“By George, look behind us! I fancy we are going to have a storm.” Four heads turned as if governed by one brain; four pairs of eyes, of varied color and character, swept the wind-blown wilderness of tender green, and gazed questioningly at the high-piled thunderheads above. A small boy, with an abundance of yellow curls and white collar, almost precipitated himself into the prim lap of a lady on the rear seat.
“Auntie, will God have fireworks? Say, auntie, will He? Can I say prayers widout kneelin’ down’? Uncle Redmon’ crowds so. I want to pray for fireworks, auntie. Can I?”
“Do sit down, Dorman. You’ll fall under the wheel, and then auntie would not have any dear little boy. Dorman, do you hear me? Redmond, do take that child down! How I wish Parks were here. I shall have nervous prostration within a fortnight.”
Sir Redmond Hayes plucked at the white collar, and the small boy retired between two masculine forms of no mean proportions. His voice, however, rose higher.
“You’ll get all the fireworks you want, young man, without all that hullabaloo,” remarked the driver, whom Dorman had been told, at the depot twenty miles back, he must call his Uncle Richard.
“I love storms,” came cheerfully from the rear seat—but the voice was not the prim voice of “auntie.” “Do you have thunder and lightning out here, Dick?”
“We do,” assented Dick. “We don’t ship it from the East in refrigerator cars, either. It grows wild.”
The cheerful voice was heard to giggle.
“Richard,” came in tired, reproachful accents from a third voice behind him, “you were reared in the East. I trust you have not formed the pernicious habit of speaking slightingly of your birthplace.”
That, Dick knew, was his mother. She had not changed appreciably since she had nagged him through his teens. Not having seen her since, he was certainly in a position to judge.
“Trix asked about the lightning,” he said placatingly, just as he was accustomed to do, during the nagging period. “I was telling her.”
“Beatrice has a naturally inquiring mind,” said the tired voice, laying reproving stress upon the name.
“Are you afraid of lightning, Sir Redmond?” asked the cheerful girl-voice.
Sir Redmond twisted his neck to smile back at her. “No, so long as it doesn’t actually chuck me over.”
After that there was silence, so far as human voices went, for a time.
“How much farther is it, Dick?” came presently from the girl.
“Not more than ten—well, maybe twelve—miles. You’ll think it’s twenty, though, if the rain strikes ‘Dobe Flat before we do. That’s just what it’s going to do, or I’m badly mistaken. Hawk! Get along, there!”
“We haven’t an umbrella with us,” complained the tired one. “Beatrice, where did you put my raglan?”
“In the big wagon, mama, along with the trunks and guns and saddles, and Martha and Katherine and James.”
“Dear me! I certainly told you, Beatrice—”
“But, mama, you gave it to me the last thing, after the maids were in the wagon, and said you wouldn’t wear it. There isn’t room here for another thing. I feel like a slice of pressed chicken.”
“Auntie, I want some p’essed chicken. I’m hungry, auntie! I want some chicken and a cookie—and I want some ice-cream.”
“You won’t get any,” said the young woman, with the tone of finality. “You can’t eat me, Dorman, and I’m the only thing that looks good enough to eat.”
“Beatrice!” This, of course, from her mother, whose life seemed principally made up of a succession of mental shocks, brought on by her youngest, dearest, and most irrepressible.
“I have Dick’s word for it, mama; he said so, at the depot.”
“I want some chicken, auntie.”
“There is no chicken, dear,” said the prim one. “You must be a patient little man.”
“I won’t. I’m hungry. Mens aren’t patient when dey’re hungry.” A small, red face rose, like a tiny harvest moon, between the broad, masculine backs on the front seat.
“Dorman, sit down! Redmond!”
A large, gloved hand appeared against the small moon and it set ignominiously and prematurely, in the place where it had risen. Sir Redmond further extinguished it with the lap robe, for the storm, whooping malicious joy, was upon them.
First a blinding glare and a deafening crash. Then rain—sheets of it, that drenched where it struck. The women huddled together under the doubtful protection of the light robe and shivered. After that, wind that threatened to overturn the light spring wagon; then hail that bounced and hopped like tiny, white rubber balls upon the ground.
The storm passed as suddenly as it came, but the effect remained. The road was sodden with the water which had fallen, and as they went down the hill to ‘Dobe Flat the horses strained at the collar and plodded like a plow team. The wheels collected masses of adobe, which stuck like glue and packed the spaces between the spokes. Twice Dick got out and poked the heavy mess from the wheels with Sir Redmond’s stick—which was not good for the stick, but which eased the drag upon the horses wonderfully—until the wheels accumulated another load.
“Sorry to dirty your cane,” Dick apologized, after the second halt. “You can rinse it off, though, in the creek a few miles ahead.”
“Don’t mention it!” said Sir Redmond, somewhat dubiously. It was his favorite stick, and he had taken excellent care of it. It was finely polished, and it had his name and regiment engraved upon the silver knob—and a date which the Boers will not soon forget, nor the English, for that matter.
“We’ll soon be over the worst,” Dick told them, after a time. “When we climb that hill we’ll have a hard, gravelly trail straight to the ranch. I’m sorry it had to storm; I wanted you to enjoy this trip.”
“I am enjoying it,” Beatrice assured him. “It’s something new, at any rate, and anything is better than the deadly monotony of Newport.”
“Beatrice!” cried her mother “I’m ashamed of you!”
“You needn’t be, mama. Why won’t you just be sorry for yourself, and let it end there? I know you hated to come, poor dear; but you wouldn’t think of letting me come alone, though I’m sure I shouldn’t have minded. This is going to be a delicious summer—I feel it in my bones.”
“Be-atrice!”
“Why, mama? Aren’t young ladies supposed to have bones?”
“Young ladies are not supposed to make use of unrefined expressions. Your poor sister.”
“There, mama. Dear Dolly didn’t live upon stilts, I’m sure. Even when she married.”
“Be-atrice!”
“Dear me, mama! I hope you are not growing peevish. Peevish elderly people—”
“Auntie! I want to go home!” the small boy wailed.
“You cannot go home now, dear,” sighed his guardian angel. “Look at the pretty—” She hesitated, groping vaguely for some object to which she might conscientiously apply the adjective.
“Mud,” suggested Beatrice promptly “Look at the wheels, Dorman; they’re playing patty-cake. See, now they say, ‘Roll ‘em, and roll ‘em,’ and now, ‘Toss in the oven to bake!’ And now—”
“Auntie, I want to get out an’ play patty-cake, like de wheels. I want to awf’lly!”
“Beatrice, why did you put that into his head?” her mother demanded, fretfully.
“Never mind, honey,” called Beatrice cheeringly. “You and I will make hundreds of mud pies when we get to Uncle Dick’s ranch. Just think, hon, oodles of beautiful, yellow mud just beside the door!”
“Look here, Trix! Seems to me you’re promising a whole lot you can’t make good. I don’t live in a ‘dobe patch.”
“Hush, Dick; don’t spoil everything. You don’t know Dorman.’
“Beatrice! What must Miss Hayes and Sir Redmond think of you? I’m sure Dorman is a sweet child, the image of poor, dear Dorothea, at his age.”
“We all think Dorman bears a strong resemblance to his father,” said his Aunt Mary.
Beatrice, scenting trouble, hurried to change the subject. “What’s this, Dick—the Missouri River?”
“Hardly. This is the water that didn’t fall in the buggy. It isn’t deep; it makes bad going worse, that’s all.”
Thinking to expedite matters, he struck Hawk sharply across the flank. It was a foolish thing to do, and Dick knew it when he did it; ten seconds later he knew it better.
Hawk reared, tired as he was, and lunged viciously.
The double-trees snapped and splintered; there was a brief interval of plunging, a shower of muddy water in that vicinity, and then two draggled, disgusted brown horses splashed indignantly to shore and took to the hills with straps flying.
“By George!” ejaculated Sir Redmond, gazing helplessly after them. “But this is a beastly bit of luck, don’t you know!”
“Oh, you Hawk—” Dick, in consideration of his companions, finished the remark in the recesses of his troubled soul, where the ladies could not overhear.
“What comes next, Dick?” The voice of Beatrice was frankly curious.
“Next, I’ll have to wade out and take after those—” This sentence, also, was rounded out mentally.
“In the meantime, what shall we do?”
“You’ll stay where you are—and thank the good Lord you were not upset. I’m sorry,”—turning so that he could look deprecatingly at Miss Hayes—“your welcome to the West has been so—er—strenuous. I’ll try and make it up to you, once you get to the ranch. I hope you won’t let this give you a dislike of the country.”
“Oh, no,” said the spinster politely. “I’m sure it is a—a very nice country, Mr. Lansell.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done sitting here.” Dick climbed down over the dashboard into the mud and water.
Sir Redmond was not the man to shirk duty because it happened to be disagreeable, as the regiment whose name was engraved upon his cane could testify. He glanced regretfully at his immaculate leggings and followed.
“I fancy you ladies won’t need any bodyguard,” he said. Looking back, he caught the light of approval shining in the eyes of Beatrice, and after that he did not mind the mud, but waded to shore and joined in the chase quite contentedly. The light of approval, shining in the eyes of Beatrice, meant much to Sir Redmond.
“D’you want to see the boys work a bunch of cattle, Trix?” Dick said to her, when she came down to where he was leaning against a high board fence, waiting for her.
“‘Deed I do, Dicky—only I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“The boys are going to cut out some cattle we’ve contracted to the government—for the Indians, you know. They’re holding the bunch over in Dry Coulee; it’s only three or four miles. I’ve got to go over and see the foreman, and I thought maybe you’d like to go along.”
“There’s nothing I can think of that I would like better. Won’t it be fine, Sir Redmond?”
Sir Redmond did not say whether he thought it would be fine or not. He still had the white streak around his mouth, and he went through the gate and on to the house without a word—which was undoubtedly a rude thing to do. Sir Redmond was not often rude. Dick watched him speculatively until he was beyond hearing them. Then, “What have you done to milord, Trix?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing,” said Beatrice.
“Well,” Dick said, with decision, “he looks to me like a man that has been turned down—hard. I can tell by the back of his neck.”
This struck Beatrice, and she began to study the retreating neck of her suitor. “I can’t see any difference,” she announced, after a brief scrutiny.
“It’s rather sunburned and thick.”
“I’ll gamble his mind is a jumble of good English oaths—with maybe a sprinkling of Boer maledictions. What did you do?”
“Nothing—unless, perhaps, he objects to being disciplined a bit. But I also object to being badgered into matrimony—even with Sir Redmond.”
“Even with Sir Redmond!” Dick whistled. “He’s ‘It,’ then, is he?”
Beatrice had nothing to say. She walked beside Dick and looked at the ground before her.
“He doesn’t seem a bad sort, sis, and the title will be nice to have in the family, if one cares for such things. Mother does. She was disappointed, I take it, that Wiltmar was a younger son.”
“Yes, she was. She used to think that Sir Redmond might get killed down there fighting the Boers, and then Wiltmar would be next in line. But he didn’t, and it was Wiltmar who went first. And now oh, it’s humiliating, Dick! To be thrown at a man’s head—” Tears were not far from her voice just then.
“I can see she wants you to nab the title. Well, sis, if you don’t care for the man—”
“I never said I didn’t care for him. But I just can’t treat him decently, with mama dinning that title in my ears day and night. I wish there wasn’t any title. Oh, it’s abominable! Things have come to that point where an American girl with money is not supposed to care for an Englishman, no matter how nice he may be, if he has a title, or the prospect of one. Every one laughs and thinks it’s the title she wants; they’d think it of me, and they’d say it. They would say Beatrice Lansell took her half-million and bought her a lord. And, after a while, perhaps Sir Redmond himself would half-believe it—and I couldn’t bear that! And so I am—unbearably flippant and—I should think he’d hate me!”
“So you reversed the natural order of things, and refused him on account of the title?” Dick grinned surreptitiously.
“No, I didn’t—not quite. I’m afraid he’s dreadfully angry with me, though. I do wish he wasn’t such a dear.”
“You’re the same old Trix. You’ve got to be held back from the trail you’re supposed to take, or you won’t travel it; you’ll bolt the other way. If everybody got together and fought the notion, you would probably elope with milord inside a week. Mother means well, but she isn’t on to her job a little bit. She ought to turn up her nose at the title.”
“No fear of that! I’ve had it before my eyes till I hate the very thought of it. I—I wish I could hate him.” Beatrice sighed deeply, and gave her hand to Dorman, who scurried up to her.
“I’ll have the horses saddled right away,” said Dick, and left them.
“Where you going, Be’trice? You going to ride a horse? I want to, awf’lly.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, honey; it’s too far.” Beatrice pushed a yellow curl away from his eyes with tender, womanly solicitude.
“Auntie won’t care, ‘cause I’m a bother. Auntie says she’s goin’ to send for Parks. I don’t want Parks; ‘sides, Parks is sick. I want a pony, and some ledder towsers wis fringes down ‘em, and I want some little wheels on my feet. Mr. Cam’ron says I do need some little wheels, Be’trice.”
“Did he, honey?”
“Yes, he did. I like Mr. Cam’ron, Be’trice; he let me ride his big, high pony. He’s a berry good pony. He shaked hands wis me, Be’trice—he truly did.”
“Did he, hon?” Beatrice, I am sorry to say, was not listening. She was wondering if Sir Redmond was really angry with her—too angry, for instance, to go over where the cattle were. He really ought to go, for he had come West in the interest of the Eastern stockholders in the Northern Pool, to investigate the actual details of the work. He surely would not miss this opportunity, Beatrice thought. And she hoped he was not angry.
“Yes, he truly did. Mr. Cam’ron interduced us, Be’trice. He said, ‘Redcloud, dis is Master Dorman Hayes. Shake hands wis my frien’ Dorman.’ And he put up his front hand, Be’trice, and nod his head, and I shaked his hand. I dess love that big, high pony, Be’trice. Can I buy him, Be’trice?”
“Maybe, kiddie.”
“Can I buy him wis my six shiny pennies, Be’trice?”
“Maybe.”
“Mr. Cam’ron lives right over that hill, Be’trice. He told me.”
“Did he, hon?”
“Yes, he did. He ‘vited me over, Be’trice. He’s my friend, and I’ve got to buy my big, high pony. I’ll let you shake hands wis him, Be’trice. I’ll interduce him to you. And I’ll let you ride on his back, Be’trice. Do you want to ride on his back?”
“Yes, honey.”
Before Beatrice had time to commit herself they reached the house, and she let go Dorman’s hand and hurried away to get into her riding-habit.
Dorman straightway went to find his six precious, shiny pennies, which Beatrice had painstakingly scoured with silver polish one day to please the little tyrant, and which increased their value many times—so many times, in fact, that he hid them every night in fear of burglars. Since he concealed them each time in a different place, he was obliged to ransack his auntie’s room every morning, to the great disturbance of Martha, the maid, who was an order-loving person.
Martha appeared just when he had triumphantly pounced upon his treasure rolled up in the strings of his aunt’s chiffon opera-bonnet.
“Mercy upon us, Master Dorman! Whatever have you been doing?”
“I want my shiny pennies,” said the young gentleman, composedly unwinding the roll, “to buy my big, high pony.”
“Naughty, naughty boy, to muss my lady’s fine bonnet like that! Look at things scattered over the floor, and my lady’s fine handkerchiefs and gloves—” Martha stopped and meditated whether she might dare to shake him.
Dorman was laboriously counting his wealth, with much wrinkling of stubby nose and lifting of eyebrows. Having satisfied himself that they were really all there, he deigned to look around, with a fine masculine disdain of woman’s finery.
“Oh, dose old things!” he sniffed. “I always fordet where I put my shiny pennies. Robbers might find them if I put them easy places. I’m going to buy my big, high pony, and you can’t shake his hand a bit, Martha.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t want to!” Martha snapped back at him, and went down on all fours to gather up the things he had thrown down. “Whatever Parks was thinking of, to go and get fever, when she was the only one that could manage you, I don’t know! And me picking up after you till I’m fair sick!”
“I’m glad you is sick,” he retorted unfeelingly, and backed to the door. “I hopes you get sicker so your stummit makes you hurt. You can’t ride on my big, high pony.”
“Get along with you and your high pony!” cried the exasperated Martha, threatening with a hairbrush. Dorman, his six shiny pennies held fast in his damp little fist, fled down the stairs and out into the sunlight.
Dick and Beatrice were just ready to ride away from the porch. “I want to go wis you, Uncle Dick.” Dorman had followed the lead of Beatrice, his divinity; he refused to say Richard, though grandmama did object to nicknames.
“Up you go, son. You’ll be a cow-puncher yourself one of these days. I’ll not let him fall, and this horse is gentle.” This last to satisfy Dorman’s aunt, who wavered between anxiety and relief.
“You may ride to the gate, Dorman, and then you’ll have to hop down and run back to your auntie and grandma. We’re going too far for you to-day.” Dick gave him the reins to hold, and let the horse walk to prolong the joy of it.
Dorman held to the horn with one hand, to the reins with the other, and let his small body swing forward and back with the motion of the horse, in exaggerated imitation of his friend, Mr. Cameron. At the gate he allowed himself to be set down without protest, smiled importantly through the bars, and thrust his arm through as far as it would reach, that he might wave good-by. And his divinity smiled back at him, and threw him a kiss, which pleased him mightily.
“You must have hurt milord’s feelings pretty bad,” Dick remarked. “I couldn’t get him to come. He had to write a letter first, he said.”
“I wish, Dick,” Beatrice answered, a bit petulantly, “you would stop calling him milord.”
“Milord’s a good name,” Dick contended. “It’s bad enough to ‘Sir’ him to his face; I can’t do it behind his back, Trix. We’re not used to fancy titles out here, and they don’t fit the country, anyhow. I’m like you—I’d think a lot more of him if he was just a plain, everyday American, so I could get acquainted enough to call him ‘Red Hayes.’ I’d like him a whole lot better.”
Beatrice was in no mood for an argument—on that subject, at least. She let Rex out and raced over the prairie at a gait which would have greatly shocked her mother, who could not understand why Beatrice was not content to drive sedately about in the carriage with the rest of them.
When they reached the round-up Keith Cameron left the bunch and rode out to meet them, and Dick promptly shuffled responsibility for his sister’s entertainment to the square shoulders of his neighbor.
“Trix wants to wise up on the cattle business, Keith. I’ll just turn her over to you for a-while, and let you answer her questions; I can’t, half the time. I want to look through the bunch a little.”
Keith’s face spoke gratitude, and spoke it plainly. The face of Beatrice was frankly inattentive. She was watching the restless, moving mass of red backs and glistening horns, with horsemen weaving in and out among them in what looked to her a perfectly aimless fashion—until one would wheel and dart out into the open, always with a fleeing animal lumbering before. Other horsemen would meet him and take up the chase, and he would turn and ride leisurely back into the haze and confusion. It was like a kaleidoscope, for the scene shifted constantly and was never quite the same.
Keith, secure in her absorption, slid sidewise in the saddle and studied her face, knowing all the while that he was simply storing up trouble for himself. But it is not given a man to flee human nature, and the fellow who could sit calmly beside Beatrice and not stare at her if the opportunity offered must certainly have the blood of a fish in his veins. I will tell you why.
Beatrice was tall, and she was slim, and round, and tempting, with the most tantalizing curves ever built to torment a man. Her hair was soft and brown, and it waved up from the nape of her neck without those short, straggling locks and thin growth at the edge which mar so many feminine heads; and the sharp contrast of shimmery brown against ivory white was simply irresistible. Had her face been less full of charm, Keith might have been content to gaze and gaze at that lovely hair line. As it was, his eyes wandered to her brows, also distinctly marked, as though outlined first with a pencil in the fingers of an artist who understood. And there were her lashes, dark and long, and curled up at the ends; and her cheek, with its changing, come-and-go coloring; her mouth, with its upper lip creased deeply in the middle—so deeply that a bit more would have been a defect—and with an odd little dimple at one corner; luckily, it was on the side toward him, so that he might look at it all he wanted to for once; for it was always there, only growing deeper and wickeder when she spoke or laughed. He could not see her eyes, for they were turned away, but he knew quite well the color; he had settled that point when he looked up from coiling his rope the day she came. They were big, baffling, blue-brown eyes, the like of which he had never seen before in his life—and he had thought he had seen every color and every shade under the sun. Thinking of them and their wonderful deeps and shadows, he got hungry for a sight of them. And suddenly she turned to ask a question, and found him staring at her, and surprised a look in his eyes he did not know was there.
For ten pulse-beats they stared, and the cheeks of Beatrice grew red as healthy young blood could paint them; Keith’s were the same, only that his blood showed darkly through the tan. What question had been on her tongue she forgot to ask. Indeed, for the time, I think she forgot the whole English language, and every other—but the strange, wordless language of Keith’s clear eyes.
And then it was gone, and Keith was looking away, and chewing a corner of his lip till it hurt. His horse backed restlessly from the tight-gripped rein, and Keith was guilty of kicking him with his spur, which did not better matters. Redcloud snorted and shook his outraged head, and Keith came to himself and eased the rein, and spoke remorseful, soothing words that somehow clung long in the memory of Beatrice.
Just after that Dick galloped up, his elbows flapping like the wings of a frightened hen.
“Well, I suppose you could run a cow outfit all by yourself, with the knowledge you’ve got from Keith,” he greeted, and two people became even more embarrassed than before. If Dick noticed anything, he must have been a wise young man, for he gave no sign.
But Beatrice had not queened it in her set, three seasons, for nothing, even if she was capable of being confused by a sweet, new language in a man’s eyes. She answered Dick quietly.
“I’ve been so busy watching it all that I haven’t had time to ask many questions, as Mr. Cameron can testify. It’s like a game, and it’s very fascinating—and dusty. I wonder if I might ride in among them, Dick?”
“Better not, sis. It isn’t as much fun as it looks, and you can see more out here. There comes milord; he must have changed his mind about the letter.”
Beatrice did not look around. To see her, you would swear she had set herself the task of making an accurate count of noses in that seething mass of raw beef below her. After a minute she ventured to glance furtively at Keith, and, finding his eyes turned her way, blushed again and called herself an idiot. After that, she straightened in the saddle, and became the self-poised Miss Lansell, of New York.
Keith rode away to the far side of the herd, out of temptation; queer a man never runs from a woman until it is too late to be a particle of use. Keith simply changed his point of view, and watched his Heart’s Desire from afar.
“Well, are we all ready?” Dick gathered up his reins, and took critical inventory of the load. His mother peered under the front seat to be doubly sure that there were at least four umbrellas and her waterproof raglan in the rig; Mrs. Lansell did not propose to be caught unawares in a storm another time. Miss Hayes straightened Dorman’s cap, and told him to sit down, dear, and then called upon Sir Redmond to enforce the command. Sir Redmond repeated her command, minus the dear, and then rode on ahead to overtake Beatrice and Keith, who had started. Dick climbed up over the front wheel, released the brake, chirped at the horses, and they were off for Lost Canyon.
Beatrice was behaving beautifully, and her mother only hoped to heaven it would last the day out; perhaps Sir Redmond would be able to extract some sort of a promise from her in that mood, Mrs. Lansell reflected, as she watched Beatrice chatting to her two cavaliers, with the most decorous impartiality. Sir Redmond seemed in high spirits, which argued well; Mrs. Lansell gave herself up to the pleasure of the drive with a heart free from anxiety. Not only was Beatrice at her best; Dorman’s mood was nothing short of angelic, and as the weather was simply perfect, the day surely promised well.
For a mile Keith had showed signs of a mind not at ease, and at last he made bold to speak.
“I thought Rex was to be your saddle-horse?” he said abruptly to Beatrice.
“He was; but when Dick brought Goldie home, last night, I fell in love with him on sight, and just teased Dick till he told me I might have him to ride.”
“I thought Dick had some sense,” Keith said gloomily.
“He has. He knew there would be no peace till he surrendered.”
“I didn’t know you were going to ride him, when I sold him to Dick. He’s not safe for a woman.”
“Does he buck, Mr. Cameron? Dick said he was gentle.” Beatrice had seen a horse buck, one day, and had a wholesome fear of that form of equine amusement.
“Oh, no. I never knew him to.”
“Then I don’t mind anything else. I’m accustomed to horses,” said Beatrice, and smiled welcome to Sir Redmond, who came up with them at that moment.
“You want to ride him with a light rein,” Keith cautioned, clinging to the subject. “He’s tenderbitted, and nervous. He won’t stand for any jerking, you see.”
“I never jerk, Mr. Cameron.” Keith discovered that big, baffling, blue-brown eyes can, if they wish, rival liquid air for coldness. “I rode horses before I came to Montana.”
Of course, when a man gets frozen with a girl’s eyes, and scorched with a girl’s sarcasm, the thing for him to do is to retreat until the atmosphere becomes normal. Keith fell behind just as soon as he could do so with some show of dignity, and for several miles tried to convince himself that he would rather talk to Dick and “the old maid” than not.
“Don’t you know,” Sir Redmond remarked sympathetically, “some of these Western fellows are inclined to be deuced officious and impertinent.”
Sir Redmond got a taste of the freezing process that made him change the subject abruptly.
The way was rough and lonely; the trail wound over sharp-nosed hills and through deep, narrow coulees, with occasional, tantalizing glimpses of the river and the open land beyond, that kept Beatrice in a fever of enthusiasm. From riding blithely ahead, she took to lagging far behind with her kodak, getting snap-shots of the choicest bits of scenery.
“Another cartridge, please, Sir Redmond,” she said, and wound industriously on the finished roll.
“It’s a jolly good thing I brought my pockets full.” Sir Redmond fished one out for her. “Was that a dozen?”
“No; that had only six films. I want a larger one this time. It is a perfect nuisance to stop and change. Be still, Goldie!”
“We’re getting rather a long way behind—but I fancy the road is plain.”
“We’ll hurry and overtake them. I won’t take any more pictures.”
“Until you chance upon something you can’t resist. I understand all that, you know.” Sir Redmond, while he teased, was pondering whether this was an auspicious time and place to ask Beatrice to marry him. He had tried so many times and places that seemed auspicious, that the man was growing fearful. It is not pleasant to have a girl smile indulgently upon you and deftly turn your avowals aside, so that they fall flat.
“I’m ready,” she announced, blind to what his eyes were saying.
“Shall we trek?” Sir Redmond sighed a bit. He was not anxious to overtake the others.
“We will. Only, out here people never ‘trek,’ Sir Redmond. They ‘hit the trail’.”
“So they do. And the way these cowboys do it, one would think they were couriers, by Jove! with the lives of a whole army at stake. So I fancy we had better hit the trail, eh?”
“You’re learning,” Beatrice assured him, as they started on. “A year out here, and you would be a real American, Sir Redmond.”
Sir Redmond came near saying, “The Lord forbid!” but he thought better of it. Beatrice was intensely loyal to her countrymen, unfortunately, and would certainly resent such a remark; but, for all that, he thought it.
For a mile or two she held to her resolve, and then, at the top of a long hill overlooking the canyon where they were to eat their lunch, out came her kodak again.
“This must be Lost Canyon, for Dick has stopped by those trees. I want to get just one view from here. Steady, Goldie! Dear me, this horse does detest standing still!”
“I fancy he is anxious to get down with the others. Let me hold him for you. Whoa, there!” He put a hand upon the bridle, a familiarity Goldie resented. He snorted and dodged backward, to the ruin of the picture Beatrice was endeavoring to get.
“Now you’ve frightened him. Whoa, pet! It’s of no use to try; he won’t stand.”
“Let me have your camera. He’s getting rather an ugly temper, I think.” Sir Redmond put out his hand again, and again Goldie dodged backward.
“I can do better alone, Sir Redmond.” The cheeks of Beatrice were red. She managed to hold the horse in until her kodak was put safely in its case, but her temper, as well as Goldie’s, was roughened. She hated spoiling a film, which she was perfectly sure she had done.
Goldie felt the sting of her whip when she brought him back into the road, and, from merely fretting, he took to plunging angrily. Then, when Beatrice pulled him up sharply, he thrust out his nose, grabbed the bit in his teeth, and bolted down the hill, past all control.
“Good God, hold him!” shouted Sir Redmond, putting his horse to a run.
The advice was good, and Beatrice heard it plainly enough, but she neither answered nor looked back. How, she thought, resentfully, was one to hold a yellow streak of rage, with legs like wire springs and a neck of iron? Besides, she was angrily alive to the fact that Keith Cameron, watching down below, was having his revenge. She wondered if he was enjoying it.
He was not. Goldie, when he ran, ran blindly in a straight line, and Keith knew it. He also knew that the Englishman couldn’t keep within gunshot of Goldie, with the mount he had, and half a mile away—Keith shut his teeth hard together, and went out to meet her. Redcloud lay along the ground in great leaps, but Keith, bending low over his neck, urged him faster and faster, until the horse, his ears laid close against his neck, did the best there was in him. From the tail of his eye, Keith saw Sir Redmond’s horse go down upon his knees, and get up limping—and the sight filled him with ungenerous gladness; Sir Redmond was out of the race. It was Keith and Redcloud—they two; and Keith could smile over it.
He saw Beatrice’s hat loosen and lift in front, flop uncertainly, and then go sailing away into the sage-brush, and he noted where it fell, that he might find it, later. Then he was close enough to see her face, and wondered that there was so little fear written there. Beatrice was plucky, and she rode well, her weight upon the bit; but her weight was nothing to the clinched teeth of the horse; and, though she had known it from the start, she was scarcely frightened. There was a good deal of the daredevil in Beatrice; she trusted a great deal to blind luck.
Just there the land was level, and she hoped to check him on the slope of the hill before them. She did not know it was moated like a castle, with a washout ten feet deep and twice that in width, and that what looked to her quite easy was utterly impossible.
Keith gained, every leap. In a moment he was close behind.
“Take your foot out of the stirrup,” he commanded, harshly, and though Beatrice wondered why, something in his voice made her obey.
Now Redcloud’s nose was even with her elbow; the breath from his wide-flaring nostrils rose hotly in her face. Another bound, and he had forged ahead, neck and neck with Goldie, and it was Keith by her side, keen-eyed and calm.
“Let go all hold,” he said. Reaching suddenly, he caught her around the waist and pulled her from the saddle, just as Redcloud, scenting danger, plowed his front feet deeply into the loose soil and stopped dead still.
It was neatly done, and quickly; so quickly that before Beatrice had more than gasped her surprise, Keith lowered her to the ground and slid out of the saddle. Beatrice looked at him, and wondered at his face, and at the way he was shaking. He leaned weakly against the horse and hid his face on his arm, and trembled at what had come so close to the girl—the girl, who stood there panting a little, with her wonderful, waving hair cloaking her almost to her knees, and her blue-brown eyes wide and bright, and full of a deep amazement. She forgot Goldie, and did not even look to see what had become of him; she forgot nearly everything, just then, in wonder at this tall, clean-built young fellow, who never had seemed to care what happened, leaning there with his face hidden, his hat far hack on his head and little drops standing thickly upon his forehead. She waited a moment, and when he did not move, her thoughts drifted to other things.
“I wonder,” she said abstractedly, “if I broke my kodak.”
Keith lifted his head and looked at her. “Your kodak—good Lord!” He looked hard into her eyes, and she returned the stare.
“Come here,” he commanded, hoarsely, catching her arm. “Your kodak! Look down there!” He led her to the brink, which was close enough to set him shuddering anew. “Look! There’s Goldie, damn him! It’s a wonder he’s on his feet; I thought he’d be dead—and serve him right. And you—you wonder if you broke your kodak!”
Beatrice drew back from him, and from the sight below, and if she were frightened, she tried not to let him see. “Should I have fainted?” She was proud of the steadiness of her voice. “Really, I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Cameron, for saving me from an ugly fall. You did it very neatly, I imagine, and I am grateful. Still, I really hope I didn’t break my kodak. Are you very disappointed because I can’t faint away? There doesn’t seem to be any brook close by, you see—and I haven’t my er—lover’s arms to fall into. Those are the regulation stage settings, I believe, and—”
“Don’t worry, Miss Lansell. I didn’t expect you to faint, or to show any human feelings whatever. I do pity your horse, though.”
“You didn’t a minute ago,” she reminded him. “You indulged in a bit of profanity, if I remember.”
“For which I beg Goldie’s pardon,” he retorted, his eyes unsmiling.
“And mine, I hope.”
“Certainly.”
“I think it’s rather absurd to stand here sparring, Mr. Cameron. You’ll begin to accuse me of ingratitude, and I’m as grateful as possible for what you did. Sir Redmond’s horse was too slow to keep up, or he would have been at hand, no doubt.”
“And could have supplied part of the stage setting. Too bad he was behind.” Keith turned and readjusted the cinch on his saddle, though it was not loose enough to matter, and before he had finished Sir Redmond rode up.
“Are you hurt, Beatrice?” His face was pale, and his eyes anxious.
“Not at all. Mr. Cameron kindly helped me from the saddle in time to prevent an accident. I wish you’d thank him, Sir Redmond. I haven’t the words.”
“You needn’t trouble,” said Keith hastily, getting into the saddle. “I’ll go down after Goldie. You can easily find the camp, I guess, without a pilot.” Then he galloped away and left them, and would not look back; if he had done so, he would have seen Beatrice’s eyes following him remorsefully. Also, he would have seen Sir Redmond glare after him jealously; for Sir Redmond was not in a position to know that their tete-a-tete had not been a pleasant one, and no man likes to have another fellow save the life of a woman he loves, while he himself is limping painfully up from the rear.
However, the woman he loved was very gracious to him that day, and for many days, and Keith Cameron held himself aloof during the rest of the trip, which should have contented Sir Redmond.
At dusk that night a glow was in the southern sky, and the wind carried the pungent odor of burning grass. Dick went out on the porch after dinner, and sniffed the air uneasily.
“I don’t much like the look of it,” he admitted to Sir Redmond. “It smells pretty strong, to be across the river. I sent a couple of the boys out to look a while ago. If it’s this side of the river we’ll have to get a move on.”
“It will be the range land, I take it, if it’s on this side,” Sir Redmond remarked.
Just then a man thundered through the lane and up to the very steps of the porch, and when he stopped the horse he was riding leaned forward and his legs shook with exhaustion.
“The Pine Ridge Range is afire, Mr. Lansell,” the man announced quietly.
Dick took a long pull at his cigar and threw it away. “Have the boys throw some barrels and sacks into a wagon—and git!” He went inside and grabbed his hat, and when he turned Sir Redmond was at his elbow.
“I’m going, too, Dick,” cried Beatrice, who always seemed to hear anything that promised excitement. “I never saw a prairie-fire in my life.”
“It’s ten miles off,” said Dick shortly, taking the steps at a jump.
“I don’t care if it’s twenty—I’m going. Sir Redmond, wait for me!”
“Be-atrice!” cried her mother detainingly; but Beatrice was gone to get ready. A quick job she made of it; she threw a dark skirt over her thin, white one, slipped into the nearest jacket, snatched her riding-gauntlets off a chair where she had thrown them, and then couldn’t find her hat. That, however, did not trouble her. Down in the hall she appropriated one of Dick’s, off the hall tree, and announced herself ready. Sir Redmond laughed, caught her hand, and they raced together down to the stables before her mother had fully grasped the situation.
“Isn’t Rex saddled, Dick?”
Dick, his foot in the stirrup, stopped long enough to glance over his shoulder at her. “You ready so soon? Jim, saddle Rex for Miss Lansell.” He swung up into the saddle.
“Aren’t you going to wait, Dick?”
“Can’t. Milord can bring you.” And Dick was away on the run.
Men were hurrying here and there, every move counting something done. While she stood there a wagon rattled out from the shadow of a haystack, with empty water-barrels dancing a mad jig behind the high seat, where the driver perched with feet braced and a whip in his hand. After him dashed four or five riders, silent and businesslike. In a moment they were mere fantastic shadows galloping up the hill through the smothery gloom.
Then came Jim, leading Rex and a horse for himself; Sir Redmond had saddled his gray and was waiting. Beatrice sprang into the saddle and took the lead, with nerves a-tingle. The wind that rushed against her face was hot and reeking with smoke. Her nostrils drank greedily the tang it carried.
“You gipsy!” cried Sir Redmond, peering at her through the murky gloom.
“This—is living!” she laughed, and urged Rex faster.
So they raced recklessly over the hills, toward where the night was aglow. Before them the wagon pounded over untrailed prairie sod, with shadowy figures fleeing always before.
Here, wild cattle rushed off at either side, to stop and eye them curiously as they whirled past. There, a coyote, squatting unseen upon a distant pinnacle, howled, long-drawn and quavering, his weird protest against the solitudes in which he wandered.
The dusk deepened to dark, and they could no longer see the racing shadows. The rattle of the wagon came mysteriously back to them through the black.
Once Rex stumbled over a rock and came near falling, but Beatrice only laughed and urged him on, unheeding Sir Redmond’s call to ride slower.
They splashed through a shallow creek, and came upon the wagon, halted that the cowboys might fill the barrels with water. Then they passed by, and when they heard them following the wagon no longer rattled glibly along, but chuckled heavily under its load.
The dull, red glow brightened to orange. Then, breasting at last a long hill, they came to the top, and Beatrice caught her breath at what lay below.
A jagged line of leaping flame cut clean through the dark of the coulee. The smoke piled rosily above and before, and the sullen roar of it clutched the senses—challenging, sinister. Creeping stealthily, relentlessly, here a thin gash of yellow hugging close to the earth, there a bold, bright wall of fire, it swept the coulee from rim to rim.
“The wind is carrying it from us,” Sir Redmond was saying in her ear. “Are you afraid to stop here alone? I ought to go down and lend a hand.”
Beatrice drew a long gasp. “Oh, no, I’m not afraid. Go; there is Dick, down there.”
“You’re sure you won’t mind?” He hesitated, dreading to leave her.
“No, no! Go on—they need you.”
Sir Redmond turned and rode down the ridge toward the flames. His straight figure was silhouetted sharply against the glow.
Beatrice slipped off her horse and sat down upon a rock, dead to everything but the fiendish beauty of the scene spread out below her. Millions of sparks danced in and out among the smoke wreaths which curled upward—now black, now red, now a dainty rose. Off to the left a coyote yapped shrilly, ending with his mournful howl.
Beatrice shivered from sheer ecstasy. This was a world she had never before seen—a world of hot, smoke-sodden wind, of dead-black shadows and flame-bright light; of roar and hoarse bellowing and sharp crackles; of calm, star-sprinkled sky above—and in the distance the uncanny howling of a coyote.
Time had no reckoning there. She saw men running to and fro in the glare, disappearing in a downward swirl of smoke, coming to view again in the open beyond. Always their arms waved rhythmically downward, beating the ragged line of yellow with water-soaked sacks. The trail they left was a wavering, smoke-traced rim of sullen black, where before had been gay, dancing, orange light. In places the smolder fanned to new life behind them and licked greedily at the ripe grass like hungry, red tongues. One of these Beatrice watched curiously. It crept slyly into an unburned hollow, and the wind, veering suddenly, pushed it out of sight from the fighters and sent it racing merrily to the south. The main line of fire beat doggedly up against the wind that a minute before had been friendly, and fought bravely two foes instead of one. It dodged, ducked, and leaped high, and the men beat upon it mercilessly.
But the little, new flame broadened and stood on tiptoes defiantly, proud of the wide, black trail that kept stretching away behind it; and Beatrice watched it, fascinated by its miraculous growth. It began to crackle and send up smoke wreaths of its own, with sparks dancing through; then its voice deepened and coarsened, till it roared quite like its mother around the hill.
The smoke from the larger fire rolled back with the wind, and Beatrice felt her eyes sting. Flakes of blackened grass and ashes rained upon the hilltop, and Rex moved uneasily and pawed at the dry sod. To him a prairie-fire was not beautiful—it was an enemy to run from. He twitched his reins from Beatrice’s heedless fingers and decamped toward home, paying no attention whatever to the command of his mistress to stop.
Still Beatrice sat and watched the new fire, and was glad she chanced to be upon the south end of a sharp-nosed hill, so that she could see both ways. The blaze dove into a deep hollow, climbed the slope beyond, leaped exultantly and bellowed its challenge. And, of a sudden, dark forms sprang upon it and beat it cruelly, and it went black where they struck, and only thin streamers of smoke told where it had been. Still they beat, and struck, and struck again, till the fire died ingloriously and the hillside to the south lay dark and still, as it had been at the beginning.
Beatrice wondered who had done it. Then she came back to her surroundings and realized that Rex had left her, and she was alone. She shivered—this time not in ecstasy, but partly from loneliness—and went down the hill toward where Dick and Sir Redmond and the others were fighting steadily the larger fire, unconscious of the younger, new one that had stolen away from them and was beaten to death around the hill.
Once in the coulee, she was compelled to take to the burnt ground, which crisped hotly under her feet and sent up a rank, suffocating smell of burned grass into her nostrils. The whole country was alight, and down there the world seemed on fire. At times the smoke swooped blindingly, and half strangled her. Her skirts, in passing, swept the black ashes from grass roots which showed red in the night.
Picking her way carefully around the spots that glowed warningly, shielding her face as well as she could from the smoke, she kept on until she was close upon the fighters. Dick and Sir Redmond were working side by side, the sacks they held rising and falling with the regularity of a machine for minutes at a time. A group of strange horsemen galloped up from the way she had come, followed by a wagon of water-barrels, careering recklessly over the uneven ground. The horsemen stopped just inside the burned rim, the horses sidestepping gingerly upon the hot turf.
“I guess you want some help here. Where shall we start in?” Beatrice recognized the voice. It was Keith Cameron.
“Sure, we do!” Dick answered, gratefully. “Start in any old place.”