The Lure of the Dim Trails

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER VIII. A QUESTION OF NERVE

  "That was your victory, Miss Stevens. Allow me to congratulate you." IfThurston showed any ill grace in his tone it was without intent. But itdid seem unfortunate that just as he was waxing eloquent and felt sureof himself and something of a hero, Mona should push him aside as thoughhe were of no account and disperse a bunch of angry cowboys with half adozen words.

  She looked at him with her direct, blue-gray eyes, and smiled. Andher smile had no unpleasant uplift at the corners; it was the dimply,roguish smile of the pastel portrait only several times nicer. Re couldhardly believe it; he just opened his eyes wide and stared. When he cameto a sense of his rudeness, Mona was back in the kitchen helping withthe supper dishes, just as though nothing had happened--unless oneobserved the deep, apple-red of her cheeks--while her mother, who showednot the faintest symptoms of collapse, flourished a dish towel made ofa bleached flour sack with the stamp showing a faint pink and blue XXXXacross the center.

  "I knew all the time they wouldn't do anything when it came rightto the point," she declared. "Bless their hearts, they thought theywould--but they're too soft-hearted, even when they are mad. If yuh goat 'em right yuh can talk 'em over easy. It done me good to hear yuhtalk right up to 'em, Bud." Mrs. Stevens had called hi Bud fromthe first time she laid eyes on him. "That's all under the sun theyneeded--just somebody to set 'em thinking about the other side. You're areal good speaker; seems to me you ought to study to be a preacher."

  Thurston's face turned red. But presently he forgot everything in hisamazement, for Mona the dignified, Mona of the scornful eyes and thechilly smile, actually giggled--giggled like any ordinary girl, and shothim a glance that had in it pure mirth and roguish teasing, and a dashof coquetry. He sat down and giggled with her, feeling idiotically happyand for no reason under the sun that he could name.

  He had promised his conscience that he would go home to the Lazy Eightin the morning, but he didn't; he somehow contrived, overnight, toinvent a brand new excuse for his conscience to swallow or not, as itliked. Hank Graves had the same privilege; as for the Stevens trio, heblessed their hospitable souls for not wanting any excuse whatever forhis staying. They were frankly glad to have him there; at least Mrs.Stevens and Jack were. As for Mona, he was not so sure, but he hoped shedidn't mind.

  This was the reason inspired by his great desire: he was going to writea story, and Mona was unconsciously to furnish the material for hisheroine, and so, of course, he needed to be there so that he might studyhis subject. That sounded very well, to himself, but to Hank Graves,for some reason, it seemed very funny. When Thurston told him, Hankwas taken with a fit of strangling that turned his face a dark purple.Afterward he explained brokenly that something had got down his Sundaythroat--and Thurston, who had never heard of a man's Sunday throat,eyed him with suspicion. Hank blinked at him with tears still inhis quizzical eyes and slapped him on the back, after the way of theWest--and any other enlightened country where men are not too dignifiedto be their real selves--and drawled, in a way peculiar to himself:

  "That's all right, Bud. You stay right here as long as yuh want to. Idon't blame yuh--if I was you I'd want to spend a lot uh time studyingthis particular brand uh female girl myself. She's out uh sight,Bud--and I don't believe any uh the boys has got his loop on her so far;though I could name a dozen or so that would be tickled to death if theyhad. You just go right ahead and file your little, old claim--"

  "You're getting things mixed," Thurston interrupted, rather testily."I'm not in love with her. I, well, it's like this: if you were going topaint a picture of those mountains off there, you'd want to be where youcould look at them--wouldn't you? You wouldn't necessarily want to--toown them, just because you felt they'd make a fine picture. Yourinterest would be, er, entirely impersonal."

  "Uh-huh," Hank agreed, his keen eyes searching Phil's face amusedly.

  "Therefore, it doesn't follow that I'm getting foolish about a girl justbecause I--hang it! what the Dickens makes you look at a fellow thatway? You make me?"

  "Uh-huh," said Hank again, smoothing the lower half of his face with onehand. "You're a mighty nice little boy, Bud. I'll bet Mona thinks so,too and when yuh get growed up you'll know a whole lot more than yuh doright now. Well, I guess I'll be moving. When yuh get that--er--storydone, you'll come back to the ranch, I reckon. Be good."

  Thurston watched him ride away, and then flounced, oh, men do flounce attimes, in spirit, if not in deed; and there would be no lack of the deedif only they wore skirts that could rustle indignantly in sympathy withthe wearer--to his room. Plainly, Hank did not swallow the excuse anymore readily than did his conscience.

  To prove the sincerity of his assertion to himself, his conscience,and to Hank Graves, he straightway got out a thick pad of paper andsharpened three lead pencils to an exceeding fine point. Then he sat himdown by the window--where he could see the kitchen door, which was theone most used by the family--and nibbled the tip off one of the pencilslike any school-girl. For ten minutes he bluffed himself into believingthat he was trying to think of a title; the plain truth is, he waswondering if Mona would go for a ride that afternoon and if so, might heventure to suggest going with her.

  He thought of the crimply waves in Mona's hair, and pondered whatadjectives would best describe it without seeming commonplace."Rippling" was too old, though it did seem to hit the case all right.He laid down the pad and nearly stood on his head trying to reach hisDictionary of Synonyms and Antonyms without getting out of his chair.While he was clawing after it--it lay on the floor, where he had thrownit that morning because it refused to divulge some information hewanted--he heard some one open and close the kitchen door, and came nearkinking his neck trying to get up in time to see who it was. He failedto see anyone, and returned to the dictionary.

  "'Ripple--to have waves--like running water.'" (That was just the wayher hair looked, especially over the temples and at the nape of herneck--Jove, what a tempting white neck it was!) "Um-m. 'Ripple; wave;undulate; uneven; irregular.'" (Lord, what fools are the men who writedictionaries!) "'Antonym--hang the antonyms!"

  The kitchen door slammed. He craned again. It was Jack--going to townmost likely. Thurston shrewdly guessed that Mrs. Stevens leaned far moreupon Mona than she did upon Jack, although he could hardly accuse herof leaning on anyone. But he observed that the men looked to her fororders.

  He perceived that the point was gone from his pencil, and proceeded tosharpen it. Then he heard Mona singing in the kitchen, and recollectedthat Mrs. Stevens had promised him warm doughnuts for supper. PerhapsMona was frying them at that identical moment--and he had never seenanyone frying doughnuts. He caught up his cane and limped out toinvestigate. That is how much his heart just then was set upon writing astory that would breathe of the plains.

  One great hindrance to the progress of his story was the difficulty hehad in selecting a hero for his heroine. Hank Graves suggested that heuse Park, and even went so far as to supply Thurston with considerabledata which went to prove that Park would not be averse to figuring ina love story with Mona. But Thurston was not what one might callenthusiastic, and Hank laughed his deep, inner laugh when he was wellaway from the house.

  Thurston, on the contrary, glowered at the world for two hours after.Park was a fine fellow, and Thurston liked him about as well as any manhe knew in the West, but--And thus it went. On each and every visit tothe Stevens ranch--and they were many--Hank, learning by direct inquirythat the story still suffered for lack of a hero, suggested some fellowwhom he had at one time and another caught "shining" around Mona. Andwith each suggestion Thurston would draw down his eyebrows till he camenear getting a permanent frown.

  A love story without a hero, while it would no doubt be original andall that, would hardly appeal to an editor. Phil tried heroes whollyimaginary, but he had a trick of making his characters seem very realto himself and sometimes to other people as well. So that, after a fewpassages of more or less ardent love-making, he would in
a sense growjealous and spoil the story by annihilating the hero thereof.

  Heaven only knows how long the thing would have gone on if he hadn't,one temptingly beautiful evening, reverted to the day of the hold-up andapologized for not obeying her command. He explained as well as he couldjust why he sat petrified with his hands in the air.

  And then having brought the thing freshly to her mind, he somehow lostcontrol of his wits and told her he loved her. He told her a good dealin the next two minutes that he might better have kept to himself justthen. But a man generally makes a glorious fool of himself once or twicein his life and it seems the more sensible the man the more thorough ajob he makes of it.

  Mona moved a little farther away from him, and when she answered shedid not choose her words. "Of all things," she said, evenly, "I admirea brave man and despise a coward. You were chicken-hearted that day, andyou know it; you've just admitted it. Why, in another minute I'd havehad that gun myself, and I'd have shown you--but Park got it beforeI really had a chance. I hated to seem spectacular, but it served youright. If you'd had any nerve I wouldn't have had to sit there and tellyou what to do. If ever I marry anybody, Mr. Thurston, it will be aman."

  "Which means, I suppose, that I'm not one?" he asked angrily.

  "I don't know yet." Mona smiled her unpleasant smile--the one thatdid not belong in the story he was going to write. "You're new to thecountry, you see. Maybe you've got nerve; you haven't shown much, so faras I know--except when you talked to the boys that night. But you musthave known that they wouldn't hurt you anyway. A man must have a littlecourage as much as I have; which isn't asking much--or I'd never marryhim in the world."

  "Not even if you--liked him?" his smile was wistful.

  "Not even if I loved him!" Mona declared, and fled into the house.

  Thurston gathered himself together and went down to the stable andborrowed a horse of Jack, who had just got back from town, and rode hometo the Lazy Eight.

  When Hank heard that he was home to stay--at least until he could jointhe roundup again--he didn't say a word for full five minutes. Then,"Got your story done?" he drawled, and his eyes twinkled.

  Thurston was going up the stairs to his old room, and Hank could notswear positively to the reply he got. But he thought it sounded like,"Oh, damn the story!"