CHAPTER VII
AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
It was hardly noon. Here the county road, cutting straight through therolling fields, was broad, wet and black, glistening under the sun. Outyonder in front of him the stage, driven rapidly by Hap Smith that hemight make up a little of the lost time, topped a gentle rise, stood outbriefly against the sky line, shot down into the bed of Dry Creek andwas lost to him. A little puzzled frown crept into Thornton's eyes.
"A man would almost say old Pop was right," he told himself. "This stateis getting too settled up for this kind of game to be pulled off soall-fired regularly. Cole Dalton must be blind in his off eye.... Oh,hell! It is none of my business. Any way ... not yet."
He pulled his horse out into the trail paralleling the muddy road,jerked his hat down lower over his forehead, slumped forward a little inthe saddle, and gave himself over to the sleepy thirty mile ride toHarte's Camp. He rode slowly now, allowing Hap Smith's speeding horsesto draw swiftly away ahead of him. He saw the stage once more climbing adistant ridge; then it was lost to him in the steepening hills. A littlemore than an hour later he turned off to the left, leaving thecounty road and entering the mouth of the canyon through which his trailled. He would not see the road again although after a while he wouldparallel it with some dozen miles of rolling land between him and it.
Behind him lay the wide stretch of plain in which Dry Town was set;about him were the small shut-in valleys where the "little fellows" hadtheir holdings and small herds of long horns and saddle ponies. Beforehim were the mountains with Kemble's place upon their far slope and hisown home range lying still farther to the east. There were many streamsto ford in the country through which he was now riding, allmuddy-watered, laced with white, frothing edgings, but none to risehigher than his horse's belly.
Here there was a tiny valley, hardly more than a cup in the hills, butvaluable for its rich feed and for the big spring set in the middle ofit. He dismounted, slipped the Spanish bit from his horse's mouth, andwaited for the animal to drink. It was a still, sleepy afternoon. Thestorm had left no trace in the deep blue of the sky; the hills wererapidly drying under the hot sun. Man and horse seemed sleepy, slowmoving figures to fit into a glowing landscape, harmoniously. The horsedrank slowly, shook its head in half tolerant protest at the fliessinging before its eyes, and played with the water with twitching lipsas though, with no will to take up the trail again, it sought to deceiveits master into thinking that it was still drinking. The man yawned andhis drowsy eyes came away from the wood-topped hills before him to themoist earth under foot. For the moment they did not seem the eyes of theBuck Thornton who had ridden to the bank in Dry Town a little beforenoon, but were gentle and dreamily meditative with all of the earliersharp alertness gone. And then suddenly there came into them a quickchange, a keen brightness, as he jerked his head forward and stared downat the ground at his feet.
"Now what is she doing out this way?" he asked himself aloud. "And whereis she going?"
Though the soil was cut and beaten with the sharp hoofs of the manycattle that had drunk here earlier in the day, it was not so rough thatit hid the thing which the quick eyes of the cattle man found andunderstood. There, close to the water's edge and almost under his ownhorse's body, were the tracks a shod horse had left not very long ago.The spring water was still trickling into one of them. There, too, alittle to the side was the imprint of the foot of the rider who hadgotten down to drink from the same stream, the mark of a tiny, highheeled boot.
"It might be some other girl," he told himself by way of answer to hisown question. "And it might be a Mex with a proud, blue-blooded foot.But," and he leaned further forward studying the foot print, "it's amighty good bet I could tell what she looks like from the shape of herhead to the colour of her eyes! Now, what do you suppose she's tackling?Something that Mr. Templeton says is plumb foolish and full of danger?"
He slipped the bit back into his horse's mouth and swung up into thesaddle.
"She didn't come out the way I came," he reflected as for a moment hesat still, looking down at the medley of tracks. "I'd have seen herhorse's tracks. She must have made a big curve somewhere. I wonder whatfor?"
Then slowly the gravity left his eyes and a slow smile came into them.He surprised his horse with a touch of the spurs.
"Get into it, you long-legged wooden horse, you!" he chuckled. "We'vegot something to ride for now! We're going to see Miss Grey Eyes again.There's something besides stick-up men worth a man's thinking about,little horse!"
He reined back into the trail, rode through the little valley, climbedthe ridge beyond and so pushed on deeper and ever deeper into the longsweep of flat country upon the other side. Often his eyes ran far ahead,seeking swiftly for the slender figure he constantly expected to seeriding eastward before him; often they dropped to the trail underfoot tosee that her horse's tracks had not turned to right or left should sheleave this main horseman's highway for some one of the countless crosstrails.
The afternoon wore on, the miles dropped away behind him; and he came tothe end of the flat country and again was in low rolling hills. Herhorse's tracks were there always before him, and yet he had had no sightof any rider that day since leaving the county road. Again much gravitycame back into his eyes.
"Where's she going?" he asked himself again. "It looks like she washeaded for Harte's Camp too. And then on to Hill's Corners? All alone?It's funny."
Twenty miles he had come from Dry Town. He was again riding slowly,remembering that his horse had carried the great weight of him many longmiles yesterday and today. Now the hills grew steep and shot up high andrugged against the sky. The trail was harder, steeper, narrower where itwound along the edges of the many ravines. Again and again the groundwas so flinty that it held no sign to show whether shod horse had passedover it or not. But he told himself that there was scant likelihood ofher having turned out here; there was but the one trail now. And then,suddenly when he came down into another little valley through which asmall drying stream wandered, he came upon the tracks he had been solong following. And he noted, with a little lift to the eyebrows, thathere were the fresh hoof marks of two horses leading on toward the Camp.
"Somebody else has cut in from the side," he pondered. "Lordy, but thiscattle country is sure getting shot all to pieces with folks. Who'd yousuppose this new pilgrim is?"
Once or twice he drew rein, studying the signs of the trail. The trackshe had picked up at the stream with the print of the tiny boot were thesmall marks of a pony. This second horse for which he was seeking toaccount was certainly a larger animal, leaving bigger tracks, deepersunk. There was little difficulty in distinguishing one from the other.And there was as little trouble in reading that the larger horse hadfollowed the pony, for again and again the big, deep track lay over theother, now and then blotting it out.
A man, with a long solitary ride ahead of him, has much time forconjecture, idle and otherwise. Here lay the hint of a story; who wasthe second rider, what was his business? Whence had he come and whitherwas he riding? And did his following the girl mean anything?
Thornton came at last, in the late afternoon, to the last stream hewould ford before reaching Harte's Camp. Another half mile, the passingover a slight rise, and he would be in sight of the end of his day'sride. He crossed the stream, and then, looking for the tracks he hadbeen following, he saw that again the pony was pushing on ahead of him,that the horseman had turned aside. He jerked his horse back seeking forthe lost tracks. And presently he found them, turning to the south andleading off into the mountains.
With thoughtful eyes he returned to his trail. He rode over the littleridge and so came into sight of the three log cabins under the oaks ofHarte's place. Beyond was the barn. He would go there, find her horseat the manger. Then he would go up to the cabin in which the Hartes'lived and there find her.
Twenty minutes later, his face and hands washed at the well, his shortcropped hair brushed back with the palm of his hand, he went to th
e maincabin. The door was shut but the smoke from the rough stone chimneyspoke eloquently of supper being cooked within. But he was not thinkinga great deal of the supper. He had found the pony in the barn, had evenseen a quirt which he remembered, knew that he had not been mistaken inthe matter of ownership of the trim boots that had left their marks atthe spring, and realized that he was rather gladder of the circumstancethan the mere facts of the case would seem to warrant. And then, withbrows lifted and mouth puckered into a silent whistle, he read the wordson a bit of paper tacked to the cabin door:
"We've gone over to Dave Wendells. The old woman is took sick. Back inthe morning most likely make yourself to home. W. HARTE."
He paused a moment, frowning, his hat in his hand. It seemed to be inhis thought to go back to his horse. While he hesitated the door wasflung open and a pair of troubled grey eyes looked out at himsearchingly; a pair of red lips tremulously trying to be firm smiled athim, and a very low voice faltered, albeit with a brave attempt to besteady:
"Won't you come in... Mr. Thornton? And ... and make yourself at home,too? I've done it. I suppose it's all right...."
And then when still he hesitated, and his embarrassment began to growand hers seemed to melt away, she added brightly and quite coolly:
"Supper is ready ... and waiting. And I'm simply starved. Aren't you?"
Thornton laughed.
"Come to think of it," he admitted, "I believe I am."
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