ALONG THE FOOTHILLS
Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know
more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch
again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her
preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought
of always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world,
appealed to her.
With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not
realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was
to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him
quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least
superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young
woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas
Valley.
True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she
had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was
something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He
had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which
was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable.
Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was
himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with
eyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially
feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which
the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate.
In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from
convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought
he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life
he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed
talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley,
just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's
egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendship
could become anything more than friendship. And it was upon that
understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the
hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the
Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.
Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at
noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not
arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch,
superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly
cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon.
Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could
think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.
Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both
hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She
promised to be here right after dinner."
"Was Miss Dorry going with you?"
Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only
a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a
girl."
"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley.
"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't
come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow."
But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving
without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while
Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they
rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no
rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime
they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That
is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy
scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned
with a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle.
It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern
distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the
desert.
Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?"
she queried, smiling.
"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--"
Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.
"Then you know?"
"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."
"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted
Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will
ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of
course, if anything happens to Sears--"
Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to
address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is
like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the
trail."
"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.
"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once."
"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills
and get in the shade?"
"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."
It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were
merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly
because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to
the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly
devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout
with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a
month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there
upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges
that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a
spell."
The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that
there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond
them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the
hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the
long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber
showed against the eastern sky.
"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the
distant ridge. "I been up there."
"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very
angry."
"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.
"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley.
"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me
sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights.
Fairy stories make me tired."
"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.
"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't
growed up till they git married."
Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers.
Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth
listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different
objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded
it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do
with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of
keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but
Bartley's presence rather awed him.
Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the
solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there
was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He
debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain
lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an
opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty
rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the
spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!
Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits
to elephants.
Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no
reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look
for Jimmy.
Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to
ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite
impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley
were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of
course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would
revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San
Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those
little machines!
Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile
automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an
automobile snorting and snuffing through my story."
"Your story!"
"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag.
I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it."
"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?"
"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far
wrong."
Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so
attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her,
mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until
that moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was
a writer of stories.
"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine
in your story."
"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have
been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--"
"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley."
"You really mean it?"
Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was
sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he
was rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his
first Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a
compliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers.
"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on Aunt
Jane."
"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I
really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine."
Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she
queried.
"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--"
"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said
'yes.'"
"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?"
Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I
think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like."
"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until
after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner
or later. I hope you will believe that."
"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead
of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your
heroine were within easy riding distance."
"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually
adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown
quantity--"
"He seems to be, just now."
"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling.
Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--"
"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you
please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until
the other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears."
"Did he talk much about Sears?"
"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he
happens to meet him again."
"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy
scornfully.
"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused.
Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves
and hat.
"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He
liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he
has ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him."
"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to
stay in San Andreas for a while."
"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get him
to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--"
"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley.
"You might have tried, at least."
"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find
another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile.
"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said,
finally.
"And that is--"
"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I
suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and
keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to
be able to say the right word at the right time."
"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with
Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride
south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He
travels slowly."
"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"
"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."
Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his
arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people
amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just
Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--"
"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?"
Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo.
"His horse is there. I can't understand--"
"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us,
somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."
"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch
him. He knows me."
And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward
the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside.
Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush
on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of
waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once
clear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa
below. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently
the young hunter was stalking game.
Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him at
that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the
road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and
see him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses
and ride over to him," said Bartley.
He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick
hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley
turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps
flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every
jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set
up his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he
spoke.
"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you."
"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?"
Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see
if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly
braced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin
again, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the livery
barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute he
dismounted that he meant business.
Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left,
fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking
wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in
the face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed
arms around him he knew that he was in for a licking.
Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free
from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted
and staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull
off his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up
and coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the
only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating
him down slowly, but surely.
Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck
out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a
runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a
blow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire
to get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he felt
comparatively comfortable.
"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger.
Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all
right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'."
Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other,
Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips
would not obey his will.
"I'm all right," he mumbled.
"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your
face at the spring. I fetched your horse."
"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it."
"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"
"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, after
dark."
"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel
dizzy?"
"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down
there, stalking rabbits."
At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt
tenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharp
click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-torn
from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly.
He got to his feet and faced Dorothy.
"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now
I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you
are alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere
scratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more
than I did when you arrived."
Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I
mean--about your condition?"
"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my
head feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on."
"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."