RANCH ROSES
“Oh, you Primrose, that’s nuthin’. Do you ’spose I’d git mad if a nice
feller tried to kiss me?” Sally laughed noisily. “Why, that’s all in the
game, goosie.”
Alta’s face showed pain at this rude reception of her confidence. “Why,
Sally, I’m shocked to hear you speak of such liberties so flippantly.”
“Oh, pshaw, it only shows he likes you. Dick is a jolly fellow. He don’t
mean nuthin’ by it.”
“It only shows he has no respect for himself or me either.”
“You’ll get over that in time, Miss Tenderfoot,” Sally went on; “boys
are boys, and we’ll have to take ’em as they are, or we’ll die old
maids.”
“Well, I’ll die an old maid then, before I’ll sacrifice my self-respect
to get a beau. Respect and love go together. That’s what Aunt Betty used
to say, and I believe every word of it.”
“My, how pretty you talk--jest like preachin’.”
“Well, I mean it.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe in bein’ so stiff with the boys that you drive
’em all away. And that’s what you’re doin’ with Dick. He’s a dandy
fellow, too.”
“Yes, you’re right, he is a dandy.” Sally missed the double meaning.
“Well, you think a whole lot of him anyway.”
“I’d think a good deal more of him if he thought more of himself.”
“He’s conceited enough, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s just what I don’t want. Conceit and self-respect are two very
different things.”
“Oh, you’ll forget all your fine talk one of these days and be glad to
forgive him.”
“Sally, what do you take me for?”
“Just a silly little girl who’s got herself upset by a smart fellow,
that’s all; but you’ll recover.”
“Indeed I will.”
“Yes, and so will he; for you’ll make up to-night and be swimmin’ in
honey.”
Alta flushed. “Please don’t anger me, Sally. Be serious. I came to you
for advice, and you make light of my confidences. You surely don’t
think I’m in love with Dick Davis.”
“Oh, no, not yet; but the signs are right for a real case.”
“Signs sometimes fail; don’t they, Aunt ‘Liza?” The bustling housekeeper
had just come in with a bucket of eggs she had been gathering.
“Law me, yes; they’ve certainly been failin’ ’bout here. I thought I’d
see some signs o’ work, ’gin I got back. You gals better make ’em, stid
o’ talkin’ ’bout fellers. That’s what you’ve been doin’, I’ll warrant.”
“Oh, no, we wouldn’t do anything like that--specially Alta. She don’t
believe in fellers.”
“Don’t, eh? Well, they seem to b’lieve in her the way they keep shinin’
’round.”
“Yes, but she--”
“Sally, please don’t,” pleaded Alta; “what can we do to help you, Aunt
‘Liza?”
“Jest pitch in brisk. We got to git this cookin’ goin’ lively, or we’ll
never be ready fer that bunch o’ fellers that’s comin’ to-night. It
flusters me to think about it. You wash this rice and get it cookin’,
Sally; and Alta, you skip over to Willis’s and git some eggs; I ain’t
found half enough. Tell her to let me hev all she kin spare. I’ll git
the pie crust ready while you’re gone. Missus Moffat says she’ll bring
her girls over this afternoon and give us a lift. Goodness knows we need
it.”
By the time she had finished her speech, Alta was at the corral,
bridling Eagle. Leaping on him, she galloped off briskly along the
winding trail that lay like a loose flung rope across the meadow. She
was glad to be alone for a moment.
“What’s all this feller talk about?” was Aunt ‘Liza’s prying question
when Alta had gone.
“Don’t know as I ought to tell,” Sally replied.
“Tell? Well, I guess you orter. Ain’t I that little gal’s protector and
confider?”
“Then why ain’t she told you?”
“I dunno. The little puss has been kind o’ sly lately. There’s somethin’
worryin’ her mind and she ain’t so free with me as she was. What’s she
been tellin’ you?”
“Oh, jist ’bout Dick Davis tryin’ to kiss her.”
“When?”
“Night of the Pioneer Dance.”
“And she wouldn’t let him?”
“No, she snubbed him for it.”
“Huh! so thet’s the reason Dick quit comin’ here so sudden. And thet’s
what’s worrying her, I know, cause she likes Dick.”
“Yes, and he’s gone on her, too.”
“Well, they’ll hev to untangle their own yarn. I’ve got plenty o’
troubles of my own to look after,”--and Aunt ‘Liza began to rattle the
pots and pans. Sally pitched into the work with vigor.
“Beats me, though, how the fellers flock round Alta when she acts so
independent. I guess it’s true that the meaner you treat ’em the better
they like you,” said Sally.
“Yes, but it won’t allus work. I’ve seen many a smart girl who might a
had her pick of all of ’em, and hev to take some scrub at last. Girls
mustn’t be too particular.”
“You bet I--”
“Here are your eggs,” said Alta, tripping through the door; “and here
come Mrs. Willis and Mary to help out.”
“Good fer us!” exclaimed Aunt ‘Liza; “we need their help. Come in,
Marthy.”
“I thought you’d have your hands full trying to get ready for the crowd
that’s coming. What can we do?” said Mrs. Willis, a motherly, helpful
spirit, with a touch of refinement in her voice and manner. She had
recently come from the city to try ranching, her husband’s health having
begun to break at too close work in the store.
“You might make the cookies, Mrs. Willis. I’ll clear this table for you.
And Mary can pitch in with Alta peelin’ the apples fer the pies, if she
will. Sally, you jest make that rice puddin’. I’ll git these dishes
washed. The bread’s baked, and the boys have got the steer a-roastin’. I
guess we’ll git through; but it’s worse than feedin’ the threshers.”
“Of course we shall,” said Alta; “Aunt ‘Liza’s a good manager. I only
wish I could handle the kitchen half so well.”
“You could if you’d keep your head on it; but a body can’t cook and read
poetry at the same time; still you do mighty well,” said Aunt ‘Liza,
inwardly pleased with the praise. “Here comes Mrs. Moffat. Glad to see
her, too. Good mornin’, Sarah Jane, come right in.”
“Looks like you need another hand, ‘Liza. What can I do to help?”
“Set down with the girls there, if you will, and show ’em how to peel
apples. I’m afraid they’re wastin’ too much.”
“All right; move ’round, Mary, and let’s have an apple peelin’ bee, like
we used to have in pioneer days.”
“Oh, jolly,” exclaimed Alta, “and you tell us a story while we work.”
“Name my apple first,” said Mary, jumping up and passing it for
everybody to thump.
“And mine too,” said Sally, grabbing one.
“Here, Aunt ‘Liza, let’s name one for you, too.”
“Oh, git away with your foolishness, ’tain’t no use.”
“Let’s name one for her anyway,” said Alta. “Now all together, think
hard and thump. Maybe it will bring Aunt ‘Liza a beau to-night.”
“Now for the peelin’s,” said Sally, swinging hers carefully above her
head, and letting the paring drop behind her.
“It’s a G,” cried Mary; “who’s that?”
“Law, that’s easy,” said Aunt Liza, not too absorbed in her work to keep
in with the fun; “G’s for Jim, of course.”
The girls squealed their delight at Aunt ‘Liza’s happy blunder.
“Sure! sure! that’s it,” they exclaimed.
“Well, try your luck, Mary,” said Sally.
Mary’s paring was flung and it formed an O.
“Old maid, Mary!” teased Sally.
“I don’t believe it,” said Mary.
“Come, Alta,” said Sally, “come, yours next.”
Alta’s paring broke as it dropped.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Broken hearts, we always used to say,” said Mrs. Moffat.
“Oh, that’s bad fortune,” said Alta; “it can’t be true.”
“Apple peelings never lie,” said Sally in mock seriousness.
“You certainly will break somethin’,” interjected Aunt ‘Liza, raising
her dough-covered finger to emphasize her remark, “if you don’t quit
flirtin’ with the fellers. They won’t keep comin’ always, as I’m a
shinin’ example to prove.”
A scream of fun greeted this sermon.
“Oh, Aunt ‘Liza’s had experience, I know--a real romance, I just know
it,” said Alta, “but she never gave a hint of it before.”
“Tell us all about it,” teased Mary.
“Romance! shucks! d’ye think I’d hev fellers pesterin’ about me?”
“Oh, don’t be so practical, Auntie; tell us something really romantic,”
said Alta.
“Yes, what did he say when he proposed?” added Sally; “why wouldn’t you
have him?”
Aunt ‘Liza’s face flushed as she turned without a word to make the old
rolling pin chuckle again across the pie dough. Sally had struck a
tender chord rather roughly. All felt it. Mrs. Willis, with motherly
instinct, turned their thoughts quickly, by saying--
“Come, girls, stop teasing Aunt ‘Liza, and turn on me.”
“All right, you tell us how your beau popped the question,” said Sally.
“No, I won’t tell you that; but I’ll tell you about an apple tree
romance with a proposal in it, if you wish.”
“Oh, jolly, jolly!” The girls dropped their apples and clapped their
approval.
“Who was it about? Not you, mother?” asked Mary, a little anxiously.
“No, not me exactly, but I was in the fun. It is about John Watkins; you
remember him, Aunt ‘Liza?”
“Yes, I reckon I do, lazy old scamp!” came the tart response. “After
Maria died he wouldn’t do nuthin’ but read poetry and chase around
tryin’ to git another wife to raise his pack o’ young uns--think I did
know him.”
“Well, it’s ’bout his proposing to Jerusha Jones that I was going to
tell.”
The girls were all interested.
“Oh, come now, you must work or I won’t talk.” The paring knives began
to fly again.
“Well, Jerusha was one of my chums, as jolly a girl as you ever saw,
pretty, too; and pranks!--what that girl could not think of was hardly
worth trying. The fellows were all crazy over her, but she wouldn’t be
serious with any of them.
“Well, Jerusha and Mary Snow--that’s the one this chicken is named
for--and I were like triplets, together all the time, and we knew one
another’s secrets and shared all our fun and trouble. For we had our
troubles, hard work a-plenty, and precious little fun except what we
made, but then that’s the best kind anyway.
“Well, as I was saying, Jerusha had plenty of strings to her bow, but
that didn’t make any difference to Mr. Watkins. When his wife, Maria,
died, he wanted another, of course, and no one but the best was good
enough, that is, to begin with. He changed his mind later and took what
he could get.”
“Yes, and he got a regular Tartar, too,” supplemented Aunt ‘Liza, “just
as mean as Maria was good--served him right.”
“But what was the apple tree romance, mother?” Mary voiced the
impatience of the listeners.
“I’m coming to it, girlie. You know we used to get up home dramatics,
and Mr. Watkins, being rather literary in his tastes, used to play on
the stage with us. Jerusha was generally the star with him, and they
were fine, too. I guess that’s how he came to take to Jerusha
afterwards. He got used to making love to her.
“One night when Mary and I went over to Jones’s, we found Jerusha all
flustered over something.
“‘It’s coming, girls, it’s coming,’ she broke out, clasping her hands
and acting stage-struck.
“‘How am I to meet it--to meet it?’ She acted so tragic it half scared
us.
“‘For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter?’ I guess I half screamed.
“Jerusha threw herself in a chair and laughed hysterically. Of a sudden
she stopped--
“‘Say, girls, I have a scheme. Will you do it? Dare you do it?’ she
whispered in stage tones.
“‘Do what?’ we asked.
“‘Save me from becoming the mother of an orphan asylum.’ She grew tragic
again.
“‘You must, or I’ll die! I’ll die! Will you do it?’
“‘Of course, we’ll do it!’ we promised, half alarmed at her antics.
‘What is it?’
“‘My Lord de Vere is going to pop the question, this very night.’
“Mary and I sank on the sofa screaming with laughter. Lord de Vere was
Watkins’ stage name.
“‘Jerusha, you don’t mean it?’
“‘Yes, I do; he nearly did it last night, but I headed it off. He’s
coming to rehearse to-night, and I know he’ll do it. What can I do? What
shall I do?’
“‘Do!’ Aunt ‘Liza sniffed, ‘why tell him _no_ and be done with it.’”
“Oh, how could you be so cruel, Aunt ‘Liza?” asked Sally.
“Please go on, Mrs. Willis,” said Alta.
“Well, Jerusha finally jumped up and cried, ‘Girls, I have it! Do you
want to hear a real proposal?’
“We danced with delight at the suggestion.
“‘Well, I’ll tell you. When my lord comes to-night, you be on hand and
I’ll manage the rest. Slip down by the old apple tree.’”
“Mother, you surely didn’t!” said Mary.
“I’m afraid I must confess, child, that I did.”
“And did he propose?”
“Now, don’t crowd my story. We waited a long time before they got
through rehearsing, and then, just as we had decided that Jerusha was
fooling us, here they came sauntering down to the bench by the apple
tree. We didn’t know where else to hide, so we climbed the tree, and sat
there giggling. But we managed to hold quiet enough until he began to
make love in dead earnest.”
“Huh! the old softy!” inserted Aunt ‘Liza; “jest like him!”
“Did he get down on his knees?” asked Sally; “what did he say?”
“I don’t remember a word; we burst out laughing, and jumped up and down
on the limbs till the apples peppered down on them. Jerusha broke away
and ran screaming to the house, and Mr. Watkins made a mad scramble for
the gate.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” exclaimed Mary; “how could you?”
“Served the old skeezicks just right,” was Aunt ‘Liza’s unfeeling
rejoinder.
“Shame on you for spoiling such a romance,” said Alta, laughingly; “how
dared you?”
“Well, we got so hungry for fun those days we did do things that were
rowdy, perhaps; but if our fun seemed a little rough at times, there
wasn’t anything really wicked in it. I guess the spirit of the wild West
was just bubbling over in us, that’s all.”
“Is the spirit of the West so different, Mrs. Willis?” asked Alta.
“Perhaps not; yet it seems to me that those who live here long catch
something of the wild freedom of these old mountains. Haven’t you felt
it? You are a Western girl through and through, even though you haven’t
been here so long.”
“Do you think so? Am I wild?”
“You’re a mixture of ginger and sugar,” said Sally.
“Now, don’t,” pleaded Alta; “tell me, Mrs. Willis, what is the spirit of
the true Western girl?”
“She is full of sunshine as a meadow lark, and as spontaneous as a
mountain stream, as lively as a squirrel--”
“And just as hard to catch,” inserted Mary.
“Unless the right feller comes along,” said Sally; “then she’s tame
enough.”
“Not the true Western girl,” objected Mrs. Willis; “she won’t chase
after any man. Her heart is hidden as deep as the mountain’s gold.”
“Oh, you’d make her an angel with wings,” said Sally.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’d just make her all she is--wholesome, natural,
free--a wild rose that blooms among a tangle of thorns, scattering
sweetness free and far, but stinging the hand that tries rudely to pluck
it.”
“Why, you’re a regular preacher,” said Sally.
“You’re a poet!” said Alta.
“No, I’m neither poet nor preacher, but if I were either I’d give you
girls one lesson.”
“And what’s that?” asked Alta.
“Have all the rollicking fun you want, but make it pure, and remember,
if you want any man always to love you, make him respect you first.”
“That sounds just like Aunt Betty,” said Alta, snuggling closer to Mrs.
Willis, who responded by smoothing back the silken hair and kissing the
beautiful forehead. A tear stole down Alta’s cheek.
“Let’s sing a hymn now and be dismissed,” said Sally. “This is getting
too blamed serious. All together now!”
She grabbed up the rolling pin and began to beat time, singing with
solemnity in nasal tones:
“Do what is right, let the consequence follow,
Battle for freedom with spirit and might.”
“Oh, give us something cheerful!” Mary broke in, “like ‘music in the
air.’”
“You don’t call this music, then?” said Sally, in mock injury. “Well,
let’s try another: ‘Mary Lee, we’ll roll the dough, roll the dough, roll
the dough,’” and suiting the action to the word, she began to make the
old rolling pin chuckle on the table.
“That’s a heap better,” said Aunt ‘Liza; “we’d better be gettin’ this
work movin’ faster. That sun’s slidin’ to’rds night perty fast.”
They all began briskly to do the various tasks Aunt ‘Liza had assigned
them.
“Who do you think’ll be here anyway?” asked Sally.
“Jim for one,” said Alta.
“And that one’s Sally,” added Mary.
“Good for poor lonely me! Who else?”
“The rest of the Bar B bunch, with Pat the cook.”
“I wonder if Alta’s new beau will come?” said Mary.
“Who, Dick? Yes, he’ll be here, don’t worry.”
“But I meant that other one.”
“Who, the cow-kid? That young fellow she danced with half a dozen times
the last dance?”
“Oh, what a fib!” said Alta.
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Mary.
“No, he won’t be here; he’s skipped.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alta.
“Well, Noisy says he’s been discharged and has quit the valley.”
“Discharged? left the valley?” said Alta. “What for?”
“For doing some crooked work with the cattle he was herding.”
“It’s a cruel lie,” said Alta, trembling between anxiety and anger.
All stared at the anxious, excited girl.
“That boy is not capable of crooked work.”
“How do you know it?” asked Sally.
“Well, I know him, that’s all.”
“Seems to be a partickler friend of yours,” suggested Sally.
“Yes, he is; and I’ll stand by him. If that boy has been driven out of
this valley, he’s been wronged, and I know it”; with these worried words
she turned silently to her work, resolved in her heart to find out the
truth.
It was this determination that made her ready to meet Dick more than
half way that night, when he, stimulated by Sally’s suggestion that Alta
was “dying to make up,” invited her to dance. His delight in feeling
that he had brought the independent girl to terms was doubled when she
invited him to sit down with her. But his hopes were dashed when she
asked abruptly, “Where is Fred to-night?”
“Who, the cow-kid?” Dick stammered; “why, he’s hit the trail.”
“What do you mean by that?” Alta half demanded.
“Skipped the country, that’s all,” Dick was evasive and snappish.
“Why did he do it?”
“He lost and killed several critters out of his blooded bunch, and the
boss fired him.”
“Killed his cattle? How?” Alta was provokingly persistent. Dick began to
get nervous.
“Well, the boys found one with his rope on choked to death, and another
was shot.”
“Shot? Where was it?”
“Up Sage Creek.”
“When?”
“Week or so ago.”
“Oh!” Alta’s eyes flashed as a new thought struck her. “How did they
know Fred shot it?”
“They don’t know exactly; but it looked suspicious, and when Hanks faced
him, he wouldn’t tell nuthin’ one way or the other.”
“And the foreman discharged him?”
“Yes, he said he’d have to tell or git.”
“Where did he go?”
“Nobody knows; he skipped out when everybody was away from the shack.”
“Did he have any money?”
“I guess not. Hanks wouldn’t pay him.”
“It’s an outrage,” exclaimed Alta, “to treat him that way. That boy has
been cruelly wronged.”
“You seem to be takin’ his goin’ pretty rough,” Dick insinuated.
“Why shouldn’t I? Fred is a friend of mine. The Bar B ranch ought to be
ashamed of this business.”
“What you people gittin’ so serious about?” Sally interrupted them as
the next dance closed. “Come on and dance.”
“All right!” said Dick, jumping up. “Miss Morgan’ll be glad to excuse
me. She’s frettin’ over the cow-kid.”
Alta paid no heed to his jealous tone and words. She was lost in
thought. With a woman’s intuition, she had hit upon the truth. Bud Nixon
was at the bottom of some of Fred’s trouble; and she innocently had been
the cause. She tried to shake off her anxiety and join in the rollicking
fun; but though she seemed happy, a cruel worry was in her heart.
When the celebration finally broke up and the merry noises had faded
with the echoes into silence, she stood again by the window looking into
the depths of the starry sky above her while she thought of Fred
somewhere battling alone with his trouble and hers. It was in that hour
that Alta began to learn how much she cared. At last she turned to her
couch, and knelt and prayed God to protect and comfort him.