SOLVING THE RIDDLE
The new owner of the Padre's farm had quite recovered from the effects
of her disastrous journey. Youth and a sound constitution, and the
overwhelming ministrations of Mrs. Ransford had done all that was
needed to restore her.
She was sitting in an old, much-repaired rocking-chair, in what was
obviously the farm's "best" bedroom. Her trunks, faithfully recovered
from the wreck of the cart by the only too willing Buck, stood open on
the floor amidst a chaotic setting of their contents, while the old
farm-wife herself stood over them, much in the attitude of a faithful
and determined watch-dog.
The girl looked on indifferent to the confusion and to the damage
being perpetrated before her very eyes. She was lost in thoughts of
her own which had nothing to do with such fripperies as lawns, and
silks, and _suedes_, or any other such feminine excitements. She was
struggling with recollection, and endeavoring to conjure it. There was
a blank in her life, a blank of some hours, which, try as she would,
she could not fill in. It was a blank, as far as she could make out,
which terminated in her arrival at the farm _borne in the arms of some
strange man_.
Well might such a thought shut out considerations like the almost
certain destruction of a mere wardrobe at the hands of her ignorant
but well-meaning helper. It would have been exciting, too, but for her
memory of the latter stages of her journey. They were still painful.
There was still uncertainty as to what had happened to the teamster
and the horses.
At last, however, she abandoned further attempt to solve the riddle
unaided, and decided to question her housekeeper.
"Was it the same man who brought those trunks--I mean the same man
who--brought me here?" she demanded sharply.
"It surely was," replied Mrs. Ransford, desisting for a moment from
her efforts to bestow a pile of dainty shoes into a night-dress case
of elaborate drawn thread work. "An' a nice mess he's got things in.
Jest look at 'em all tossed about, same as you might toss slap-jacks,
as the sayin' is. It's a mercy of heaven, an' no thanks to him, you've
got a rag fit to wear. It surely ain't fer me to say it, but it's real
lucky I'm here to put things right for you. Drat them shoes! I don't
guess I'll ever git 'em all into this bag, miss--ma'm--I mean miss,
mum."
Something of the tragedy of her wardrobe became evident to the girl
and she went to the rescue.
"I'm sorry, but they don't go in there," she said, feeling that an
apology was due for her interference in such well-intended efforts.
"That's--you see, that's my sleeping-suit case," she added gently.
"Sleepin'-soot?" A pair of round, wondering eyes stared out through
the old woman's glasses.
The girl pointed at the silk trousers and jacket lying just inside the
nearest trunk, and the farm-wife picked them up gingerly, letting them
unfold as she did so. Just for one moment she inspected them, then
she hurriedly let them drop back into the trunk as though they were
some dangerous reptile, and, folding her arms, glared into the girl's
smiling face in comical reproach.
"You sure don't wear them pants, miss--at night? Not reely?" she
exclaimed in horrified tones.
The girl's smile hardened.
"Why, yes. Lots of girls wear sleeping-suits nowadays."
"You don't say!"
The old woman pursed up her lips in strong disapproval. Then, with a
disdainful sniff, she went on--
"Wot gals ain't comin' to I don't know, I'm sure. Wot with silk next
their skin an' them draughty stockin's, as you might say, things is
gettin' to a pretty pass. Say, I wouldn't put myself into them pants,
no, not if the President o' the United States was to stand over me an'
wouldn't let me put on nuthin' else."
The girl refrained from reply, but the obvious impossibility of the
feat appealed to her sense of humor. However, the solution of her
riddle was of prevailing interest, so she returned again to her
questioning.
"Did he say how he found me?" she demanded. "Did he tell you any--any
particulars of what happened to the cart, and--and the teamster?"
"No, ma'm--miss, beggin' your pardin,--that he didn't. I never see
sech a fresh feller outside a noospaper office. An' him the owner of
this farm that was, but isn't, as you might say. You take my word for
it he'll come to a bad end, he sure will. Wot with them wicked eyes of
his, an' that black, Dago-lookin' hair. I never did see a feller who
looked more like a scallawag than him. Makes me shiver to think of
him a-carryin' you in his two arms. Wher' from sez I--_an' why_?"
"Because I couldn't walk, I expect," the girl replied easily.
The farm-wife shook a fat, warning finger at her.
"Oh, ma'm--miss--that's wot he says! You jest wait till you've got
more experience o' scallawags like him an' you'll sure know. Wot I sez
is men's that full o' tricks wher' females is to be deceived it 'ud
take 'em a summer vacation sortin' 'emselves out. Men is shockin'
scallawags," she finished up, flinging the shoes pell-mell into the
open trunk.
A further rescue of her property was necessary and the girl protested.
"Please don't bother any more with those clothes," she cried
hurriedly. "I'll see to them myself." Then, as the woman proceeded to
mop her perspiring brow with a pair of silk stockings, she sprang up
and thrust a hand-towel toward her. "Use this; you'll find it more
absorbent than--er--silk."
The old woman thanked her profusely, and made the exchange. And when
the operation was completed the relieved girl returned to her seat and
went on with her examination.
"What did you say his name was?"
"I didn't say. An' he didn't tell me, neither. Fellers like him ain't
never ready with their names. Maybe he calls himself Moreton Kenyon.
Y' see he was the same as handed the farm over, an' you tol' me, back
ther' in Leeson Butte, you'd bo't Moreton Kenyon's farm. 'Moreton
Kenyon!' Sort o' high-soundin' name for such a scallawag. I don't
never trust high-soundin' names. They're most like whitewash. You
allus set that sort o' stuff on hog-pens an' sech, as you might say."
"Perhaps he's not as bad as you suspect," the girl suggested kindly.
"Lots of good people start by making a bad impression."
"I don't know what that means," cried the other promptly. "But I do
know what a scallawag is, an' that's him."
It was useless to seek further information from such a source, so the
girl abandoned the attempt, and dismissed the pig-headed housekeeper
to her work, work which she felt she was far better suited to than
such a delicate operation as the straightening out a wardrobe.
When Mrs. Ransford had taken her unwilling departure, not without
several well-meaning protests, the girl bent her own energies to
restoring order to her wardrobe. Nor was it an easy task. The
masculine manner of the bedroom left much to be desired in those
little depositories and cupboards, without which no woman can live in
comfort. And during the process of disposing her belongings many
mental notes were made for future alterations in the furnishings of
her new abode.
It was not a bad room, however. The simplicity and cleanliness of it
struck wholesomely upon her. Yes, in spite of what her lieutenant had
said about him, Mr. Moreton Kenyon was certainly a man of some
refinement. She had never heard that such neatness and cleanliness was
the habit amongst small bachelor farmers in the outlands of the West.
And this was the man who had carried her--where from?
Again she sat down in the rocker and gave herself up to the puzzlement
of those hours of her unconsciousness. The last event that was clear
in her mind was the struggle of the teamster to keep his horses
head-on for the bank of the flooded river. She remembered the surging
waters, she remembered that the bottom of the cart was awash, and that
she sat with her feet lifted and resting on the side of the vehicle.
She remembered that the horses were swimming before the driver's
flogging whip and blasphemous shoutings. All this was plain enough
still. Then came the man's order to herself. He warned her to get
ready to jump, and she had been quick to realize the necessity. In
spite of the horses' wildest struggles the cart was being washed
down-stream. Then had come his final shout. And she had jumped on the
instant.
At this point of her recollections things became confused. She had a
hazy memory of floundering in the water, also she remembered a heavy
blow on the shoulder. Then some one seemed to seize hold of her. It
must have been the teamster, though she did not remember seeing him in
the water. How she got out was a mystery to her. Again it must have
been the teamster. Then what of him? Mrs. Ransford had not spoken of
him. Had he, too, escaped? or had he--she shuddered. For some moments
her thoughts depressed her. The thought of a brave man's life
sacrificed for her was too terrible.
But after a while she continued in a lighter strain. It was at this
point that the blank began. True, she seemed to have some dim
recollection of a rough hut. It seemed to be made of logs. Then, too,
she had a dreamy sort of cognizance of a number of men's voices
talking. Then--no, there was nothing more after that. Nothing until
she awoke and found herself in bed, with a strange doctor standing
over her.
It was all very puzzling, but--she turned toward the window as the
afternoon sun fell athwart it and lit the plain interior of her new
bedroom, searching the corners and the simple furnishings of the
carpetless room.
From where she sat she could see the barns and corrals, and beyond
them the heavy-hued pine woods. Then, away out far, far in the
distance, the endless white snowcaps of the purpling hills. What a
scene to her unaccustomed eyes. The breadth of it. The immensity.
She drew a deep breath and sat up.
She was dressed in a simple white shirt-waist and blue serge skirt,
and her masses of red-gold hair were loosely coiled about her
well-shaped head. The eager light of interest in her violet eyes lit
her beautiful young face, lending it an animation which added a
wonderful vitality to her natural beauty. The firm, rich lips were
parted eagerly. The wide-open eyes, so deeply intelligent, shone with
a lustre of delight there was no mistaking. Her rounded bosom rose and
fell rapidly as the glad thought flew through her brain that
this--this was her new home, where she was to forget the past and shut
out all recollection of that evil shadow which had so long pursued
her.
Yes, this was the beginning of her new life. Joan Stanmore was dead,
and out of the ashes had arisen Joan Rest, ready to face the world in
a spirit of well-doing bachelorhood. Here, here in the wild mountain
world, where men were few and apart from her old life, she could face
the future with perfect confidence.
She breathed a deep sigh of contentment and lolled back in the rocker,
dropping her eyes from the snow-crowned hills to the precious little
farm that was all hers. Then, in an instant, she sat up again as the
tall figure of a young man appeared round the corner of the barn.
For some moments she followed his movements wonderingly. He walked
straight over to the hay corral with long, easy strides. There was
none of the slouch of a man idling about him. His whole attitude was
full of distinct purpose. She saw him enter the corral and mount the
half-cut haystack, and proceed to cut deeper into it. A moment later
he pitched the loose hay to the ground, and himself slid down on to
it. Then, stooping, he gathered it in his arms and left the corral.
Now she saw his face for the first time. It was dark. Nor could she be
certain that his coloring was due to sunburn. His eyes were dark, too,
and his hair. He was a good-looking man, she decided, and quite young.
But how tall. And what shoulders. She wondered who he was, and what he
was doing on her farm.
Then, of a sudden, she remembered she had spoken of a hired man to
Mrs. Ransford. Had she----?
Her reflections were cut short by the sudden appearance of the
farm-wife from the house. The old woman trotted hastily across the
yard toward the barn, her fat sides shaking as she waddled, and her
short, stout arms violently gesticulating. Joan needed nothing more
than the good woman's back view to tell her that the dame was very
angry, and that it was the stranger who had inspired her wrath. She
waited, smiling, for the _denouement_.
It came quickly. It came with the reappearance of the stranger round
the corner of the barn. What a splendid specimen of a man, she
thought, as she watched the expression of unruffled calm on his strong
features. His shirt sleeves were rolled well up above his elbows, and
even at that distance she could see the deep furrows in his arms
where the rope-like muscles stood out beneath the thin, almost
delicate skin.
But her attention was quickly diverted by the clacking of the
farm-wife's tongue. She could hear it where she sat with the window
tight shut. And though she could not hear the words it was plain
enough from the violence of her gesticulations that she was rating the
patient man soundly. So patent was it, so dreadful, that even in her
keenest interest Joan found herself wondering if Mr. Ransford were
dead, and hoping that, if he were, his decease had occurred in early
youth.
Nor had the man made any attempt at response. She was sure of it,
because she had watched his firm lips, and they had not moved. Perhaps
he had found retort impossible. It was quite possible, for the other
had not paused a moment in her tirade. What a flow. It was colossal,
stupendous. Joan felt sorry for the man.
What a patience he had. Nor had his expression once altered. He merely
displayed the thoughtful attention that one might bestow, listening to
a brilliant conversationalist or an interesting story. It was too
ridiculous, and Joan began to laugh.
Then the end came abruptly and without warning. Mrs. Ransford just
swung about and trotted furiously back to the house. Her face was
flaming, and her fat arms, flourishing like unlimber flails, were
pointing every verbal threat she hurled over her shoulder at the spot
where the man had stood. Yes, he had vanished again round the corner
of the barn, and the poor woman's best efforts were quite lost upon
the warm summer air.
But her purpose was obvious, and Joan prepared herself for a
whirlwind visitation. Nor had she long to wait. There was a shuffling
of feet out in the passage, and, the next moment, the door of her room
was unceremoniously flung open and the indignant woman staggered in.
"Well, of all the impidence, of all the sass, of all the ignorant bums
that ever I----!" She exploded, and stood panting under the strain of
her furious emotions.
But Joan felt she really must assert herself. This sort of reign of
terror must not go on.
"Don't fluster yourself, Mrs. Ransford," she said calmly. "I'll see to
the matter myself."
But she might as well have attempted to stem the tide of the river
that had wrecked her journey as stay the irate woman's tongue.
"But it's him!" she cried. "Him, that low-down scallawag that carried
you in his arms an' walked right into this yere bedroom an' laid you
on your own virgin bed without no by your leave nor nuthin'. Him, as
saw your trunks drownded an' you all mussed up with water, without
raisin' a hand to help, 'less it was to push you further under----"
But Joan was equal to no more. She pushed the well-meaning creature on
one side and hurried out of the house, while the echoes of the other's
scathing indictment died down behind her.
Joan did not hesitate. It was not her way to hesitate about anything
when her mind was made up. And just now she was determined to find out
the real story of what had happened to her. She was interested. This
man had carried her. He had brought her trunks up. And--yes, she liked
the look of him.
But she felt it necessary to approach the matter with becoming
dignity. She was not given much to standing on her dignity, but she
felt that in her association with the men of these parts she must
harden herself to it. All friendships with men were banned. This she
was quite decided upon. And she sighed as she passed round the angle
of the barn.
Her sigh died at its birth, however, and she was brought to a short
and terrified halt. Two prongs of a hayfork gleamed viciously within
three inches of her horrified eyes, and, behind them, with eyes no
less horrified, stood the dark-haired stranger.