by Zane Grey
“Miss Dixon, Mr. Toller sent me,” he explained. “He’s got a ride for you clear through to Split Rock. You’re pretty lucky, ma’am. Hurry, and let me take your pack.”
Martha, murmuring incoherently, slipped the straps of her pack, and trotted after the boy. He led her back to Toller’s store in front of which stood a long, low car, covered with dust and mud. It was a powerful car, and the engine was running smoothly.
“This Bligh’s niece?” inquired a tanned individual, in the driver’s seat, of Mr. Toller who stood near.
“Yes. Miss Dixon, we’ve found you a ride. Meet Mr. Lee Todd. He’ll land you in Split Rock tonight by ten or eleven.”
“Oh, Mr. Toller — Mr. Todd—” But Martha could say no more than that. The girl’s hesitation was taken by both men as speechless gratitude.
“Glad to meet you, Miss. I know Nick Bligh. Salt of the earth...Do you mind travelin’ fast?”
Martha shook her head.
“I’ve got to be in Lauder by mornin’. Glad to take you — if you’ve got nerve.”
“That’s my — middle name,” cried Martha huskily. “Get in beside me. Put her bags in back...So long, Sol. See you next week.”
The car roared and lurched, drowning Mr. Toller’s good-by. Martha waved to him and the sympathetic youngster. Then the stores, the service station, flashed by and Martha Ann realized that she was in for the ride of her life.
“Never talk while I’m drivin’!” said Mr. Todd, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of his car.
Martha sank back in the seat and closed her eyes. She did not care how fast he drove. The faster the better! She had been a silly child to give way to her disappointment and homesickness. All the way, everything always had ended well. More than good fortune had watched over her. Prayers that she had never been too weary or discouraged to remember had been answered. Martha just laid her head back and rested for a long while.
At length, when her weakness had passed, she opened her eyes to see the landscape speeding past. The gray road split the rolling plain for miles and miles ahead. But there were hills in the distance, and beyond them low dark ranges of mountains. There were few green fields and the patches of trees and farm houses appeared even scarcer than in Nebraska. Before Martha had realized it they were beyond Beulah, out on the Custer Battlefield Highway. Sundance, Carlisle, Moorcroft were passed in succession, so quickly that Martha imagined the towns to be close together. At Moorcroft the driver crossed the Belle Fourche River and struck off the main highway for Newcastle. He drove too fast for Martha to see either country or towns with any satisfaction. At Newcastle Mr. Todd stopped at a gas station.
“Gas, oil, water,” he ordered, as he stepped out. “We’ll have a couple of minutes here, Miss Dixon. Get out an’ stretch. I’ll fetch some sandwiches an’ pie.”
Martha Ann took advantage of the stop to get a little exercise. She wanted to ask questions, as well as walk, but as she could not do both she chose the latter.
Mr. Todd soon returned carrying two paper bags which he deposited in the front seat. Martha hurried back to the car.
“How are you ridin’?” he grinned.
“Fine. You’re the most satisfactory man who has given me a lift on the whole trip west.”
“Thanks. Here’s some grub, an’ milk, too. Pile in, an’ we’ll hit the pike. Lusk is our next stop. About seventy-odd miles. We’ll do it in an hour or so. At Lusk we’ll hit the Yellowstone Highway, an’ then we will really step on her.”
“Seems to me you’ve been doing fairly well,” laughed Martha. “I can’t see the scenery.”
“Wal, you’ll not miss much along here. Too wide an’ bare. But it gets pretty out along the Sweetwater.”
“What will you have for lunch?” asked Martha peeping into the bags.
“I had a little bite an’ a big drink. I’ll smoke if you don’t object.”
“No, indeed. I don’t mind!”
“Wal, I kinda took you to be one who didn’t smoke,” he replied, offering his box of cigarettes.
“I don’t.”
“Good. There’s a few old-fashioned girls left. Say good-by to Newcastle.”
Martha found it quite a novelty to eat lunch flying along at a mile a minute. She did not know anything about racing cars or drivers, but she had confidence in this bronzed Westerner. She had liked Mr. Toller, too. Uncle Nick had been thirty years and more in the West, and surely he would have become genuinely western. Musing thus Martha slowly ate her lunch. They passed through Clifton, through which Todd drove slowly enough for her to see the post office. After Clifton came Mule Creek, Hatcreek and then Lusk.
From Lusk the towns on the highway became more numerous, and prosperous looking. And at Douglas they crossed the North Platte River, one of the famous streams of the West, according to Todd. Martha had glimpses of it here and there, as they raced on west, and the wide reaches of sand, the grazing cattle, the green bottom lands of willow and cottonwood, delighted her eyes.
Sweeps of country beyond the river caused Martha more than once to exclaim with rapture. They seemed to promise mysterious and marvelous things to come. Perhaps her uncle’s new range land lay in that direction.
At dusk they rolled into Casper, which the city girl found to her surprise to be quite a large place. A wide street, bright with electric lights was crowded with cars, and the sidewalks were thronged with evening shoppers. She kept her seat in the car and ate the remainder of the lunch while Mr. Todd attended to his affairs.
She had more than her reward. A slim wide-sombreroed young man, with mischief written all over his smooth dark face, clinked up to the car and addressed her:
“Howdy, kid, how’d you like to step out tonight?” he inquired with a smile.
“I’d love it,” replied Martha, rising to the occasion. It would take a good deal to affront her on this wonderful day.
“Was thet broad-shouldered driver your pop?”
“He was, and he is never so happy as when he is beating up cowboys.”
“By glory, he looked it,” rejoined the youth sheepishly. “Then we’re up agin it, sweetheart. Unless you can give him the slip. What say?”
“Can’t be done, Lancelot. I’ve tried that all too often.”
“Lancelot? Who’s thet guy?” inquired the cowboy doubtfully.
“Lancelot was a swell guy in the Middle Ages. Wonderful lover, according to history.”
“Say, are you razzin’ me?”
Martha laughed merrily. “Run along, cowboy. I’m afraid you’re no Lochinvar. And here comes pop.”
Mr. Todd arrived just in time to witness the rather precipitate departure of the cowboy.
“What was that puncher hangin’ around you for?”
“I think he wanted to take me out. Called me ‘sweetheart.’ I don’t think our eastern boys have anything on your Westerners for being fast workers. I told that boy you were my pop and made a specialty of beating up cowboys. It worked splendidly.”
The rancher appeared to enjoy Martha’s joke. “Doggone me! I wish I was your pop...Wal, we’ll let ’em eat our dust from here on.”
“What road do we take out of Casper?”
“The Old Oregon Trail — one of the first an’ greatest roads thet opened up the West. Sorry it’s night.”
“When will we get to Split Rock?” asked Martha eagerly.
“Wal, if we don’t chuck a shoe or somethin’ I’d say about ten o’clock.”
They were off, beyond the red and white lights into the black open. The night air was cold. Martha’s jacket afforded but slight protection — at least on her windward shoulder. The car droned like a giant wasp. The runaway slid down a little way in the seat and fell asleep. She awoke with a start, out of a dream in which she had been struggling with tramps. Mr. Todd was shaking her arm.
“Wal, you was dead to the world,” he said. “You shore had a fine nap. We made it in good time. This is your town an’ here’s your lodgin’ house. I’ve stopped here
. Nice woman runs it, good grub an’ clean beds. The automobile has sure changed the West.”
He carried her bags in, engaged her room, and told the proprietress who she was and directed her to take good care of Martha.
“Remember me to your uncle, Miss. An’ now good luck an’ good-by.”
“Mr. Todd, it was the swiftest — and happiest — ride I ever had! I just can’t thank you enough. Good-by.”
CHAPTER VI
MARTHA ANN WAS awakened the following morning by a bold baritone voice singing “La Paloma.” Evidently the singer was below in the yard at the back of the inn. The sun was already high in the sky. Surprised that she had slept so late, she hopped out of bed, quickly, to find that the air was cold. It was quiet except for the slightly nasal rendition of “La Paloma” in the yard below.
“Smoky, you shore cain’t sing,” drawled a very slow accusing voice, rich with a southern twang. “No more’n you can make love.”
“Ahuh. I reckon all I’m good for is to fork a boss an’ hawg-tie a steer,” replied another voice, of quite different timber.
“Wal, you play a pretty good game of draw, among some strange punchers.”
“All right, Texas Jack. You win. I shore got—”
“Hey, you lean, hungry lookin’ hombres,” interrupted a high-pitched feminine voice. “Maw says to come an’ get it.”
Rapid footsteps, accompanied by a clinking sound, attested to the importance of this call to breakfast.
Martha was at a loss, for a moment, to name the musical, metallic clink. “Spurs, of course,” she said, presently. “Cowboys! Golly, this is Wyoming!” Then she gave a tiny squeal as she dipped her hands into the basin of cold Wyoming water.
Martha became conscious of a tendency to delay going downstairs. This was the first time she could remember ever being tardy for breakfast. Notwithstanding her joy and eagerness, and her curiosity, she would just as lief not meet those cowboys, especially the one with the drawl, who evidently considered himself a Lothario.
At length, however, she was packed and ready, without any further excuse to linger. Picking up her pack, she proceeded down the stairs. There was no one in the front room, which appeared to be the office. Martha deposited her luggage in a chair and walked down the hall to the dining room, the location of which was not hard to place. As she entered the room she almost tripped over the foot of someone whom she had not seen.
“Look where you’re goin’, kid,” complained a hard voice. “I got a bunion.”
“You’ve got more, sir — and that is — a pair of enormous feet,” retorted Martha, looking up from the huge dusty boots into the lean sharp face of a blond cowboy. He froze with sudden amazement.
“Smoky, you shore air clumsy,” drawled a voice Martha recognized. “Let the lady pass.”
A long arm shot out and dragged the stunned Smoky from in front of the door. Then Martha saw the second cowboy, and if sight of him did not petrify her in her tracks it was not because he was not the wildest and most magnificent human she had ever seen.
“Good mornin’, Miss Dixon,” said Mrs. Glemm, the proprietress, and she rescued Martha and led her to a small table near a window. “Hope you rested right well.”
“I slept like a log. Don’t believe I’d ever have awakened but for some terrible singing in the garden.”
The dining room was small and Martha’s high young voice carried well. From the hall came a sound of stamping boots and then a “Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Meet my daughter, Nellie,” continued Mrs. Glemm, as a buxom pleasant-faced girl entered the room. “This is Miss Dixon, daughter, who’s come out West to visit an uncle...Now, Miss, Nellie will get you a nice breakfast, an’ I’m at your service.”
“Can you hire someone to drive me out to my Uncle’s — Nicholas Bligh?” asked Martha Ann eagerly. “Yes, indeedie. We’ll have a car all ready.”
Martha enjoyed a western breakfast, as well as a chat with the Glemm girl. She had nice brown eyes and rosy cheeks. The city girl asked casual questions about the weather, the town, the cattle business, the movies, what kind of social life they had in Split Rock, to all of which she received very full and cheerful answers. Evidently Split Rock was an up-and-coming place.
After finishing breakfast and paying her bill, Martha Ann was informed that her car and driver were waiting. Mrs. Glemm carried her packsack out to a dilapidated Ford, the driver of which, a nice young boy, jumped out to assist.
“John, did you find out where Mr. Bligh’s ranch is?”
“No, ma’am. He’s new hereabouts. But Sam Johnson will know.”
“Don’t forget to have Sam fill up...Good-by, Miss. Hope you stay long an’ have a fine visit. But you never will go back — east — not with them eyes of your’ n.”
The boy drove down a wide street, where red signs and garish fronts were conspicuous by their absence. Horses, vehicles, cars, dust and men were everywhere in evidence. Martha saw that Split Rock was a small place, but exciting. A halt was made at a service station.
“Sam, fill this bus up, an’ tell me where to find Nicholas Bligh,” said the young driver.
“Don’t know, Sim, but I do know who does. Rustle down to Jed Price. He’ll tell you.”
No sooner had the boy left than from the little glass-windowed office stepped a lithe, tall young man. The instant Martha espied him she recognized him, and realized that he had been waiting there to waylay her. Her second glance, as he leisurely approached the car, appraised him more closely. His shapely feet were encased in high-top, decorated boots, much the worse for wear, and his spurs dragged in the gravel. He wore jeans, also stained and old, and above his narrow hips was a belt shiny with brass shells. A yellow scarf hung full and loose from his neck. He had a red face, clean as a baby’s, eyes of intense, vivid blue, and hair as red as a flame. It stood up like a mane. In his hand he carried a huge old sombrero of a tan color.
“Mawnin’, Miss Dixon,” he drawled, with a smile that no girl, much less a western-struck maiden like Martha, could have found anything but agreeable.
“Good morning,” she replied, a little coolly. It would never do to encourage this cowboy. But Martha wanted to.
“I shore hope thet clumsy cowpuncher didn’t hurt you when he kicked you over heah at Glemm’s.”
“No, I guess I’m the one who did the kicking.”
He leaned in at the window on the driver’s side, and ringed the brim of his sombrero with strong brown fingers. His piercing eyes took Martha in from head to boots, and back again. But she liked his look, though it verged upon the audacious.
“Hitchhiker, I reckon, an’ all alone. Doggone, but I like a girl who ain’t afraid.”
“What’s there to be afraid of in Wyoming?”
“Wal, a lot, Miss. Tough lot of cowpunchers aboot heah.”
“Indeed! I’ve only seen — two that I know of.”
He never blinked one of those speculative eyes of his. “You shore need an escort, wherever you’re goin’ .”
“Isn’t this young man trustworthy?”
“Aw, Sim is fine. But he’s only a kid. You need a man.”
“Yes? I’m afraid I’ll have to take the risk. I’ve no money to waste.”
“Shore, I wouldn’t take no money from a lady.”
“You are very kind, indeed. But I think I’ll dispense with an escort. What can there be to be afraid of?”
“Wal, ootside of tough punchers, there’s Injuns, hawse thieves, bootleggers, hijackers, a big stiff of a sheriff who thinks he’s a lady killer — to name a few reasons why you shouldn’t go alone.”
“Oh, what a formidable list! How can I tell, Mr. Texas, that you don’t belong to one of those classifications?”
“My Gawd, lady, do I look it?” he protested.
“No. You look very innocuous — not to say innocent.”
“What’s thet inno-yus?” he inquired, with his dazzling smile. “An’ how’d you know I’m Texas Haynes?”
“I didn�
��t. I only heard the prefix. You, of course, read my name on the ledger in the hotel?”
“Shore did, Miss Martha. Hope you ain’t offended. You see only once in a life-time does a girl like you roll into this town.”
“Is that a compliment?” asked Martha, archly.
“Wal, if you want it straight, no girl so purty ever did—”
“That’ll do, thanks. It’s a compliment.”
He stared at her coolly.
“You don’t get me. I’ll bet you’ve been scared, bothered, insulted on yore long hitchhike? Haven’t you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say.”
“But by no Texan...Miss Martha, the cowboy from Texas who’d insult a girl ain’t been born yet,” he drawled with a slow, almost passionate, pride.
“That’s something splendid to know. But aren’t cowboys from Wyoming just as — as chivalrous?”
“I’ll leave thet for you to find oot. An’ you’re liable to pronto if you don’t let me go along with you.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Where air you haided for?”
“I don’t know exactly. My uncle lives on the Sweetwater. The driver has gone to find out.”
“Miss Dixon, if you don’t reckon me too nosy, what’s yore uncle’s name?” queried Haynes. His flashing blue eyes seemed shadowed with his swift change of thought.
“It is Nicholas Bligh.”
“Bligh!” echoed the cowboy. He stepped back from the car to make her a gallant bow. “I’ve heahed of Nick Bligh, a new cattleman in these parts. Sorry I cain’t tell you I’ve rode for him...Good day, Miss Dixon.”
He put on his huge sombrero and strode across the street, a superb figure, and graceful save for the slightly bowed legs. He did not look back. Martha Ann, watching him, pondered over the sudden slight change in his demeanor and expression upon hearing her uncle’s name.
Then the young man delegated to drive Martha carne running back and jumped into the car. “Found out, Miss. Aw, easy! An’ not so fur. Take us mebbe three hours. We turn off at Sweetwater bridge. Only ranch down river, so we can’t miss it.”
