Sunny Slopes

by Ethel Hueston

  CHAPTER XX

  LITERARY MATERIAL

  Connie wanted to see something out of the ordinary. What was the useof coming to the wild and woolly if one never saw anything wilder thana movie of New York society life, or woollier than miles of properlygarbed motorists driving under the guidance of blue-coated policemen assafely and sanely as could be done in Chicago.

  It was Julia who came to the rescue. She discovered, on a neighbor'sporch, and with admirable socialistic tendencies appropriated, aglaring poster, with slim-legged horses balancing themselves in theair, not at all inconveniencing their sunburned riders in varicoloredsilk shirts.

  "Look at the horses jump over the moon," she exulted, kissing a scarletshirt in rapture.

  Upon investigation it turned out to be an irresistible advertisement ofthe annual Frontier Days, at Fort Morgan. Carol explained the picturesto Julia, while Connie looked over her shoulder.

  "Do they do all it says?" she asked.

  Carol did not know. She had never attended any Frontier Days, but sheimagined they were even more wonderful than the quite impossibleposter. Carol's early determination to adore the Westland had becomefixed habit at last. It was capable of any miracles, to her.

  "How far is it up there?" pursued Connie, for Connie had a veryinartistic way of sticking to her subject.

  "I do not know. About a hundred miles, I believe."

  "A nice drive for the Harmer," said Connie thoughtfully. "How are theroads?"

  "I do not know, but I think all the roads are good in Colorado.Certainly no road is impassable for a Harmer Six with you at the wheel."

  "I have a notion to drive up and see them," said Connie. "Literarymaterial, you know."

  "I want to see the horsies fly, too," cried Julia quickly.

  Carol thought it might do David good, and David was sure Carol needed avacation. They would think it over.

  Connie immediately went down-town and returned with a road guide, andher arm full of literature about frontier days in general. Then it waspractically settled. A little distance of a hundred miles, a splendidcar, a driver like Connie! It was nothing. And Carol was so excitedgetting ready for their first outing in the years of David's illness,that she forgot his medicine three times in succession, and Davidmaliciously refused to remind her.

  They all talked at once, and agreed that it was very silly anddangerous and unwise, but insisted it was the most alluring, appealingmadness in the world. David, for over three years limited to theorderly, methodical, unstimulating confines of a screened porch, feltquite the old-time throbbing of his pulse and quickening of his blood.Even the doctor waxed enthusiastic. He looked into David's tired faceand said:

  "I think it will do him good. It can not do him harm."

  In the excitement of getting ready for something unusual, he developedan unnatural strength and simply could not be kept in bed at all. Heslept soundly, ate heartily, and looked forward to the trip in the carso anxiously that to the girls it was really pitiful.

  Then came a glorious day in September when the Harmer Six stood earlyat their door, the lunch basket, and suit-cases were carefullyarranged, and they were off,--off in the beautiful Harmer,--off to thecountry,--to the mountains and canyons,--to climb one of the sunnyslopes that had beckoned to them so enticingly. Almost they held theirbreath at first, afraid the first creak of the car would waken themfrom the unbelievable dream.

  Always as they climbed a long hill, Carol reminded them that they wereclimbing a sunny slope that would lead to a city of gold at the top, acity where everything was happy and bright, and there was no sickness,no sorrow, no want. And looking ahead to the spires of a littlevillage, nestling cloudy and blue on the plains, she vowed it was agolden city, and they leaned forward to catch the first sparkle of thediamond-studded streets. And when they reached the city itself,little, ugly, sordid,--a city of gold, perhaps, to those who had made afortune there, but not by any means a golden city of dreams to theArcady travelers,--Carol shook herself and said it was a mistake, shemeant the next one.

  Rooms had been engaged in advance at the Bijou, on the ground floor,for the sake of David's softened muscles, and they reached the townahead of the regular Frontier Day crowds, allowing themselves plenty oftime to get rested and to see the whole thing start.

  Julia frolicked on the wide velvety lawn with all the dogs and cats andchildren that could be drawn from the surrounding neighborhood. Davidsat on the porch in a big chair, enjoying the soft breezes sweepingdown over the plains, looking through half closed lids out upon thequiet shaded street. Carol crouched excitedly in another chair besidehim, squeezing his hand to call attention to every sunburnedpicturesque son of the plains that galloped down that way. But Connie,with the lustful eyes of a fortune-hunter walked up and down thecorridors, peering here and peeking there, listening avidly to everyunaccustomed word that was spoken,--getting material.

  Quickly the hotels were filled to capacity, and overflowed to cots inthe hall, rugs on the porches, and piles of straw in the stables. Thestreet so quietly peaceful on Sunday, by Wednesday was a throbbingthoroughfare, with autos, wagons and horses whirling by in clouds ofdust The main street, a block away, was a noisy, active, flourishing,carnival city, with fortune-tellers, two-headed dogs, snake-charmers,minstrels and all the other street-fair habitues in full possession. Adance platform was erected on a prominent corner, and bands werebrought in from all the neighboring towns on the plains.

  Connie was convinced she could get enough material to last a lifetime.No detective was hotter on the scent of a trail than she. Never twocowboys met in a secluded corner in the lobby to divide their hardlyearned coins, but Connie sauntered slowly by, catching every word,noting the size of every coin that changed possession. No gaily garbedhorseman could signal to a girl of his admiration, but Connie caughtthe motion first, and was taking mental notes for future coinage. Theywere not people to her, just material. She loved them, she reveled inthem, she dreamed of them, just as a collector of curios gloats overthe treasures he amasses. She classified them in a literary note-bookfor her own use, and kept them on file for instant reference.

  When they went to the fair-grounds, early, in order to secure acomfortable seat for David where he should not miss one twist of arider's supple body, they were as delighted as children truanting fromschool. It was the most exhilarating thing in the world,--this cleverlittle trick on the sleeping porch and the white cot, on egg-nogs andbeef juice and buttermilk. No wonder their faces tingled withexcitement and their eyes sparkled with delight.

  Connie was surprised that the girls were pretty, really pretty, withpink and white skin and polished finger nails, those girls in the silkblouses and khaki shirts, those girls with the wide sombrero and theiron muscles, who rode the bucking horses, and raced around the track,and did a thousand other appalling things that pink-skinned,shiny-nailed girls were not wont to do back home. They stayed at theBijou, a whole crowd of them, and Connie never let them out of hersight until they closed their bedroom doors for the night. They talkedin brief broken sentences, rather curtly, but their voices were quietand low, and they weren't half as slangy as cowgirls, by every literaryprecedent, ought to be. They were not like Connie, of course, tall andslim, with the fine exalted face, with soft pink palms and soft roundarms. And their striking saddle costumes were not half as curious toFort Morgan as Connie's lacy waists, and her tailored skirts, and herfrilly little silk gowns. But they were more curious to Connie.

  She tried to picture herself in a sombrero like that, with gauntlets onher hands, and with a fringed leather skirt that reached to her knees,and with a scarlet silk blouse and a yellow silk belt,--and even herdistinctly literary imagination could not compass such a miracle. Butshe was sure if she ever could rig herself up like that, she would looklike a dream, and she really envied the cowgirls, who leaped head firstfrom the saddle but always landed right side up.

  People of another world, well, yes. But there are ways of gettin
gtogether.

  Connie talked very little that first afternoon. She watched the peoplearound her, and listened as they discussed the points of the horses,the cowgirls and the jockeys with equal impartiality. She heard theirbets, their guttural grunts of disapproval with the judges' decisions,their roars of satisfaction when the right horse won. She watched thecowgirls, walking unconcernedly about the ring, flapping theirriding-whips against their leather boots. She watched the lithe-limbedcowboys slouching not ungracefully around the nervous ponies, wavingtheir hats in greeting to their friends, calling loud jests to theirfellows in the cowboy band. How strange they were, how startlinglyhuman, and yet how thousand-miles removed.

  Connie rebelled against it. They were folks. And so was Connie. Thethousand miles was a barrier, an injustice. In order to handleliterary material, she must get within touching distance of it. Allthose notes she had collected so painstakingly were cold, inanimate.In order to write of folks she must touch them, feel them, must knowthey lived and breathed as she did. Why couldn't she get atthem,--folks, plain folks, and so was she. A slow fury rose up in her,and she watched the great events Of the afternoon with resentful eyes.Even when a man not entered for racing, swung over the railing into thecenter field, and scrambled upon the bare back of King Devil, the wildhorse of the plains which had never yielded to man's bridling hand, andwas tossed and dragged and jerked and twisted, until it seemed therecould be no life left in him, yet who finally pulled the horse almostby brute force into submission, while the spectators went wild, andJulia screamed, and Carol sank breathless and white into her seat, andDavid stood on the bench and yelled until Carol pulled him down,--eventhen Connie could not get the feeling. She wanted to write thesepeople, to put them on paper, and she couldn't, because they were notpeople to her, they were just "Good points."

  Afterward, when they slowly made their way to the car, and drove hometo the Bijou again, Connie was still silent. She saw David comfortablysettled in the big chair on the sunny corner of the porch, with Carolbeside him and Julia romping on the lawn. Then she walked up and downin front of the hotel. Finally she came back to the corner of theporch.

  "David," she said impetuously, "I've got to speak to one of themmyself." She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the fair-grounds.

  "One of them?" echoed David.

  "Yes, one of those riders. I want to see if they can make me feelanything. I want to find out if they are anything like other folks."

  David looked up suddenly, and a smile came to his eyes. Connie turnedquickly, and there, not two feet from her, stood "One of them," the manwho had ridden King Devil. His sombrero was pushed back on his head,and his hair clung damply to his brown forehead. His lean face wascynical, sneering. He carried a whip and spurs in one hand, the otherrested on the bulging hip of his khaki riding trousers.

  Connie stared, fascinated, into the thin, brown, sneering face.

  "How do you do?" he said mockingly. "Isn't it charming weather?"

  Connie still looked directly into his eyes. Somehow she felt that backof the sneer, back of the resentment, there lay a little hurt that sheshould have spoken so, classed him with fine horses and cattle, him andhis kind. Connie would make amends, a daughter of the parsonage mightnot do ungracious things like that.

  "I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "I did not mean tobe rude. But the riders did fascinate me. I am spellbound. I onlywished to see if the charm would hold. I have not been in the Westbefore this." She held out her hand, slender, white, appealing.

  "I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "Idid not mean to be rude."]

  The man looked at her curiously in turn, then he jerked off hissombrero and took her hand in his. There was the contact, soft whiteskin of the city, hard brown hand of the mountain plains, and humanblood is swift to leap in response to an unwonted touch.

  Connie drew her hand away quickly, but his eyes still held hers.

  "Let me beg your pardon instead," he said. "Of course you did not meanit the way it sounded. None of my business, anyhow."

  "Come on, Prince," called a man from the road, curbing his impatienthorse. But "Prince" waved him away without turning.

  This was a wonderful girl.

  "I--I write stories," Connie explained hurriedly, to get away from thatsearching clasp of glances. "I wanted some literary material, and Iseemed so far away from everything. I thought I needed the personaltouch, you know."

  "Anything I can tell you?" he offered feverishly. "I know all aboutrange and ranch life. I can tell you anything you want to know."

  "Really? And will you do it? You know writers have just got to getmaterial. It is absolutely necessary. And I am running very short ofideas, I have been loafing."

  He waited patiently. He was more than willing to tell her everythinghe knew, or could make up to please her, but he had not the slightestidea what she wanted. Whatever it was, he certainly intended to makethe effort of his life to give her.

  "I am Constance Starr," said Connie, still more abashed by theunfaltering presence of this curious creature, who, she fully realizedat last, was quite human enough for any literary purpose. "And this ismy brother-in-law, Mr. Duke, and my sister, Mrs. Duke."

  "My name is Prince Ingram."

  David shook hands with him cordially, with smiling eyes, and asked himto sit down so Connie might ask her questions in comfort. They alltook chairs, and Prince waited. Connie racked her brain. Five minutesago there had been ten thousand things she yearned to know about thisstrange existence. Now, unfairly, she could not think of one. Itseemed to her she knew all there was to know about them. They lookedinto each other's eyes, men and women, as men and women do in Chicago.They touched hands, and the blood quickened, the old Chicago style.They talked plain English, they liked pretty clothes, they worshipedgood horses, they lived on the boundless plains. What on earth wasthere to ask? Quite suddenly, Connie understood them perfectly.

  But Prince realized that he was not making good. His one claim toadmission in her presence was his ability to tell her what she wantedto know. He had got to tell her things,--but what things? My stars,what did she want to know? How old he was, where he was born, if hewas married,--oh, by George, she didn't think he was married, did she?

  "I am not married," he said abruptly. David looked around at him insurprise, and Carol's eyes opened widely. But Connie, with what musthave been literary intuition, understood. She nodded at him and smiledas she asked, "Have you always lived out here?"

  "No." He straightened his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Here wasa starter, it would be his own fault if he could not keep talking therest of the night. "No, I came out from Columbus when I was eighteen.Came for my health." He squared his shoulders again, and laughed a bigdeep laugh which made Connie marvel that there should be such big deeplaughs in the world.

  "My father was a doctor. He sent me out, and I got a job punching timein the mines at Cripple Creek. I met some stock men, and one of themoffered me a job, and I came out and got in with them. Then I got holdof a bit of land and began gathering up stock for myself. I stayedwith the Sparker outfit six years, and then my father died. I took themoney and got my start, and--why, that is all." He stopped inastonishment. He had been sure his story would last several hours. Hehad begun at the very start, his illness at eighteen, and here he wasright up to the present, and--he rubbed his knee despairingly. Theremust be something else. There had to be something else. What underthe sun had he been doing all these fourteen years in the ranges?

  "Don't you ever wish to go back?" Connie prompted kindly.

  "Back to Columbus? I went twice to see my father. He had a privatesanatorium. My booming voice gave his nervous patients prostrations,and father thought my clothes were not sanitary because they could notbe sterilized. Are you going to stay here for good?"

  It was very risky to ask, he knew, but he had to find out.

  "I am visiting my si
ster in Denver. We just came here for the FrontierDays," said Connie primly.

  "There is another Frontier Week at Sterling," he said eagerly. "A fineone, better than this. It isn't far over there. You would get morematerial at Sterling, I think. Can't you go on up?"

  "I have been away from Chicago four weeks now," said Connie. "Inexactly two weeks I must be at my desk again."

  "Chicago is not a healthy town," he said, in a voice that would havedone credit to his father, the medical man. "Very unhealthy. It isnot literary either. Out west is the place for literature. All thegreat writers come west. Western stories are the big sellers. There'sRalph Connor, and Rex Beach, and Jack London and--and--"

  "But I am not a great writer," Connie interrupted modestly. "I am justa common little filler-in in the ranks of a publishing house. I'm onlya beginner."

  "That is because you stick to Chicago," he said eloquently. "You comeout here, out in the open, where things are wide and free, and you cansee a thousand miles at one stretch. You come out here, and you'll beas great as any of 'em,--greater!"

  The loud clamor of the dinner bell interrupted his impassioned outburstand he relapsed into stricken silence.

  "Well, we must go to dinner before the supply runs out," said David,rising slowly. "Come along, Julia. We are glad to have met you, Mr.Ingram." He held out his thin, blue-veined hand. "We'll see youagain."

  Prince looked hopelessly at Connie's back, for her face was alreadyturned toward the dining-room. How cold and infinitely distant thattall, straight, tailored back appeared.

  "Ask him to eat with us," Connie hissed, out of one corner of her lip,in David's direction.

  David hesitated, looking at her doubtfully. Connie nudged him withemphasis.

  Well, what could David do? He might wash his hands of the wholeirregular business, and he did. Connie was a writer, she must havematerial, but in his opinion Connie was too young to be literary. Sheshould have been older, or uglier, or married. Literature is not safefor the young and charming. Connie nudged him again. Plainly if hedid not do as she said, she was going to do it herself.

  David turned to the brown-faced, sad-eyed son of the mountain ranges,and said:

  "Come along and have dinner with us, won't you?"

  Carol pursed up her lips warningly, but Prince Ingram, in hiseagerness, nearly picked David up bodily in his hurry to get the littleparty settled before some one spoiled it all.

  He wanted to handle Connie's chair for her, he knew just how it wasdone. But suppose he pushed her clear under the table, or jerked itentirely from under her, or did something worse than either? A girllike Connie ought to have those things done for her. Well, he wouldlet it go this time. So he looked after Julia, and settled her socomfortably, and was so assiduously attentive to her that he quite wonher heart, and before the meal was over she said he might come and livewith them and be her grandpa, if he wanted.

  "Grandpa," he said facetiously. "Do I look as old as that? Can't I besomething better than a grandpa?"

  "Well, only one papa's the style," said Julia doubtfully. "And you aretoo big to be a baby, and--"

  "Can't I be your uncle?" Then, glancing at Connie with a suddenrealization of the only possible way the uncle-ship could beaccomplished, he blushed.

  "Yes, an uncle is better," said Connie imperturbably. "You mustremember, Julia dear, that men are very, very sensitive about theirages, and you must always give them credit for youth."

  "I see," said Julia. And Prince wondered how old Connie thought hewas, his hair was a little thin, not from age--always had been thatway--and he was as brown as a Zulu, but it was only sunburn. He'dfigure out a way of letting her know he was only thirty-two before theevening was over.

  "Are you going over to the street to-night?" he asked of David, but notcaring half a cent what David did.

  "I am afraid I can't. I am not very good on my feet any more. I amsorry, the girls would enjoy it."

  "Carol and I might go alone," suggested Connie bravely. "Every onedoes out here. We wouldn't mind it."

  "I will not go to a street carnival and leave David," protested Carol.

  "It would be rather interesting." Connie looked tentatively from thewindow.

  Prince swallowed in anguish. She ought to go, he told them; she reallyneeds to go. The evenings are so much fuller of literary material thanday-times. And the dancing--

  "I do not dance," said Connie. "My father is a minister."

  "You do not dance! Why, that's funny. I don't either. That is, notexactly,-- Oh, once in a while just to fill in." Then the latter partof her remark reached his inner consciousness. "A minister. ByGeorge!"

  "My husband is one, too," said Carol.

  Prince looked helplessly about him. Then he said faintly, "I--I amnot. But my father wanted me to be a preacher. He sent me toPrinceton, and I stuck it out nearly ten weeks. That is why they callme Prince, short for Princeton. I am the only real college man on therange, they say."

  "The street fair must be interesting," Connie went back to the mainidea.

  "Yes indeed, the crowds, the side-shows--I mean the exhibits, and thelotteries, and--I am sure you never saw so much literary materialcrowded into two blocks in your life."

  "Oh, well, I don't mind. Maybe some other night we can go." Conniewas sweetly resigned.

  "I should be very glad,--if you don't mind,--I haven't anything else todo,--and I can take good care of you."

  "Oh, that is just lovely. And maybe you will give me some morestories. Isn't that fine, David? It is so kind of you, Mr. Ingram. Iam sure I shall find lots of material."

  David kicked Carol warningly beneath the table. "You must go too,Carol. You have never seen such a thing, and it will do you good. Iam not the selfish brute you try to make me. You girls go along withMr. Ingram and I will put Julia to bed and wait for you on the porch."

  Well, of course, Mrs. Duke was very nice, and anyhow it was better totake them both than lose them both, and that preacher had a very setface in spite of his pallor. So Prince recovered his equanimity anddevoted himself to enjoying the tumultuous evening on the street. Hebought candy and canes and pennants until the girls sternly refused tocarry another bit of rubbish. He bought David a crimson and gold silkhandkerchief, and an Indian bracelet for Julia, and took the girls toride on the merry-go-round, and was beside himself with joy.

  Suppose his friends of the range did draw back as he passed, and gazeafter him in awe and envy. Suppose the more reckless ones did snickerlike fools, nudging each other, lifting their hats with exaggeratedcourtesy,--he should worry. He had lived on the range for fourteenyears and had never had such a chance before. Now he had it, he wouldhang on to it if it cost him every sheep he had on the mountains.Wasn't Connie the smartest girl you ever saw, always saying funny,bright things, and--the way she stepped along like a goddess, and theway she smiled! Prince Ingram had forgotten that girls grew like that.

  They returned to the hotel early and found David waiting on the porchas he had promised. He was plainly tired, and Carol said he must go tobed at once. They all rose and walked to the door, and then, verysurprisingly, Connie thought she would like to sit a while on the quietporch, from which every other one had gone to the carnival, and collecther thoughts. Carol frowned, and David smiled, but what could they do?They had said they were tired and now they must go to bed perforce.Prince looked after her, and looked at the door that had closed behindDavid and Carol, and rubbed his fingers thoughtfully under hiscollar,--and followed Connie back to the porch.

  "Will it bother you if I sit here a while? I won't talk if you want tothink."

  "It won't bother me a bit," she assured him warmly. "It is nice of youto keep me company. And I would rather talk than think."

  So he put her chair at the proper angle where the street lamp revealedher clear white features, and he sat as close beside her as he dared.She did not know it, but his elbow was really on the arm of her chairinstea
d of his own. He almost held his breath for fear a slight movewould betray him. Wasn't she a wonderful girl? She turned sidewise inthe chair, her head resting against the high back, and smiled at him.

  "Now talk," she said. "Let us get acquainted. See if you can make melove the mountain ranges better than Chicago."

  He told her of the clean sweep of the wind around his little cottageamong the pines on the side of the mountain, of the wild animals thatsometimes prowled his way, of the shouting of the boys on the range inthe dark night, the swaying of distant lanterns, the tinkle of sheepbells. He told her of his father, of the things that he himself hadonce planned to be and do. He told her of his friends: of Lily, hispal, so-called because he used a safety razor every morning of hislife; of Whisker, the finest dog in Colorado; of Ruby, the ruddy brownhorse that would follow him miles through the mountains and always findthe master at the end of the trail. And he told her it was a lonelylife. And it was. Prince Ingram had lived here fourteen years, withno more consciousness of being alone than the eagle perched solitary onthe mountain crags, but quite suddenly he discovered that it waslonely, and somehow the discovery took the wonder from that free gladlife, and made him long for the city's bright lights, where there wereothers,--not just cowboys, but regular men and women.

  "Yes," assented Connie rather abruptly, "I suppose it would be nice tobe in a crowd of women, laughing and dancing and singing. I supposeyou do miss it."

  "That was not what I meant," said Prince slowly. "I don't care for acrowd of them. Not many. One is enough." He was appalled at his ownaudacity, and despised himself for his cowardice, for why didn't helook this white fine girl of the city in the eyes and say:

  "Yes, one,--and you are it."