When the first faint edges of light outlined the coming day, she sat bolt
upright and stared about her. As far as eye could see was the tortuous
trail leading up sculptured hills that were the preface to the mother
mountains of the West.
The wonder-stare in her eyes gradually disappeared as memory awakened.
Down beyond the trees in a little valley the sheriff was attending to a
fire he had built.
She arose, cramped and unrefreshed, and hastened toward the welcome
blaze.
"Good morning. Any gasoline yet?"
"No; not an automobile passed during the night."
"How do you know? Didn't you sleep?"
"No."
"Guarding your car and me? No!" she added quickly. "That wasn't the
reason. I had all the robes and your coat. You had to stay awake to keep
warm."
He smiled slightly and spoke in the hushed voice that seems in keeping
with the dawn.
"I've been used to night watches--tending sheep and cattle on the plains.
What's the difference whether it's night or day so long as you sleep
somewhere in the twenty-four hour zone?"
"I never was up ahead of the sun before," she said with a little shiver,
as she came close to the fire.
"I am heating over the coffee that was left. That will make you feel
better."
"I suppose there isn't any water hereabouts to wash in. You know they
teach us to be sanitary in the reformatories."
He pointed to a jar.
"I always carry some in the car. Help yourself."
"Arctic ablutions never appeal to me," she said when she had used the cold
water freely and returned to the fire. "I found another left-over in the
shape of a sandwich minus the pork, so we can each have a slice of toast
with our coffee."
She put a piece of bread on a forked stick and held it out to the blaze.
He did the same with the other half of the sandwich. Then they partook of
a meagre but welcome breakfast.
"Look!" he said presently in an awed voice.
The sun was sending a glorious searchlight of gold over the highest
hill-line.
"Swell, isn't it?" she commented cheerily.
Her choice of adjectives repelled any further comments on Nature by him.
"I'm not used to sleeping out," she said, as he carefully raked over the
remains of the fire, "and it didn't seem to rest me. Thank you for making
me so comfortable, Mr. Walters."
She spoke gently; altogether her manner was so much more subdued this
morning that he felt the same wave of pity he had felt when Bender had
first mentioned her case to him.
"I am sorry," he said, "that you had to stay out here all night. It was my
fault; but you will have a more comfortable resting place to-night."
A sound was heard: a modern, welcome sound, breaking in distractingly on
the primeval silence. Kurt hastened to the road and saw the encouraging
prelude of dust. The passing tourist gave him the requisite supply of
gasoline and continued on his way.
"Come on, Pen!" called the sheriff.
She suppressed a smile as she followed.
"You called me by my first name," she couldn't resist reminding him.
"I didn't know your last one," he responded quickly and resentfully as he
helped her into the car.
"Let me think. I've had so many aliases--suppose I make out a list and let
you take your choice. Most of my pals call me 'The Thief.'"
The look of yesterday came back to his eyes at her flippant tone and
words.
"Don't!" he said harshly. "This morning I had forgotten what you were."
"I wish I could," she said forlornly. "We won't talk about it any more.
Play I am pink perfect until we get to this 'first lady of the land' up at
Top Hill. Oh, but motoring in the dawn is shivery! I loathe early morning
when you get up to it. If you _stay up_ for it, it's different."
He looked down at her quickly.
In the crisp morning air, her little figure was shaking as if with a
chill. Her face was very white, and there was a bluish look about her
mouth.
He stopped the car suddenly.
She smiled faintly at his look of concern.
"I'm all right," she said reassuringly, a spark of raillery again showing
in her eyes before they closed, and she fell limply against him.
When she had recovered the consciousness she had lost but momentarily, he
was vigorously rubbing her hands.
"How warm and strong your hands feel," she said with a little sigh of
content. "I never did anything so out of date before. I couldn't help
it."
"You are nearly frozen," he said brusquely. "Why don't you wear more
clothes?"
"I am wearing all I have," she said plaintively, with an attempt at a
giggle.
A sudden recollection came to him. From under the seat he brought forth a
heavy, gray sweater.
"I forgot I had this with me. Put it on."
"It's a slip-on. I'll have to take off my hat and coat to get into it."
When she removed her soft, shabby, battered hat which she had worn well
down over her eyes even while she slept, her hair, rippling bronze and
golden lights, fell about her face and shoulders in semi-curls.
He helped her into the sweater.
"It's sure snug and warm," she said approvingly, as her head came out of
the opening. "I won't need my coat."
"No; there's no warmth in it," he said, looking disdainfully at the thin,
cheap garment. "Throw it away."
"With pleasure," she replied gaily. "Here's to my winter garment of
repentance."
She flung the coat out on the road.
"What did you say?" he asked perplexedly.
"Nothing original. Just some words I st-t--I mean, borrowed."
She fastened back her hair and picked up her hat.
"Don't put that on!" he exclaimed, making another search under the seat
and bringing forth a soft cap. She set it jauntily on her curls.
"How do you feel now? Well enough to ride on?"
"Yes; I am feeling 'fair and warmer' every minute."
When the car started, she relapsed into silence. The sunshine was flooding
the treeless hills and mellowing the cool, clean air. Up and down, as far
as the eye could follow, which was very far in this land of great
distances, the trail sought the big dominant hills that broke the sky-line
before them. The outlook was restful, hopeful, fortifying.
"How are you--all right?" he asked presently.
"Perfectly all right. It's grand up here in all these high spots."
"Wait until we reach the hills around our ranch," he boasted. Then he
laughed shortly. "I say 'our.' I'm only the foreman."
"What are you going to tell _her_ about me?" she asked curiously, after
another silence.
He slackened the pace and looked at her closely. The sweater and the
sunshine had brought a faint tinge of wild-rose color to the transparency
of her skin. The flippancy and boldness so prominent in her eyes the day
before had disappeared. She looked more as she had when she was asleep in
the moonlight. A wave of kindness and brotherliness swept over him.
"I am going to tell her," he said gently, "that you are a poor little girl
who needs a friend."
"Is that all you will tell her?"
"You may tell her as much or as little of your story as you think you
should."
"You are a good man, but," she added thoughtfully, "the best of men don't
understand women's ways toward each other. If I tell her my sordid little
story, she may not want to help me--at least, not want to keep me up here
in her home. I've not found women very helpful."
"She will help you and keep you, because--" he hesitated, and then
continued earnestly, "before she was married, she was a settlement worker
in a large city and she understood such--"
"As I," she finished. "I know the settlement workers. They write you
up--or down--in a sort of a Rogue Record, and you are classified, indexed,
filed and treated by a system."
"She isn't that kind!" he protested indignantly. "She does her work by her
heart, not by system. Have you ever really tried to reform?"
"Yes," she exclaimed eagerly. "I left Chicago for that purpose. I couldn't
find work. I was cold and hungry; pawned everything they would take and
got shabby like this," looking down disdainfully at herself, "but I didn't
steal, not even food. I would have starved first. Then I was arrested up
here for stealing. I wasn't guilty. Bender had no case, really; but he
wouldn't give me a square deal or listen to anything in my favor, because
my record was against me. You can't live down a record. There is no use
trying."
"Yes, there is!" he declared emphatically. "I have always thought a thief
incurable, but I believe _she_ could perform the miracle."
"How old is she?" demanded Pen suddenly.
"I don't know," he answered vaguely, as if her age had never occurred to
him before. "She has been married ten years."
"Oh! Did she marry the right man?"
"She certainly did. Kingdon is a prince."
"Any children?"
"Three; two little fellows as fine as are made, and a girl."
"I adore children."
"I am glad to hear you say that. Every good woman loves children."
"And you really think there's the makings of a good woman in me?"
"Yes; I think so," he answered earnestly, "and if there's but a spark of
goodness in you, she will find it and fan it to a glow."
She made a wry little grimace which fortunately he did not see.
"This goodness is nauseating me," she thought. "I shall beat it back about
to-morrow."
"Look!" he cried, as the road made a sharp curve. "There it is!"
"You can lift your eyes to the hills! What a love of a place--way up on
tiptoes. I'll be the little fish out of water up there!"
Top Hill Tavern was on a small plateau at the summit of one of the hills.
The ranch-house, long, low and fanciful in design, connected by a covered
portico with the kitchen, dairies and buildings, was misleading in name,
for a succession of higher hills was in sight. A vined pergola, flower
gardens, swings, tennis courts and croquet grounds gave the place a most
unranch-like appearance.
As they rode up to the entrance porch, a woman came out of the house, and
instantly the big, appraising eyes of the little newcomer felt that here
was a type unknown to her. She was slender, not very tall, but with a
poise and dignity of manner that compelled attention. Her eyes were gray;
her lashes, brows and hair quite dark. There was a serenity and repose of
manner about her--the Madonna expression of gentleness--but with an added
force.
"We looked for you last night, Kurt," she said in a voice, low and
winning.
"Ran out of gasoline and had to spend the night on the road," he
explained. "Mrs. Kingdon, this is a little girl--"
She didn't give him the opportunity to finish.
"Come in out of the sun," she urged.
Pen stepped from the car. There was no consciousness in the beautiful eyes
of the "best woman in the world" that she was aware of the shabby, tan
shoes, the cheap, faded and worn skirt, or the man's sweater and cap.
Pen's eyes had grown dark and thoughtful.
"Before I go in," she said turning to Kurt, "you must tell her who I am.
Not what you said you were going to tell her, but where you found me and
from what you saved me."
His face flushed.
"My dear little girl," said the woman quickly, "I don't care to know--yet.
It is enough that Kurt brought you."
"Mrs. Kingdon," said Kurt awkwardly but earnestly, "she is a poor girl who
needs a friend."
"We all need a friend some time or other. Come in with me."
She led her up the steps. On the top one, the girl halted.
"He found me," she told Mrs. Kingdon, "in the custody of--Bender, for
stealing, and he took me away to save me from jail, to bring me up here to
the 'best woman in the world,' he said, and I made light of what he had
done all the way up the trail. And he was so kind to me--me, a pickpocket.
I think I should go back--to Bender."
She spoke with the impetuosity of a child, and turned to go down the
steps.
Kurt looked on helplessly, perplexed by this last mood of his prismatic
young prisoner.
Mrs. Kingdon took the girl's arm again.
"You are going to have a bed and bath before you leave, anyway. Come with
me. Kurt, you look as if you had best go to cover, too."
Pen's outbreak had evidently spent her last drop of reserve force. She
submitted meekly to guidance through a long room with low-set windows. She
noted a tiled floor with soft rugs, a fireplace and a certain pervading
home-sense before they turned into a little hallway. Again she faintly
protested.
"I am worse than a thief," she said. "I am a liar. I haven't told
him--all."
"Never mind that now," said Mrs. Kingdon soothingly. "You've been ill
recently, haven't you?"
"Yes; I was just about at the end of--"
"You're at the end of the trail now--the trail to Top Hill. You shall have
a bath, a long sleep and something to eat before you try to tell me
anything more."
Pen went on into a sunward room generously supplied with casement windows.
A few rugs, a small but billowy bed, a chair and a table comprised the
furnishings, but an open door disclosed a bathroom and beyond that a
dressing room most adequately equipped.
"This is clover," she thought presently, when she slipped into a warm
bath.
"And this is some more clover," she murmured later, as, robed in a little
nainsook gown, she stretched out luxuriously between lavender scented
sheets. "I don't care what may come later. I know that I am going to have
a real sleep."
It was five o'clock in the afternoon when she awoke. On the chair by her
bed was a change of clothing, a pair of white tennis shoes, a dark blue
skirt, a white middy and a red tie.
"Oh!" she thought. "The kind of clothes I love."
She hastened to dress partially, then slipped on a little negligee and
began to do her hair.
"I wish it would sometimes go twice in the same place," she thought
ruefully. "I never can fix it as I like. It's the only thing that ever got
the better of me except Kind Kurt. Well!" with an impatient shake of her
rebellious locks, "go crop-cut, if you insist. I can't help it."
Mrs. Kingdon smiled when the little girlish figure opened the door in
response to her knock.
"I felt sure that that outfit, which was left here by my fifteen-year-old
niece when she last visited us, would fit you, though Kurt insists that
you are twenty. You had a nice sleep, didn't you?"
"I think I never really slept before. Such a bed, and such heavenly quiet!
So different from street-car racket."
"My husband and the boys have been away all day, or there wouldn't have
been such quiet. Dinner is ready. Kurt didn't tell me your name."
"Penelope Lamont. My first name is always shortened to Pen or Penny."
Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr.
Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist.
Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and seven
years respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnly
and surveyingly while she was presented to their father.
"Can you skin a weasel?" asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned to
him.
"Mother said you were a young lady," said Billy. "You're just a little
girl like Doris was."
"And you've got on her clothes," declared Betty sagely.
"Now you surely should feel at home," declared Mrs. Kingdon.
"Margaret," commented her husband whimsically, "our children seem to be
quite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in their
remarks, don't you think?"
"We so seldom have visitors up here, you know," defended the mother,
smiling at Pen the while. "We will go into the dining room now."
Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a most
willing welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that the
vacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified by
Betty who asked with a pout:
"Why don't we wait for Uncle Kurt?"
"He dined an hour ago and rode away," explained Mrs. Kingdon. "He will be
back before your bedtime."
Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by one
or more of the children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive to
their advances.
"You've had your innings, Francis," the father finally declared. "That
will be the last from you."
"There's one thing more I want to know," he pleaded. "Miss Lamont, do
colored people ever have--what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamont
had, mother?"
"Oh, Francis!" exclaimed his mother. "I said," looking at Pen, "that I
feared you were anemic, and then I had to describe the word minutely."
"Are they ever that, Miss Lamont?" insisted the boy.
"I never thought of it before," answered Pen after a moment's reflection,
"but I don't see why they couldn't be so, same as white people."
"Then how could they tell they had it. They wouldn't look white, would
they?"
"Suppose," interceded Kingdon, "we try to find a less colorful topic. I
move we adjourn to the library for coffee."
"We stay up an hour after dinner," said Billy, when they were gathered
about the welcome open fire, "but when we have company, it's an hour and a
half."
"I should think that rule would be reversed," replied Kingdon humorously.
"Then, aren't you glad I'm here?" Pen asked Billy.
"Sure!" came in hearty assurance. "You can stay up a long time, can't you,
because you slept all day?"
"Play with us," besought Betty.
"Yes; play rough," demanded Billy.
Mrs. Kingdon interposed. "She's too tired to do that," she admonished the
children.
Betty came forward with a box of paper and a pair of scissors.
"You can cut me some paper dolls. That won't tire you."
"I don't want dolls!" scoffed Francis.
Pen was already using the articles Betty had furnished.
"Not if we call them circus ladies and I cut horses for them to ride on?"
she asked him.
"Can you do that?" he inquired unbelievingly.
"Certainly. Dashing horses that will stand up," she boasted, and in
another moment a perfectly correct horse was laid before the delighted
boys.
A few more rapid snips and a short-skirted lady was handed to Betty.
"Now, make a clown, a lion, a tiger, an elephant," came in quick, short
orders which were readily filled.
"My dear young lady," exclaimed Kingdon. "You are really talented. It is
so seldom an artist can do anything but draw."
"I can't draw. I am just a cutter," she corrected. "I can't do anything
with a pencil."
They were all so absorbed in the paper products that Kurt's entrance
passed unnoted.
"Betty," he said imploringly, after waiting a moment without recognition,
"you can't guess what's in my pocket?"
Pen looked up unbelievingly. The caressing, winning note had utterly
disguised his voice. As he handed the delighted Betty a satisfactorily
shaped parcel, his glance rested upon his prisoner, bringing a quick gleam
of surprise to his eyes.
"I am taking out my first papers, you see," she announced, pointing to the
miniature menagerie.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.
"A man showed me," she said noncommittally.
"What else can you cut?" demanded Francis.
"I can cut an airship."
"Cut me one."
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Kingdon. "The time limit is up."
"Did you ever go up in an airship?" asked Billy eagerly.
"No; but I know a man who flies," she boasted.
"Come upstairs and tell us about him," demanded Billy.
As his mother cordially seconded the invitation, Pen accompanied them to
the nursery. When the last "good nights" had been said to the children,
Mrs. Kingdon led the way to her room.
"The moon shouldn't seem so far away," declared Pen, looking out of the
broad window. "We are up so high."
"I haven't yet ceased to wonder at these hills," rejoined Mrs. Kingdon.
"We bought this ranch merely for a vacation place, but three-fourths of
our time is spent up here, as we have become so attached to it. Mr.
Kingdon is an artist, so he never tires of watching the hills and the sky.
Sometimes we feel selfish with so much happiness--when there isn't enough
to go around."
"I know you take but a small percentage of what you give. Shall I tell my
story now?"
"I think I know it--or some of it, at least," replied Mrs. Kingdon,
looking at her intently.
Pen looked up with a startled gesture.
"You do! How--"
"When I was in your room just before dinner, it came to me where I had
seen you before. It was about a year ago--in San Francisco--in a police
station. I made inquiries; was interested in you and tried to see you, but
we were suddenly called home. I should like to hear more about your life
and what brought you to these hills."
"I wish no one else need know it," she said entreatingly, when she had
told her story in detail.
"Kurt is surely entitled to know it _all_," replied Mrs. Kingdon.
"I suppose he is; though I wish he didn't know as much as he already does.
It isn't necessary to tell him to-night, is it? I am still tired in spite
of my long rest."
"To-morrow will do. If you like, I will tell him, and I wish you and he
would leave the entire matter--about Jo and all--in my hands."
"Most gladly," assented Pen. "But where is Jo?"
"He is on a neighboring ranch--temporarily, only."
"There is something else I should like to know. Why is Kurt so different
from most men? Doesn't he ever look pleasant, or was his gloom all on my
account?"
"His life hasn't been exactly conducive to jollity. He was born in New
England and brought up on pie and Presbyterianism by a spinstered aunt who
didn't understand boys. He ran away and came to the West. He has been
cattle-herder, cowboy and everything else typical of the hill country. We
came here, tenderfooted, and were most fortunate in finding a foreman like
Kurt Walters. He has a wonderful way of handling men. He is of good
habits, forceful, keen; very gentle to old people and most adorable with
children. We make him one of our household. There is the fortunate flaw
that keeps him from being super-excellent; he is not merciful to
wrongdoers and, as you say, he is too serious--almost moody. That is
accounted for by the long night vigils of the cattlemen. They get a habit
of inhibition that they never lose. I think the men find him very good
company at times. There is one splendid thing about him. In spite of his
rough life and the many years in which he has had opportunity to meet only
the--misguided kind of women, he has never lost faith in his ideals of
womanhood."
"I certainly rubbed him the wrong way," said Pen comprehendingly. "He
looked upon me as if there were no place on his map for my kind, and yet
he struggled hard to be good to me when I was suffering from cold and
hunger. I never met his sort of a man before. The men I have been thrown
with think goodness stupid. No matter what crime a girl commits, providing
she is attractive in any way, they applaud and call her a 'little
devil.'"
"He talked of you a great deal to-day, and about your chances for
reformation."
Pen smiled enigmatically.
"He said he would have felt more sympathy for me if I had not been
educated and knew the enormity of my sins. If he knew more of the world,
he would know that the intelligent criminal has the least chance to
reform. When he took me so unexpectedly from Bender, I wanted to see what
he was going to do with me. When I found he was bringing me out here, I
could have easily given him the slip and escaped, but I was curious to see
the 'best woman in the world.' I never had faith in a man's estimate of a
woman, but as soon as I saw you, I knew he was right. May I stay? Will you
really let me?"
"I quite insist upon your staying. We will go downstairs for a little
while now."
Below, Mrs. Kingdon lingered to give some directions to a servant and Pen
went on to the library.
Kurt was standing there alone. She stood small and straight before her
warden, looking squarely into his eyes.
"You needn't," she said, "put any locks on valuables here--not on my
account. The crookedest crook in the world wouldn't steal from _her_."
"I am glad you recognize a true woman," he said earnestly.
"Thank you for bringing me here. I feel it's the turning point in my
life."
"Then," he said earnestly, "I feel I have done something worth while. You
shall not leave here until--you see I am speaking plainly--you have
overcome all desire to steal."
"Not a severe penalty, O Sheriff Man!" she thought as she replied meekly:
"To-night I feel as if I could never do anything wrong; but you know the
strongest of us have our lapses."
"I know that too well," he said gravely, "but--you'll try?"
"I'll try. Good-night, Mr. Walters."
In the doorway she paused and looked back. He was gazing meditatively into
the flames of the open fire. She shook a little defiant fist at him and
made a childish grimace, both of which actions were witnessed by Kingdon
as he entered the room.
"Do you know," he confided later to his wife, with a chuckle of
reminiscence, "as fine a fellow as Kurt is, I sometimes feel like shaking
a fist at him myself."