by Zane Grey
“He might be that and all the same be a desperado,” returned her father, dryly.
“Lenta, dear, you are quite mistaken in young Stuart,” interposed Harriet.
“Hallie! Do you know anything about him?” asked Lindsay.
“Yes, I regret to say.”
“Keep it to yourself, sister, for I sure won’t believe it,” snapped Lenta, suspiciously. She had been rubbed the wrong way.
“Hallie, tell me,” ordered her father, peremptorily.
“Stuart is a bad hombre, according to Ted. He is married to a girl named Webster in La Junta. She left him or he deserted her, for she went back to work in a restaurant there. Laramie must know, for he ordered Stuart off the ranch this morning. You heard him, Lenta.”
“It’s a — lie!” gasped Lenta, passionately. “You’re all picking on me.”
“Nonsense! We are trying to keep you from making a fool of yourself,” replied Lindsay, impatiently.
“Lenta, what has gotten into you?” asked Harriet, in amaze.
“Laramie said he reckoned it was the devil, Hallie. Eastern girls run wild out here sometimes,” said Lindsay.
“Aw, that for Laramie!” burst out Lenta furiously snapping her fingers. “He’s only sore at me because of Lonesome.”
“Lenta, are you going to stop riding around alone with these fellows?” demanded Lindsay, gravely. “Are you going to stop carrying on with anyone? Are you going to stay at home and help your mother?”
“No I’m not,” flamed out Lenta.
“Very well. I’ll lock you in your room until you change your mind,” replied her father, and taking Lenta’s arm he dragged her out. Lenta looked back at Harriet with eyes vastly different from a baby’s.
“I’ll get even with you, Hal Lindsay,” she cried.
Most certainly this was not the hour for Harriet to have the long heart-to-heart talk with Lenta that she had determined upon. She sighed heavily. Lenta might be going to turn out the black sheep of the family. For that matter Neale was not so white a sheep. At La Junta he had caroused with the cow-punchers, so it had been reported, until they laid him away under a table. He had not yet returned from La Junta. One grain of comfort Harriet extracted from all this trouble was the way her father took it. He had evinced a most surprising imperviousness. She remembered when even little things used to infuriate him. But now he was out West. Out in the open! It was magical. She had changed herself, and as she strolled through the courtyard toward her office she drew a full deep breath of that sweet, dry, hot, sage-laden air. It expanded her breast.
As she passed the lodgings of her three range-riders she heard sounds of merriment. Lonesome laughing after he had been beaten to a pulp! Then Ted’s low, less coarse laugh rang out. Harriet distinctly heard from the half-open door: “Who’s gonna tell her?” And the answer in Laramie’s drawl: “Reckon Tracks better do thet. I shore don’t stand ace high no more.” To this Lonesome replied: “Hell, you got four aces up with her sister.” And again Ted laughed and spoke: “Girls hate jealous, glum blokes. Listen to me. Larry, if instead of being afraid to look at Hallie you grab her and kiss her dumb, and Lonesome if you brace up and do the same with Lent we’ll all be happy. My governor will stake us — —”
Harriet drew out of earshot. Her ears certainly tingled and her cheeks glowed. She ran up into her office and shut the door. “Oh, the brazen wretches! To parcel us girls out that way!” she whispered, hot and cold by turns. “Ted is the cunning one. So that’s how he won Flo? . . . To advise Laramie to — to grab me — oh-h! . . . if he did—” Harriet hid her burning face in her arms as she leaned over her desk, and shook from head to foot. What had outraged pride and reserve to do with the tremendous tumult in her breast? She had been waylaid and surprised by an unknown self. One self seemed shamed and horrified: another thrilled and throbbed, and cried out in demanding voice for the very thing that had stricken her.
* * * * *
Harriet kept to herself the remainder of that day, and when night came, owing to the fact of Lenta’s confinement in another room, she was alone. She felt relieved. She bore a secret in her bosom and she could not everlastingly hide it. Her mirror told her many tales, as well as forced her to gaze at this flush-faced, wild-eyed stranger. Nevertheless she slept deeply and long.
Next morning she again dressed to ride, and discovered that she had awakened in a sublime and heroic mood. She had no fear of a horse. She would ride the little beast of a mustang that had thrown her or break her neck trying.
She had breakfast with Ted and Flo. They were a delightful couple, when Harriet could forget Ted’s duplicity.
“I want to ride, too, darling,” said Flo, coaxingly. “You promised to teach me. I’ve got such a gorgeous riding-habit.”
“Listen, sweetheart. You’ll ride in overalls,” quoth Ted, masterfully. “Pants — my stylish wife!”
“Well, anyway, just so you take me. I never thought Hallie would come to it. Look at her. Getting Western.”
“Sure. She looks great. I’ll take you this afternoon, honey. Laramie has a job for me this morning.”
“Job? Do you have to work?”
“I should smile I do. I’ve got you to support now — you wonderful girl. . . . It’s a job finding horse tracks. Lonesome is in bed — done up — and I’ve — —”
They went out with their arms around each other. Somehow Harriet suffered a queer pang. How happy she was for Flo! That boy might be a gun-throwing cowboy, but he worshiped her and she was safe. If only Lenta had — ! Her father came in, dusty and warm, a cheerful presence.
“Hello, Hal. I’ve been up with the boys,” he announced, gaily. “Hungry as a bear! . . . Hey Jud. Ham and eggs. Coffee — and a couple of your sour-doughs. . . . Neale rode in late last night, Hallie, I’m glad to say.”
“That’s good. How — was he?”
“Didn’t see him till this morning. He was all right. Looked rocky. Laramie routed him out early and put him to work.”
“At what?”
“Digging fence-post holes. Gosh! how the riders hate that sort of work. I used to like it. They sure rode Neale. That Wind River Charlie — he’s a dandy chap — I heard him say for Neale’s benefit, ‘Laramie, dog-gone if the boss’s son ain’t the plumb best hole-digger I even seen.’ And Laramie said: ‘Shore. I seen thet right off. I’ll put him on thet mile stretch we want fenced down the valley.’”
“And what did Neale say?” queried Harriet, keenly interested.
“I couldn’t tell it to a lady,” laughed her father. “But at that, it tickled me. He’s game, Hallie. And that counts out here. Laramie said: ‘Don’t worry no more about Neale, boss.’”
“Well, let’s stop worrying — then,” replied Harriet, her voice breaking a little.
“I shall. But Lent’s a different proposition,” returned Lindsay, gravely shaking his head. “As I came up the road just now she saw me. She’s so little she can sit up in that window. What do you think she called me?”
“Lord only knows.”
“Guess I’d better not tell you. . . . Aggh! Thanks, Jud. That ham sure smells good.”
Harriet wondered if Lenta would espy her as she passed on the road, which turned somewhat along that side of the ranch-house before going down. Before she had reached the head of the descent Lenta hailed her.
“Mawnin’, dear sister,” called the girl in her sweetest most dangerous voice.
“Why, good-morning, Lenta dear. I should think you’d decide to obey father,” replied Harriet, feeling like a hypocrite.
“If you don’t get me out of this I’ll queer you with Laramie,” threatened Lenta, viciously.
“Nonsense. You couldn’t queer me — even if — —”
“Oh, couldn’t I? Laramie believes you’re a saint. But you’re not, old girl. I’ll squeal about your affair with Emery and you bet your life I’ll make it something to drive even Laramie to drink.”
Affronted and stung, Harriet retorted: “Child, how yo
u talk! There’s nothing between Laramie and me.”
“Sure. You’re too cold-blooded to love anybody, even your own sister. But that big stiff of a rider would adore you if you’d — —”
“Hush!” commanded Harriet. “How dare you speak so — so insultingly — to me?” With that Harriet wheeled to hurry down the road. Presently a shrill voice pealed after her, and suddenly its content forced Harriet to clasp her hands over her ears and run. This encounter and the violence of action were not conducive to composure, or a reasonable judgment for the issue at hand.
Harriet had a little bay mustang saddled instead of the gentle Moze, and such was her state of mind that she mounted him right in front of the Mexicans, and also Dakota, who gaped at her. True, Pedro was holding him.
“Miss, he ain’t been worked out lately, an’ he might pitch. Better let me go with you,” advised the rider, anxiously.
“Thanks, Dakota. I could ride an outlaw this morning,” she replied. Nevertheless, after she was out of sight, she concluded discretion would be the better part of valor, and she would be wise to put the mustang through his paces over in the secluded sandy plot she had utilized the day before.
Presently she became aware of sundry sore spots on her anatomy. She had not felt at all spry, still she had not known she had sore muscles and aching bones. The mustang wanted to run, yet he appeared tractable, and Harriet believed she could manage him. Suddenly he bolted and tore off at breakneck speed. Harriet had all she could do to stick on. But instead of getting panic-stricken she grew angry. She did not care whether she fell off or not, only it would never be from any lack of her trying to stay on. The wind tore at her hair; branches of trees stung her face. When he leaped a log she shot sky-high to come down in the saddle with such a jolt that she thought her head would fly off her shoulders. If he had needed any guiding, it would have been a desperate predicament. But the mustang was not running away; he was just racing for fun. He tore out of the cottonwoods, down the pasture road, all around that pasture, across the valley and up on the other side into the woods again. Harriet stayed on him until he slowed down.
“Son-of-a-gun!” she panted, in true Western expression. Hot, wet, her sombrero gone, her quirt lost, her hair flying, she made the astounding discovery that this strenuous action or her extreme agitation had done away with her pains, at least for the moment. Suddenly her anger gave way to elation. She was still in the saddle. “You darned little wild nag! I’m on you yet!” she cried.
Before she realized it she was back in the neighborhood of the sequestered natural corral which she had started out to find. She headed the mustang there, and soon felt safe from curious eyes, at least. The mustang grew cranky. He certainly was a self-willed animal. Still he did not appear to want to leave the oval, so she let him have his own way. He pranced around, side-stepped, champed his bit, half-reared, and all of a sudden bolted again. But just as he got going faster he made a terrific leap, and landing stiff-legged he threw Harriet in a parabolic curve far over his head. She fell in the sand and scooted along on her face, her hands out, until she dug in so deep that she stopped. Breathless, stunned, she lay still. Am I dead — she thought? Her consciousness seemed real, though all outside was dark. The smell of sand roused her to the fact that she had her face buried. She was smothering. To her amaze she sat up easily. She was not hurt, apparently, but she surely presented an undignified spectacle for Harriet Lindsay. The mustang stood there meekly, as if waiting. A mere sight of him inflamed Harriet to a degree she had hitherto never dreamed of.
“You ornery little Western mule!” she ejaculated. “You’re like all the rest of this darned West. You’re laughing at me. You’ve got the soul of these tricky cow-punchers in you. But I’ll get the best of you. I’ll ride you if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Whereupon she got up and essayed to mount him, forgetting that Pedro had held him for her at the stable, and that he was one of the horses trained for a flying mount. As she leaped up he leaped forward and spilled her. Harriet spun around on her head and went down to roll over. Strangely she was not hurt, only enraged. When she shook the sand out of her hair she strode over to the mustang and kicked him in the belly as she had seen Lonesome do to a mean horse. Still it was not a brutal kick, but just something to show him her spirit. Then all set, careful, nerved, she slipped her toe in the stirrup and sprang off her right. She appeared to be swung up into the saddle with marvelous ease. If Harriet had not been so furious she would have whooped at this feat. But the mustang was in action, headed around the inclosure. From gallop he changed to run, and after a couple of times around the corral he turned toward the center. Harriet was ready for him, so that when he executed the tricky stop she stuck like a burr.
“Fooled you, didn’t I?” she taunted.
He might have understood her, for he did something new. He bounced up and came down on stiff legs. Harriet thought every bone in her body was broken and her teeth jarred loose. She could not keep her head up. He bent double and pitched her high. He was bucking with her. While high off the saddle Harriet realized that, and instead of frightening her it only made her furious. She lit in the saddle and desperately clutched the pommel. He pitched again — up — down — up — down — up — down. Next time Harriet missed the saddle and slid off his back like oil. She sat right down in the sand. It was ignominious but no more. It did not hurt. If that was all she had to stand from pitching she could do it all day. The mustang led her a long walk around the corral before she could catch and mount him again. Whereupon he promptly began to pitch again. On the third buck he threw her ten feet aside, to alight on her shoulder and head. The soft sand saved her from injury. She got up and went at him again.
In the succeeding hour or two, or whatever period it took, Harriet was thrown often after sticking on longer each successive time. She knew she was going to ride him eventually and the mustang knew it too. That made him worse.
“Tomorrow I’ll wear — spurs,” panted Harriet. “Then I’ll rake you over. . . . You won’t throw me — either — you ornery — white-eyed little Western horse!”
No doubt the truth of this was assimilated by the mustang, for in a last and valiant effort of pitching he gave her the worst of her falls.
Harriet lay on her back where she had struck just outside the wall of brush. She was stunned, helpless, but conscious. She realized she was conscious, for she saw the blue sky, the white clouds, the green cottonwoods, and she heard a jingling musical step. Then the brush rustled and parted right close to her. A tall form loomed over her.
“Wal, this last spill wasn’t so funny,” drawled Laramie’s familiar voice.
His face blurred in her sight. She tried to speak, but no sound came. A tight bound sensation encompassed her chest. But she was aware of his kneeling beside her, straightening her legs and arms.
“Aw, nothin’ cain’t be broke,” he muttered. “She lit square — an’ this heah soft sand—” Then he lifted her head. “Hallie, air yu hurt?”
As she gazed up her sight cleared. The dark piercing apprehension in his eyes seemed the sweetest thing she had ever realized.
“Laramie — I’m — killed,” she got out, in a husky whisper.
“Killed yore eye! Air yu hurt — an’ where?”
“My spine! — I feel — paralysis — stealing over me!” This was not such an arrant falsehood, because some paralyzing affection was attacking her modesty and dignity.
“For Gawd’s sake, girl, don’t tell me yu broke yore back?” entreated Laramie.
Whatever she had yearned for had its fulfillment in his tone, his look, in the big hands she felt tremble.
“Perhaps not so — so bad as that,” she whispered, weakening. “Help me sit up.”
He did so, very gently, though with strong clasp. Harriet got all the way to her feet. “I’m all right — I guess. . . . Dizzy. I—” she swayed, and instinctively clutched him.
“Yu’re hurt. Yu cain’t stand up,” he declared, as he held h
er.
“Oh no. I don’t feel any pain — yet. I can stand.”
But Laramie did not give her a chance to prove it, for promptly taking her up in his arms, as if she were a child, he strode off up the valley.
“I can pack yu home. Yu’re more of a load than Lenta, but yu don’t weigh much at thet,” he said, coolly.
“I do — so,” replied Harriet, confused and startled. “I weighed one hundred and twenty-six at La Junta.”
“Is thet all? Gosh! I reckoned yu was a big girl.”
Harriet closed her eyes and tried to think. There was something terribly wrong. If it was not an internal injury it was most assuredly an internal commotion. But what could she do? For the sheer, feminine, inexplicable glee of it she had practiced an innocent deceit just to see what he would betray. She would have to keep it up. What if Lenta was still at the window? Nothing would escape her eagle eyes. The thought of Lenta seeing her in Laramie’s arms was unendurable.
“Laramie, let me down now,” she said.
He did not pay the slightest attention to her. How silly of her to ask that when she had her eyes closed and looked as if she had fainted! Harriet opened them, to her sudden discomfiture. Laramie was carrying her through the willows. Her head was quite high upon his shoulder, with her face turned partly inward. He had one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees. How powerful he was! She might have been as light as a feather for all the sign he gave. She turned her face farther inward so that he could not see it. Then she made the disturbing discovery that her right side and breast were pressed tight against him. Her left hand had instinctively grasped his vest above his pocket. She saw it. All of a sudden an absurd and incredible impulse assailed her — to slip that hand and arm up around his neck. She even let go her hold on his vest before the enormity of such an act swept over her. That shattered what nerve she had left.
“Let me d-down, Laramie. I can walk now,” she entreated.
“Say, Lady, I’d do this for any girl,” was his astounding reply. “I’m not crazy about packin’ yu — if thet’s what ails yu.”
