CHAPTER VII
THE FRENCH ROSE
The home of Jean LaFrance, a small cabin built principally of theever-ready cottonwood, was located in a corner of his quarter-section,farthest from the Jones' Luck River, which formed one boundary of hisfarm. He had designs upon more than one quarter-section, not at thattime an unusual or impossible ambition, in so far as homestead lawswent. His simple plan regarding residence was to move the cabin orbuild against it as occasion arose. The rolling country sloped steadilyupward from the river to the chain of hills farther to the east. Thesesent down several tributary streams, all unreliable during the warmweather with the exception of one which passed close to the cabin. Theconformation of the land gave a view from the cabin of one long stretchof the trail from Twin River and several short ones; opposite the house,continuing to Wayback, the trail was lost sight of.
Thus Buck was plainly visible as he loped along the trail on the morningfollowing the Sweet-Echo tragedy, only no one happened to be observinghim. As he disappeared behind the first rise, a pair of inquisitiveyoung eyes, half closed in the effort of the mouth below to retainpossession of far more than its capacity, arose above the level of thewindow sill and looked eagerly for an invitation to mischief. Seeingnothing that particularly called him, Pickles went out and into thebarn.
Buck struck off the trail and rode along the path to the house. Springhad returned in force after its temporary retreat before the recent coldand the air bore whisperings of the mighty wedlock of nature; all abouthim the ecstatic song of the meadow-lark held a meaning that escapedhim, vague, intangible, but thrillingly near to suggestion; the newgreen of the prairie melted into the faint purple of the distant hills,beneath a sky whose blue depths touched infinity. It was a perfect dayand Buck, on his errand of aid to the helpless, forgave the fences andthe evidence of land cultivation which threatened the life of the range.Riding close to the door he raised his quirt--and paused.
Rivalling the meadow-larks there flowed the music of a mellow contraltoroice in song. His hand dropped to his side. That the language wasstrange made little difference: the meaning of life almost wasdiscovered to him as he listened.
"Earth has her flowers and Heaven her sun-- But I have my heart. Winter will come, the sweet blossoms will die-- But warm, ah! so warm Is my heart.
"When the White King makes his truce with the Gold-- How dances my heart! All the sweet perfumes that float in the Spring Rest close, ah! so close In my heart.
"One day when Love like a bee, buzzing past, Wings close to my heart, Deep he shall drink where no winter can chill, Content, ah! content In my heart."
The low voice died away into silence; from afar came the soft cooing ofa dove, soothingly insistent as the croon of a lullaby; the riotous callof the larks arose in gleeful chorus; within the cabin were the soundsof movement: footsteps, the pushing of a pan across the table, and thena subdued pounding which sent Buck's thoughts whirling back into thedistant past to hover over one of his most sacred memories. He satperfectly still. How many years had gone by since he had heard a goodwoman singing over her household tasks! How very long ago it seemedsince his mother had made bread to the tune of that same 'punch, punch,slap--punch, punch'! His stern face softened into a tenderness that hadnot visited it since he was a boy. Mother--The French Rose--it was apretty name.
Buck was not in the least aware of it but when a man thus links the nameof a woman with that of his mother, it has a significance.
The faint nicker of a horse aroused Allday from his apathetic interestin flies; he raised his head and sent forth a resounding whinny inresponse; the blare of it was yet in the air when Rose stood in the opendoorway.
I despair of picturing her to you, so difficult it is to portray inwords the loveliness of a woman's beauty; and the charm of the FrenchRose was as many-hued as the changing sky at sunset; the modulations ofher voice ranged from the grave, rich tones of an organ to the meltingtimbre of a flute, pitched to the note of the English thrush; her verypresence was as steadfastly delightful as the fragrance of a hay field,newly mown. In a long life I have known but one such woman and this wasshe.
First, then, she harmonized. The simple gown, turned in at the throat,with sleeves rolled high on the arms for greater freedom in her work,the short skirt impeding but little her activity of movement, covered aform meant by God to be a mother of men; and the graceful column of herneck supported a head that did honor to her form. Lustre was in everystrand of the black hair, against which the ears set like the petals ofa flower; the contour of the face, the regularity of the features, wereflawless, unless for an overfulness of the lips in repose; the naturalolive complexion, further darkened by the sun-tan from her out-doorlife, could not conceal the warm color of the blood which glowed in hercheeks like the red stain on a luscious peach; and the mystery of herdark, serious eyes had drawn men miles to the solving--in vain.
So she stood, silently regarding Buck, who as silently regarded her.When she had first come upon him, in those few moments of unaccustomedsoftness when the hard mask of assertive manhood had been slipped aside,her questioning gaze had probed the depths of him, wondering and warmingto what it found there. Her smile awoke Buck to a sense of his rudenessand he swept off his hat with the haste of embarrassment. "I 've comefor Pickles," he blurted out, anxious to excuse his unwarrantedpresence.
"Is it--is it M'sieu Peters?" she questioned.
"That's me," admitted Buck. "Can I have him?" He smiled at theabsurdity of his question. Of course she would be glad to get rid ofsuch a mischievous little "cuss."
Rose considered. "Enter, M'sieu Peters. We will speak of it," sheinvited.
"I shore will," was the prompt acceptance. Buck's alacrity would havecalled forth hilarious chaffing from the Bar-20 punchers. It surprisedhimself. She set out a cup and a bottle on one end of the table andhastened to the other with an exclamation of dismay: "_Helas, monpain!_" and forthwith the "punch, punch!" was resumed, while Buck staredat the process and forgot to drink.
"Why do you take Fritz from me?" asked Rose.
Buck resumed his faculties with a grunt of disgust. "What's th' matterwith me?" he asked himself. "Am I goin' loco or did Johnny Nelson biteme in my sleep? What was that: '_Take_ Fritz?'"
This was seeing the matter in a different light. Buck ran his fingersthrough his hair and looked helpless. He poured himself a drink. "TakeFritz? Take anything she wants? Why, I'd give her my shirt. There Igo again--" and he savagely, in imagination, kicked himself.
"You see--I sort o' reckoned," he faltered, "Dutch bein' one o' myboys--Pickles--Fritz--ought to be taken care of, an'--"
"So--and you think I will not take care of him?"
"Oh, no; ma'am. Never thought nothin' o' th' kind. You stick yore brandon him an' we 'll say no more about it. Yore health, ma'am."
Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside. Buck watched herwith rueful countenance. "Now you 've gone an' made her mad," he toldhimself. "Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!"
She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her flour-stained armslying along the table. "You shall take him, M'sieu Peters," shedeclared.
To Buck's remonstrance she nodded her head. "_Mais oui_--it is better,"she insisted. "He grow up a man, a strong man--yes. Only a strong manhave a chance in this so bad country. Yes, it is better, I call him."
"Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door he cried out ayodelling call that brought Fritz scampering into the cabin with scaredface: it was his father's well-known summons. Rose called him to herand put her arms about his shoulders.
"M'sieu Peters have come to take you with him, Fritz. You will go?" sheasked him.
"Betcher life," said Pickles.
Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous desertion. "_Eh,bien, m'sieu_--you hear?" she said to Buck, and then, to
the boy: "Itplease you more to go with M'sieu Peters than stay with me--yes?"
"Betcher life," repeated Pickles. "Yo 're all right, but I want to be acow-punch an' rope an' shoot. Some day I 'll get that d--d ol' DaveOwens for killin' dad."
"_Dieu!_" Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so hard that hesquirmed. "Dave kill--Dave--"
"Sure, he done it! Who'd yeh s'pose?" Fritz wriggled loose and stoodrubbing his shoulder. Rose stood staring at him until Buck pushed himout of the room, when she sank back into her chair, covering her eyeswith one shaking hand.
Outside Buck was questioning Pickles. "You rid yore daddy's bronc over,didn't you? Can you rope him? Bully for you. Get a-goin', then. Wewant to pull out o' here right smart." Pickles was off on the run andBuck slowly entered the cabin. He went over and stood looking out ofthe window. "I would n't take it so hard," he ventured. "These sort o'mistakes is bound to happen. An' it might a' been worse. It might a'been Dave went under."
Rose flung out a hand towards him. "I wish--" she began passionatelyand then caught back the words, horrified at her thought.
"Course you wish he had n't done it. He had n't oughter done it.Dutchy was a good man--an' a square man--an' Dave ain't neither--thoughI shore hates to hurt yore feelin's in sayin' so."
"_I_ know him. He is bad--bad. No one know him like me." The deepvoice seemed to hold a measureless scorn. Buck wondered at this.
"Well, if you know him I 'm right glad. I figgered it out you did n't."
"I know him," she repeated, and this time she spoke with a wearinessthat forbade further remark.
They remained thus silent until Fritz rode up on the Goat, shouting outthat he was ready and long since forgetful of a scene he had notunderstood. Buck turned from the window. "Good-bye, ma'am, I reckon we'll drift."
Rose came forward with extended hand. "Good-bye. You will guard him?But certainly. When you ride to town, maybe you ride a little more andtell me he is well and good. It is not too far?"
"Too far! Th' Double Y ain't none too far. I reckon you forget I comefrom Texas."
They waved to her just before they dropped from sight down the last dipto the trail. She was watching when they came into view again at thefirst gap and watched them out of sight at the end of the long stretchbefore the bend. Then she turned back into the room and removing thedemijohn and cup from the table, she stood looking at the chair whereBuck had sat. "_Voila, un homme_," she declared, patting gently therough back of the chair: "a true man. They are not many--no."
Buck Peters, Ranchman Page 7
