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The Range Dwellers, a novel by B. M. Bower |
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Chapter 13. We Meet Once More |
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_ CHAPTER XIII. We Meet Once More I think it was about three weeks that I stayed with the round-up. I didn't get tired of the life, or weary of honest labor, or anything of that sort. I think the trouble was that I grew accustomed to the life, so that the exhilarating effects of it wore off, or got so soaked into my system that I began to take it all as a matter of course. And that, naturally, left room for other things. I know I'm no good at analysis, and that's as close as I can come to accounting for my welching, the third week out. You see, we were working south and west, and getting farther and farther away from--well, from the part of country that I knew and liked best. It's kind of lonesome, leaving old landmarks behind you; so when White Divide dropped down behind another range of hills and I couldn't turn in my saddle almost any time and see the jagged, blue sky-line of her, I stood it for about two days. Then I rolled my bed one morning, caught out two horses from my string instead of one, told the wagon-boss I was going back to the ranch, and lit out--with the whole bunch grinning after me. As they would have said, they were all "dead next," but were good enough not to say so. Or, perhaps, they remembered the boxing-lessons I had given them in the bunk-house a year or more ago. I did feel kind of sneaking, quitting them like that; but it's like playing higher than your logical limit: you know you're doing a fool thing, and you want to plant your foot violently upon your own person somewhere, but you go right ahead in the face of it all. They didn't have to tell me I was acting like a calf that has lost his mother in the herd. (You know he is prone to go mooning back to the last place he was with her, if it's ten miles.) I knew it, all right. And when I topped a hill and saw the high ridges and peaks of White Divide stand up against the horizon to the north, I was so glad I felt ashamed of myself and called one Ellis Carleton worse names than I'd stand to hear from anybody else. Still, to go back to the metaphor, I kept on shoving in chips, just as if I had a chance to win out and wasn't the biggest, softest-headed idiot the Lord ever made. Why, even Perry Potter almost grinned when I came riding up to the corral; and I caught the fellow that was kept on at the ranch, lowering his left lid knowingly at the cook, when I went in to supper that first night. But I was too far gone then to care much what anybody thought; so long as they kept their mouths shut and left me alone, that was all I asked of them. Oh, I was a heroic figure, all right, those days. On a day in June I rode dispiritedly over to the little butte just out from the mouth of the pass. Not that I expected to see her; I went because I had gotten into the habit of going, and every nice morning just simply _pulled_ me over that way, no matter how much I might want to keep away. That argues great strength of character for me, I know, but it's unfortunately the truth. I knew she was back--or that she should be back, if nothing had happened to upset their plans. Edith had written me that they were all coming, and that they would have two cars, this summer, instead of just one, and that they expected to stay a month. She and her mother, and Beryl and Aunt Lodema, Terence Weaver--deuce take him!--and two other fellows, and a Gertrude--somebody--I forget just who. Edith hoped that I would make my peace with Uncle Homer, so they could see something of me. (If I had told her how easy it was to make peace with "Uncle Homer," and how he had turned me down, she might not have been quite so sure that it was all my bull-headedness.) She complained that Gertrude was engaged to one of the fellows, and so was awfully stupid; and Beryl might as well be-- I tore up the letter just there, and the wind, which was howling that day, caught the pieces and took them over into North Dakota; so I don't know what else Edith may have had to tell me. I'd read enough to put me in a mighty nasty temper at any rate, so I suppose its purpose was accomplished. Edith is like all the rest: If she can say anything to make a man uncomfortable she'll do it, every time. This day, I remember, I went mooning along, thinking hard things about the world in general, and my little corner of it in particular. The country was beginning to irritate me, and I knew that if something didn't break loose pretty soon I'd be off somewhere. Riding over to little buttes, and not meeting a soul on the way or seeing anything but a bare rock when you get there, grows monotonous in time, and rather gets on the nerves of a fellow. When I came close up to the butte, however, I saw a flutter of skirts on the pinnacle, and it made a difference in my gait; I went up all out of breath, scrambling as if my life hung on a few seconds, and calling myself a different kind of fool for every step I took. I kept assuring myself, over and over, that it was only Edith, and that there was no need to get excited about it. But all the while I knew, down deep down in the thumping chest of me, that it wasn't Edith. Edith couldn't make all that disturbance in my circulatory system, not in a thousand years. She was sitting on the same rock, and she was dressed in the same adorable riding outfit with a blue wisp of veil wound somehow on her gray felt hat, and the same blue roan was dozing, with dragging bridle-reins, a few rods down the other side of the peak. She was sketching so industriously that she never heard me coming until I stood right at her elbow. It might have been the first time over again, except that my mental attitude toward her had changed a lot. "That's better; I can see now what you're trying to draw," I said, looking down over her shoulder--not at the sketch; it might have been a sea view, for all I knew--but at the pink curve of her cheek, which was growing pinker while I looked. She did not glance up, or even start; so she must have known, all along, that I was headed her way. She went on making a lot of marks that didn't seem to fit anywhere, and that seemed to me a bit wobbly and uncertain. I caught just the least hint of a smile twitching the corner of her mouth--I wanted awfully to kiss it! "Yes? I believe I have at last got everything--King's Highway--in the proper perspective and the proper proportion," she said, stumbling a bit over the alliteration--and no wonder. It was a sentence to stampede cattle; but I didn't stampede. I wanted, more than ever, to kiss--but I won't be like Barney, if I can help it. "It's too far off--too unattainable," I criticized--meaning something more than her sketch of the pass. "And it's too narrow. If a fellow rode in there he would have to go straight on through; there wouldn't be a chance to turn back." "Ergo, a fellow shouldn't ride in," she retorted, with a composure positively wicked, considering my feelings. "Though it does seem that a fellow rather enjoys going straight on through, regardless of anything; promises, for instance." That was the gauntlet I'd been hoping for. From the minute I first saw her there it flashed upon me that she was astonished and indignant that night when she saw Frosty and me come charging through the pass, after me telling her I wouldn't do it any more. It looked to me like I'd have to square myself, so I was glad enough of the chance. "Sometimes a fellow has to do things regardless of--promises," I explained. "Sometimes it's a matter of life and death. If a fellow's father, for instance--" "Oh, I know; Edith told me all about it." Her tone was curious, and while it did not encourage further explanations or apologies, it also lacked absolution of the offense I had committed. I sat down in the grass, half-facing her to better my chance of a look into her eyes. I was consumed by a desire to know if they still had the power to send crimply waves all over me. For the rest, she was prettier even than I remembered her to be, and I could fairly see what little sense or composure I had left slide away from me. I looked at her fatuously, and she looked speculatively at a sharp ridge of the divide as if that sketch were the only thing around there that could possibly interest her. "Why do you spend every summer out here in the wilderness?" I asked, feeling certain that nothing but speech could save me from going hopelessly silly. She turned her eyes calmly toward me, and--their power had not weakened, at all events. I felt as if I had taken hold of a battery with all the current turned on. "Why, I suppose I like it here in summer. You're here, yourself; don't you like it?" I wanted to say something smart, there, and I have thought of a dozen bright remarks since; but at the time I couldn't think of a blessed thing that came within a mile of being either witty or epigrammatic. Love-making was all new to me, and I saw right then that I wasn't going to shine. I finally did remark that I should like it better if her father would be less belligerent and more peaceful as a neighbor. "You told me, last summer, that you enjoyed keeping up the feud," she reminded, smiling whimsically down at me. She made a wrong play there; she let me see that she did remember some things that I said. It boosted my courage a notch. "But that was last summer," I countered. "One can change one's view-point a lot in twelve months. Anyway, you knew all along that I didn't mean a word of it." "Indeed!" It was evident that she didn't quite like having me take that tone. "Yes, 'indeed'!" I repeated, feeling a rebellion against circumstances and at convention growing stronger within me. Why couldn't I put her on my horse and carry her off and keep her always? I wondered crazily. That was what I wanted to do. "Do you ever mean what you say, I wonder?" she mused, biting her pencil-point like a schoolgirl when she can't remember how many times three goes into twenty-seven. "Sometimes. Sometimes I mean more." I set my teeth, closed my eyes--mentally--and plunged, insanely, not knowing whether I should come to the surface alive or knock my head on a rock and stay down. "For instance, when I say that some day I shall carry you off and find a preacher to marry us, and that we shall live happily ever after, whether you want to or not, because I shall _make_ you, I mean every word of it--and a lot more." That was going some, I fancy! I was so scared at myself I didn't dare breathe. I kept my eyes fixed desperately on the mouth of the pass, all golden-green in the sunshine; and I remember that my teeth were so tight together that they ached afterward. The point of her pencil came off with a snap. I heard it, but I was afraid to look. "Do you? How very odd!" Her voice sounded queer, as if it had been squeezed dry of every sort of emotion. "And--Edith?" I looked at her then, fast enough. "Edith?" I stared at her stupidly. "What the--what's Edith got to do with it?" "Possibly nothing"--in the same squeezed tone. "Men are so--er--irresponsible; and you say you don't always mean--Still, when a man writes pages and _pages_ to a girl every week for nearly a year, one naturally supposes--" "Oh, look here!" I was getting desperate enough to be a bit rough with her. "Edith doesn't care a rap about me, and you know it. And she knows I don't care, and--and if anybody had anything to say, it would be your Mr. Terence Weaver." "_My_ Mr. Terence Weaver?" She was looking down at me sidewise, in a perfectly maddening way. "You are really very--er--funny, Mr. Carleton." "Well," I rapped out between my teeth, "I don't _feel_ funny. I feel--" "No? But, really, you know, you act that way." I saw she was getting all the best of it--and, in my opinion, that would kill what little chance a man might have with a girl. I set deliberately about breaking through that crust of composure, if I did nothing more. "That depends on the view-point," I grinned. "Would you think it funny if I carried you off--really, you know--and--er--married you and made you live happy--" "You seem to insist upon the happy part of it, which is not at all--" "Necessary?" I hinted. "Plausible," she supplied sweetly. "But would you think it funny, if I did?" She regarded her broken pencil ruefully--or pretended to--and pinched her brows together in deep meditation. Oh, she was the most maddening bit of young womanhood--But, there, no Barney for me. "I--might," she decided at last. "It _would_ be rather droll, you know, and I wonder how you'd manage it; I'm not very tiny, and I rather think it wouldn't be easy to--er--carry me off. Would you wear a mask--a black velvet mask? I should insist upon black velvet. And would you say: 'Gadzooks, madam! I command you not to scream!' Would you?" She leaned toward me, and her eyes--well, for downright torture, women are at times perfectly fiendish. I caught her hand, and I held it, too, in spite of her. That far I was master. "No," I told her grimly. "If I saw that you were going to do anything so foolish as to scream, I should just kiss you, and--kiss you till you were glad to be sensible about it." Well, she tried first to look calmly amused; then she tried to look insulted, and to freeze me into sanity. She ended, however, by looking a good bit confused, and by blushing scarlet. I had won that far. I kept her hand held tight in mine; I could feel it squirm to get away, and it felt--oh, thunder! "Let's play something else," she said, after a long minute. "I--I never did admire highwaymen particularly, and I must go home." "No, you mustn't," I contradicted. "You must--" She looked at me with those wonderful, heavy-lashed eyes, and her lips had a little quiver as if--Oh, I don't know, but I let go her hand, and I felt like a great, hulking brute that had been teasing a child till it cried. "All right," I sighed, "I'll let you go this time. But I warn you, little girl. If--no, _when_ I find you out from King's Highway by yourself again, that kidnaping is sure going to come off. The Lord intended you to be Mrs. Ellis Carleton. And forty feuds and forty fathers can't prevent it. I don't believe in going against the decrees of Providence; a _wise_ Providence." She bit her lip at the corner. "You must have a little private Providence of your own," she retorted, with something like her old assurance. "I'm sure mine never hinted at such a--a fate for me. And one feud is as good as forty, Mr. Carleton. If you are anything like your father, I can easily understand how the feud began. The Kings and the Carletons are fond of their own way." "Thy way shall be my way," I promised rashly, just because it sounded smart. "Thank you. Then there will be no melodramatic abductions in the shadow of White Divide," she laughed triumphantly, "and I shall escape a most horrible fate!" She went, still laughing, down to where her horse was waiting. I followed--rather, I kept pace with her. "All the same, I dare you to ride out alone from King's Highway again," I defied. "For, if you do, and I find you--" "Good-by, Mr. Carleton. You'd be splendid in vaudeville," she mocked from her saddle, where she had got with all the ease of a cowboy, without any help from me. "Black velvet mask and gadzooks, madam--I must certainly tell Edith. It will amuse her, I'm sure." "No, you won't tell Edith," I flung after her, but I don't know if she heard. She rode away down the steep slope, the roan leaning back stiffly against the incline, and I stood watching her like a fool. I didn't think it would be good policy to follow her. I tried to roll a cigarette--in case she might look back to see how I was taking her last shot. But she didn't, and I threw the thing away half-made. It was a case where smoke wouldn't help me. If I hadn't made my chance any better, I knew I couldn't very well make it worse; but there was mighty little comfort in that reflection. And what a bluff I had put up! Carry her off and marry her? Lord knows I wanted to, badly enough! But-- _ |
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