WOULD YOU BE A "CHARACTER"?
The sun was still a shimmering white blur in the great arc of sky when
Ferguson rode around the corner of the cabin in Bear Flat, halted his
pony, and sat quietly in the saddle before the door. His rapid eye had
already swept the horse corral, the sheds, and the stable. If the
horseman that he had seen riding along the ridge had been Radford he
would not arrive for quite a little while. Meantime, he would learn
from Miss Radford what direction the young man had taken on leaving the
cabin.
Ferguson was beginning to take an interest in this game. At the outset
he had come prepared to carry out his contract. In his code of ethics
it was not a crime to shoot a rustler. Experience had taught him that
justice was to be secured only through drastic action. In the criminal
category of the West the rustler took a place beside the horse thief
and the man who shot from behind.
But before taking any action Ferguson must be convinced of the guilt of
the man he was hunting, and nothing had yet occurred that would lead
him to suspect Radford. He did not speculate on what course he would
take should circumstances prove Radford to be the thief. Would the
fact that he was Mary Radford's brother affect his decision? He
preferred to answer that question when the time came--if it ever came.
One thing was certain; he was not shooting anyone unless the
provocation was great.
His voice was purposely loud when he called "Whoa, Mustard!" to his
pony, but his eyes were not purposely bright and expectant as they
tried to penetrate the semi-darkness of the interior of the cabin for a
glimpse of Miss Radford.
He heard a movement presently, and she was at the door looking at him,
her hands folded in her apron, her eyes wide with unmistakable pleasure.
"Why, I never expected to see you again!" she exclaimed.
She came out and stood near the edge of the porch, making a determined
attempt to subdue the flutter of excitement that was revealed in a pair
of very bright eyes and a tinge of deep color in her cheeks.
"Then I reckon you thought I had died, or stampeded out of this
country?" he answered, grinning. "I told you I'd be comin' back here."
But the first surprise was over, and she very properly retired to the
shelter of a demurely polite reserve.
"So you did!" she made reply. "You told me you were comin' over to see
my brother. But he is not here now."
Had he been less wise he would have reminded her that it had been she
who had told him that he might come to see her brother. But to reply
thus would have discomfited her and perhaps have brought a sharp reply.
He had no doubt that some of the other Two Diamond men had made similar
mistakes, but not he. He smiled broadly. "Mebbe I did," he said;
"sometimes I'm mighty careless in handlin' the truth. Mebbe I thought
then that I'd come over to see your brother. But we have different
thoughts at different times. You say your brother ain't here now?"
"He left early this morning to go down the river," she informed him.
"He said he would be back before sun-down."
His eyes narrowed perceptibly. "Down" the river meant that Radford's
trail led in the general direction of the spot where he had seen the
fleeing horseman and the dead Two Diamond cow with her orphaned calf.
Yet this proved nothing. Radford might easily have been miles away
when the deed had been done. For the present there was nothing he
could do, except to wait until Radford returned, to form whatever
conclusions he might from the young man's appearance when he should
find a Two Diamond man at the cabin. But anxiety to see the brother
was not the only reason that would keep him waiting.
He removed his hat and sat regarding it with a speculative eye. Miss
Radford smiled knowingly.
"I expect I have been scarcely polite," she said. "Won't you get off
your horse?"
"Why, yes," he responded, obeying promptly; "I expect Mustard's been
doin' a lot of wonderin' why I didn't get off before."
If he had meant to imply that her invitation had been tardy he had hit
the mark fairly, for Miss Radford nibbled her lips with suppressed
mirth. The underplay of meaning was not the only subtleness of the
speech, for the tone in which it had been uttered was rich in
interrogation, as though its author, while realizing the pony's dimness
of perception, half believed the animal had noticed Miss Radford's
lapse of hospitality.
"I'm thinkin' you are laughin' at me again, ma'am," he said as he came
to the edge of the porch and stood looking up at her, grinning.
"Do you think I am laughing?" she questioned, again biting her lips to
keep them from twitching.
"No-o. I wouldn't say that you was laughin' with your lips--laughin'
regular. But there's a heap of it inside of you--tryin' to get out."
"Don't you ever laugh inwardly?" she questioned.
He laughed frankly. "I expect there's times when I do."
"But you haven't lately?"
"Well, no, I reckon not."
"Not even when you thought your horse might have noticed that I had
neglected to invite you off?"
"Did I think that?" he questioned.
"Of course you did."
"Well, now," he drawled. "An' so you took that much interest in what I
was thinkin'! I reckon people who write must know a lot."
Her face expressed absolute surprise. "Why, who told you that I
wrote?" she questioned.
"Nobody told me, ma'am. I just heard it. I heard a man tell another
man that you had threatened to make him a character in a book you was
writin'."
Her face was suddenly convulsed. "I imagine I know whom you mean," she
said. "A young cowboy from the Two Diamond used to annoy me quite a
little, until one day I discouraged him."
His smile grew broad at this answer. But he grew serious instantly.
"I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am," he
said.
"You don't? Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!"
"I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write. I've
heard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' they
just can't help writin'--any more'n I can help comin' over here to see
your brother. You see, they like it a heap."
They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turned
the conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight. But she
did purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so she
adroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply his
similitude.
"Some of that is true," she returned, giving him a look on her own
account; "especially about a writer loving his work. But I don't think
one needs to be a 'special' kind of person. One must be merely a keen
observer."
He shook his head doubtfully. "I see everything that goes on around
me," he returned. "Most of the time I can tell pretty near what sort a
man is by lookin' at his face and watching the way he moves. But I
reckon I'd never make a writer. Times when I look at this country--at
a nice sunset, for instance, or think what a big place this country
is--I feel like sayin' somethin' about it; somethin' inside of me seems
kind of breathless-like--kind of scarin' me. But I couldn't write
about it."
She had felt it, too, and more than once had sat down with her pencil
to transcribe her thoughts. She thought that it was not exactly fear,
but an overpowering realization of her own atomity; a sort of cringing
of the soul away from the utter vastness of the world; a growing
consciousness of the unlimited bigness of things; an insight of the
infinite power of God--the yearning of the soul for understanding of
the mysteries of life and existence.
She could sympathize with him, for she knew exactly how he had felt.
She turned and looked toward the distant mountains, behind which the
sun was just then swimming--a great ball of shimmering gold, which
threw off an effulgent expanse of yellow light that was slowly turning
into saffron and violet as it met the shadows below the hills.
"Whoever saw such colors?" she asked suddenly, her face transfixed with
sheer delight.
"It's cert'nly pretty, ma'am."
She clapped her hands. "It is magnificent!" she declared
enthusiastically. She came closer to him and stretched an arm toward
the mountains. "Look at that saffron shade which is just now blending
with the streak of pearl striking the cleft between those hills! See
the violet tinge that has come into that sea of orange, and the purple
haze touching the snow-caps of the mountains. And now the flaming red,
the deep yellow, the slate blue; and now that gauzy veil of lilac,
rose, and amethyst, fading and dulling as the darker shadows rise from
the valleys!"
Her flashing eyes sought Ferguson's. Twilight had suddenly come.
"It is the most beautiful country in the world!" she said positively.
He was regarding her with gravely humorous eyes. "It cert'nly is
pretty, ma'am," he returned. "But you can't make a whole book out of
one sunset."
Her eyes flashed. "No," she returned. "Nor can I make a whole book
out of only one character. But I am going to try and draw a word
picture of the West by writing of the things that I see. And I am
going to try and have some real characters in it. I shall try to have
them talk and act naturally."
She smiled suddenly and looked at him with a significant expression.
"And the hero will not be an Easterner--to swagger through the pages of
the book, scaring people into submission through the force of his
compelling personality. He will be a cowboy who will do things after
the manner of the country--a real, unaffected care-free puncher!"
"Have you got your eye on such a man?" he asked, assuring himself that
he knew of no man who would fill the requirements she had named.
"I don't mind telling you that I have," she returned, looking straight
at him.
It suddenly burst upon him. His face crimsoned. He felt like bolting.
But he managed to grin, though she could see that the grin was forced.
"It's gettin' late, ma'am," he said, as he turned toward his pony. "I
reckon I'll be gettin' back to the Two Diamond."
She laughed mockingly as he settled into the saddle. There was a
clatter of hoofs from around the corner of the cabin.
"Wait!" she commanded. "Ben is coming!"
But there was a rush of wind that ruffled her apron, a clatter, and she
could hear Mustard's hoofs pounding over the matted mesquite that
carpeted the clearing. Ferguson had fled.