RAGGED ROMANCE
At the wide gate of the mountain ranch stood the girl. Her black
saddle-pony Boyar fretted to be away. Glancing back through the
cavernous shade of the live-oaks, the girl hesitated before opening the
gate. A little breeze, wayfaring through Moonstone Cañon and on up to
the mountain ranch, touched the girl's cheek and she breathed deeply of
its cool fragrance.
The wide gate swung open, and Louise Lacharme, curbing Black Boyar, rode
out of the shadows into the hot light of the morning, singing as she
rode.
Against the soft gray of the cañon wall flamed a crimson flower like a
pomegranate bud. Across the road ran the cool mountain stream. Away and
away toward the empty sky the ragged edges of the cliffs were etched
sharply upon the blue.
The road ran swiftly round the eastern wall of the cañon. Louise, as
fragrantly bright as morning sunshine on golden flowers, laughed as the
pony's lithe bound tore the silver of the ford to swirling beads and
blade-like flashes.
On the rise beyond, the girl drew rein at the beginning of the Old
Meadow Trail, a hidden trail that led to a mountain meadow of ripe
grasses, groups of trees, and the enchantment of seclusion.
The pony shouldered through the breast-high greasewood and picked his
steps along the edge of the hill. The twigs and branches lisped and
clattered against the carved leather tapaderos that hooded the stirrups.
The warm sun awoke the wild fragrance of sage and mountain soil. Little
lizards of the stones raced from Black Boyar's tread, becoming rigid on
the sides of rocks, clinging at odd angles with heads slanted, like
delicate Orient carvings in dull brass.
The girl's eyes, the color of sea-water in the sun, were leveled toward
the distant hills across the San Fernando Valley. From her fingers
dangled the long bridle-reins. Her lips were gently parted. Her gaze was
the gaze of one who dreams in the daylight. And close in the hidden
meadow crouched Romance, Romance ragged, unkempt, jocular....
Boyar first scented the wood-smoke. Louise noticed his forward-standing
ears and his fidgeting. Immediately before her was the low rounded rock,
a throne of dreams that she had graced before. From down the slope and
almost hidden by the bulk of the rock, a little wand of smoke stood up
in the windless air, to break at last into tiny shreds and curls of
nothingness.
"It can't be much of a fire yet!" exclaimed Louise, forever watchful, as
are all the hill-folk, for that dread, ungovernable red monster of
destruction, a mountain fire. "It can't be much of a fire _yet_."
The pony Boyar, delicately scenting something more than wood-smoke,
snorted and swerved. Louise dismounted and stepped hurriedly round the
shoulder of the rock. A bristle-bearded face confronted her. "No, it
ain't much of a fire yet, but our hired girl she joined a movin'-picture
outfit, so us two he-things are doin' the best we can chasin' a
breakfast." And the tramp, Overland Red, ragged, unkempt, jocular, rose
from his knees beside a tiny blaze. He pulled a bleak flop of felt from
his tangled hair in an over-accentuated bow of welcome.
"We offer you the freedom of the city, ma'am. Welcome to our midst, and
kindly excuse appearances this morning. Our trunks got delayed in New
York."
Unsmilingly the girl's level gray eyes studied the tramp's face. Then
her glance swept him swiftly from bared head to rundown heel. "I was
just making up my mind whether I'd stay and talk with you, or ask you to
put out your fire and go somewhere else. But I think you are all right.
Please put on your hat."
[Illustration: THE GIRL'S LEVEL GRAY EYES STUDIED THE TRAMP'S FACE]
Overland Red's self-assurance shrunk a little. The girl's eyes were
direct and fearless, yet not altogether unfriendly. He thought that deep
within them dwelt a smile.
"You got my map all right," he said, a trifle more respectfully.
"'Course we'll douse the fire when we duck out of here. But what do you
think of Collie here, my pal? Is he all right?"
"Oh, he's only a boy," said Louise, glancing casually at the youth
crouched above the fire.
The boy, a slim lad of sixteen or thereabout, flushed beneath the
battered brim of his black felt hat. He watched the tomato-can
coffee-pot intently. Louise could not see his face.
"Yes, Miss. _I'm_ all right and so is he." And a humorous wistfulness
crept into the tramp's eyes. "He's what you might call a changeling."
"Changeling?"
"Uhuh! Always changin' around from place to place--when you're young.
Ain't that it?"
"Oh! And when you are older?" she queried, smiling.
Overland Red frowned. "Oh, then you're just a tramp, a Willie, a Bo, a
Hobo."
He saw the girl's eyes harden a little. He spoke quickly, and, she
imagined, truthfully. "I worked ten years for one outfit once, without
a change. And I never knowed what it was to do a day's work out of the
saddle. You know what that means."
"Cattle? Mexico?"
Overland Red grinned. "Say! You was born in California, wasn't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"'Cause Mexico has been about the only place a puncher could work that
long without doin' day labor on foot half the year. Yes, I been there.
'Course, now, I'm doin' high finance, and givin' advice to the young,
and livin' on my income. And say, when it comes to real brain work, I'm
the Most Exhausted Baked High Potentate, but I wouldn't do no mineral
labor for nobody. If I can't work in the saddle, I don't work--that's
all."
"Mineral labor? What, mining?" asked Louise.
"No, not mining. Jest mineral labor like Japs, or section-hands, or
coachmen with bugs on their hats. Ain't the papers always speakin' of
that kind as minerals?"
"Don't you mean menials?"
"Well, yes. It's all the same, anyway. I never do no hair-splittin' on
words. Bein' a pote myself, it ain't necessary."
"A--a poet! Really?"
"Really and truly, and carry one and add five. I've roped a lot of
po'try in my time, Miss. Say, are we campin' on your land?"
"No. This is government land, from here to our line up above--the
Moonstone Rancho."
"The Moonstone Rancho?" queried Overland Red, breaking a twig and
feeding the fire.
"Yes. It's named after the cañon. But don't let me keep you from
breakfast."
"Breakfast, eh? That's right! I almost forgot it, talkin' to you.
Collie's got the coffee to boilin'. No, _you_ ain't keepin' us from our
breakfast any that you'd notice. It would take a whole reg'ment of
Rurales to keep us from a breakfast if we seen one runnin' around loose
without its pa or ma."
Louise Lacharme did not smile. This was too real. Here was adventure
with no raconteur's glamour, no bookish gloss. Here was Romance. Romance
unshaven, illiterate, with its coat off making coffee in a
smoke-blackened tomato-can, but Romance nevertheless. That this romance
should touch her life, Louise had not the faintest dream. She was
alone ... but, pshaw! Boyar was grazing near, and besides, she was not
really afraid of the men. She thought she rather liked them, or, more
particularly, the boisterous one who had said his name was Overland Red.
The tramp gazed at her a moment before he lifted the tomato-can from the
embers. "We know you won't join us, but we're goin' to give you the
invite just the same. And we mean it. Ma'am, if you'll be so kind as to
draw up your chair, us gents'll eat."
"Thank you!" said Louise, and Overland's face brightened at the
good-fellowship in her voice. "Thank you both, but I've had breakfast."
She gazed at the solitary, bubbling, tomato-can coffee-pot of
"second-edition" coffee. There was nothing else to grace the board, or
rather rock. "I'll be right back," she said. "I'll just take off Boyar's
bridle. Here, Boy!" she called. "You'll be able to eat better."
And she ran to the pony. From a saddle-pocket she took her own lunch of
sandwiches and ripe olives wrapped in oiled paper. She delayed her
return to loosen the forward cincha of the saddle and to find the little
stock of cigarette-papers and tobacco that she carried for any chance
rider of the Moonstone who might be without them.
Collie, the boy tramp, glanced up at Overland Red. "I guess she's gone,"
he said regretfully.
"You're nutty, Collie. She ain't the kind to sneak off after sayin'
she's comin' back. I know a hoss and a real woman when I see 'em. I was
raised in the West, myself."
The boy Collie was young, sensitive, and he had not been "raised in the
West." He frowned. "Yes, you was raised in the West, and what you got to
show for it?"
"Well, hear the kid!" exclaimed Overland. "Out of the mouth of babes and
saplings! What have I got to show? What have I--! Wha--? Oh, you go
chase a snake! I know a good hoss and a good woman when I see 'em, and I
seen both together this morning."
"But what do _she_ want with us bos?" asked the boy.
"S-s-h-h! Why, she's interested in me romantic past, of course. Ain't I
the 'cute little gopher when it comes to the ladies? Fan me, Collie, and
slow music and a beer for one. I'm some lady's-man, sister!"
"You're a bo, the same as me," said the boy.
"S-s-h-h! For the love of Pete, don't you handle that word 'bo' so
careless. It's loaded. It has a jarrin' effect on ears
unattenuated--er--meanin' ears that ain't keyed up to it, as the pote
says. She's comin' back. Fold your napkin. Don't look so blame hungry!
Ain't you got any style?"
"She's the prettiest girl I ever seen," said the boy, hastily swallowing
his share of the hot, insipid coffee.
"Pretty?" whispered Overland, as Louise approached. "She's thoroughbred.
Did you see them eyes? Afraid of nothin', and smilin' at what might dast
to scare her. Not foolish, either. She's wise. And she's kind and
laughin', and not ashamed to talk to us. That's thoroughbred."
Round the rock came Louise, the neat package of sandwiches in one hand.
In the other was the tobacco and cigarette-papers. "I'm going to have my
luncheon," she said. "If you won't object, I'll take a sandwich. There,
I have mine. The rest are for you."
"We had our breakfast," said Overland quickly, "when you was talkin' to
your pony."
Louise glanced at the empty tomato-can. "Well, I'll excuse you for not
waiting for me, but I shall not excuse you from having luncheon with me.
I made these sandwiches myself. Have one. They're really good."
"Oh!" groaned Overland, grimacing. "If I could curry up my language
smooth, like that, I--I guess I'd get deaf listenin' to myself talk. You
said that speech like takin' two turns round the bandstand tryin' to
catch yourself, and then climbin' a post and steppin' on your own
shoulders so you could see the parade down the street. Do you get that?"
And he sighed heavily. "Say! These here sandwiches is great!"
"Will you have one?" asked Louise, gracefully proffering the olives.
"Seein' it's you. Thanks. I always take two. The second one for a chaser
to kill the taste of the first. It's the only way to eat 'em--if you
know where to stop. They do taste like somethin' you done and are sorry
for afterwards, don't they?"
"Were you ever sorry for anything?" asked the boy, feeling a little
piqued that he had been left out of the conversation.
"I was raised in the West, myself," growled the tramp, scowling. "But
that's a good pony you got, Miss. That your saddle too?"
"Yes."
"You rope any?"
"A little. How did you know?"
"Rawhide cover to the saddle-horn is wore with a rope," said Overland,
helping himself to a second sandwich.
Then the tramp and the girl, oblivious to everything else, discussed
rawhide riatas as compared with the regular three-strand stock rope, or
lariat,--center-fire, three quarter, and double rigs, swell forks and
old Visalia trees, spade bits and "U" curbs,--neither willing, even
lightly, to admit the other's superiority of chosen rig.
The boy Collie listened intently and a trifle jealously. Overland Red
and the girl had found a common ground of interest that excluded him
utterly. The boy itched for an excuse to make the girl speak to him,
even look at him.
The sandwiches gone, Louise proffered Overland tobacco and papers.
Actual tears stood in the ex-cowboy's eyes. "Smoke! Me?" he exclaimed.
"I was dyin' for it. I'd do time for you!"
Then in that boyish spirit that never quite leaves the range-rider,
Overland Red took the tobacco and papers and cleverly rolled a cigarette
with one hand. In the other he held his battered felt hat. His eyes had
a far-away look as he reached forward and lighted his cigarette at the
fire. "I was settin' on a crazy bronc', holdin' his head up so he
couldn't go to buckin'--outside a little old adobe down in Yuma,
Arizona, then," he explained, glancing at the girl. "Did you ever drift
away complete, like that, jest from some little old trick to make you
dream?"