PARTNERS
"Whether you want to or not, Jack, we'll go to this dance to-night."
Jacqueline's hand fell away from her eyes. She seemed suddenly glad
again.
"Do you want to take me, Pierre?"
He explained: "Of course. Besides, we have to keep an eye on Wilbur.
This girl with the yellow hair--"
She had altered swiftly again. There was no understanding her or
following her moods this day. He decided to disregard them, as he had
often done before.
"Black Gandil swears that I'm bringing bad luck to the boys at last.
Patterson has disappeared; Wilbur has lost his head about a girl.
We've got to save Dick."
He knew that she was fond of Wilbur, but she showed no enthusiasm now.
"Let him go his own way. He's big enough to take care of himself."
"But it's common talk, Jack, that the end of Wilbur will come through a
woman. It was that that sent him on the long trail, you know. And
this girl with the yellow hair--"
"Why do you harp on her?"
"Harp on her?"
"Every other word--nothing but yellow hair. I'm sick of it. I know
the kind--faded corn color--dyed, probably. Pierre, you are all blind,
and you most of all."
This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the consideration of it
from his mind.
"And for clothes, Jack?"
They were both dumb. It had been years since she had worn the clothes
of a woman. She had danced with the men of her father's gang many a
time while some one whistled or played on a mouth-organ, and there was
the time they rode into Beulah Ferry and held up the dance-hall, and
Jim Boone and Mansie lined up the crowd with their hands held high
above their heads while the sweating musicians played fast and furious
and Jack and Pierre danced down the center of the hall.
She had danced many a time, but never in the clothes of a woman; so
they stared, mutely puzzled.
A thought came first to Jacqueline. It obliterated even the memory of
the yellow-haired girl and set her eyes dancing. She stepped close and
murmured her suggestion in the ear of Pierre. Whatever it was, it made
his jaw set hard and brought grave lines into his face.
She stepped back, asking: "Well?"
"We'll do it. What a little demon you are, Jack!"
"Then we'll have to start now. There's barely time."
They ran from the room together, and as they passed through the room
below Wilbur called after them: "The dance?"
"Yes."
"Wait and go with me."
"We ride in a roundabout way."
They were through the door as Pierre called back, and a moment later
the hoofs of their horses scattered the gravel down the hillside.
Jacqueline rode a black stallion sired by her father's mighty Thunder,
who had grown old but still could do the work of three ordinary horses
in carrying the great bulk of his master. The son of Thunder was
little like his sire, but a slender-limbed racer, graceful, nervous,
eager. A clumsy rider would have ruined the horse in a single day's
hard work among the trails of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline,
fairly reading the mind of the black, nursed his strength when it was
needed and let him run free and swift when the ground before him was
level.
Now she picked her course dexterously down the hillside with the
cream-colored mare of Pierre following half a length behind.
After the first down-pitch of ground was covered they passed into
difficult terrain, and for half an hour went at a jog trot, winding in
and out among the rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the hills.
Here the ground opened up again, and they roved on at a free gallop,
the black always half a length in front. In all the length of the
mountain-desert there was no other picture which could compare with
these two in their youth and their pride and their fearlessness.
They rode alert, high-headed like their horses, and there was about
them a suggestion of the patience which carries a man endlessly after
one purpose, and a suggestion of the eagerness, too, which makes him
strike swift and hard and surely when the time for action comes.
Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch of a mile or more,
Jack eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a sudden
lengthening of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flat
while he fairly flew over the ground.
Nothing could match that speed. The strong mare fell to the rear,
fighting gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.
Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, laughing her triumph.
Pierre smiled grimly in response and leaned forward, shifting his
weight more over the withers of Mary. He spoke to her, and one of her
pricking ears fell back as if to listen to his voice. He spoke again
and the other ear fell back, her neck straightened, she gave her whole
heart to her work.
First she held the stallion even, then she began to gain. That was the
meaning of those round, strong hips, and the breadth of the chest. She
needed a half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and now the
black came back to her with every leap.
The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned the girl. One more glance
she cast in apprehension over her shoulder, and then brought her spurs
into play again and again. Still the rush of hoofs behind her grew
louder and louder, and now there was a panting at her side and the head
of cream-colored Mary drew up and past.
She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger and slowed up her
mount with a sharp pull on the reins. It needed only a word from
Pierre and his mare drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head a
little toward the black as if she called for some recognition of her
superiority.
"It's always this way," cried Jack, and jerked at the reins with a
childish impotence of anger. "I beat you for the first quarter of a
mile and then this fool of a horse--I'm going to give him away."
"The black," said Pierre, assuming an air of quiet and superior knowing
which always aggravated her most, "is a good second-rate cayuse when
some one who knows horses is in the saddle. I'd give you fifty for him
on the strength of his looks and keep him for a decoration."
She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment. Then she
changed swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture of
surrender.
"After all, what difference does it make? Your Mary can beat him in a
long run or a short one, but it's your horse, Pierre, and that takes
the sting away. If it were any one else's I'd--well, I'd shoot either
the horse or the rider. But my partner's horse is my horse, you know."
She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back from the
mountainside to the cañon that dropped on their right:
"My partner's horse is my horse, bunky--
From his fetlock to the bucking-strap,
From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap--
My partner's horse is my horse, bunky.
"My partner's gun is my gun, bunky--
From the chamber to the trigger-guard;
And the butt like a friend's hand gripping hard--
My partner's gun is my gun, bunky.
"My partner's heart is my heart, bunky--
And like matched horses galloping well,
They will beat together through heaven and hell--
My partner's heart is my heart, bunky."
He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a strong
grip.
"Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather walk with you, I'd
rather talk with you, I'd rather ride with you, I'd rather fight for
you. Jack, you're the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamest
sport."
"Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I suppose that I am."
He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the cañon
and whistling the refrain of her song happily. A few moments later
they swung out onto the very crest of the range.
On all sides the hills dropped away through the gloom of the evening,
brown near by, but falling off through a faint blue haze and growing
blue-black with the distance. A sharp wind, chill with the coming of
night, cut at them. Not a hundred feet overhead shot a low-winging
hawk back from his day's hunting and rising only high enough to clear
the range and then plunge down toward his nest.
Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into the
profound gloom of the valley below. They shaded their eyes and studied
it with a singular interest for long moments, patient, silent, quiet as
the hawk when he steadies himself in leisurely circles high in the
heart of heaven and fixes his eyes surely on his prey far, far
below--then folds his wings and shoots suddenly down, a veritable bolt
from the blue.
So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and then
pointed down. He followed the direction she indicated, and there,
through the haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.
He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll have a devil of a ride to
get there."
And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope. It was
precipitous in many places, but Pierre kept almost at a gallop, making
the mare take the slopes often crouched back on her haunches with
forefeet braced forward, and sliding many yards at a time.
In between the boulders he darted, twisting here and there, and always
erect and jaunty in the saddle, swaying easily with every movement of
Mary. Not far behind him came the girl. Fine rider that she was, she
could not hope to compete with such matchless horsemanship where man
and horse were only one piece of strong brawn and muscle, one daring
spirit. Many a time the chances seemed too desperate to her, but she
followed blindly where he led, setting her teeth at each succeeding
venture, and coming out safe every time, until they swung out at last
through a screen of brush and onto the level floor of the valley.