A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE
Florence got her dogs promptly. They were two big mouse-colored
grayhounds, with tails like rats and protruding ribs. They were named
"Racer" and "Pacer," and were warranted by their late owner to
out-distance any rabbit that ever drew breath. The girl felt that an
event as important as a coursing should be the occasion of a gathering
of the neighboring ranchers; but at the mere suggestion her conventional
mother threw up her hands in horror. It was bad enough for her daughter
to go out alone, but as the one woman among all that lot of cowboys--it
was too much for her to endure. Finally, as a compromise, Florence
agreed to invite only the people of the Box R Ranch to the first event.
So the invitations for a certain day, composed with fitting formality,
were sent, and in due time were ceremoniously accepted.
The chase was scheduled to begin soon after daybreak, and before that
time Rankin and Ben Blair were at the Baker house. They wore their
ordinary clothes of wool and leather, but Scotty appeared in a wonderful
red hunting-coat, which, though a bit moth-eaten in spots, nevertheless
showed glaringly against the brown earth of the ranch-house yard.
With the exception of the dogs, which were kept properly hungry for the
hunt, and Mollie, who had washed her hands of the whole affair, the
party all had breakfast, Scotty himself serving the coffee with the
skill of a head-waiter. Then the old buckboard, carefully oiled and
tightened for the occasion, was gotten out, a team of the fastest,
wiriest mustangs the Box R possessed was attached, and Rankin and Baker
upon the seat, Florence and Ben, well-mounted, trailing behind, the
party sallied forth. In order to avoid fences they had agreed to go ten
miles to the south before beginning operations. There a great tract of
government land, well grazed but untouched by the hand of man, gave all
but unlimited room.
The morning was beautiful and clear beyond the comprehension of city
dwellers, a typical day of prairie Dakota in late Fall. Far out over the
broad expanse, indefinite as to distance, the rising sun seemed resting
upon the very rim of the world. All about, near at hand, stretching into
the horizon, glistening, sparkling, innumerable frost crystals, product
of the past night, gleamed like scattered gems, showing in their
coloring every blended shade of the rainbow. The glory of it all
appealed to the girl, and throwing back her head she drew in deep
breaths of the tonic air.
"I'm going to miss these mornings terribly when I'm gone," she said
soberly.
Ben Blair scrutinized the backs of the two men in the buckboard with
apparent interest.
"I didn't know you intended leaving," he said. "Where are you going?"
Florence regarded her companion from the corner of her eye.
"I'm going away for good," she said.
Ben shifted half around in the saddle and folded back the rim of his big
sombrero.
"For good, you say?"
The girl's brown eyes were cast down demurely. "Yes, for good," she
repeated.
They had been losing ground. Now in silence they galloped ahead, the
regular muffled patter of their horses' feet upon the frozen sod
sounding like the distant rattle of a snare-drum. Once again even with
the buckboard, they lapsed into a walk.
"You haven't told me where you're going," repeated Blair.
The question seemed to be of purest politeness, as a host inquires if
his visitor has rested well; yet for a dozen years they two had lived
nearest neighbors, and had grown to maturity side by side. She concluded
there were some phases of this silent youth which she had not yet
learned.
"We haven't decided where we're going yet," she replied. "Mamma wants to
go to England, but papa and I refuse to leave this country. Then daddy
wants to live in a small town, and I vote for a big one. Just now we're
at deadlock."
A smile started in Ben's blue eyes and spread over his thin face.
"From the way you talk," he said, "I have a suspicion the deadlock won't
last long. If I stretch my imagination a little I can guess pretty close
to the decision."
Florence was sober a moment; then a smile flashed over her face and left
the daintiest of dimples in either cheek.
"Maybe you can," she said.
For the second time they galloped ahead and caught up with the slower
buckboard.
"Florence," Ben threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and faced
his companion squarely, "I've heard your mother talk, and of course I
understand why she wants to go back among her folks, but you were raised
here. Why do you want to leave?"
The girl hesitated, and ran her fingers through her horse's mane.
"Mamma's been here against her will for a good many years. We ought to
go for her sake."
Ben made a motion of deprecation. "What I want to know is the real
reason,--your own reason," he said.
The warm blood flushed Florence's face. "By what right do you ask that?"
she retorted. "You seem to forget that we've both grown up since we went
to school together."
Ben looked calmly out over the prairie.
"No, I don't forget; and I admit I have no right to ask. But I may ask
as a friend, I am sure. Why do you want to go?"
Again the girl hesitated. Logically she should refuse to answer. To do
otherwise was to admit that her first answer was an evasion; but
something, an influence that always controlled her in Ben's presence,
prevented refusal. Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was,
there was about him a force that dominated her, even as she dominated
her parents, and, worst of all--to her inmost self she admitted the
fact--it fascinated her as well. With all her strength she rebelled
against the knowledge and combated the influence, but in vain. Instead
of replying, she chirruped to her horse. "It seems to me," she said,
"it's just as well to begin hunting here as to go further. I'm going on
ahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin."
With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her bridle-rein,
saying carelessly: "Pardon me, but you forget something you were going
to tell me."
The girl's brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time there was no
hesitation in her reply.
"Very well, since you insist, I'll answer your question; but don't be
surprised if I offend you." A dainty hand tugged at the loosened button
of her riding-glove. "I'm going away, for one reason, because I want to
be where things move, and where I don't always know what is going to
happen to-morrow." She turned to her companion directly. "But most of
all, I'm going because I want to be among people who have ambitions, who
do things, things worth while. I am tired of just existing, like the
animals, from day to day. I was only a young girl when we were going to
school, but now I know why I liked that life so well. It was because of
the intense activity, the constant movement, the competition, the
evolution. I like it! I want to be a part of it!"
"Thank you for telling me," said Ben, quietly.
But now the girl was in no hurry to hasten on. She forgot that her
explanation was given under protest. It had become a confession.
"Up to the last few years I never thought much about the future--I took
it for granted; but since then it has been different. Unconsciously,
I've become a woman. All the little things that belong to women's lives,
too small to tell, begin to appeal to me. I want to live in a good house
and have good clothes and know people. I want to go to shops and
theatres and concerts; all these things belong to me and I intend to
have them."
"I think I understand," said Ben, slowly. "Yes, I'm sure I understand,"
he repeated.
But the girl did not heed him. "Last of all, there's another reason,"
she went on. "I don't know why I shouldn't speak it, as well as think
it, for it's the greatest of all. I'm a young woman. I won't remain such
long. I don't want to be a spinster. I know I'm not supposed to say
these things, but why not? I want to meet men, men of my own class, my
parents' class, men who know something besides the weight of a steer and
the value of a bronco,--some man I could respect and care for." Again
she turned directly to her companion. "Do you wonder I want to change,
that I want to leave these prairies, much as I like them?"
It was long before Ben Blair spoke. He scarcely stirred in his seat;
then of a sudden, rousing, he threw his leg back over the saddle.
"No," he said slowly, "I don't wonder--looking at things your way. It's
all in the point of view. But perhaps yours is wrong, maybe you don't
think of the other side of that life. There usually is another side to
everything, I've noticed." He glanced ahead. A half-mile on, the
blackboard had stopped, and Scotty was standing up on the seat and
motioning the laggards energetically.
"I think we'd better dust up a little. Your father seems to have struck
something interesting."
Florence seemed inclined to linger, but Scotty's waving cap was
insistent, and they galloped ahead.
They found Rankin sitting upon the wagon seat, smoking impassively as
usual; but the Englishman was upon the ground holding the two hounds by
the collars. Behind the big compound lenses his eyes were twinkling
excitedly, and he was smiling like a boy.
"Look out there!" he exclaimed with a jerk of his head, "over to the
west. We all but missed him! Are you ready?"
They all looked and saw, perhaps thirty rods away, a grayish-white
jack-rabbit, distinct by contrast with the brown earth. The hounds had
also caught sight of the game and pulled lustily at their collars.
Instantly Florence was all excitement. "Of course we're ready! No, wait
a second, until I see about my saddle." She dismounted precipitately.
"Tighten the cinch a bit, won't you, Ben? I don't mind a tumble, but it
might interfere at a critical moment." She put her foot in his extended
hand, and sprang back into her seat. "Now, I'm ready. Come on, Ben! Let
them go, papa! Be in at the finish if you can!" and, a second behind the
hounds, she was away. Simultaneously, the great jack-rabbit, scenting
danger, leaped forward, a ball of animate rubber, bounding farther and
farther as he got under full motion, speeding away toward the blue
distance.
The chase that followed was a thing to live in memory. From the nature
of the land, gently rolling to the horizon without an obstruction the
height of a man's hand, there was no possibility of escape for the
quarry. The outcome was as mathematically certain as a problem in
arithmetic; the only uncertain element was that of time. At first the
jack seemed to be gaining, but gradually the greater endurance of the
hounds began to count, and foot by foot the gap between pursuers and
pursued lessened. In the beginning the rabbit ran in great leaps, as
though glorying in the speed that it would seem no other animal could
equal, but very soon his movements changed; his ears were flattened
tight to his head, and, with every muscle strained to the utmost, he ran
wildly for his life.
Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they might. In the
all but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of the old buckboard could be
heard a quarter of a mile. Alternately losing and gaining ground as they
cut off angles and followed the diameter instead of the circumference of
the great circles the rabbit described, the drivers were always within
sight. Closer behind the hounds and following the same course, Florence
rode her thoroughbred like mad, with Ben Blair at her side. The pace was
terrific. The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and cut
keenly at their faces. The tattoo of the horses' feet upon the hard
earth was continuous. Beneath her riding-cap, the girl's hair was
loosened and swept free in the wind. Her color was high, her eyes
sparkled. Never before had the man at her side seen her so fair to gaze
upon; but despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, there was
a jarring note in her beauty. Deep in his nature, ingrained, elemental,
was the love of fair play. Though he was in the chase and a part of it,
his sympathies were far from being with the hounds. That the girl should
favor the strong over the weak was something he could not understand--a
blemish that even her beauty did not excuse.
A quarter-hour passed. The sun rose from the lap of the prairie and
scattered the frost-crystals as though they had been mist. The chase was
near its end. All moved more slowly. A dozen times since they had
started, it seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that in
another second all would be over; but each time the rabbit had escaped,
had at the last instant shot into the air, while the hounds rushed
harmlessly beneath, and, ere they recovered, had gained a goodly lead
again in a new course. But now that time was past, and he was tired and
weak. It was a straight-away race, with the hounds scarcely twenty feet
behind. Back of the latter, perhaps ten rods, were the riders, still
side by side as at first. Their horses were covered with foam and
blowing steadily, but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly. Bringing
up the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the buckboard. Thus
they approached the finish.
Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit. Standing in his stirrups,
Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched the scene. The twenty feet
lessened to eighteen, to fifteen, and, turning his head, the man looked
at his companion. Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye an
expression of anticipation,--anticipation of the end, anticipation of a
death,--the death of a weaker animal!
A determination which had been only latent became positive with Blair.
He urged on his horse to the uttermost and sprang past his companion.
His right hand went to his hip and lingered there. His voice rang out
above the sound of the horses' feet and of their breathing.
"Hi, there, Racer, Pacer!" he shouted. "Come here!"
There was no response from the hounds; no sign that they had heard him.
They were within ten feet of the rabbit now, and no voice on earth could
have stopped them.
"Pacer! Racer!" shouted Ben. There was a pause, and then the quick bark
of a revolver. A puff of dust arose before the nose of the leading dog.
Again no response, only the steadily lessening distance.
For a second Ben Blair hesitated; but it was for a second only. Florence
watched him, too surprised to speak, and saw what for a moment made her
doubt her own eyes. The hand that held the big revolver was raised,
there was a report, then another, and the two dead hounds went tumbling
over and over with their own momentum upon the brown prairie. Beyond
them the rabbit bounded away into distance and safety.
Without a word Ben Blair drew rein, returned the revolver to its
holster, and came back to where the girl had stopped.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I'll pay you for the dogs, if you like."
A pause and a straight glance from out the blue eyes. "I couldn't help
doing what I did."
Having in mind the look he had last seen upon the girl's face, he
expected an explosion of wrath; but he was destined to surprise. There
was silence, instead, while two great tears gathered slowly in her soft
eyes, and brimmed over upon the brown cheeks.
"I don't want you to pay for the dogs; I'm glad they're gone." She
brushed back a straggling lock of hair. "It's a horrid sport, and I'll
never have anything to do with it again." A look that set the youth's
heart bounding shot out sideways from beneath the long lashes. "I'm very
glad you did--what you did."
Just then the noisy old buckboard, with Rankin and Scotty clinging to
the seat, drove up and stopped short, with a protest from every joint of
the ancient vehicle.