment Captain Tanner’s pigmy trumpeter appeared with Ranger, and
it needed but half a glance to detect the fact that in that precious
pair, boy and horse, the devil of mischief was abnormally developed.
“Kid,” as the boy was called by the entire command, had a rollicking
Irish eye that twinkled with fun. Ranger was similarly provided with
organs of sight that rolled restlessly about in their sockets, while
his nervous legs and pawing hoofs, his incessantly tossing head, gave
conclusive evidence that he was ripe for any devilment that chance
might afford him. The Kid rolled off the bare back of his pet and
saluted Glenham, with a half-suppressed grin on his freckled “mug.”
I crave pardon for the slang, but “face” could never apply to the
broad, flattened mouth, the turned-up, utterly Hibernian nose, and
the shock-headed appearance generally of the worst young scamp in the
—th. His colonel, his captain, and the adjutant were the only men in
the garrison to whom the Kid looked up with anything like awe, or even
with great respect, and as he rolled his quid of tobacco over with his
tongue and “stood to horse” as he grinningly saluted Mr. Glenham,
he presented small show of that deference expected from the rank and
file towards a superior; perhaps he was thinking of the many five- and
ten-dollar bills with which the lieutenant had accommodated him, and
what an ass the lieutenant must be if he ever expected to get them back.
Grace had accepted the invitation to ride about five o’clock on the
previous afternoon. Before tattoo, consequently, every lady along
the row was duly informed of the fact, and as a matter of course all
household duties were suspended as the horses came up, in order that
the ladies aforesaid might see the mount and start. Even Mrs. Tanner
was taking the air on her piazza, which was only two doors away from
the colonel’s, and Mesdames Raymond, Turner, and Wilkins had gathered
around Mrs. Canker, who lived next door, and who was not ordinarily
one of the society circle at the post,—a retiring disposition, an
absolute indifference to anything or anybody except her husband and
children, and rather plain, homely ways, rendering her “Well,—rather
uninteresting, you know,” as Mrs. Turner put it. A knot of officers had
gathered some distance farther away.
Presently Grace appeared upon the colonel’s piazza, and all eyes far
and near were fixed upon her. “Heavens and earth!” exclaimed Mrs.
Wilkins, “a chimney-pot hat in Arizona!”
In Arizona or out of it, ’twould be hard to find a lovelier picture
than was Grace Pelham that morning. The short, jaunty silk hat with
its mite of a veil, the stylish, perfectly-fitting New York habit, the
dainty gauntlets, all combining to make a costume that set off her
exquisite face and slender form to admirable advantage. After her came
a servant carrying her English saddle and bridle, which had arrived but
a day or two before. And now came the onerous task of equipping Ranger.
Grace could not bear the looks of the heavy, clumsy cavalry bit and
bridle, and had decided to use her own from the start.
“Please have this put on him first, Mr. Glenham,” she said. And
obedient to her wish he took the dainty tan-colored bridle with its
burnished steel bit and chains and signalled to the Kid to slip off
Ranger’s uncouth-looking head-gear, and then proceeded himself to
replace it with the other. It is one thing to slip off a bridle,
another to put one on. Ranger, accustomed only to the dingy regulation
deformity, snorted suspiciously at the brilliant and novel-looking
affair that Mr. Glenham was cautiously raising towards him; he eyed it
askance, and then, notwithstanding the firm hold of the young officer’s
broad hand upon his forelock, Ranger threw up his head. This brought
Glenham on tiptoe, increasing his difficulties and vexation.
“Come here, trumpeter,” he called, “and hold his head down while I get
the bridle on.”
The Kid darted forward with unusual alacrity, and simultaneously Ranger
started and commenced to back, dragging Glenham with him. The more
rapidly the Kid approached the more did Ranger recede. The Kid made a
spring as though to catch him, Ranger made a corresponding jump, shook
free his head, then, with a most hilarious leap into mid-air, he let
drive his heels at some imaginary foe, and, with a snort of malicious
delight, dashed off around the parade, leaving Glenham puffing,
blowing, and discomfited, and the Kid grinning in malignant enjoyment
of the catastrophe.
Poor Glenham! He ran back to the piazza, dropped the bridle at Grace’s
feet, and saying, “Please don’t be impatient; I’ll have him back in a
minute,” clambered into his saddle, and, striking both spurs into his
horse, went sputtering off in pursuit.
The neighboring ladies instantly came to condole with Grace; the group
of officers remained as they were, and, after the manner of their
kind, indulging in hearty and pitiless laughter at poor Glenham’s
discomfiture, except Ray. Ray came running down to the party, now
gathered on the colonel’s piazza, and laughingly raising his cap
to Grace, exclaimed, “Never mind, Miss Pelham, we’ll soon have him
back,” then he turned on the Kid, who, with his hands in his pockets,
was bending nearly double in the contortions he resorted to to keep
him from roaring with laughter. But the look in the lieutenant’s eye
straightened him up in an instant. Out went the quid; out came the
hands; together came the heels with a snap, and with a half-scared and
demure countenance the Kid “stood attention.”
Ray stepped close to the youngster, and in a low, savage tone spoke
quickly, “You young whelp, you know perfectly well you drove that horse
loose. Go at once to my sergeant, tell him to send two men out after
Ranger, and you bring me my horse bareback quick as a flash. Off with
you now!”
And the Kid, well knowing Mr. Ray’s energetic way of dealing with his
own black sheep, darted off full speed.
Meantime, Mr. Truscott was in his quarters at the other end of the row,
changing from the full-dress uniform he wore at guard-mounting to the
“undress” of the day. He was never known to whistle in his life, but he
had a way of singing softly to himself as he dressed, sometimes as he
wrote or worked, but of late no song had escaped his lips. To Glenham
his manner had been more gentle and brotherly than ever, but there was
none of the old familiar talk between them. Glenham spent his evenings
at the colonel’s, came home late, and found Jack in bed and, to all
appearances, asleep, while during the day the latter was always at the
office.
Very sad and pale looked Mr. Truscott as he slipped into his sack-coat;
then the rush of hoofs burst upon his ear, and with a face suddenly
blanched he sprang to the door. A sigh of relief, a fervent “Thank
God!” escaped him as he caught sight of Ranger, unencumbered with
either saddle or bridle, tearing out of the north gate, while Glenham
came lumbering after.
“That d—d young Paddy scared him off!” he almost sobbed to Jack as he
thundered by. Quickly mounting his own great charger, who was pulling
excitedly away from the orderly, Truscott soon overtook Glenham down on
the flats below. Ranger still far ahead and making for the foot-hills,
where the herds were grazed during the day.
“He’ll go right up that broad cooley, Glenham. You take this one to
the left. I’ll chase and drive him over towards you, then head him in
towards the post, and we’ll nab him at the stables.”
With that he was off: his fresh, magnificent horse sweeping way out
to the right _beyond_ Ranger’s trail, and Glenham, implicitly obeying
Jack’s directions, plunged into the mouth of the narrow valley or
ravine before him, and still urging his steed to his best efforts, was
soon separated by the ridge to his right from all sight of the chase.
By this time Ranger, finding himself no longer closely pursued as he
was in the garrison, condescended to hold up for a minute and look back
on his trail. The horse and rider with whom he had been delightedly
playing fast and loose for some five minutes had disappeared entirely,
and that big black horse he had been so accustomed to following on
battalion drill and the tall rider at whose voice he daily wheeled
into column without waiting for pressure of leg or rein from his own
little rascal of a rider,—why, _they_ were riding _away_ from him! And
genuine equine surprise and disappointment he gazed after them. It
was more than he could stand, and in another moment, with a piteous
neigh, he galloped off in pursuit. This being precisely what Truscott
expected, he slackened his pace and reigned slightly to the left; next
he dove into a little ravine, and here dismounting and drawing the
reins over his horse’s head, he calmly lay down on the turf, and his
steed went to cropping the scant herbage. A minute more and Ranger,
with another eager neigh, reached the bank, and catching sight of his
comrades, stopped short, then gingerly trotted down close to them,
as though to inquire what the mischief they meant by trying to avoid
him in that unfriendly way. Then, as neither Truscott nor his horse
took the faintest notice of him, he lounged up alongside his brother
quadruped and, sniffing for a moment at his nostrils, set his ears
back and aimed a vicious little snap at his nose. With his back to the
pair, Truscott slowly and indifferently arose, and, drawing in his
rein, raised the black’s head and brought him close to his right side,
quietly patting his head and neck. Ranger followed as before, bent
his head to sniff again at the nostrils of the black, and found his
forelock held in the iron grasp of the half-concealed biped, who had
reached quietly over the black’s neck and nabbed him.
Then Truscott mounted, and, firmly holding his prize on the off side,
rode slowly back towards the garrison. One of Ray’s men with a lariat
met him half-way in. Truscott knotted the rope carefully about Ranger’s
neck, sent the man up the ravine to recall Glenham, and continued on
his way until close in under the plateau. There he stopped and waited
for his friend. He could have saved time, and a good deal of it, had
he galloped in, leading Ranger by the lariat, but he waited. Glenham
came bumping along presently, all gratitude and perspiration. Truscott
handed him the rope, saying, “Hold him firmly, old boy.” Glenham rode
up the hill and, amid the applause of the ladies, into the garrison
with his prize. Truscott rode under cover of the hill to the rear of
his quarters, and there dismounted.
Nearly half an hour had been lost. Glenham was nervous and full of
vexation. Grace too was a trifle annoyed by the half-patronizing,
half-sympathetic remarks of the swarm of ladies, but their occasional
criticisms of Glenham’s awkwardness aroused her sympathy for him, and
made her unusually gentle, almost tender, in her manner to him. The
deft hands of Mr. Ray speedily adjusted saddle and bridle, and he
obligingly stood at Ranger’s head while Glenham bunglingly assisted
Grace to mount. With any skilful hand she could fly up like a bird.
Then, without further delay, they turned and started up the row, Grace
patting Ranger’s neck and endeavoring to make friends.
But that ingenuous quadruped had not half had his spree out, and was
ripe for more. The first thing he discovered was that instead of a
huge bar of crooked iron in his mouth he was champing a slender rod of
polished steel. No clumsy curb-strap chafed his jaw, and the light hand
on the rein had not yet made him acquainted with the glittering chain
that hung there, ready to do as good, even better, service than the
strap. Then there was no pressure of muscular legs on both sides; that
struck him as something utterly out of the usual line. Revolving these
things in his mind, he concluded it worth while to experiment with this
unknown rider. They were close to the end of the row, and here, right
in front of the doctor’s quarters, next to Truscott’s, stood a group of
six or seven officers. Six or seven caps were simultaneously raised,
and that was all the excuse Ranger wanted. Stopping short, he strove to
whirl about, but Grace’s practised hand kept him faced to the front.
Failing in that effort, he commenced to back, and a sharp cut of the
whip was his reward. Stung by the blow, he sprang into air and came
down “stiff-legged,” but with no effect upon the seat or temper of his
fair rider. Then he backed again, and received another lash. Enraged
at a punishment he neither understood nor had ever known, he shook his
head, backed again, and would almost have gone upon his haunches, when
suddenly a firm hand was laid on the rein, and Grace, flushed, vexed,
and wellnigh defeated, looked down into the calm features of Mr.
Truscott.
“Pardon me, Miss Pelham,” he said. “I think I have just what you need
here. Ranger doesn’t know a whip, but he _does_ understand the meaning
of the spur.”
With that he produced from the inner pocket of his blouse a pair of
little silver spurs. “These look like toys,” he continued, “and I
bought them as such, but they are really very effective, as you will
find. Stand at his head, orderly. Permit me, Miss Pelham.” And stepping
to her side he raised the skirt of her riding-habit, quickly and deftly
adjusted one spur to her slender boot, then hung the other on the
off-side of her pommel. “The straps are old and weak, and may break, so
you had better have both,” he explained, then was about to step back,
when speech returned to her.
“Oh, _thank_ you, Mr. Truscott, ever so much! Now I _know_ I can manage
him. This is very thoughtful of you, and I’ll return them to-night.”
“Don’t think of it,” he answered; “you will need them on many a ride,
and besides, I know you will win them.”
“Then take my whip,” she impulsively cried, and tossing the slender toy
with its wrist-loop of dark blue ribbon to him, she gathered her horse,
the orderly stepped aside, her barbed heel drove firmly into Ranger’s
flank, and, obedient to the sting he knew, he sprang forward, and in an
instant bore his fearless rider, guided by her firm hands, through the
north gate, around the long curve of the road and down the slope until
even hat and veil disappeared from view below the edge of the plateau.
An instant after, Glenham likewise shot out of sight, his forage-cap
popping up twice before its final occultation.
Truscott’s face wore a very anxious look as he slowly returned to his
quarters, closed his bedroom door behind him, and, stepping to the
window, lingeringly examined the pretty toy she had thrown to him.
It was of English make, slender and delicate, but of the very best
material and workmanship, fit accompaniment to the perfect saddle and
bridle his appreciative eye had marked as he adjusted her spur. The
silver-mounted handle bore a simple inscription, “Grace, from Father.”
He gazed longingly at the name, thinking, he could not help it, of the
many times her soft, slender hand had closed upon it; then suddenly
turning, he stepped to the wardrobe, paused one instant to press the
handle to his lips, hung it by its loop way back in the dark recess,
and abruptly hurried from the room.
On the piazza stood Ray, with clouded brow, gazing through a binocular
up the distant road. Hearing Truscott’s step, he turned.
“See anything of them?” asked Truscott, shortly.
“Not at this moment. They’re behind that belt of cottonwood, going
like blazes. There they are now!” he added, suddenly. “I hope to God
that Glenham will have sense enough to make her stick to the road. The
horses can’t stand the pace much longer in that heavy sand.”
Truscott took the glass and looked. “All right so far,” he said, after
a pause, still keeping the glass at his eye.
“Truscott, what do you think of that bit?” asked Ray, abruptly. “She
rides better than any woman I ever knew; but if that blackguard of
a horse should bolt—you see I never thought of her riding him with
anything but the cavalry curb.”
“Nor I,” said Truscott. “The bit is all right; unless—you remember the
trick he used to have of catching the branch in his teeth?”
“By heaven! yes. And with these straight English curbs he could do it
as easy as lying.”
Truscott took out his watch, and with a start exclaimed, “I ought to
have been at the office half an hour ago, and here comes the colonel’s
orderly after me now. Ray, what are you going to do this morning?”
“I was going to write up the record of that last court, but d—d if I
can now. Going out Ranger will do well enough, probably. It’s when
he gets his head turned homewards that stampedes me. If he _should_
bolt above the bend, where the road runs along the creek, why, it’s as
crooked as Oakes Ames, and he’d dash over some of those banks——”
“Take your horse,” broke in Truscott,—“take your horse and go out
beyond the four-mile bend anyhow. Yes, orderly, say to the colonel I’m
coming at once.”
Five minutes after Ray was speeding up the valley, and Truscott was at
his desk in the office. To his colonel’s surprised and almost hurt “You
are very late, Truscott,” he replied very gently, in a voice that shook
a little, “It was almost unavoidable, colonel; I will explain it all
when we get through.” And good old Pelham asked nothing more.
Now to follow Ray. As he bounded along over the flats, taking
short-cuts wherever he could, he had time to think over the situation,
and did not half like it. Ever since the night of the ball at Prescott
he had carried with him the tassel of Grace Pelham’s fan, and Glenham
knew it; more than that, Glenham had become cool and constrained in
his manner towards him. It will be remembered that Ray had carried off
the tassel just as he was hurrying to join his troop, and from that
time to this he had not been back to his own station, Camp Cameron.
During the brief campaign his troop had been attached to Canker’s
command, and around the bivouac-fires at night the young officers,
frequently talking over the ball, could not refrain from speaking in
terms of enthusiastic admiration of Miss Pelham’s many attractive and
lovely qualities, Ray being by long odds the most outspoken, while
poor Glenham, with his heart burning with love for her, sat silently
apart, puffing nervously at his pipe. He could not speak of her
himself,—it was torture to him to hear them talk of her. It seemed
like profanation to hear her name mentioned under such circumstances,
though every word spoken was in genuine admiration and respect. Ray
had been quick to notice this, and being a warm-hearted fellow, full
of consideration for other people despite his recklessness as regarded
himself, he it was who had privately suggested to his comrades the
propriety of discontinuing the subject. “You can all see how wretched
it makes Glenham,—poor devil! I know how it is myself, so let’s quit
it, fellows,” and quit it some of them did. But Crane and Carroll were
possessed with malice and all uncharitableness, and Wilkins was not
a gentleman, and this trio saw fit to disregard Ray’s request. They
were glad of a chance to worry Glenham, and for two evenings after
the others had agreed to avoid the subject in Glenham’s hearing these
worthies had delightedly encouraged one another in keeping up sly
allusions to the fact that as Miss Pelham and Truscott were all this
time at Prescott together it would doubtless be an engagement by the
time they got back. It was a significant fact that they selected such
times as Ray was absent from the circle, looking after his herd guard,
as he always did before turning in at night, to indulge in this luxury.
Turner and Raymond were always early to bed, and, rolled their blankets
under the trees, heard nothing of it. Canker did not interpose. Hunter
and Dana were boys just out of “the Point,” and stood a little in awe
of these older campaigners; but Ray ranked all the subalterns present,
they knew and trusted him, for he had been one of their instructors
in tactics and horsemanship at the Academy, and so the second night
when he returned to the camp-fire Dana called him to one side and told
him that Glenham had taken his blankets and gone off out of earshot
and of the remarks of the trio on both nights while he was away. Ray
blazed with wrath a moment, then he strolled unconcernedly back to the
fire telling Dana to remain where he was, and in the most dulcet tones
imaginable said, “Oh, Crane, Carroll, just come with me a moment, will
you?” And ignoring Wilkins entirely, he led them, wondering, to where
Dana stood among the pines, out beyond the sleeping group of soldiers
into a little open space in the dear moonlight, and there he turned and
faced them.
“Mr. Crane, I address my remarks particularly to you. Mr. Carroll has
but recently joined, and has not learned our ways yet. You have been
_with_ us for years. You never have been, probably never _will_ be,
_of_ us. It seems that despite the discovery that our thoughtless talk
about Miss Pelham greatly distressed Mr. Glenham, you have not only
persisted in, but have added to this means of annoying him. One moment.
Mr. Crane; let me finish, and then you may have the floor as long as
you like (there was something silvery sweet in Ray’s voice and manner
just here). _Gentlemen_ who detect what we detected abstain from the
possibility of giving pain or offence that cannot be resented, as Mr.
Glenham cannot resent this. Cads and blackguards, Mr. Crane,—_cads_ and
_blackguards_ continue to affront and annoy so long as they think they
can do so unmolested.”
“Do you mean to insult me, sir?” fiercely demanded Lieutenant Crane.
“Just as you please about that, Mr. Crane,” said Ray, with all the
placidity of a parson. “Mr. Dana is witness to my remarks. _They_
certainly can be resented, and you are at liberty to take any steps in
the matter your fancy may suggest. We march at seven to-morrow; there
will be abundant light and time beforehand. Mr. Dana will receive any
message you may choose to send. And now, Mr. Carroll, let me as a
man who would like to be your friend suggest that, as you are just
commencing your career in the —th, that you cut loose from the society
of men who are apt to lead you into trouble; your participation in this
matter doubtless arose from inexperience and bad example. Come, Dana.
Good-night, gentlemen.” And with that he turned to go.
Crane sulkily muttered some foul language as he stood glaring after
Ray, and once more the latter faced him.
“Puppies, Mr. Crane, snarl and snap at the heels of men before whom
they grovel and cringe. If you have anything to say, say it now while
we are face to face, otherwise be silent, or add whelp to what I have
already called you.” And Ray stood squarely confronting his bulky
antagonist. But Crane knew his man too well. He muttered something
about only having been in fun, not meaning to hurt Glenham’s feelings,
etc., to which Ray replied with some asperity and much contempt,—
“Then let there be no more of it, unless you want this night’s
conversation and the fact that you did not seek an officer’s reparation
published through the regiment.”
This put an abrupt stop to Glenham’s nightly annoyances; he knew not to
what influence to attribute the change, he vaguely felt that Ray had
something to do with it, and yet _that_ hurt him, for he knew that in
the breast of his scouting-jacket Ray carried the tassel of her fan,
and all that he had ever won from her was the glove he wore next his
heart. Poor boy! He was very miserable throughout that brief raid, and
when the order came to make for home and, when one day’s march away, he
received reluctant permission to gallop ahead, it was with absolute
dismay that he heard that the general had directed Ray’s troop to be
retained at Camp Sandy, where Colonel Pelham wanted to gather as many
companies as possible for battalion instruction. So Ray’s and “G” troop
were ordered to go into camp on the plateau behind the men’s quarters,
and Ray was sent ahead with him to make the necessary preparations.
Then Colonel Pelham liked Ray immensely, so Glenham had always heard,
and just as soon as Ray could resume his uniform, which he had left at
Prescott, he appeared at the colonel’s, and had been a very frequent
caller during the few days preceding this of the ride. It worried
Glenham, and, boy that he was, made his manner to Ray very distant and
cold.
All this occurred to Ray as he sped up the valley. “I must not join
them,” he thought, “and even if they should meet me ’twould be awkward.
He would be ass enough to think I was watching or spying.” And so,
perplexed and dissatisfied, Ray passed among the sharp turns and along
the stony road-bed at Four-Mile Point, and after much twisting and
turning, rode out from under the cottonwoods and willows, and there
lay before him, winding up a gentle slope to the northwest, some five
hundred yards of smooth and unobstructed road, the old road to Prescott
as it lay in ’71—making its first rise from the valley to climb the
mountain chain to the west.
“All well so far, thank God!” he muttered to himself, and then bringing
his steed down to a walk, he rode slowly up the slope, pondering over
the next step to be taken. “They won’t be apt to go much higher up the
valley,” he said to himself. “She would like to make the most of her
ride, no doubt, and gallop a good deal. They did gallop up along here,”
he continued, as his practised eye marked the hoof-tracks in the sand;
“but once over that ridge, Glenham will want to go slow and spoon.
There is no decent ford to take a lady over for five miles along the
Sandy above here. No; they’ll come back this way. Now, how the devil
can I excuse my presence?” And thinking thus, some distance below the
ridge Ray checked his horse and stopped still. Once on the crest, he
knew that he and his horse could be seen from far up the valley. “I
never felt so like a sneak in my life,” he thought. “I’ve more than
half a mind to go back; but then Truscott—No, by Jove, I’ll stick.”
[Illustration:
“‘All right, Miss Gracie! Let him come!’”
]
Oh, well for many a loving heart, well for sweet Grace Pelham, well for
them all was it that the quickest, surest light-horseman in Arizona
stood to his post that day! Looking back down the slope, he marked
the point around which the road suddenly turned out of sight; marked
the jagged rocks over which the Sandy went tumbling and frothing to
the willow-fringed shallows below; marked how the road seemed to end
right there, to _lead_ right there into the jaws of destruction. “D—n
the man who engineered this road!” he says, aloud, and then, no longer
irresolute as to his course, he turns to go on up the slope, when—God!
what is that sound that blanches his cheek? The sputter of gravel, the
fierce, terrible rattle and clatter of runaway hoofs. All in a second
it flashed upon him just what to expect. All in a second there rushed
into view upon the ridge a sight that froze the blood in his veins.
Ranger, his head high in air, the bit in his teeth, dashing blindly,
madly towards him, and Grace—Grace, hat and veil gone, her beautiful
hair streaming behind her, still firmly maintaining seat and rein, but
powerless to control the wild rush of her steed,—horse and rider came
flying down the slope, down towards the pitiless rocks and surges that
lay but that short five hundred yards away. _Now_, Ray, Where are you?
Oh, never fear for him! Pluck and skill and grit, coolness and nerve
were never lacking when Ray stood by. Quick as a flash he reins his
horse to left about. Quick as a flash the spurred heels strike home,
and with the shout of “Go, you scoundrel!” ringing in his startled
ears, Ray’s horse springs into a charge down the slope, _leading_
Ranger by half a dozen lengths. Well over to the left of the road his
rider guides him, looking warily ahead and noting with satisfaction
that no boulders or heavy stones mar the track. Then, cool and steady,
he turns in the saddle and waves his hand to her with cheery shout,
“All right, Miss Gracie! Let him come! Give him his head!” She cannot
distinguish the words, but her glorious eyes brighten, and she smiles
bravely back. Ranger is gaining with every stride. The racer of the
regiment, he is furious at being led. Again Ray urges on his fresher
steed. No use to close in on Ranger now; he would simply swerve off
to the right and, once on the turf, leave all behind him until he
plunged into some of the pits or sloughs along the flats. A hundred
yards more and the road dives under the steep bank which shuts it
close to the boiling water; but then, O God! how short a span beyond
is that terrible turn, those frightful rocks! With every stride is
Ranger gaining. Nearer they come to the sheltering bank. Warily Ray
lowers his right hand behind his thigh, and with head half turned
watches the crazy brute tearing up closer to his flank. Now the bank
is rising on their right. Now Ranger’s head is close on his quarter,
opposite his shoulder, almost opposite his horse’s head. _Now_, Ray!
And like flash of feathered arrow the gauntleted hand comes down on
the curb, and a grasp of iron is laid on Ranger’s mouth. Well he knows
the hand. There follow a few ineffectual plunges, and then, with much
crashing of gravel and hoof, panting, heaving, foaming, he is brought
to a halt,—ten yards from the turn! Then Ray looks at Grace. She is
trying to say something, trying to smile, but the reins drop from her
nerveless hands, the words falter on her lips, the smile dies away,
and, white as a sheet, she is reeling in her saddle. Quick, quick as
ever, his right arm is thrown around her waist, and he lifts her from
her seat, swings to the ground on the _off_ side of his horse, then,
as he would carry a child, he bears her to the bank of the stream,
lays her gently at the foot of a tree, fills his cap with water, which
he sprinkles on her face, then, as she starts and gives a little
shuddering sigh, he kneels close beside her, lifts her tenderly on his
arm till her head rests upon his shoulder, and then with the same old
foraging head-gear he fans and at the same time liberally besprinkles
the sweet, pale face. Ah! what is he calling her? What is he saying to
her as the glorious eyes slowly open? Why do the heavily-fringed lids
close so quickly? And that faint color that surges up to cheek and
brow, what brings it there? What means this picture that bursts upon
the eyes of Glenham, who reins up beside them in an agony of fear? Ray
looks blithely up.
“It’s all right, Glenham. No harm done; just a little faint. Gallop in
and bring out the ambulance, there’s a good fellow.”
And, sick at heart, Glenham goes.