by B. M. Bower
“And look at his ribs! If you’ll just kindly go in the house while I saddle—”
“I’ll kindly stay right here, lady-girl. You don’t know Rattler—”
“And you don’t know Billy Louise MacDonald.” She wrinkled her nose at him and turned back to unsaddle Blue. “I really didn’t intend to go back right now,” she said, “but seeing you’ve got your heart set on it, I suppose we might as well.” Then she added: “We’re only going as far as the Cove, anyway; and I really ought to hurry back to look after Marthy. Charlie Fox and Peter pulled out and left her there all solitary alone. I’ve been staying with her since I left here. I told her we’d be down there, and stay till—further notice.”
Billy Louise did not give Ward much opportunity for argument. He was too awkward with his crutches to keep up with her, and she managed to be on the move most of the time.
I may as well admit that she was horribly afraid of Rattler, and horribly afraid that he and Ward would find it out. She did not hurry much. She took plenty of time to put Ward’s saddle on Blue, and when she finally took her rope and went in after Rattler, who was regarding her from the corner of the stack where he might run either way, she wished that Ward was elsewhere—and she did not much care where.
But Ward was anxious, and he stayed where he was by the corner of the stable and swore in violent undertones because he was condemned to look on while his Wilhemina took long chances on getting hurt. Not a move of hers escaped his fear-sharpened eyes, while she went carelessly close to Rattler, and then, with a quick flip, landed the loop neatly over his head. Ward would have felt less pleased if he had known how her heart was thumping. He saw only the whimsical twist of her lips and thought that she was enjoying a distinctly feminine sense of triumph at her success.
Billy Louise led Rattler boldly up to where lay her saddle and Ward’s bridle. She hoped she did not look scared, but she was wondering all the time what Rattler would do when she “piled on”; pile her off, probably, her pessimism told her, for Billy Louise was no lady broncho-fighter, for all she rode so well on horses that she knew. There is a difference.
“Sure you want to tackle him, lady-girl?” Ward asked her, after he had himself attended to the bridling—since Rattler was touchy about the head. “Of course, he isn’t bad, when you know him; but he’s liable to be pretty snuffy after running out so long. And he never had a woman on him. You better let me ride him.”
“Don’t be silly. You couldn’t even mount him, with that game leg. And besides, don’t you see I’ve been wanting an excuse to ride Rattler ever since I knew you? You must have a very poor opinion of my riding.”
“Oh, if you put it that way—” Ward yielded, just as she knew he would. “I haven’t a doubt but what you can handle him if you take a notion. Only—if you got hurt—”
“But I won’t.” Billy Louise braced her courage with a smile and picked up the saddle blanket. But Ward took it from her and hobbled close enough to adjust it.
“He knows me,” he explained meaningly. “Better let me saddle up. He don’t know but what I can cave a rib or two in, if he don’t behave. Just hand me the saddle, William, please.”
“You’re only trying to scare me out,” Billy Louise accused him, with a vast relief well hidden. “I’m not a bit afraid of him.”
“All right; that’ll help some.” He steadied himself by the horse’s twitching shoulder while he reached carefully for the cinch. “I guess I’m more scared than you are.”
“I know you are. I’ve taken too many tumbles to let the prospect of another one worry me, anyway. Why, Blue ditched me himself, three different times when I first began to ride him. And even yet the old devil would like to, once in a while.” Billy Louise was actually talking herself rapidly into a feeling of confidence.
She needed it. When she had helped Ward upon Blue—and that was not easy, either, considering that he only had one leg fit to stand on—and had gone to the cabin for her bag of nuggets and Ward’s roll of money which he had forgotten, and had exhausted every other excuse for delay, she picked up Rattler’s reins and wound her fingers in his mane, and took hold of the stirrup as nonchalantly as if she were mounting Blue.
She went up at the instant when Rattler jumped sidewise from her. She got partly into the saddle, clung there for a few harrowing seconds, and then went over his head and plump into a snowdrift beside the stable.
“Good God!” groaned Ward and went white and weak as he watched.
“Good gracious!” grumbled Billy Louise, righting herself and digging snow out of her collar and sleeves. “Stop your laughing, Ward Warren!” (Ward was not laughing, and she knew it.) “I’ll ride that ornery cayuse, just to show him I can. You Rattler, I’ll fix you for that!” She turned to Ward and twisted her lips at him. “I see now why you named him that,” she said. “Because he rattles your teeth loose.”
“You keep off him!” Ward shouted sternly.
“You keep still!” Billy Louise shouted back at him. “We’re going to find out right now who’s boss.”
Whether she referred to Rattler or to his master she did not stipulate; perhaps she meant both of them. At any rate, she caught the horse again and mounted, a great deal more cautiously than she had at first, in spite of Ward’s threats and entreaties. She got fairly into the saddle and stayed there—with the help of the horn and the luck that had thus far carried her through almost anything she undertook. She was not a bit ashamed of “pulling leather.”
“Now we’re all right and comfy,” she announced breathlessly, when the first fight was over and Rattler, like his master, had yielded to the inevitable. “And we know who’s boss, and we’re all of us squindiciously happy, because we’re headed for home. Aren’t we, buckaroo?”
“I suppose so,” Ward mumbled doubtingly, for a moment eyeing her sidelong. He was not quite over his scare yet.
“And say, buckaroo!” Billy Louise reined close, so that she could reach out and pinch his arm a little bit. “Soon as your leg is all well, and you’re every speck over the hookin’-cough, why—you can be the boss!”
“Can I?”
“Honest, you can. I’ve”—Billy Louise had the grace to blush a little—“I’ve always thought I’d love to have somebody bully me and boss me and ’buse me. And I—” Her lips twitched a little. “I think you can qualify. What was that you said just as I was getting on the second time? I was too busy to listen, but—”
“But what? I don’t remember that I said anything.” Ward got hold of her free hand and held it tight.
“Oh, yes, you did! It was sweary, too.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, it was. You sweared at Flower of the Ranch-oh.”
Billy Louise stopped at that, since Ward refused to be baited. She sensed that there were bigger things than a “sweary” sentence in the forefront of her buckaroo’s mind. She waited.
They came to the gate, and Billy Louise freed her hand from his clasp and dismounted, since it was a wire gate and could not be opened on horseback. She closed it after him, looked to her cinch, tightened it a little, patted Rattler forgivingly on the neck, caught the horn with one hand and the stirrup with the other, and went up quite like a man, while Ward watched her intently.
“‘In sooth, I know not why you are so sa-ad,’” murmured Billy Louise, when she swung alongside in the trail.
Ward caught her hand again and did not let go; so they rode hand in hand down the narrow valley.
“I was wondering—” he hesitated, drawing in a corner of his lip, biting it, and letting it go. “Wilhemina, if old Lady Fortune takes a notion to give me another kick or two, just when life looks so good to me—”
“Why, we’ll kick back just as hard as she does,” threatened Billy Louise courageously. “Don’t let happiness get on your nerves, Ward.”
“If I wasn’t crippled, it wouldn’t. But when a man’s down and out, he—thinks a lot. The last three days, I’ve lived a whole lifetime, lady-girl. Everything see
ms to be coming my way, all at once. And I’m afraid; what if I can’t make good? If I can’t make you happy”—he squeezed her fingers so that Billy Louise had to grit her teeth to keep from interrupting him—“or if anything should happen to you—Lord! I—I never knew what it was to be crazy scared till I saw you fall off Rattler. I—”
“You’ve got nerves, buckaroo. You’ve been shut up there alone so long you see things all distorted. We’re going to be happy, because we’ll be together, and we’ve so much to do and so much to think of. You must realize, Ward, that we’ve got three places to take care of, and you and me and poor old Marthy. She hasn’t anybody, Ward, but us. And she’s changed so—got so old—just in the last few days. I never knew a person could change so much in such a little while. She’s just let go all holds and kind of sagged down, mentally and physically. We’ll have to take care of her, Ward, as long as she lives. That’s why I’m taking you there—so we can look after her. She won’t leave the Cove. I—I was hoping,” she added shyly, “that we could sit in front of our own fireplace, Ward, and have nice cozy evenings; but—-well, there always seems to be something for me to do for somebody, Ward.”
“Oh, you Wilhemina!” Ward slipped his arm around her, to the disgust of Rattler and Blue, and made shift to kiss her twice. “Long as you live, you’ll always be doing something for somebody; that’s the way you’re made. And nobody’s been doing things for you; but if the Lord lets me live, that’s going to be my job from now on.”
He said a great deal more, of course. They had nearly fifteen miles to go, and they rode at a walk; and a man and a maid can say a good deal at such a time. But I don’t think they would like to have it all repeated. Their thoughts ranged far: back over the past and far into the future, and clung close to the miracle of love that had brought them together. There is one thing which Billy Louise, even in her most self-revealing mood, did not tell Ward, and that is her doubts of him. Never once did he dream that she had suspected him and wrung her heart because of her suspicions—and in that I think she was wise and kind.
* * * *
They found Seabeck and Floyd Carson and another cowboy at the Cove, just preparing to leave. Marthy, it transpired, had wanted to make her will, so that Billy Louise would have the Cove when Marthy was done with it. Billy Louise cried a little and argued a good deal, but Marthy had not lost all her stubbornness, and the will stood unchanged.
When Ward understood all of the circumstances, he hobbled into the kitchen and signaled Seabeck to follow him; and there he counted out five hundred dollars from his last gold-harvest and with a few crisp sentences compelled Seabeck to accept the money. (At that, Seabeck stood a loser by Charlie’s thievery, but no one knew it save himself, since he never mentioned the matter.)
Billy Louise and Ward were married just as soon as Ward was able to make the trip to the county-seat, which was just as soon as he could walk comfortably with a cane.
They stayed the winter in the Cove, and a part of the spring. Then they buried grim, gray old Marthy up on the side hill near Jase, where she had asked them to lay her work-worn body when she was gone.
They were very busy and very happy and pretty prosperous with their three ranches and what gold Ward washed out of the gravel-bank while they were living up on Mill Creek, so that he could prove up on his claim. They never heard of Charlie Fox again, or of Buck Olney—and they never wanted to.
If you should some time ride through a certain portion of Idaho, you may find the tiny valley of the Wolverine and the decaying cabins which prove how impossible it is for a couple to live in three places at once. If you should be so fortunate as to meet Billy Louise, she might take you through the canyon and point out to you her cave and Minervy’s. It is possible that she might also show you the washout which always made her and Ward laugh when they passed it. And if you ride up over the hill and along the upland and down another hill, you cannot fail to find the entrance to the Cove; and perhaps you will like to ride down the gorge and see the little Eden hidden away there. You may even ride as far as Mill Creek; but you will be told, very likely, that no one ever found any gold there. And if you should meet them, give my regards to Billy Louise and Ward—who never calls himself a football these days.
THE RANGE DWELLERS
CHAPTER I
The Reward of Folly
I’m something like the old maid you read about—the one who always knows all about babies and just how to bring them up to righteous maturity; I’ve got a mighty strong conviction that I know heaps that my dad never thought of about the proper training for a healthy male human. I don’t suppose I’ll ever have a chance to demonstrate my wisdom, but, if I do, there are a few things that won’t happen to my boy.
If I’ve got a comfortable wad of my own, the boy shall have his fun without any nagging, so long as he keeps clean and honest. He shall go to any college he may choose—and right here is where my wisdom will sit up and get busy. If I’m fool enough to let that kid have more money than is healthy for him, and if I go to sleep while he’s wising up to the art of making it fade away without leaving anything behind to tell the tale, and learning a lot of habits that aren’t doing him any good, I won’t come down on him with both feet and tell him all the different brands of fool he’s been, and mourn because the Lord in His mercy laid upon me this burden of an unregenerate son. I shall try and remember that he’s the son of his father, and not expect too much of him. It’s long odds I shall find points of resemblance a-plenty between us—and the more cussedness he develops, the more I shall see myself in him reflected.
I don’t mean to be hard on dad. He was always good to me, in his way. He’s got more things than a son to look after, and as that son is supposed to have a normal allowance of gray matter and is no physical weakling, he probably took it for granted that the son could look after himself—which the mines and railroads and ranches that represent his millions can’t.
But it wasn’t giving me a square deal. He gave me an allowance and paid my debts besides, and let me amble through school at my own gait—which wasn’t exactly slow—and afterward let me go. If I do say it, I had lived a fairly decent sort of life. I belonged to some good clubs—athletic, mostly—and trained regularly, and was called a fair boxer among the amateurs. I could tell to a glass—after a lot of practise—just how much of ’steen different brands I could take without getting foolish, and I could play poker and win once in awhile. I had a steam-yacht and a motor of my own, and it was generally stripped to racing trim. And I wasn’t tangled up with any women; actress-worship had never appealed to me. My tastes all went to the sporting side of life and left women to the fellows with less nerve and more sentiment.
So I had lived for twenty-five years—just having the best time a fellow with an unlimited resource can have, if he is healthy.
It was then, on my twenty-fifth birthday, that I walked into dad’s private library with a sonly smile, ready for the good wishes and the check that I was in the habit of getting—I’d been unlucky, and Lord knows I needed it!—and what does the dear man do?
Instead of one check, he handed me a sheaf of them, each stamped in divers places by divers banks. I flipped the ends and looked them over a bit, because I saw that was what he expected of me; but the truth is, checks don’t interest me much after they’ve been messed up with red and green stamps. They’re about as enticing as a last year’s popular song.
Dad crossed his legs, matched his finger-tips together, and looked at me over his glasses. Many a man knows that attitude and that look, and so many a man has been as uncomfortable as I began to be, and has felt as keen a sense of impending trouble. I began immediately searching my memory for some especial brand of devilment that I’d been sampling, but there was nothing doing. I had been losing some at poker lately, and I’d been away to the bad out at Ingleside; still, I looked him innocently in the eye and wondered what was coming.
“That last check is worthy of particular attention,” he said dryly. “The other
s are remarkable only for their size and continuity of numbers; but that last one should be framed and hung upon the wall at the foot of your bed, though you would not see it often. I consider it a diploma of your qualification as Master Jackanapes.” (Dad’s vocabulary, when he is angry, contains some rather strengthy words of the old-fashioned type.)
I looked at the check and began to see light. I had been a bit rollicky that time. It wasn’t drawn for very much, that check; I’ve lost more on one jack-pot, many a time, and thought nothing of it. And, though the events leading up to it were a bit rapid and undignified, perhaps, I couldn’t see anything to get excited over, as I could see dad plainly was.
“For a young man twenty-five years old and with brains enough—supposedly—to keep out of the feeble-minded class, it strikes me you indulge in some damned poor pastimes,” went on dad disagreeably. “Cracking champagne-bottles in front of the Cliff House—on a Sunday at that—may be diverting to the bystanders, but it can hardly be called dignified, and I fail to see how it is going to fit a man for any useful business.”
Business? Lord! dad never had mentioned a useful business to me before. I felt my eyelids fly up; this was springing birthday surprises with a vengeance.
“Driving an automobile on forbidden roads, being arrested and fined—on Sunday, at that—”
“Now, look here, dad,” I cut in, getting a bit hot under the collar myself, “by all the laws of nature, there must have been a time when you were twenty-five years old and cut a little swath of your own. And, seeing you’re as big as your offspring—six-foot-one, and you can’t deny it—and fairly husky for a man of your age, I’ll bet all you dare that said swath was not of the narrow-gage variety. I’ve never heard of your teaching a class in any Sunday-school, and if you never drove your machine beyond the dead-line and cracked champagne-bottles on the wheels in front of the Cliff House, it’s because automobiles weren’t invented and Cliff House wasn’t built. Begging your pardon, dad—I’ll bet you were a pretty rollicky young blade, yourself.”
