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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: A Girl of the Plains Country - - -Author: Alice MacGowan - - - -Release Date: August 25, 2020 [eBook #63044] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY*** - - -E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/girlofplainscoun00macg - - - - - -A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY - -by - -ALICE MACGOWAN - -Author of “Judith of the Cumberlands,” etc. - - - - - - -New York -Frederick A. Stokes Company -MCMXXIV - -Copyright, 1924, by -Frederick A. Stokes Company - -All rights reserved - -Printed in the United States of America - - - - - CONTENTS - - I The Arrival - II An Affair of the Heart - III The Firing Squad - IV The Doll - V Poor Charley - VI A Child’s World - VII The Norther - VIII A Christmas Valentine - IX Stockings and Shoes - X The Carriage - XI The Roping Match - XII The Fugitive - XIII The-Boy-on-the-Train - XIV Some One Rides Away - XV No Questions Asked - XVI “Twen-ty-Sev-en-Hun-dred-Cat-tle!” - XVII With the Trail-Herd - XVIII Sunday Comes Back - XIX Hilda and the Flying M’s - XX Hilda and the Blue Roan - XXI Another Chance - XXII Young Wings - XXIII At the Alamositas - XXIV “Invitation to the Dance” - XXV The Dance at Grainger’s - XXVI As Maybelle Saw It - XXVII Old Man Hipp’s Steer - XXVIII The Closing of a Door - XXIX The Resurrection Plant - XXX The Return - XXXI A Telegram - XXXII An Arrival - - - - - A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY - - - - - CHAPTER I - - THE ARRIVAL - - -The little girl on the back seat of the stage clung to one of the -uprights of the vehicle as though she feared that when it stopped -she would, in her enthusiasm, hurl herself bodily from it, and into -this strange, interesting, dusty life of the plains country. - -Hank Pearsall, manager of the Three Sorrows Ranch, who had driven -the sixty miles in to Mesquite to meet the new owners coming all the -way from New York, looked at her small face with its pointed chin, -great black eyes under the thatch of dark curls, the repressed -vitality with which she sat there giving more of an impression of -urgency than most people could have given by running and jumping, -and thought to himself that here was one who would all her life be a -little happier, or a little more miserable, than the average. - -The child returned his gaze with an eager, welcoming sort of look, -and her eyes followed him as he stepped to the side of the stage. -What she saw was a tall man of fifty, in the sort of clothes she was -beginning to be familiar with—flannel shirt, trousers tucked into -cowboy boots, and a sombrero, which he took off now, uncovering -thick, crinkled hair of a wonderful black-and-silver sheen. His face -was tanned and bearded; it had a look of calm about the brows and -temples; but the very deep blue eyes looked as though there was -always a twinkle in them. He smiled at the little girl, but spoke to -the man in the front seat. - -City people, the Van Brunts. Hank knew that the wife and mother had -died suddenly on the way out. To the elegant gentleman, handsome, -with the marks of dissipation in his face, and the sleeping baby -looking so strangely out of place in his arms, Hank said a little -doubtfully: - -“Mr. Van Brunt? Pearsall’s my name. I’ve brought the ambulance for -you folks. It’s right across there.” - -The young man climbed out and shifted to get a hand free to offer, -answering in a low tone, and with great courtesy: - -“We’re very glad to get here, Mr. Pearsall. This is my aunt, Miss -Valeria Van Brunt,” and Pearsall turned to help down a small, -silver-haired, fine-featured lady with a high, delicate nose and -brilliant black eyes behind gold-rimmed nose-glasses. From the tiny -jet bonnet to the high-heeled slippers and silk stockings, her -fashionable clothing was dim with plains dust, and as she looked -about at Mesquite—just a stage station, a bunch of shanties huddled -together on the bald plain—she cried accusingly: - -“Dear me, Charles! Is this the place? Why, it isn’t a town at all!” - -Her nephew answered something, in that low, courteous tone of his, -Hank didn’t hear what. - -Among them, they seemed to have forgotten that there was another -passenger to disembark at Mesquite. Pearsall realized with sure, -swift sympathy, that the child was used to being forgotten; he put -up his arms and lifted down little Hilda Van Brunt. They were all on -the ground then, their luggage dumped beside them, and the stage -jingled away. - -“Is there any hotel?” Miss Valeria demanded. “We ought to have some -rest—and dinner.” - -“It’ll be all right,” the ranch manager said quickly. “I’ve fixed -for you. The ambulance is ready, and—” - -“Ambulance!” Miss Valeria interrupted. “Is anybody hurt or—or -sick—or anything like that? We certainly can’t—” - -“An ambulance is the regular family vehicle on all the ranches -around here, ma’am,” Pearsall explained. “You’ll find it mighty -comfortable traveling. I aim to have you get in now and drive out a -piece to a good camping place. We’ll have our supper there. There’s -plenty good bedding. And we’ll get a soon start in the morning. -No—well, nothing that you folks would call a hotel, here. You’ll -find it better that way.” - -The baby on Van Brunt’s shoulder roused without a whimper, opened -big, serious blue eyes and gazed about him. This gaze lit upon the -little girl, fastened there, and slowly grew into a smile. His -sister pressed in close to her father’s side and reached up to pat -the baby, then thrust her hand into Van Brunt’s free one, urging: - -“Oh, yes, papa—please let’s go and have a picnic. It’ll be so -beautiful!” And Van Brunt said: - -“Certainly, Pearsall. We’re in your hands now.” - -The ranch boss got his passengers into the ambulance, Miss Van Brunt -and her nephew with the baby on the back seat, Hilda perched beside -him on the front. As he gathered up his lines he smiled down at the -tousled dark hair from which she had promptly pulled the -much-trimmed small hat. - -“Now for our picnic, sister,” he said. “We’re a-goin’ to have a good -long one. Sixty miles long. And camp overnight on the plain. I’ve -got grub a-plenty, and everything fixed.” - -Hilda just gave him a smile and a little bubbling, inarticulate -sound of delight in answer to this. Presently, when they went over a -bump in the trail, her short legs made it necessary that she grasp -his arm to keep from being shot forward over the dashboard. - -“Why, here, this won’t never do!” said the old man as he stopped the -ponies, tied the lines to the brake-handle, and fished out from -among the supplies a box which he wedged securely beneath her feet. -When they started on once more, he said in a confidential tone: “Ye -see, I put you up here, because Auntie ain’t used to rough -traveling; and your father, he’s got little brother to look out for. -You and me can stand the jouncing, can’t we?” - -With a sure instinct he had sounded the right note. - -“Course we can!” the little girl echoed it with a sort of lyric -jubilance. She took a long, pleased look at him, and began: - -“Auntie finds it very hard to bear this kind of life. The nurse we -had, she came as far as Amarillo; but she said she never in all her -days saw such a flat country—and she despised it—and she just -couldn’t put up with it—and there wasn’t any money ever made that -would pay her to. So she went back. She went back to New York.” - -“I expect this does look considerable different from New York,” Hank -allowed mildly. - -“Oh, it does!” Hilda glowed. “Beautifuller. I love the way it looks. -Aunt Val, she’s been a great many places. But this—she wasn’t ever -here before. She’s been to Europe, and to Egypt where the pyramids -are, and the Sphinx that’s all getting covered up with sand. I—” -Hilda sent a half-shy, questing look into the old man’s twinkling -eyes—“I know a good deal about Phœnicians, and Cæsar, myself—Thor -and his hammer, and Apollo, and the Holy Grail. My mother used to -read to me about them.” - -“Yes,” assented the ranch manager easily. “I guess them’s mostly New -Yorkers and such. I haven’t the acquaintance of any of ’em.” - -Hilda was silent for a few moments. This new friend was plainly -somewhat given to humor. He might be jesting with her. Presently she -spoke: - -“But when—when my mother died in Denver, and there wasn’t anybody to -take care of Burchie and me, papa telegraphed to Aunt Val and she -came. It was very good of her. She doesn’t like the country—nor -children, very much.” After a pause, she added, in a diminished -voice, “Do you?” - -“Do I what, honey?” asked Pearsall, starting a bit, for his mind had -wandered from her prattle. - -“Like children very much—and the country; this,” and her looks -indicated the big world about them. - -“Why, yes—yes, sure,” he protested. “I like this country, sister. -And I certainly git a-plenty of it. But I’m a mighty lonesome -person, sometimes—I’m a plumb lonesome old feller. You see there’s -no child that belongs to me.” - -“Haven’t you got any little girl?” - -“No. No, not any little girl—” Quite a long pause, then,—“or boy -either.” - -Hilda moved uneasily, and her eyes went to his face and back again, -plainly under the stress of acute compassion. - -“Well,” she hesitated, “I’ll be your little girl, too, if—if you -want me. You see, papa’s got two of us.” - -The noises of the big vehicle had often made it necessary for the -child to stretch up and put her rosy mouth close to her companion’s -ear in speaking. Now these last words were forwarded very carefully, -and with a swift, backward glance toward the rear seat. Miss Van -Brunt was engaged with a smelling bottle; Van Brunt held his son on -his knee and stared across the baby’s head toward a future which -plainly daunted. - -“That’s a bargain, sister,” said the driver. “From now on you’re my -little girl, too. And I’m your Uncle Hank. There’s a few youngsters -in the neighborhood, and that’s what they call me.” - -That was a memorable drive, and it decided some important issues in -the lives of those who made it. Sixty miles southward of Mesquite, -in Lame Jones county, lay the ranch of the Three Sorrows which poor -Katharine Van Brunt had bought with the remnant of her big fortune -that Charley’s dissipation had left—the haven to which she had -thought to bring her weak husband and her two children. Now she -slept in her grave in beautiful, far-away Denver, and the husband -and children were going alone toward the home she would have made -possible for them, but which, without her, looked doubtful indeed. -An hour—another hour—the team of cow ponies loped steadily across -that high upland floor of brown plain. - -“Like the sea,” whispered Hilda, enraptured. “Just like the sea, -only the water’s all grass—and you can drive over it. It jounces; -but you and I—we can stand the jouncing.” - -The fierce glare of mid-afternoon softened, grew milder and milder -as the day waned. Hilda felt that she had never really seen the sun -set before. It went down in a great glory of painted sky that rushed -out over the floor of the plain so that everything—the ponies, the -ambulance and its little cloud of dust—swam in it. - -“It’s getting very late, Mr.—er—Pearsall—isn’t it?” Miss Valeria -asked unhappily from the back seat. “Isn’t there danger of our being -lost if we try to travel in the dark?” - -“No, ma’am—not with me—you wouldn’t git lost, day or night,” Uncle -Hank, as the little girl already called him in her own mind, turned -a smiling face over his shoulder to answer. “But we’re most there -now. See them willers where the moon’s a-risin’? That’s our camp.” - -“Willers where the moon’s a-risin’.” It jingled in the little head -like poetry; it still sang there as they swung in beside a small -creek that was just a succession of water holes with dry rocks -between, and she was lifted out. For, oh, the moon was rising, and -so beautiful! It came up, a great shield of white in the pink that -had somehow crept around from the sunset in the west; it looked over -the willows and turned them black on one side and silver on the -other; it shone on the little girl very knowingly, as if to say, -“I’m not the same moon at all that I was back in New York—you and I -know that.” And every bit of beauty, whether it was in the sky or on -the earth, everything that was dear and lovely in this new life—and -so much was—she attributed to the new friend whom she was going to -call Uncle Hank forever and ever. - -The others had climbed out very gladly; Miss Valeria was established -on the cushions from the seats with the baby beside her. Hilda was -allowed to help—or to think she helped—Uncle Hank, when he came back -from unharnessing, watering and picketing the horses, and set about -getting the evening meal. She ranged as far as the creek bank for -little sticks, and fed them into the side of the fire where the -coffee-pot was. Hank had brought a box from the back of the -ambulance which seemed to hold a whole pantry, and was broiling -steaks on the other side of the fire. Bread was cut, canned milk and -jam and other things opened, butter brought out, with knives, forks -and plates—tin plates, and funny knives and forks and spoons such as -you generally saw in the kitchen; one or two little stew-pots -simmered on their own beds of coals; Hilda looked from them all to -the shadowy earth, the moon-filled sky, quite overwhelmed with the -magic she saw in both. Above them was such a great space of silver -light as she had never seen before; down here, right in the center -of it, burned their single point of fire; she watched its flame go -up and up, saw pieces of it break off to fly away to the big white -stars and the moon. She almost forgot to eat her supper when it was -put out for her on its plate. (Supper was a new word to Hilda. It -was dinner, at home, in the house. It must be supper when you cooked -it and ate it like this out-of-doors.) - -Aunt Val ate hers, and seemed to like it pretty well; but afterward -she looked uneasy, and said anxiously: - -“I’m afraid this night air will bring on my neuralgia.” - -Hilda looked at her in wonder. This lovely, wandering air that was -turning over the willow leaves as though it wanted to look at the -dark under-sides of them, that came touching her cheeks, softly -fingering her hair; it seemed to Hilda that if it really “brought -on” anything that thing must be mysterious and delightful. - -But Uncle Hank got up quickly, saying: - -“I’ll fix your bed for you right now, ma’am; you’ll be as snug there -as if you was in your own room,” and went over to the ambulance. -When Hilda followed him a little later, there was a bed all made up -in it, with sheets and pillow-cases and everything, just like a bed -at home. Aunt Val made haste to get into it, and Hilda drifted back -to the fire. She wished she had got Aunt Val to show her how to fix -Burchie’s food. Papa was tending to it now. When Burch had had it, -he went right off to sleep, and was carried over and put in beside -Aunt Val. - -The new proprietor of the Three Sorrows, when he had laid the baby -in the ambulance, walked on past the vehicle and was lost in the -shadows down by the creek. Pearsall began to clear up and wash the -dishes. Hilda asked if she might help, and was given a towel for -drying. Uncle Hank began to make cheerful conversation. - -“This was a mighty long trip for a little girl like you—all the way -from New York to Texas. Didn’t you get tired?” - -“Oh, no,” said Hilda, earnestly drawing her towel between the tines -of the iron fork she was wiping. “You see, there was a boy on the -train that had blue eyes, like Burchie’s and mothers, and—and—” -blushing furiously—“like yours, some. He was a big boy. At least he -was a good deal bigger than me. His father and mother were there, -too; they came all the way from New York to Denver in the train with -us. And, oh, he was most interesting! When my mother got sick, the -boy’s mother wouldn’t go on and leave us. They all stayed. And -he—The-Boy-On-The-Train—he took care of Burchie and me when—when the -funeral was. Aunt Val hadn’t got there, then.” - -“That’s all, honey; we’re done, now,” said Pearsall. He saw that the -child’s lips trembled as she stood fumblingly but determinedly -rubbing dry the last cup. So he added, cheerfully, “We’ll set by the -fire a spell before you go tuck yourself into bed.” - -There was neither sound nor movement within the ambulance. Van Brunt -did not return from his stroll downstream. These two, man and child, -sat beside the camp-fire. Hilda’s big black eyes looked long into -the great swallowing darkness of the plain, then she turned to her -companion, who was filling his pipe. - -“I don’t think I’d be afraid here,” she said, a little doubtfully. - -“Sure not!” heartily. He skipped a coal lightly up in his bare -fingers, made it light his pipe, and flipped it off again. “What -would you be afraid of, sister?” - -“Well,” slowly, and watching his face, “I don’t think there would be -whiffenpoofs here.” He didn’t smile—she had been afraid he might. So -she added the explanation, “You see, they mostly stay in dark halls -and on stairways, whiffenpoofs do, and they grab you from behind.” - -“No,” Uncle Hank shook his head decisively, “no whiffenpoofs here—if -there is anywhere—which I doubt.” - -“Oh, yes, they’re in houses.” Hilda was pretty firm about it. “And—” -She hesitated, looked away from him, then shot him one of her shy -glances before she went on haltingly—“And another reason I thought I -wouldn’t be afraid here is that there aren’t any doors.” - -He took the pipe out of his mouth, looked at it, then at her, and -asked blankly: - -“No doors?” - -“Yes. And so there can’t be a door-imp. When it’s getting a little -dark,” she spoke low now, and very fast, as though she were afraid -if she didn’t hurry she wouldn’t have the courage to tell it all, -“when it’s getting a little dark in the house, and they send you -into another room to get something, the Skulking Door-imp watches -for you. He comes out and looks around the door; then his head is -the thing that you think is a knob. You see, he’s invisible to every -one but me.” - -“Truck like that,” said Uncle Hank, putting the pipe back into his -mouth and drawing his arm around Hilda, “is enough to scare a little -girl.” - -“It does scare me, Uncle Hank,” she confirmed gravely. “And those -aren’t all. There’s ghosts. And there’s the Barrel-tops—queer kind -of creatures that just roll after you. I most scream right out -sometimes when the Barrel-tops come down the dark hall chasing me.” - -“Well, I’ll bet you four cents,” and he shook her gently with his -arm, “that they don’t never come down no hall out here in Texas. -I’ll be willin’ to just bet. Them things can’t live in this -high-and-dry Texas plains climate. Where on earth did you ever get -such notions, anyhow? Did some one tell it to you, or did it come -out of a fool book?” - -“No,” said Hilda evasively, “nobody told me, nor read it to me. -I—er—I just knew it myself.” - -“Well, then, you must’ve made it up, child. I wouldn’t do it if I’s -you. I wouldn’t have no such critters.” - -“I try not to, Uncle Hank. I don’t want to have them. They—oh! -what’s that?” as a long, jingling, chiming whimper came from -somewhere in the surrounding dusk. She flung both arms around the -old man’s neck and burrowed her head on his breast. He held her -tight, and laughed gently. - -“Nothing but a little old coyote, honey,” he told her. “They don’t -ever hurt anybody. He smells our bacon rinds. You must go to bed -now, child. If any whiffenpoofs or suchlike cattle trouble you in -the night, you come out to Uncle Hank—hear? Uncle Hank’s death on -all them kind o’ varmints.” - -He saw her to the ambulance, then turned and replenished the fire -and, filling his pipe, sat down to await Van Brunt’s return. An hour -later the two men were asleep, wrapped in their blankets. There was -no sound save the wind in the cottonwoods and the occasional, far, -coyote cry, the nearer chirp or stir of a bird. During the earlier -part of the night Van Brunt groaned, turned and turned again; -roused, sighed, rose to feed the dying fire, sat a while beside it, -and went back to his blankets. Then he slept heavily, and for a long -time the camp was silent under the moon and stars. In the dark hour -just before dawn the old man wakened suddenly and opened his eyes to -see Hilda crouching beside him, her hand on his shoulder. - -“Uncle Hank!” she gasped, “I had such a dreadful dream, and when I -waked, why, you see that ambulance is like a room; it’s got things -like doors in it; and I was afraid the door-imp—” - -“All right, sister.” - -He lifted his head and looked about. She had left her aunt -unawakened in the ambulance; she had skirted the form of her -sleeping father—and come to him—to him, the friend of a day! - -“Here!” whispered the man who had said he was all alone in the -world. Swiftly he unwound his blankets, wrapped the small -nightgowned figure in them, and settled her cosily, reaching down to -get his boots and draw them on. - -“But you aren’t going away, Uncle Hank?” quavered the child. - -“Not fur,” returned he humorously, as he went over and put more wood -on the fire, then seated himself beside the giant cocoon from whose -top protruded the small face with the big black eyes. These eyes, -under the influence of a good grip on a man’s blue flannel sleeve, -gradually lost their wildness. They filmed gently; the long lashes -descended halfway, were swept up again with a startled gasp; and -after two or three checkings and haltings, Hilda slept. The ranch -boss replaced the blankets when from time to time her small, -impatient arm flung them off. - -Lost in the immensity of night, the camp-fire died down, was -replenished, died down again, and showed only winking embers as the -east began to blush with a new day. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART - - -Southwestward again, all that day—beautifully long for the little -girl, wearily lengthened for Miss Valeria who alternately complained -of the speed and urged the driver to hurry a little. Pearsall always -gave her the same good-humored answer, as though it had been a child -fretting at him: “Ponies got forty-odd miles to go, ma’am; have to -just hold this same good road pace.” - -At noon they stopped and got out for a rest; a “dry camp” he called -it, with only water from the canteens to make their coffee. Through -the afternoon, the thud-thud of hoofs, the creak and swish of wheels -on dry turf, like a monotonous old tune, almost sent Hilda to sleep -where she sat beside Uncle Hank on the high seat. Then, when the sky -flamed once more red with sunset, suddenly there was living green in -front of them, the ambulance swung through an open gate, up a long -avenue of young box-elders and black locusts, at the end of which -they could see a low stone house, broad, sheltering, hospitable, -with its dooryard of Bermuda grass, at the edge of which Pearsall -pulled up, got out and helped the others down. Van Brunt, who had -sat silent and uncomplaining for hours of heat and weariness, -exclaimed: - -“This the ranch? Why, Pearsall, I didn’t suppose there was such a -green place in all the Panhandle.” - -“Well, there’s not another like the Three Sorrows, I can tell you,” -answered the old man, busy with bags and valises; and as they moved -toward the house Miss Valeria murmured that it was better than could -have been expected. - -Hilda, hanging back, saying nothing, gazed about at the new home -with eyes that loved every stone in its walls. Its pleasant rustle -of leaves and lisp of water, after all those miles of splendid, arid -plain, made her eyes smart with happy tears. The beautiful -wing-like, curving sweep in which the line of young cottonwoods, -following the happy course of a tiny irrigating ditch, flung away -around one corner of the building—here was a world where -anything—lovely—might happen. Those willows over yonder by the -little lake (the old man called it a watering tank), they looked -just like Nixies crouching down in their long green hair. There was -mystery in the very appearance of the plain about them. When a -Chinaman came to the door she could have shouted with delight. - -He was a strange, limp effigy of a Chinaman, like a badly made rag -doll, his slant eyes and pigtail giving the impression that he had -lately been hung up on a line with other such toys. Apparently he -was young, though the Oriental never looks to our eyes either -exactly young or old, and certainly he was morose. The queue on his -head, the dull blue blouse he wore, his funny black-and-white -boat-shaped shoes, all charmed Hilda. - -The first thing she saw that looked like the old home back in New -York was a familiar rug spread out at the foot of the stairs in the -hall. - -“I s’pose your full-sized carpets ain’t come yet,” Pearsall -explained, as he showed his employer the living-room on one side, -the ranch office on the other. “These mats looked a good deal worn,” -he indicated the dull bloom of Turkish rugs disposed here and there, -“but of course they’ll be nice and soft for the children to play -on.” - -Van Brunt assented kindly, and neither he nor Miss Valeria offered -any explanation. It was near supper time. The open door at the end -of the hall showed a shouldering group of masculine forms, ranch -riders, heretofore familiar to the eyes of the newcomers only in -pictures. The foremost of these detached himself, came forward, and -was presented as O’Meara—“One of your boys, Mr. Van Brunt.” Hilda -liked the look of him, and was more pleased when he spoke. - -“We didn’t know where you’d want your things,” he said modestly. “We -took everybody’s opinion—even the Chink’s—but at that we couldn’t -make out what some of ’em was intended for. We just put the trunks -around here and there to make it seem home-like.” - -Hilda wondered that her aunt’s response to this should be so faint. -Shorty O’Meara’s ideas on furnishing and interior decoration had -immediate success with her. The open door of the office room showed -a big desk, some chairs, and a pile or two of books on the floor. -The little girl left that without further inquiry, and went into the -living-room where a spindle-legged, inlaid dressing table, with its -sweep of mirror, neighbored a trunk and several dining-room chairs. -There were more books here, on the floor, the chairs, the -window-sills. These latter were very deep. They might well have been -specially designed for sitting in of rainy afternoons to look at -picture books or play with dolls. The grown-ups walked about and -looked somewhat unhappy. She had forgotten them almost in her survey -of her new home. She presently got Burch and lugged him about, -talking to him, since he was the only individual present sensible -enough to really appreciate the attractiveness of the place. The -roughcast plastered walls looked so sheltering and strong. The open -doorway into the dining-room showed a great long table. All of those -men were going to eat there. She groped vaguely for a line in a -ballad with which her mother used to sing her to sleep—something -about the baron sitting in his hall and his retainers being blithe -and gay. The table wasn’t in the hall, of course, but otherwise it -was just the same. - -Then came Aunt Valeria’s voice calling to her from upstairs; she -followed that weary lady, and she and Burch were washed and made -seemly for the table. - -That first supper was a wonderful meal to her, too, with a lot of -tall men trooping in to sit at the board. Their bronzed faces, their -keen, forth-looking eyes, used to search great levels, the air of -individuality, of independence, laid powerful hold on the child’s -fancy. Every time a spur jingled beneath the table, or one of those -big voices boomed out suddenly, her heart leaped in swift though -uncomprehending response. - -Afterward, in the living-room, she heard with some anxiety, Pearsall -doubtfully suggest to her father that they might want to build a -separate mess house for the men. Her father said no, he didn’t mind -the men at the table; and Hilda heaved a great sigh of relief. She -had already struck up quite a friendship with blond, talkative -Shorty O’Meara; she had even made some timid overtures to a lank, -elderly cynic who lived up to the name of Old Snake Thompson. To -have her social adventures in this direction curtailed would have -been trying. - -The days that followed the arrival were strange, interesting ones. -Her father was wrapped in an obscurity of dejection and grief; Miss -Van Brunt was a victim of neuralgia which she declared the plains -wind had developed. The child had only the baby brother, with the -occasional companionship of Uncle Hank and some of the younger -cowboys; yet she made eager acquaintance with this new life; and it -was to the old man she came for information or to share with him her -joys. - -“All the horses you ride are yellow ones, Uncle Hank, aren’t they?” -she asked him one evening when he came in from the range. - -“Yes, honey, I’ve rode a buckskin pony for a good many years. I -reckon the folks wouldn’t hardly know me on any other color of hoss. -I sort of think they’re becoming to me—don’t you?” - -“Oh, yes, very,” Hilda assured him gravely. “What’s this one’s -name?” - -“Why, you see, I just call ’em all ‘Buckskin.’ It’s easiest.” - -Sometimes he took her out for short rides, of an evening, holding -her before him on the saddle of the tall buckskin horse with a blaze -face, or the little dark buckskin pony that had a brown mane and -tail. Traveling in this fashion one evening across pastures she -pointed to a queer, humped object, sway-backed, with a ewe-neck, and -a rough coat of brindled hair that stuck up like the nap on a -half-worn rug. - -“What’s that, Uncle Hank? It looks something like a calf.” - -“’S a dogie, honey,” he explained, absently. - -“A dogie,” the child repeated. “Dogies are a kind of animal I don’t -know. Is it wild, or tame?” - -Pearsall laughed. - -“You was right in the first place, sister,” he said. “That pore -little skeesicks is a calf. It lost its mother when it was too young -to eat grass rightly; so it sort of starves along, and gets stunted -and runted. We call ’em dogies. You’ll see one every once in a -while, round over the range. They’re no good to nobody—nor to -theirselves.” - -“Oh,” said Hilda, under her breath. - -A day or so later, finding her a bit drooping, Pearsall questioned: - -“What’s the matter, sister? Is something worrying you?” - -“Uncle Hank,” she explained, with some diffidence, “my heart is sad -about dogies. I saw two of them to-day, and my heart is sad about -them, ever since.” - -(She had wanted to say, in the language of one of her favorite -ballads, “My heart is wae”; but judged that that might be a little -too much for her companion, and tried him with a simpler literary -form.) - -“Is it, honey?” inquired the old man, easily. “Oh, I guess I -wouldn’t worry about ’em. Remember that we don’t ever butcher ’em, -nor even brand ’em.” - -“That’s part of the sadness,” Hilda maintained, shaking her head. -“It’s just like I used to want to cry when I saw the little dwarfed -people in the shows, that aren’t children, and never will be grown -up.” - -Into the long talks which the two held together of an evening, Hilda -often introduced that hero who never had any other name than -The-Boy-On-The-Train. - -“He knew most everything, Uncle Hank,” she once declared. - -“I reckon so, honey,” assented Pearsall; but he seemed to Hilda not -sufficiently impressed. She sought in her recollection for definite -marvels to attribute to this favorite, and came hard up against that -trying fact we all meet, that you cannot communicate to another the -fascination you have experienced. It is something to be felt, not -put into words. Pressed thus, Hilda stated one day to Uncle Hank -that her hero could understand the language of birds. He accepted it -with much too great facility, reconciled thereto by the fact that a -person in Hilda’s book of fairy tales, which she had shown him -earlier in the evening, could do the same. But the statement kept -its author awake the greater part of the night, and a penitent, -small Hilda climbed up into his arms as soon as he sat down after -supper next evening and explained: - -“Why, Uncle Hank, you know The-Boy-On-The-Train, he couldn’t -quite—what I said—understand all that the birds were talking about.” - -“Couldn’t he, Pettie?” inquired Hank placidly. - -“No,” said Hilda with solemnity. “He might just as well have, but he -couldn’t. He could just understand what people said; but—” The small -face flushed deeply; word forms rushed fluidly about in the stress -and flux of her emotion—“but he understanded that awful good.” - -If Hilda had come to a group of children, The-Boy-On-The-Train -must have grown dim behind the stirring realities of actual -companionship. But in the lonely life that began for her now, he -filled in many an hour which might be otherwise forlorn. He did not -lose vividness. She saw him at that ranch he had spoken of, riding -the marvelous pony which would shake hands, perfecting himself in -those manly sports upon which he had casually touched, and which her -lively fancy was liberally providing for him. As time went on, he -grew of course; yet he remained delightfully a boy, her champion and -hero in the dream world which was always so real to the imaginative -child. - -Meanwhile Pearsall, who had been for some time manager for a -non-resident owner, had only remained to go over tallies, count of -stock, and deliver to the purchaser the ranch and its appurtenances. -This work was done now, the details all complete, and upon an -evening Hank had brought his tally sheets and the mass of statements -and figures to young Van Brunt in the ranch office, where he sat -explaining the situation patiently to the other man. - -It was past the children’s bedtime; Burch was asleep upstairs; but -the little girl had twice been sent from the room with an admonition -of increasing sharpness from her father. And still Pearsall could -see from the tail of his eye that she hung just outside the door. - -“But, Pearsall,” Van Brunt, helpless city man, repeated in a sort of -blank dismay, “you don’t mean to say you’re leaving me—right -now—when I need you worst? Why, what on earth will I do?” - -“You know,” said Hank mildly. “I explained it to you last week, Mr. -Van Brunt. When the ranch was sold, back three months ago, I looked -out for another job. I got one, with the Quita Que, over in New -Mexico, and they put me on forfeit—” - -“No business man,” broke in Van Brunt. “I suppose I didn’t -understand. The fault is mine, Pearsall. But this—I—I’m about as -competent to run a ranch as Burch would be. I somehow took it for -granted that you were to be manager. Can’t we—I will gladly pay that -forfeit, if you are willing to stay—long enough at least to get me -started.” - -Hank raised a warning hand as Hilda’s face again showed at the door. -The child did not edge in, as she had edged before! She made -straight for Pearsall—though she winced at her father’s impatient -exclamation—climbed to the old man’s lap, and looked searchingly -into his face. - -“Uncle Hank—you—going away?” She choked on the last word, then added -half desperately, “Not—to stay? You’ll come back—won’t you?” - -Van Brunt’s strained attitude relaxed a little; he sat back vaguely -in his chair, glancing from one to the other, the dismay in his face -gradually giving way to a half doubtful gleam of hope. Hank was -silent a moment, Hilda watching him, openly restraining tears. The -manager had seen more than one Easterner launch himself and -everything he possessed in this cattle ranching game, and, ill -prepared, inexperienced, lose all. Before him was another candidate -for just such another calamitous failure. But it was the warm little -body trembling on his lap, the big dark eyes searching his, that he -was most conscious of. - -“That’s all right, Pettie—about me going away,” he began hesitantly. -Then with more certainty, and setting her gently down, “You run -along to bed, honey.” - -She moved a little, with childhood’s tragic reluctance, in the -direction of the door, then turned with just a mute look into his -face. Hank gave her a reassuring smile. - -“Time them big black peepers was shut, Pettie,” he said easily. “And -it’s all right. If I do have to go away, I’ll come straight back. -Don’t you worry. I’m not goin’ to quit the Sorrers. Reckon I’ll stay -as long as you do.” - -“Then—” began Hilda. But her throat swelled so that she couldn’t -finish it. It was going to be, “Then, if you will never forsake me, -I will never forsake you,”—a line from one of her best loved fairy -stories—all of that, even here before papa. But the best she could -do was, “Then—I’ll go—Uncle Hank.” And she crept out. - -When they heard her feet pattering on the stairs, Van Brunt began to -speak, but Hank stopped him with a shake of the head. - -“No, Mr. Van Brunt; I’ll pay the forfeit. It’s me that’s ruing back -on a contract with the Matador, not you. I’ll stay.” Then, after a -pause, “I thought likely I’d have to—that is, if you wanted me—that -first day driving down from Mesquite. I’m all set to stay. That’s -settled. We’ll say no more about it.” - - - - - CHAPTER III - - THE FIRING SQUAD - - -Domestic existence at the Three Sorrows was, in those days, a very -unsettled affair. Came the day that sullen Chinaman left. Charles -Van Brunt had ridden to Mesquite. All the boys were out on the range -and the baby was asleep upstairs. Hilda and Aunt Val were alone with -the problem. The little girl stood by, while to Miss Van Brunt’s -protests, which finally came to be almost hysterical, the yellow man -made brief response: “No can do. Velly lonesome.” And though the -lady pleaded with him for quite a distance down the long avenue of -box elder and black locust, he walked stolidly away in those -boat-shaped shoes of his. His lips were tightly shut, his blouse -tightly buttoned across a resolute bosom, and his queue tightly -coiled around a skull which housed the working machinery of a mind -with which poor Aunt Val had never been able to establish -communication, nor Hilda to get upon friendly terms. - -Uncle Hank himself got supper that evening, but he remarked somewhat -humorously that he couldn’t spare himself to cook. He persuaded -Missouri into donning an apron and going to work in the kitchen. - -“Why don’t they get another Chink?”, the cowboy grumbled. - -“Well, as I understand it, they _have_ wrote somewheres for one, but -they haven’t heard yet,” said Pearsall. - -“No, nor they won’t,” was Missouri’s opinion. “A Chink’s plumb shy -of one of these here lonesome ranches. I bet I’m in for a life -sentence,” for a ranch rider hates to cook. - -Nothing that really could have been called a neighborhood existed in -the cattle country of the Lame Jones County of that day, yet the Van -Brunts had not been at the Three Sorrows a week before there was an -invitation for Miss Valeria to bring Hilda and Burch to spend the -day at the Capadine ranch, six miles east of them, and enjoy the -company of Clark Capadine, Jr., and the ranch’s young guests, the -two Marchbanks children. Shorty drove them over in the buckboard—a -vehicle Hilda approved of far more than the shiny closed carriage at -home in New York. - -To Hilda that visit was a first introduction into the life of her -peers as she was to find it from that time on. Clarkie Capadine was -a good-natured boy of ten, whom Hilda would have liked very much if -she had been capable that day of any natural or comfortable -sentiments. But the Marchbanks boy, an advanced person whose name -was Lafayette, shortened and pronounced in the Southern fashion, -“Fayte,” scorned her utterly. He scorned also his sister Maybelle, -five years younger than himself, and therefore near Hilda’s own age. -Yet his contempt of Maybelle was nothing worse than the male -intolerance of the foolish female, while Hilda learned from him, -coldly, insultingly, that she was a tenderfoot. She was not only a -child, and a girl at that—she was a tenderfoot. Did she know what -chaparajos were?—tapaderos?—latigos?—a cinch, even? She did not. -Maybelle was not expected to deal much in these terms on account of -her deficiencies as a girl; but Hilda didn’t even know what such -things were for! She was a tenderfoot—that’s what she was! - -The day was clouded by the murk of Fayte’s sneers. He condescended -to rope the girls as they ran screaming; but being rated as dumb -driven cattle, even by so mighty a person, wasn’t much of a -consolation. Finally he scalped his sister’s dolls by the simple -process of pulling their wigs off. Maybelle went whimpering to Mrs. -Capadine, who indignantly told the boy that he would not be allowed -to go on the return visit to the Three Sorrows which Miss Valeria -was already proposing. Fayte said sullenly that he didn’t want to. -He said that the Three Sorrows was his ranch, anyhow—by rights—and -far’s he was concerned he didn’t care to go and see other people -living on it. - -His ranch! What could Fayte Marchbanks mean by that? The next day -Hilda took the question to her father, but he only laughed. It was -Uncle Hank—Uncle Hank, who always talked to one the same as to -grown-ups—who finally explained the matter to her, allowing -tolerantly, “Oh, just a kid’s bragging. Fayte Marchbanks says things -like that, I expect, because his Spanish grandpa, old man Romero, -was the first owner of this ranch, and did give the place its -name—the Rancho of the Three Sorrows.” - -“What do you suppose made him call it such a sad name, Uncle Hank?” -Hilda wanted to know. “Do you suppose he had them—three sorrows?” - -“He did so, Pettie—in his three daughters. Michaela, his oldest, she -took smallpox from a family of Arkansas movers that came driftin’ -through these pastures two weeks before she was to have been -married. Her looks was ruined. She went into a convent up in Santy -Fe. Lola, the next one, was killed in a train wreck. And Guadeloupe, -the third, his baby, and the prettiest of the bunch, ran away with -Lee Marchbanks, which is Fayte’s and Maybelle’s pa. He said neither -of them should ever step foot on his land while he lived. Old -Romero’s wife was dead, and he never had no sons. He took the -trouble about his daughters hard. He drank up all his property—” -Hilda had a moment of wondering how he could do that—“and then drank -himself to death.” - -“Maybelle says her mother is dead, too,” said Hilda. “They had the -sorrow, didn’t they, Uncle Hank? Maybelle and Fayte, I mean.” - -“Um—well—it’s all in the past, honey. And Lee Marchbanks—Colonel -Marchbanks, they call him, now—is a rich man, I hear, over in New -Mexico. Jest leaving the kids with Mrs. Capadine while he brings out -his second wife from the east somewheres. I expect they’ll have a -fine lady for a mother when they go back.” - -“Yes,” said Hilda, turning this information over slowly and -curiously in her mind. “I didn’t know that.” She stole a look over -her shoulder, through the open door, to where Miss Van Brunt, -dressed exactly as she had been used to dress back in her New York -home, sat reading a magazine. “Of course I have Aunt Valeria,” she -remarked hesitantly. - -Hank’s glance followed hers; he crinkled up his eyes in a look that -was half smiling, half pitiful. Poor Miss Valeria always looked -somehow like a person who had come to stay for only a day or two. -The wind that whooped up over those great levels from the Gulf, and -brought life and refreshment with it on the hottest summer noon, the -wind that Hilda loved and made a playmate of, was to Miss Van Brunt -a terrible bugbear—a sort of standing accusation against the whole -west Texas country. When it blew three days on end, she went to bed -with a nervous headache. When the domestic affairs of the household -grew too puzzling, she went to bed with a headache, anyhow; one day -Hilda heard Buster say to Missouri in the kitchen, “This here -ranching proposition’s got the New York lady plumb buffaloed. Yet -she’s sort of game, too—so game she won’t holler. I like to watch -her not knowin’ what the mischief’s a-comin’ next, nor whichaway to -turn, and pretendin’ she’s plumb wise to the rules.” - -“It would be impossible. We never did so in New York. The Van Brunts -do not do things that way.” These were Miss Valeria’s weapons of -defense, the statements with which she met and repelled clamorous -demands. - -“Just a ladylike way of yellin’ ‘scat’ to the whole business,” said -Buster. - -As for the outside affairs, a mere change of ownership was a small -matter, so long as Hank Pearsall’s experienced hand still guided -them, and they seemed to run smoothly enough. Charley Van Brunt, -too, lived at the ranch of the Three Sorrows, a guest—a quiet, -graceful guest—whose incompetence was a shield against -responsibility. He endeared himself at once to his men by the -unvarying courtesy and sweetness of his bearing and the boyish -recklessness he displayed when he chose and rode a horse, selecting -always for looks and style, without regard to the beast’s -disposition. It was plain that he drank heavily in the long evenings -when he sat alone in the library, his manager, looking on, hoping -that as the first keenness of his grief wore away, this matter would -be bettered. - -But it was the other way. When Charley began to rouse from the -stupor of bereavement, he began also to leave the ranch, on trips to -Mesquite, and beyond to El Centro; whence the news came back to Hank -that Van Brunt was drinking hard and playing high. He found by -natural instinct the clever, well-bred, profligate young Englishmen -over on the Bar Thirteen, pensioned—or exiled—by their own families; -and after that, between the trips to town, there was drinking and -card playing at the Bar Thirteen. In those days the Three Sorrows -was the finest property under private ownership in the Panhandle, -with pastures all fenced—a rare thing at that time—watered by three -noble creeks whose springs were never dry. It had been well stocked -when Katharine bought it. Now Hank looked helplessly on, thinking of -the two children, saw the money from sales of beef poured into the -bottomless pit of Charley’s dissipations. And he understood that -more than one mortgage had been put on the place, and that a choice -pasture had been sold outright. - -And Hank had another small worry, to which he finally applied his -own remedy. The men loved to sit on the long back porch, chairs -tilted against the wall, waiting for supper. They were freshly -washed as to faces and hands, damply slick as to hair; their -innocent enjoyment of company other than their own was so evident -that it would have been a hard heart indeed which would have grudged -them the society of the children; yet Hank listened and was -troubled. Did all cowboys swear so much? Had Snake Thompson’s -language always been what it now appeared? This might be Charley Van -Brunt’s ranch, Charley Van Brunt’s back porch, and these might be -Charley Van Brunt’s children—well, as a matter of fact, the -ownership of all the articles mentioned was so placed—yet Hank felt -himself obliged to speak out and speak distinctly on the subject. - -“Boys,” he put it, “you-all have got to ride herd a little closer on -your language. Swearing—leastways more’n reason—around where -children air at—” - -“Say, Hank,” broke in Shorty O’Meara, “how much is in reason to -swear when your stirrup leather busts on you, and your left eyebrow -hits the ground?” - -“Aw, g’long with you,” Hank admonished, half sheepishly. “You know -how much. If you don’t you’ll soon find out.” - -Old Snake Thompson’s sense of humor, liberty and justice was -outraged. Snake used very little language of any sort; when he -talked at all it was apt to be done almost exclusively in more or -less conventional and automatic profanity, and he made husky -protest: - -“But, Pearsall—Goddlemighty—I mean—how’s a man to talk? How’s a -feller to express hisself? How’ll we get along without any o’ them -words?” - -“Well,” said Hank dryly, “I could give you a pretty fair list of -substitutes.” - -“Substitute cuss words?” - -“Yes, jest that. You may never have took notice to the fact that I -don’t cuss, nor chew tobacker? Well, I used to do both—fact, I was -something of a star performer in them two lines.” - -“What made you quit, Pearsall?” questioned Shorty discontentedly. - -“I quit,” said Hank, “when I got to be a family man, in a manner of -speaking. I had a—there was a small chap at my place then, nigh -about Pettie’s age, and I sort of looked it over, and made the -change on the little feller’s account.” - -“Huh!” grunted Old Snake. Shorty made no comment, but Missouri said -with feeling: - -“This da—durned cattle country is a mighty lonesome land, with few -pleasures in it, if you ask me, and a man that neither chews nor -cusses misses a sight o’ comfort.” - -“Oh, I dunno, Missou’,” the boss demurred mildly, “I’ve tried it -both ways, and I don’t see much difference in the comfort. I get as -much good out of a cup of coffee as I used to get out of a jolt of -red-eye. I’d ruther beller a camp meetin’ hymn, or ‘The Dyin’ -Ranger’ than chew tobacker. ‘Con-twist it!’ or ‘Sufferin’ snakes’ or -‘My granny’ is the most horrible oaths I use.” He concluded with -sudden seriousness, “I’m not a-joking; I won’t stand for it, boys; -I’ll fire the first galoot that turns loose and cusses or talks -rough around where the folks is at.” - -So the three S cowpunchers rode in off the range of an evening now, -the most harmless associates for the little girl. About headquarters -they spoke—though somewhat haltingly at times—a tamed and -disciplined language, devoid of offense to the tenderest ears. - -The Capadines were to come over for noon dinner—which was the only -meal you could take visiting on ranches, it seemed, unless you spent -the night. Missou’ had said things—Uncle Hank went into the kitchen -and shut the door when he said them—but finally he got the dinner, -Uncle Hank keeping an eye on him to see that it was all it should be -for company. Fayte Marchbanks had come, after all. Things went -pretty well while the children were with the grown-ups, for it -appeared that Fayte had nice company manners, when he cared to -display them; Aunt Val thought him a very well-bred boy. But after -dinner, Burchie in the house with Aunt Val and Mrs. Capadine, while -the two fathers smoked on the porch, it began to be trying. - -On the journey out, among other and greater losses, a trunk -containing the children’s toys had gone astray and was never -recovered. So Hilda had nothing to offer for Maybelle’s admiration -but one small china-all-over doll, which had been held out for her -to play with on the train. She realized with a good deal of -satisfaction that Fayte Marchbanks couldn’t scalp it; the hair was -painted on its china head; small and rather miserable as it looked -there were advantages. - -The two boys presently ranged off with Fayte’s air rifle, playing at -hunting big game; the two girls settled down in the roots of a big -tree and arranged for a little dinner. - -“I wish I’d brought my dolls,” Maybelle said discontentedly. “I -would—only I thought you’d have a lot of your own. You said you -had.” - -“I have, only—” and poor Hilda told again the story of the lost -trunk. - -“Well, then, I should think they’d buy you some new ones, if they -can’t ever get those again,” Maybelle argued. - -“They will,” said Hilda eagerly. “Father’s going to next time he -goes to town.” - -“But he’s been in town lots of times since you lost ’em,” said -Maybelle, the practical. “Why doesn’t he bring you—one decent one, -anyhow?” She looked scornfully at the china-all-over. - -“He forgets.” Hilda’s lip trembled, but it would never do to let any -one see how cruel the hurt of this forgetfulness was. “That is, he -has been forgetting it, but if ever he goes to Fort Worth he’ll -remember, and then he’ll bring me the most beautiful doll that money -can buy. It’ll be so long,” her trembling hands measured the length, -“and have kid shoes and a white dress and a blue sash—he’s promised. -Now I’ll go and get something for our party.” - -Hilda was gone to the house quite a while. Missou’ had been hard to -persuade, and didn’t want to let her have the little cakes. When she -came back she found Maybelle curiously excited, while the two boys -stood back, Clarke Capadine looking rather scared, Fayte grinning. - -“Will you boys come to our party?” she asked doubtfully, taking -stock of what Missou’ had finally given her, wondering whether it -would be enough. - -Clarke muttered and looked down, but Fayte grinned more than ever. - -“Sure. Let’s make it a funeral—if there’s scraps enough to bury. The -firing squad’s been here while you were gone.” - -And then she saw the scattered bits of china sprinkled over the -play-house, the rifle in his hand. - -Hilda didn’t know for a minute quite who it was that screamed. -Something that was not herself seemed to come up in her throat and -issue from her mouth in a volume of sound that scared the children -and brought the men running from the porch. Quickly as they came, -Uncle Hank was quicker. He had jumped away from the pony he was just -about mounting over at the corral, and run across the lawn; Hilda -was in his arms when her father and Mr. Capadine arrived. - -“What in time’s the matter?” the old man asked. Clarke Capadine had -stood his ground, but Fayte Marchbanks was running. Hank caught -sight of the gun in his hand. “Is the child shot?” - -“My doll! My doll!” Hilda’s voice had come down to a moan. “I hadn’t -but just one, and—” - -Maybelle’s finger was in her mouth. She took it out to point to the -little sprinkling of white scraps. - -“Hilda—are you hurt?” That was her father. “Put her down, Pearsall. -See if she’s injured.” Uncle Hank set her on her feet. The gust of -passion had gone by. She was weak from it—and terribly ashamed. - -“He broke her doll,” the old man explained. Hilda loved him for the -serious tone. Maybelle giggled. Hilda heard another laugh somewhere, -but it wasn’t Mr. Capadine, for he said: - -“That boy ought to be thrashed.” - -She turned and buried her face against Uncle Hank, sobbing now, but -very quietly. - -“Hilda—don’t be silly,” came Miss Val’s impatient voice. “Go get -another doll to play with. See—you’re spoiling all the good time for -your little visitors.” - -“I—hadn’t—but just one,” it came very muffled from the folds of -Uncle Hank’s coat. Her father said quickly, - -“Oh, that’s so. But, Hilda, I’m going to buy you more dolls. Be a -good girl now. Stop crying.” - -“I don’t want but just one, papa.” Hilda choked, raised her head and -tried to straighten her face. “When—when will you get me my doll?” - -They were all looking at her. It was a terrible moment. Yet Hilda -somewhat forgot it in the importance of that question. - -“The very next time I go to town,” said her father. “The handsomest -one I can find, dear. Now go on with your play—and don’t let’s have -any more hysterics.” - -He went back to the house. Clarke Capadine had slipped away in the -direction Fayte took. Uncle Hank stayed a few minutes, till he saw -that Hilda seemed to be herself again, then he mounted and rode away -to his work. - -But that evening, when Hilda came at bedtime to bid him good night, -she looked so woebegone, and her feet dragged so that he inquired: - -“Not afraid to go upstairs alone, air you, Pettie? Been seeing any -of them Skulkin’ Door-imps lately?” - -She shook her head. - -“No—not much. That isn’t it. Never mind.” - -“Or Barrel-tops?” Hank pursued cheerily. “You let me know if any of -them come around—and I’ll stave ’em in for you.” - -“The—the doll.” She got out the two words, and could manage no more, -but let them lie as they fell. - -“Sure enough!” The old man caught her up in his arms and started for -the stairs. “That doll-baby’s still on your mind, ain’t it? I know. -Uncle Hank’ll carry you up to bed.” And on the way he whispered, -“Never you mind, Pettie; there’s got to be a trip to Forth Worth -right soon—Forth Worth—a real big city; and I’ll make sure your -doll-baby comes back from there.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - THE DOLL - - -In two weeks after that Hilda’s father went to Fort Worth. Hank -drove Charley to Mesquite. His last words, as he handed the valise -up to his employer in the El Centro stage, were: - -“And once more, Charley, whatever else you do, or don’t do, for the -love of mercy, don’t forget to fetch a first-class doll for Pettie. -I’d ruther see you fail to close the trade with the J. R. -Company—I’d ruther you forgot the whole everlastin’ outfit of -supplies—than to have you come back without that there doll-baby. -It’s a dirty shame that we big, two-fisted, long-legged men haven’t -got the child a doll before this.” - -“All right, Pearsall; I’ll not forget.” Van Brunt shook the old -man’s hand, and the stage drove away. - -Surely, now the beautiful doll was certain to come home! The evening -Hank got back—and every evening afterward—Hilda crept up into his -lap to explain to him, over and over, how golden its hair should be, -and what pretty tan shoes and white kid hands it should have. Now -that—to her mind—the homecoming of the doll was made certain, the -tide of feeling which had been so long repressed was loosened. The -little tongue ran freely, the great dark eyes glowed as she repeated -to him: - -“This long, Uncle Hank—just this long—bigger than any Maybelle -had—see?” The small hands measured about fifteen inches of stature. -“And blue eyes, I told him—like yours, Uncle Hank; not black, like -mine and papa’s.” - -Uncle Hank’s admired blue eyes would dwell upon her with troubled -gaze. He had done his best. He recalled that last admonition to -Charley. But now, shrinking in mind at thought of the possibility of -another disappointment for Hilda, but shirking the cruelty of -hinting his dread to the child, he would say slowly: - -“Um—honey—why, Fort Worth, you know—Fort Worth ain’t New York. This -here doll’s liable to be not much of a looker—no such doll-baby as -you had before you come out here to Texas. It might not even be as -good as some of the Marchbanks girl’s—” - -She would interrupt him, declaring earnestly, “Oh, Uncle Hank, it’s -going to be very beautiful!” - -But there came no word from Charley Van Brunt; it was as though Fort -Worth had swallowed him up. He was to have been gone a week; it was -two, and he had not returned. The ranch boss wrote again and again -to the hotel where his employer was to stop; even Hilda, with Uncle -Hank guiding her little brown fingers, struggled through a small, -smudged sheet of hieroglyphics. And when it was well into the third -week and there was no answer, the manager sent Shorty to Mesquite -with a telegram prepared entreating an immediate reply. But he got -none—no message of any kind returned to him from Fort Worth. Old -Hank, smiling and cheerful, carried a very anxious heart. - -At the end of four weeks Van Brunt came home; a gentleman—oh, most -certainly a gentleman, always; never less than that—but looking -strangely ill and out of countenance. He was much thinner than when -he went away, and much less sunburnt, and he had forgotten most of -the matters which had taken him to Fort Worth. - -The child, who for days back had scouted continually the long -box-elder avenue leading up from the main trail, met the buckboard -far down below the big gate. Charley stopped the galloping ponies -with an arm thrown out across the driver’s hands, lifted the small -courier and hugged her to his heart and kissed her. - -“Did she think Daddy had just run away and left them all? Well, -Daddy was very busy; he—he had such a lot of tiresome business.” -And, reaching down into his vest pocket, Van Brunt brought out and -gave to Hilda a five-dollar gold piece. - -In silence and in some apprehension she looked at the coin lying in -her palm—as unavailable to her, as valueless in her eyes, as a -yellow button. He had given it as though it were a precious thing, -and Hilda just glimpsed the terrible suggestion that it might have -been offered instead of a doll. No, no—that could not be—that was -intolerable! She pushed the idea away from her as she sat so -quiet-seeming to the careless eye, but in truth in such a tumult of -choking emotion, upon her father’s knee. - -Shyly and unobserved, her glance explored the buckboard. There was -nothing whatever in it but her father’s valise; not a big valise, -either; and her hopes and expectations dwindled. It would be a small -doll; she saw that she must bring her desires down to that—and she -did so. But she asserted passionately to herself that it was -there—it was in the valise. No doll at all!—oh, it was impossible—it -was not conceivable! She shrank in panic from the thought. Heaven -would not permit such a cruel thing as that. - -The house reached, the child stood about, in one obscure corner and -another, watching, longing for the moment when the valise should be -opened; amazed at the waste of time and talk, when the Important -Things of Life were waiting in that mysterious casket. During an -embarrassed pause, her father’s troubled eye caught sight of the -little figure lingering in the doorway. He picked her up and lifted -her high, demanding: - -“What is it now, my small daughter? Is there something you want to -know of father?” - -This was a strange, an ominous sort of inquiry, and Hilda could -barely choke out the words, “The doll,” in such a whispering, -flattened voice as failed to make its way across the short distance -from her trembling lips to her father’s ear, and he had to ask her -over more than once. - -His face fell, almost comically. A look of pain and shame flashed -over it. It was plain (at least to everybody there except poor -Hildegarde, who still clutched tightly a tiny shred of hope) that he -had never thought of the matter since the moment of uttering his -careless promise. - -“Run away, Hilda,” Miss Val began, peevishly. “Why do you bother -about such a thing now—?” But Charley cut her short: - -“Why, dear,” his voice was husky as he set Hilda gently down, “I -completely for—” - -Hank Pearsall’s eyes were watching her in deep concern. This was -what he had dreaded. Now he shook his head warningly at his -employer, over the little girl’s, and interrupted in a significant -tone: - -“It’s all right, honey, it’ll be a-comin’ along with the freight -stuff, when—” - -“No, Pearsall,” broke in young Van Brunt, in fresh distress. “No, -Pearsall, there aren’t any things coming by freight. I—forgot ’em -all completely. I’ll get—” - -It was too late. Hank could cover nothing now; the bitter truth was -evident, even to Hilda’s incredulity, that there was no doll. Her -father drew her to him, saying: - -“There, there, dear, don’t cry! Oh, Hildegarde, love, don’t cry! I -can’t—” His face was white; he looked almost as though he were near -to tears himself. - -“No, papa—no, papa,” she whispered, “no, papa, I won’t cry”; then -crept away to have her agony alone, in her own private nook, an -unused room upstairs, where there finally fell upon her the kind -sleep of exhaustion. - -The affairs of the house went on; supper was served and passed. -Charley asked uneasily of the child’s whereabouts, and was -diplomatically diverted by Uncle Hank. - -Hilda suddenly opened her eyes upon the darkness. She slowly -realized that it was night, and that she was lying dressed upon the -lounge in the sitting-room. Somebody had taken off her shoes and -tucked some covering over her. The strange feeling was upon her -which people have when they go to sleep irregularly, at some unusual -time and place, not dressed for bed. - -At first she was dazed and remembered nothing of the afternoon’s -happenings; then her sorrow came rushing back upon her in a flood. -But the aftermath of grief was tearless. Poor baby—she had wept the -fountain dry. - -Now, as she lay, inert, she could hear the murmur of voices. They -were men’s voices. Rising, strangely stiff and weary, she crawled -across the dark hall and peered through the chink of an imperfectly -closed door. The room into which she looked was the office, and the -scene which met her wondering eyes was a curious one. There was that -sewing-machine which the child’s mother had purchased and prepared -to take with her household supplies to the Texas ranch. Sitting -before it, and beneath the strong light of the hanging lamp, was -Uncle Hank, in full cowpuncher regalia, just as he had come in from -some urgent outside errand. The broad brim of his sombrero was swept -directly off his face, to be out of the way; the grizzled curls lay -on the collar of his rough blue flannel shirt, and his trousers were -tucked into the tops of cowboy boots, whose high heels, armed with -long-shanked spurs, clicked upon the treadles. His sinewy brown -fingers were twisting a thread to induce it to go through the eye of -the needle. Bending anxiously over him was her father, in smoking -jacket and slippers. It was some moments before Hilda could view -this scene with anything but incredulity, or believe it other than a -dream. - -About the feet of the men was a tremendous litter of things very -strange to see in that place. There were yards of white muslin, and -sheets of newspaper cut into queer shapes; on the floor a -comforter—the pink silk one off the big front-room bed—ripped open -and with its snowy cotton bulging out; a long-fleeced Angora -goatskin that commonly lay in front of that same bed. As, wide-eyed -and wondering, the child crouched silently at the door, the men were -talking in low, guarded tones. Her father spoke first: - -“Can you make it work, Pearsall? I don’t know what I did that was -wrong, but it ran crooked and puckered, even before it broke the -thread.” - -“Uh-huh!” returned the old man softly. “She’s liable to buck a -little at first; but if ye don’t spur her in the shoulder or fight -her in the face, she’ll soon travel your gait. See?” For the machine -had settled down to a steady purr. “Gimme somethin’ to sew—anything, -to try it on.” - -The child saw her father duck his sleek black head to pick up a -scrap from the floor. Then she heard his laughing voice: - -“Pearsall, I believe those long-shanked spurs of yours are what -tamed down this bucking sewing-machine. I didn’t have mine on.” - -“Shucks!” murmured Hank deprecatingly, bending to unbuckle. “That -beats my time! I plumb forgot them spurs. Don’t blame ye a mite for -laughing. That’s an old cowpunch, every time. It’s a wonder I didn’t -try to ride in here on a cutting pony, with my guns on, and what you -call a ‘lariat’ swinging! Shucks!” - -He removed his big hat, dropped the jingling spurs into its crown, -and reaching far over laid it back on the desk. - -“If I was in your place, Charley,” he said over his shoulder, “or -ruther, if I was a nice, polite gentleman like you, and owned a -ranch—I wouldn’t keep an old galoot for my ranch boss that didn’t -have manners enough to remember to take his spurs and sombrero off -when he came into my office.” - -Charley’s reply was only a smile and an expressive look. - -The small watcher at the door gazed, still unable to entirely -convince herself that she was really awake. Her father said -presently, in a rather depressed voice: - -“No, this wouldn’t do—not near. We’ll have to make a long -improvement over it.” - -He took up something from the floor. Alas, this must indeed be a -brownie dream—but what a dreadful version of it! That which her -father held and looked dolefully at was an atomy—a thing in human -form—of a livid, blue-white, like a leper, and of ghastly outline, -warped where the ill-guided sewing machine had wavered in its line -of stitching. The being had a small, narrow, cone of a head, a neck -like a pipe-stem, and limbs, long, attenuated, and lumpy where they -had been stuffed hard with cotton rammed home by the help of -penhandles, in an attempt to round out the starved proportions. - -The child looked at this specter in dismay. Truly, it did fall short -of grace—even of decent seemliness. She was glad her father thought -so. She should never be able to produce a grateful countenance or -bring forth any satisfactory thanks for a scarecrow like that. He -spoke now: - -“If we fall down on this doll factory business—well, when we fall -down, for I see that is what’s coming; I’ve already made a mess of -mine, and I bet anything you like that you’re not going to do any -better—when we’ve tried it out and find we can’t fetch it, what I -want of you, Hank, is to tell her—promise her—” - -“No more promises, Charley,” Uncle Hank said, stuffing away at -something he held out of Hilda’s sight. “If you’re leaving it to me, -I say either dance up with the doll for her birthday or don’t hurt -the poor baby any worse than she’s been already hurt with promises.” - -“Her birthday!” Hilda swallowed a sob at her father’s startled tone. -“Hank—do you know I’d forgotten absolutely that to-morrow is the -child’s birthday!” - -Something warm came to the little watcher from the glance of Uncle -Hank’s blue eyes as he looked up. He hadn’t forgotten it. She -guessed now that when he was in the kitchen there with Missou’ so -long, and she wasn’t allowed to come in, it must have been a -birthday cake that was being baked. She tried to tell herself that -this would make up for the lack of a doll. She wished Uncle Hank -wouldn’t say that about promises—they were better than -nothing—better, anyhow, than having some such frightful thing as -that which dangled from her father’s hand offered to her as a doll. -She was glad when he insisted rather desperately: - -“But I say, Pearsall, you’ll have to promise her one. She’ll believe -you. We can’t get anything out of this that will fill the bill.” - -“Can’t? Why, we’ve got everything to do it with, Charley. I’ve -gentled this sewing-machine; here’s white domestic, and cotton to -stuff with, and all the need-cessary materials. As for a pattern, -why, you’ve got me to go by, and I’ve got you, in the mere number -and placing on of arms and legs and such.” - -He glanced at the object in Van Brunt’s hands. - -“I reckon you went mostly by me—in the—the—geography of that -critter. Gosh! Charley, it’s a plumb straddle-bug, and whopper-jawed -at that! Now—here”—the sentences came out in sections, irregular -fragments, through many pins and needles and other implements which -Hank held in his mouth—“here—I have went by you. We’ve got to cut -’em tolerable fat, or they stuff too slim; I see that. That’n”—he -chuckled softly—“that lean lizard’s a Pearsall—and a Pearsall I -don’t want to acknowledge. But this is a pretty fair Van Brunt. -She’s most ready for clothes now.” - -“I’ll bring some of my things,” Van Brunt suggested, turning toward -the door to his own room. - -Hank looked dubious. “It’s lady fixin’s—flub-dubs—we want—fancy -ke-didoes, ye know. Course, we can’t wake up Miss Valeria to get -’em—but I don’t suppose a man’s riggin’s would—” - -“A man’s riggin’s!” echoed Van Brunt, laughing under his breath. -“You don’t know much, Hank. Just wait a minute!” and he was gone. - -Hilda’s already overburdened heart sank at the thought of the -morrow. That she should fail to offer some sort of gratitude for -these well-meant efforts on her behalf never occurred to her. The -awful gulf which yawns between a child’s point of view and that of -the grown-up gaped black at the seven-year-old’s feet; yet she was -loyally resolved to bridge it, when the time came, with such show of -enthusiasm as she could muster. - -Her father had gone through the further door. Uncle Hank had quit -the motion of his elbow that she knew meant stuffing, and was -threading a needle. He spoke softly to himself; he had a way of -doing that; Hilda loved it. - -“H’m—promises! Pettie got promised every time he went to Mesquite -that she’d be brung such a doll as could be got there. It was -forgot. It’s been forgot this time. Any feller that promises her any -more dolls from anywheres is bound to look to her like somebody that -promises to brings dolls—and then forgets.” - -Poor Charley Van Brunt! The old man had another listener. He had -come back, his hands full of stuff he was bringing to dress the -doll, and he stopped in the door. - -“You’re right, Pearsall,” he said soberly and Hilda didn’t -understand till she was older that queer thing he said afterward. -“I’ve all my life been promising to bring home dolls to the people I -love and who love me and depend on me—and forgetting. You know what -I mean. If it wasn’t dolls of some sort, then it would be dolls of -another—repentance, reformation, amendment—all dressed up and -shining. But I’ve always brought the valise home empty, haven’t I?” - -“Well—and if so, Charley—if so? No reason you shouldn’t fly at it -and make good right on the ground.” - -“All right,” her father’s tone was grave enough to mean a great deal -more than the present enterprise; he spread out his color-box and -paints on the desk, made some further exclamation in a low tone, and -went to work. There was silence in the office. Hilda knew that she -ought to slip away. She was just going to do so when she saw Uncle -Hank purse up his lips, look very fiercely at the needle which he -was holding at a considerable distance from his face, finally thread -it, and begin to speak, not to her father at all but to something he -had evidently propped up on his end of the desk in front of him. It -must be that product he had called “a pretty fair Van Brunt.” -Shaking a finger at it, he began to sew on some small white object, -glancing occasionally over his spectacles toward the invisible doll, -murmuring to her: - -“Now, you set there, Miss—well, what is your blessed name?—Miss Bon -Bon—Miss High Stepper—Miss Tip-Top—and mind how you shoot off your -mouth to-morrow. Ye want to be mighty clear on one point, and that -is that you came from Fort Worth. Pa was just saving a little -surprise when he failed to mention you to Pettie to-day. You was -right there in that grip of his’n all the time; so don’t let me hear -any remarks about a bronco sewing-machine, nor white domestic, nor -Charley’s paint-box, nor Uncle Hank’s number forty sewing thread. -Mind what I’m telling you, Miss Tip-Top; we don’t want a word of and -concerning the spare-room bed-comfort. Fort Worth’s where you come -from—Fort Worth; a-bringing the latest fashions in young-lady dolls; -and Pettie’s not to be told things.” - -Such discounting of her delight in the doll! It was a relief to her -when, a moment later, her father raised his head to say: - -“Look there, Pearsall—there are the petticoats and such like.” -Charley spread out handkerchiefs of exquisite linen cambric. “And -this,” unfurling a brocaded white satin muffler a yard or more -square, “there’s enough stuff in this for a frock.” He put down -several four-in-hand ties. “Those blue ones are exactly alike; -enough of a kind to make the dolly a sash.” - -“Yes, that’s right, Charley. I’ll sew ’em together and press ’em out -and rig her a surcingle of ’em. The Fort Worth doll was going to -have a blue surcingle—a blue sash—I ricollect.” - -Suddenly Hank dropped the ties; a look of perplexity, almost of -consternation, spread over his face. - -“Great Scott, Charley! I’ve just this minute remembered—do you know -that Pettie figured that doll was a-going to show up with white kid -hands, and tan shoes on its feet—tan shoes! Now, how in time are we -going to fix that?” - -“I’ll show you,” whispered Van Brunt, as he once more hurried out of -the room. He was back the next minute, with a pair of heavy tan -driving gloves and a pair of white ones. - -“Oh, fine, boy—scrumptious!” Uncle Hank’s eyes fastened upon them -with a pleased look. Then he hesitated, holding one of them up to -note that it was fresh and new. “But these are mighty good gloves, -Charley, to—” - -“I hope to heaven they are!” cried Van Brunt, and his pale face -reddened. “I hope they’re good enough to make right a man’s broken -promise.” - -Uncle Hank said no more. One at each side of the desk, the two men -worked for a time in silence, the watcher at the door drawing her -breath softly lest it betray her presence. Suddenly the elder man -began to speak: - -“Ye see, Charley, I was a widder’s boy—the oldest; and the mother -she used to make doll-babies for the little chaps. I’ve set up of -nights toward Christmas, before now, to work this-here sort of -racket. But mammy and me, we couldn’t paint—nary one of us—not a -bit. A lead-pencil or pen and ink; eyes and nose and mouth—laid out -mighty flat and square, I’m bound to say—’twas all the face them -dolls of ours ever got. The hair was generally ink, too. The best we -could do in that line would be some onraveled tow rope. This here -Miss High Stepper’s face and hair are simply the finest ever.” - -As he spoke he moved aside a little, and Hilda caught her breath in -a gasp of incredulous joy. What vision of delight was this Uncle -Hank held forth, turning his head to look at it sidewise, half -questioning, half pleased? - -Muslin had furnished the ground tone for its delicate complexion. -Charles Van Brunt, with the help of his color-box, had been placing -thereon not the usual countenance of the store doll, but the roguish -face of a gay little mischief. There was nothing tame in her -sweetness. Heavily black-fringed blue eyes looked out at you with -stimulating significance. The lips smiled saucily. The long-fleeced -Angora goatpelt had yielded a head of streaming crinkled tresses, -which (after an interview with the color-box) showed an adorable -gamboge tint. Head and body were fairly proportioned and -well-shaped; and small anatomical inaccuracies were more than -compensated for by her _beaute du diable_. - -“What’s the matter with that?” cried the young father boyishly. -“Say, she’s a corker, Hank!” - -But now a new thought came to Hilda, which made her drag her -fascinated eyes resolutely from the beautiful, smiling water-color -face. They wished her to know nothing of the doll—to be surprised. -With a last doting glance which caressed its perfections, she moved -noiselessly back across the dark hall and into the sitting-room, -shivering but ecstatic; oh, how different a creature from the -bereaved little soul who had crossed that room, leaden-footed, -sore-hearted, but a few moments back! She drew her slim legs up -deliciously under the warm covers that seemed to close about her -like the very arms of love, and with a deep, deep sigh of perfect -peace, relaxed her comforted spirit to sleep. - -Silence enfolded the ranch house. All the little nocturnal sounds -that noisy daylight blurs or blots out gradually became audible. -Somebody walked across the upstairs hall in stockinged feet. There -was a stamping among the ponies down at the corral. A little owl -called sleepily from the willows over by the irrigating ditch. - -Hours afterward, when she wakened—this time on her bed in her own -room, whither she had been carried and undressed in that sound -sleep—she found a radiant being perched upon a table beside her -pillow. - -Save for the presence of the doll herself, the child could never -have believed but that the vision of last night was a dream. When -later Uncle Hank explained to her, with her father’s assistance, -that the beautiful Fort Worth doll had only been withheld from her -the day before because it was a surprise, she accepted the -explanation with a look and manner singular even for Hilda. There -was something exultant in the seven-year-old’s bearing and in her -thought. Her doll had a different origin from Maybelle Marchbanks’, -or those that belonged to any other little girl in the world. Uncle -Hank was not telling her the truth. It was not so, that her father -had bought the doll. But her imaginative soul seized eagerly -upon the spirit of the thing. All statements—and they were -voluminous—concerning the importation and handling of Miss High -Stepper (now Rose Marie) she understood to be figurative. This was -not fact to which she was listening; it was poetry—parable; and she -answered in parable of her own. - -She kissed them both passionately, and hugged the pretty doll to her -with tears and with laughter, dwelling ardently upon each personal -beauty and each separate elegance of attire; the arch, expressive -eyes, the dainty tan shoes—all from Fort Worth; that is to say, all -found and purchased in, and brought to Hilda out of the blessed -country of Love and Good Faith. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - POOR CHARLEY - - -Hank Pearsall, used enough to the drinking that belongs with life in -the western cattle country, the town outbreaks of hard-muscled -cowpunchers who live under the open sky, watched with dismay the -very different sort of drinking that his young employer indulged in. - -After that miserable Fort Worth episode and the arrival of Rose -Marie, things were never quite so bad again. Charley eased up on the -trips to town, and to the hard-drinking ranches. The Sorrows was -already so crippled, its resources so reduced that a day of -reckoning must certainly be at hand; but Hank knew that no more land -was being sold, no more big sums borrowed on mortgage. And again Van -Brunt made spasmodic efforts to interest himself in the ranch work. -To the old man at this time Charley had the pathetic charm of a -repentant child. The entire household management had slipped into -the boss’s hands; Hank was but fifty-two, yet he seemed like an -indulgent father with an incompetent son and his family in charge. - -Hilda could read. She hardly remembered a time when she wasn’t able -to make a sense that satisfied her, anyhow, out of the words and -letters under the pictures in her story books. She had a curious -habit of looking at these and partly “making up” as she went along, -entertaining herself with such tales as they suggested. At first, -her father laughed at it; then, in his careless, haphazard way, -tried a bit of teaching. But this was a sort of work that took -patience; it was easier to read aloud to the child; and so the -lessons usually ended up that way. Uncle Hank, listening, gave the -sober opinion that a child of Pettie’s age “ought to have -schooling.” - -“And I think I can manage it, Charley,” he said to his employer. -“They need a school in the neighborhood. There’s eight or ten kids -of the right age within riding distance.” - -“Go ahead, then, Pearsall. You’ve lived here—you know how to tackle -the matter,” Van Brunt answered easily. - -So Uncle Hank got Capadine, McGregor, and three other ranches to -“join in”; an adobe hut that, before the day of fences, had been a -sign camp, was put in repair; an enthusiastic young woman brought -out from Kansas; and what the cowpunchers instantly christened -“Hank’s Academy” was started with eight pupils. It was Pearsall -himself who took Hilda over the first morning, and tenderly launched -her on the tide of school life. After that, she rode alone on -Papoose, the fat little red pony he had got for her. Hilda’s school -and Hilda’s lessons became an important household interest. - -Then came a time of roundups. Charley was still making efforts to be -a ranchman. His help on the range might have been of questionable -value, but at least Charley himself was getting moral and physical -benefit from the riding. - -Upon a morning that Hilda never forgot, the roundup was working a -mile or so from the house and within sight of the school playground, -a mere hard-trodden spot of plain outside the south window, where -small feet had worn off the grass. She had begged to stay home from -school and go with the Three Sorrows outfit. Her father would have -allowed it, but Uncle Hank put in mildly: - -“Best not, Pettie. I’d stay with the lessons while we got a -teacher.” - -She had teased and even pouted a little, so that Uncle Hank finally -allowed that she might ask Miss Belle to be excused at morning -recess. This request the teacher denied. They were having special -work. In the cattle country, if you begin stopping school for -roundups, education will fare ill. So she went out to the south of -the house with the released, yelling children who were playing at -roundups of their own, depressed and somewhat bitter, refusing to -join when they roped at each other. She could see the cloud of dust -that rose above the herd; she could just make out the smaller bunch -that was “the cut,” held at a distance from the main herd; and -riders swaying out to head galloping animals into it, moving swiftly -like toy mechanisms. Her heart was hot with resentment. She ought to -be there right now. Uncle Hank would let her ride old Paddy and help -hold herd. She could be lots of use—Miss Belle didn’t know that. - -She gave several longing glances to where Papoose was staked out, on -the further side of the schoolhouse, and began to walk. - -She kept on walking, her back to the school, her face to the -roundup, until she was as near to the one as the other. When the -bell rang to call the others in, she calculated that it was too late -for her to get there in time—she might as well go on. She walked -faster, and finally began to run. - -It was a general roundup of everybody’s cattle. The C Bar C outfit -was there, but Clarke Capadine was back at the schoolhouse, sitting -on a bench, singing the multiplication table—they always had that -after morning recess. Kenny Tazewell, of the Quien Sabe—Kenny was -big enough to help some, and his papa almost always let him come. -But he also was slaving at the multiplication table. There would be -no one to divide the glory of the roundup with her. She went forward -more resolutely. - -Uncle Hank was at the chuck wagon. He wasn’t a bit surprised to see -her. - -“Miss Belle let ye off all right, did she?” he inquired casually, -and Hilda didn’t even have to answer, for he turned and hurried down -to the branding pen where the men were laboring like demons to keep -up with the cutters and handlers. - -Papa didn’t see her at all. He was changing horses over by the roped -corral. She saw him get on the little gray. It always pranced most -splendidly, but Uncle Hank had said it wasn’t much of a cutting -pony. She watched him mount and ride. She loved to see her father on -horseback. He looked so beautiful, among the other men, it made her -think of knights and tourneys. He fetched a half-circle around the -cattle, out of her sight. She dropped down beside the chuck wagon -and sat quite still. It would not be prudent to put herself forward -just yet. As for to-morrow, and Miss Belle’s explanations—after -them, the deluge. - -She knew the cook; it was Limpy Phillips of the C Bar C. He only -made one or two derogatory remarks about children at roundups. When -he was busy at his covered pots and Dutch ovens in their trench, she -earned toleration by mutely handing him the thing he needed from the -chuck wagon. At five minutes to twelve he straightened up and told -her she might go tell her Uncle Hank that dinner was ready, and she -better look sharp and mind that the whole blame herd didn’t run over -her and stamp her flatter’n a flapjack. - -She got to the branding pen. Uncle Hank came to its bars. She was -just about to give her message, when something in the old man’s face -stopped her. He was looking toward Shorty, who came galloping, a -hand up, his mouth open. She knew Shorty must be calling, though in -the din of the roundup she couldn’t hear any word. Uncle Hank jumped -the bars and ran toward the oncoming rider, and then she got the -cowpuncher’s voice. - -“Pearsall—Charley’s hurt.” - -With one motion Hank swung around, flung the reins over Buckskin’s -head, was on him and away. The two men galloped side by side. Hilda -began to run. She had no memory of the cook’s errand, no fear of the -herd or the hard-driven horses. She ran desperately, blindly, till -stopped by old Snake Thompson’s voice and hand. - -She was picked up as a big dog picks up a puppy. Old Snake had -scooped her from the ground in the manner of a cowpuncher lifting a -handkerchief in a display of fancy riding. - -“Lookee here,” he said with irrelevant wisdom, “children should be -saw, not heard. What in time are you doing here?” - -“My papa—he’s hurt—” - -“Where’s he at?” - -“Over there.” She pointed. “Uncle Hank went—Shorty—Oh, hurry!” - -Thompson began circling toward the other side of the herd, Hilda on -the saddle in front of him. McGregor of the Cross K thundered up -behind them. - -“Is it Charley?” called Thompson. - -“Yes.” McGregor checked a little to explain, “Buster says he ran -into an old cow—rode her down full tilt. Horse’s neck’s broke.” - -They suddenly rounded the shoulder of the herd, that mass of dark, -bellowing, pawing life, with its restless hoofs and shaken horns, -and came in sight of a group at a little distance from its edge, -motionless, with a sense of arrest. Three men, four ponies, and -something dark on the ground. Capadine came running toward them. - -“How bad is it?” asked McGregor. - -Capadine glanced toward Hilda. - -“He’s breathing.” - -Hilda heard the word while old Snake was lifting her down. Uncle -Hank was kneeling by that something on the ground. - -“Move back a little, boys. Don’t crowd around him that-away,” she -heard him say. They opened out, and she caught sight of the still -features, the closed eyes, of her father. As she looked, those eyes -fluttered open, the head moved. - -“That you, Pearsall?” came the whisper. “Get me home.” - -The ranch boss bent closer. - -“Are you sufferin’, Charley?” he asked. - -“No,” was the dubious response. “No, I’m not in pain.” - -“God!” groaned Snake under his breath; and McGregor dropped his -head. Hilda wondered that they should be so dismayed. Surely it was -good that father was not in pain. - -Uncle Hank got to his feet. The eyes that had gazed so fearfully at -Charley went keenly round the circle of faces. If he saw Hilda, he -made no sign; but there was a sharp scrutiny for the horse that -looked over each man’s shoulder. - -“Jeff—Buster—” he muttered under his breath, with a wavering return -of his glance to the injured man’s face—“No. Mex, is that pony of -yours fresh?” - -“Yes, sir.” The slim, wiry cowpuncher put an eager hand up on his -blue roan’s mane. “He’ll do whatever you ask of him.” - -Charley’s eyes had closed again. Hilda wanted very much to creep in -closer to him, but dared not. Uncle Hank was doing everything. - -“Pull straight for Mesquite,” she heard him say to Mex. “Stop at the -Lazy F for a fresh pony if that one gives out. You can get another -at the Circle 99 company’s, if you need it. If Doc. Elder ain’t in -Mesquite, nor anywhere in riding distance, and if anything’s the -matter that you can’t get him, go on to El Centro for McClosky. -Don’t come back without a doctor. Have you got money?” - -Hilda’s eyes followed the motions of Buster and Jeff who were -pulling the saddles from two ponies and unfolding the blankets. She -heard McGregor offer to attend to the money for Mex and see to the -Three Sorrows cattle in the roundup. Uncle Hank thanked him, and -stooped once more to her father. - -“Bring me them blankets now, boys,” he said. “That’s right—one over -the other, that-away. Shorty—Jeff Allen—Bud McGregor,” they were -laying the blankets on the ground close beside her father. Uncle -Hank looked around. “Jim—where’s Jim Tazewell?” he asked. “Here, -Jimmie; to this side. Kansas, you get acrost from him. Now, the six -of you—slip your hands under him as far as you can and ease him onto -the blankets.” - -They stooped, shouldering close. Hilda could see nothing but their -backs. She felt a sick shutting-in at the heart as they lifted. Then -came Uncle Hank’s voice again. - -“Did we hurt you, Charley?” - -They were placed now, three on a side, ready to take up the blanket. -Hilda could see her father. His eyes were still closed, but his lips -shaped themselves into an unheard “No.” Cautiously they stepped out -on the mile trip to the ranch house. Hilda ran beside them, crouched -a little, her hand out, not quite touching them. She moved like a -young partridge, startled from cover, and out of her eyes fear -looked. Over on the playground school was turning out. Thin and -clear came the treble whoops, as soon as they had left the noise of -the roundup sufficiently behind them. It was very strange to think -that over there they didn’t know; for them it was prisoner’s base -and the multiplication table, just as it had been this morning. - -When the journey was little more than half done, the six bearers -stepping with infinite care, Van Brunt began to groan aloud. Uncle -Hank was walking at his head, watching his face. - -“Where hurts you boy? Does it joggle past bearin’? Ought we put you -down and rest you a spell?” - -He failed to catch the whispered reply at first. The bearers halted, -and he leaned closer. - -“No.” Van Brunt motioned feebly with his hand. “Get on, boys ... I -want to see the baby, before—” - -The big fellows carrying the blanket moved ahead, stepping short, -watching pitifully. Charley groaned outright at every stride now; -Hilda, beside him, moaned, too. Her eyes were so blinded with crying -that she did not see the ranch house when it came in sight. Going up -the long, tree-lined avenue to the front door, Uncle Hank bent and -spoke to her. - -“Go in ahead, Pettie. Tell your aunt that your father’s bad hurt, -and we’re bringing him.” - -Hilda had a sense of flying, of getting to the house at a single -step. It happened that Aunt Val was just coming down the stairs. -Hilda cried out her communication as it had been given, and turned -back to the bearers, who were toiling up the porch steps. - -Miss Valeria moved uncertainly into the open door, got a glimpse of -what lay in the blankets; her hands went up, she stumbled blindly, -and Hank’s arm caught her as she fell. He let her down on the hall -couch. Charley went past them, carried for the last time into his -own house. - -“Pettie,” Hank gave the direction over his shoulder, as he followed, -“you run find some one to look after auntie.” - -Jose’s wife was in the kitchen. Hilda caught at her skirts and -dragged her toward the front hall, explaining as they went. She left -the woman questioning, exclaiming, and flew to the living-room. They -had shoved out the couch, and were raising the blankets high, so -that the injured man could be laid gently down. - -This done, they stood about him, seven tall, white-hatted, -deep-voiced cowpunchers, afraid to move or speak lest their tones be -too loud for sick-room pitch, the creaking of their boots offend. In -the silence, the rustling of their big, virile bodies, in the strain -of feeling, sounded plain. Something pushed against Hilda in the -doorway. It was Burchie, in his soiled playfrock. She took his -little grubby hand and led him forward to Uncle Hank. The old man -lifted him. - -“Charley,” he said. - -Van Brunt’s eyes unclosed. - -“The baby—here.” A faint motion of his hand indicated a place on the -couch. Hank set the child there, and he remained motionless as a -small image, only the wondering, distressed blue eyes going from one -face to another. Hilda crouched in an inconspicuous heap at the side -of the bed, unnoticed; Burch’s little hand reached down and grasped -the shoulder of her dress. - -Van Brunt’s dark head on the pillow moved a bit from side to side. -Uncle Hank bent over to try to ease his position. She saw the look -which flashed up into the old man’s face as her father said: - -“I’ve made an awful mess of it.” - -Uncle Hank shook his head. - -“I’ve made beggars of these children.” - -Hilda hadn’t been sure, till he said “these children” that he knew -she was beside him. - -“No, no, boy.” Uncle Hank’s eyes entreated, reassured. “You was new -to the ranching business. We all make our mistakes.” - -“Ah!” breathed the dying man, “I’ve made nothing else.” - -He closed his eyes and was silent for a minute. Then he opened them -once more with that tearing groan. - -“Katie’s children—what’s to become of them?” - -Hilda took heart to reach out a shaking little hand and touch his -fingers. They were chill, but they closed upon hers strongly. She -wanted to say that he was not to be troubled, but such things were -for grown-ups. She looked about on the cowpunchers, Shorty holding -hard to the edge of his chair, old Snake Thompson over by the window -shaken by rigors of feeling. The sun was sending long arrows in -through the slit of the silken curtain beyond the couch. - -“Don’t worry. You’re a-going to be all right,” came Hank’s full, -grave voice. “The doctor’ll be here inside of twenty-four hours. -You’ll be all right.” - -“No,” Van Brunt stopped him with a husky whisper. “I’m not going to -live an hour. My children are orphans.” - -Plainly this tortured him more than bodily pain. - -“Would it quiet your mind, Charley, if I was to promise to stick to -’em always, exactly as if they was my own?” - -The great wave of relief that went over the white face on the pillow -was sufficient answer, and Hilda looked to see her father get better -at once; but what he said between labored breaths was: - -“God bless you, Pearsall. I’m leaving nothing but debts—” - -“’S all right, Charley—all right. They’s a-plenty—I’ll make it -a-plenty. And God so deal with me as I deal by these children.” - -It was like a solemn ceremony; the picture of it as such remained -with Hilda in after life, vivid, ineffaceable. Her father on the -bed, the sure knowledge of death in his eyes, Uncle Hank putting a -brown hand over her own and Charley’s, the cowpunchers standing -about like witnesses to the pact. - -When it was done the father kissed them both. Hilda thought he was -going to say something as he looked at her, but he rolled his head -painfully on the pillow and murmured instead: - -“Take them out, now—take them away. Poor things—poor little things—I -don’t want them to remember—take them out, quick!” - -They were hurried from the room. Shorty picked up Burch, and Bud -McGregor led her. They were lingering forlornly outside the closed -door when Uncle Hank opened it a few moments later, and said: - -“You boys go with them to the bunk house.” He came fully into the -hall and closed the door. “Hurry on with ’em—see about Miss Valeria -as you go.” - -And he turned back into Charley’s room, to sit by the young fellow’s -couch while he passed in anguish down into the Valley of the Shadow, -to reassure him in moments of respite from pain, with promises that -the mortgages should be paid off, the children have education and -opportunities. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - A CHILD’S WORLD - - -Hilda sat on the floor in the hall, Burchie beside her. She was -still a thin little thing; and though she had now come into the -growing age—that period so called out of all the years it takes us -to reach our full bulk and stature, eight-year-old Hilda had as yet -not accomplished much of its work. She perched there with her slim -legs drawn up so far that the pointed chin almost rested upon her -knees. The gaze of the big, unwinking eyes was on the open doorway -of the parlor. - -A child’s world is a strange place, not by any means the world of -the adults about it. To the infant—viewing all matters from another -point—a table is a serious and interesting piece of furniture, with -things upon its top that you cannot see; a chair, a somewhat less -doubtful structure, which you sometimes climb, if you can, -thereafter to sit upon it with your insufficient legs dangling. To -it—even to a child of Hilda’s age—that which immediately surrounds -it is life—is the world; the persons of its household and its social -circle make up humanity; the laws it there meets seem to its -feebleness fixed as those of the Medes and Persians. Thus or so say -the customs or decide the grown-ups—the infallible ones; it is well -or grievous, but you cannot help it; you have no influence, much -less real power, to change or to defy. - -To Hilda, sitting quietly there on the floor, the world was a great -level plain, inhabited not so much by mankind as by cattle. The -capital of this realm was Home—not merely the Three Sorrows -ranchhouse as it had been in her father’s time, but the kind of home -that Uncle Hank meant when he promised that dying father that the -children should always have one. There are persons who spread around -them this atmosphere of security against the jars and offenses of -life, of safe comfort amid its loneliness or hostility; rich, -selfless natures that dispel, as a flower its perfume, the sense of -home. Hank, tall, bearded, deep-voiced, so much man in all his -attributes, yet carried it with him. He served it at the tail of a -chuck wagon or in the one-night cow camp. One could even imagine him -bringing it into the cold and unhopeful air of a palace. - -“Yes, we’ve got debts to pay and obligations to meet, and it’s goin’ -to be close work for a spell,” he had said to Miss Valeria, when he -talked matters over with the helpless, dismayed woman. “But there’s -one thing sure, we’re a-goin’ to have a home for these children here -in the meantime.” - -His first move was to build the long-delayed messhouse for the boys; -his next to send away for a good Chinese cook. Thus came to them Sam -Kee, elderly, silent, with all the best traits of his race; Sam Kee -who made a garden and raised such vegetables as had never been -dreamed of on the ranch, who would lay aside his usual reserve and -scold shrilly to get the right cows kept in the right pasture for -the making of butter and cottage cheese. Sam Kee had become the -corner stone of domestic comfort at the Sorrows, where now the -little family ate alone, Uncle Hank at the foot of the table, Miss -Valeria at the head, while the boys had a cook of their own. - -To be sure there sat enthroned, away in Chicago or Kansas City, a -vague power known as The Price of Beef. Inexorable, unapproachable, -arbitrary, it ruled this mortal life. To it all questions of -improvement in one’s material well-being were referred. By it all -earthly hopes, all ambitions and vanities, stood or fell. You needed -shoes or stockings? You longed for piano lessons, or you had set -your fancy upon a pink sash or a certain picture book? Well, if beef -were “up” you probably got—upon proper representation—the object of -your desire. But if beef were “down”—then, in the matter of piano -lessons, pink sash, or picture book, you did without; and so far as -shoes and stockings were concerned, you just continued along with -those you had. For Uncle Hank had made it plain to Hilda that the -mark of all moral and mental inferiority—I had almost said -degradation—was to sell beef when it was “down.” - -When Henry T. Pearsall was appointed guardian for the children of -Charles Van Brunt, deceased, the administrator of their estate, when -he entered upon the familiar task of making one dollar do the work -of two, eking out money for the interest on mortgages, keeping -things running until, as he phrased it, “he could sorter get his -feet under him,” this Price of Beef ruled him too. - -But Miss Valeria Van Brunt had the strength of the weak, and Hilda -heard with only a passing sort of surprise that Uncle Hank would, if -necessary, even sell beef when it was down to send her and Burchie -to Fort Worth. It seemed the crime was justifiable when something -was the matter with your ears. - -For after Charley was gone, the monotony and the crudeness of ranch -life seemed finally to become unbearable to Miss Val. She came to -Pearsall almost in tears, declaring that Burch had some sort of -ailment which affected his hearing and that he ought to have a -specialist’s care and treatment at a sanitarium. Uncle Hank was -bewildered. - -“Something the matter with the boy’s hearing? What makes you think -so, Miss Valery?” - -“Oh, I’m quite sure of it. Mr. Pearsall, you must have noticed that -he’s not talking as he ought. When he wants anything, he just points -to it. I have to make him speak.” - -“But when he does talk—it’s all right. I never heard a young ’un of -his age speak so plain, I believe.” - -“That’s not the question. Mrs. Silcott says,” she was quoting the -lady from Ohio now, “that her cousin had a little boy—or maybe it -was a little girl—who was just the same, and that they let it run on -till nothing could be done. The hearing was actually lost. The child -became deaf and—finally dumb. This must be attended to, Mr. -Pearsall, and at once.” - -Uncle Hank gave the little lady a long, puzzled look. But no one -could argue with Miss Valeria Van Brunt when her mind was made up; -he had found that out. After a while he said slowly: - -“Well, ma’am, I’ll get the money together just as soon as I possibly -can. If you feel that-away about it—I guess the money’ll have to -come.” - -Then he had added that statement about selling beef even though it -were down. He didn’t have to do it that time, because he got a good -chance to make a trade with McGregor. Yet the fact remained that he -would have. He would even have put a mortgage on—and a mortgage must -be an exceedingly desperate undertaking, for he looked that way when -he said it. - -So Aunt Val and Burchie were to go to Fort Worth to a sanitarium -there which some one had recommended. There had been great -preparations in the past weeks, clothing ordered from New York, and -this afternoon Aunt Val was entertaining at tea some ladies from the -C Bar C and the McGregor ranch. She had told Hilda that, for the -occasion, she might put on Burchie one of the new suits that had -arrived, adding: - -“And do try to make yourself look nice, Hildegarde. I’m afraid -you’re a very untidy little girl. Wash carefully. Wash brother -carefully, and pick out a new, plain dress—white linen will be -best.” - -Good thing Aunt Val asked for white linen. It was about the only -frock Hilda had that would have passed muster, and Miss Valeria was -just as apt to have suggested something that had been worn out and -outgrown long ago. If Hilda could have got the words together to say -it, her statement would have been that the mere surface of things -made altogether too much difference to her aunt—that with her the -serious question was, not what was inside your head, but how was the -hair on that head combed and smoothed up, how well the face on its -front, the ears that ornamented its sides, kept washed? Always and -always the thing you said to Aunt Val was of much less importance -than the way you said it. - -Having listened to a jerky sermon as to what would be polite to say -to the visiting ladies, Hilda had decided that silence was the wise -policy, so she had retreated as far as the hall with Burchie. She -might not speak, but she couldn’t help hearing, and these tea-ing -ladies—and in particular that friend of Mrs. Capadine’s from -Ohio—had offended her deeply. They sat in the parlor, while here in -the hall she played with Burchie, rounding up for his amusement -cattle of twigs in pastures marked off by the pattern on the rug. No -doubt the ladies looked at her and thought her a good child. They -would have been startled to know that much of their talk was -judged—and condemned—by the active brain beneath the damp, carefully -smoothed down thatch of dark curls. - -Burch refused to be interested in the roundup of twigs. He made one -of his silent demands for the building blocks that he loved to set -up and tear down, set up and tear down again. They were on the -shelves on the other side of the living-room. As Hilda was slipping -through to get them, her aunt stopped her. - -“What is it, Hilda?” - -“I only wanted to get Burchie’s blocks. He doesn’t care to play -roundup.” - -“And you do?” Stout Mrs. Capadine reached out a hand, and when Hilda -stopped at her knee to say politely that she did, “Well, I expect -you’ll be the ranchwoman of the family, then—a regular little cattle -queen.” - -“Uncle Hank’s already taught me to ride pretty well,” Hilda told her -seriously. “I have to grow a little taller, and my arms have to be -longer, before I can learn to rope.” - -Once more back with Burchie and the play on the floor, she heard the -Ohio lady caution, laughing: - -“Take care. Little pitchers have long ears, you know.” And Mrs. -Capadine lowered her voice away down when she next spoke. - -“Well, when Mr. Capadine told me that Lee Marchbanks had applied for -the guardianship of the children, I didn’t know but you’d asked him -to act in that capacity, Miss Van Brunt; but I see that your -arrangement with the present incumbent still stands.” - -“Act in that capacity” was a little beyond Hilda. She had no doubt -that Colonel Lee Marchbanks could do it; and “present incumbent” was -surely something disagreeable; but her uneasy mind settled on the -question—what children the Colonel might wish to be guardian of. - -“No,” Aunt Val was speaking in her most New York voice, very -languid, “I didn’t write to Colonel Marchbanks; he wrote to me. This -man Pearsall is—er—well-meaning, of course, but I can’t help feeling -that an educated person, a gentleman, such as Colonel Marchbanks -seems to be, might be a more fortunate selection.” - -“This man Pearsall!” They were talking about Uncle Hank. Then the -children they spoke of were herself and Burchie. Mechanically, Hilda -pushed the blocks about to keep Burch quiet, listening with all her -ears now, while in the room there the talk went from bad to worse, -till finally Miss Valeria spoke of Uncle Hank as uncouth. Hilda -hadn’t much idea as to what that might mean; but it sounded bad. - -Justice was not to be had here; but there was a theater which she -maintained in her child’s mind, where all these elbowing and shoving -assertions and commands—often both vague and contradictory—that Aunt -Val put on people were turned right around and Hilda’s own idea of -fair play and human satisfaction had the say. She herself was the -character that adorned and ruled that stage, but not in any such -guise as Hilda’s friends would have recognized. This was a presence -of lofty stature, and of a countenance and glance insupportable to -evil-doers—a creature called forth by the helpless child fancy -oftener than grown-ups suppose. For some reason whose explanation I -will leave to others, it spoke always in shrill falsetto, that high -sing-song which is the voice of the Chinese actor. But it never had -to speak more than once. Not only people, but things and conditions, -hustled to do its bidding. - -In there—right back in that parlor—Aunt Val, seated among her -visiting ladies, had said that Uncle Hank used bad grammar! And the -lady from Ohio had agreed that he was ignorant, though good-hearted. -The big black eyes yet flashed; Hilda retired to her mental theater -and hastily set its stage as the ranchhouse parlor, dragging onto it -Miss Val herself, the visiting ladies from their several ranches, -and the pert outsider from Ohio. On chairs of unworthiness there she -stuck the offenders. To them she saw enter this big, haughty, -terrifying other self of hers. It came swishing through the room, -about seven feet tall, irreproachably clean of countenance, teeth -and finger-nails, with conquering eyes and a paralyzingly correct -toilet. Often it never spoke at all; merely froze the guilty ones -into silence with one glance as it passed; but this was a time for -plain speaking. - -Uncle Hank was not ignorant! Ignorant, yourself, Miss or Madam Ohio! -Could it be possible that she, Hilda, alone of them all was aware -that he knew more than anybody else in the world? Why, you -starched-up lady with your gold spectacles and shiny slippers, it -would need a lifetime’s toil for you to come into half his stored -wisdom concerning coyotes and why they howl; touching prairie dogs, -wild mustangs, cactus, jack rabbits, trail-herds, boggy fords, -relating to “when we were down on the Pecos,” or “one spring on the -Canadian,” or, “when cows stampede.” Uncle Hank was beautiful too. -No one living had such eyes as those blue ones of his; his smile was -as the very rays of the sun; his voice; his touch—! Hilda knew that -sometimes children had to get along without relatives and without -parents; but that any little girl could possibly face existence -without some sort of Uncle Hank was beyond her powers of belief. -Supposing that she—even in her own proper and insignificant -person—should lead these glib scoffers to Uncle Hank’s trunk, lift -the lid and show them where his Sunday suit lay? If that did not -convict them of shallow judgments, surely the bottle of cologne -would do the trick. It was imported, so Uncle Hank said; and to -Hilda’s thinking its possession was better than a patent of -nobility. - -Hilda’s secret court of justice and the visit came to an end about -the same time. The ladies, who never knew what they’d been through -in the little girl’s mind, came out into the hall; the buckboard -that was to carry two of them, the ponies for the others, were at -the door. Hilda rose, made her bow and said her good-bys in that -queer, artificial tone that pleased her aunt. Burchie had stood -solid on his two feet; not a word out of him; just a pink fist up, -methodically wiping off kisses—and Aunt Val let him. She and the -ladies even exchanged pitying glances over the top of his head. But -Hilda knew that Burch heard all they said perfectly, and could have -talked well enough if he’d wanted to—and surely Aunt Val knew it. -Grown-ups—all but Uncle Hank—were dreadfully puzzling. Finally Hilda -had led little brother away, given him his bread and milk, put him -to bed, and now had come back to her evening perch on the door-stone -where she always watched for Uncle Hank. - -While she sat there turning over these recollections in her mind, -the warm gold had faded to delicate ashes-of-roses. The light waned -with infinite gentleness and tenderness. A great spirit of quietness -sighed across the open land, enfolding the few tiny evening sounds -that began to make themselves heard. Her mind wandered from the -questions she was going to ask Uncle Hank. It was funny about those -little brown owls that sit up at the mouths of prairie-dog holes; -how they will turn their heads to watch you as you walk around them, -and keep right on turning, until, if you’d walk around them often -enough, they would wring their little heads right off. Oh, yes, they -will. Indeed and truly. Shorty had seen ’em, mor’n once. - -A cooler air blew in from the southwest. The shine had gone from the -window panes. A cricket chirped close at hand, and, without having -consciously heard it, the child momentarily glanced that way. Then -back to her vigil and her reflections. - -It was funny about a dogie. It was funny, and it was sad, too, that -a dogie— - -Suddenly in the growing dimness, far out on the Ojo Bravo trail, a -tiny speck began to vibrate. To the untutored gaze, it might well -have been a jack-rabbit or a coyote, or even an idly cruising -tumbleweed, but to the eyes that were watching it now, full of eager -love, already deeply versed in plainscraft, that speck was instantly -recognized as Uncle Hank on Buckskin. Aunt Val and the ladies who -had been visiting her; the little brown owls who twisted off their -own heads; the dogies, those forlorn orphans of the range, whose -affairs had barely swum over the verge of her mental horizon—all -were thrust headlong into the rag-bag of oblivion. The little feet -struck the ground with a sharp spat; lightly as a blown feather -Hilda was off, running down the trail. - -That was approaching toward which the twenty-four hours so -inevitably swung. The vibrating speck came nearer and nearer and -resolved itself into a most knowing-looking buckskin pony carrying a -tall man clad in the usual dress of the cowpuncher. Galloping -horseman and running child continued to approach each other. They -hailed simultaneously. - -“Hi, Pettie!” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank!” - -Buckskin was checked; the grizzled head leaned far forward; one foot -in its cowboy boot was lowered from the stirrup; Hilda’s was planted -on it; the small brown hand caught firmly in the big, strong one; -and the child swung up in front of the old man. The pony, as he felt -the additional weight settle into place, always started soberly on -toward the ranch house. - -The regular thing after that was for the two on Buckskin to bring -forward the record of history from the point where it had been -dropped—when they separated in the morning—to the present moment. - -Questions and answers usually alternated. The day’s happenings were -tallied over. By one and by the other, possibilities were submitted -and gravely passed upon, information volunteered, incidents -recounted seriously, yet in tolerant and hopeful spirit, the tousled -black head leaning against the blue flannel shirt. Hilda was the -putter of questions. Uncle Hank the answerer, the source of all -wisdom. This evening she was scarcely up and settled before she -began: - -“Uncle Hank, when papa died, did Fayte Marchbanks’ papa want to be -our guardian—Burchie’s and mine?” She leaned her head back against -the blue flannel shirt and tried to look at Uncle Hank over her -forehead. His beard was a good deal in the way. She couldn’t see -much. - -“Now who in time would ’a’ told you anything about that?” He was out -of patience—though not with her. It encouraged her to proceed. - -“But he did?” - -“I reckon he did, Pettie.” - -“But he can’t—he can’t ever—could he, Uncle Hank?” - -“No!” Hilda loved Uncle Hank’s voice when it was full and grave like -that; it was so satisfying; it settled things; it gave her little -thrills all down her spine. He went on. “Your pa left you to me—in a -manner of speaking. Plenty witnesses. I—” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank, I’m a witness,” a quick rush of tears in the black -eyes. “I heard him say it, Uncle Hank. I heard you promise. It made -me—” No use to begin that—she never could tell the old man how it -made her feel toward him. So she finished softly, “I’m a witness.” - -“So you would be,” Hank agreed. “But there was no need to call on -you for that, Pettie. I did name it to Miss Valery when she come to -me speaking of Lee Marchbanks having applied; I told her same as I -told the judge when I took out my papers. It’s nothing for a child -like you to pester her little head about.” But the mention of Aunt -Val brought back all Hilda’s bitterness. - -“Well, I think it was mean for a man to want to do that—want to be -our guardian, I mean—when you’re it,” she said. - -“Sho! I wouldn’t talk that-away about some one you never seen—nor me -either, for that matter. It chances I’ve never laid eyes on Colonel -Lee Marchbanks; but from what I hear, he’s all right.” - -“Well, he’s Fayte Marchbanks’ papa, and I don’t like Fayte a bit. -Fayte said the Three Sorrows ranch belonged to him—if he had his -rights. Is that the reason his papa wanted to be our guardian?” - -“Now see here, don’t you fix up a story and fit it onto the other -feller without by-your-leave. That ain’t fair. I expect Lee -Marchbanks does wish his first wife’s father hadn’t sold the Sorrers -out of the family, but too much thinkin’ about what the other -feller’s thinkin’ has made a lot of trouble in this world before -now. Let it go at what he _done_. And he done no more than to ask -appointment as guardeen—and I guess he had your Aunt Val’s -permission for that. You couldn’t understand the ins and outs of it -now.” - -“Mrs. Capadine said he wanted control of the property—what’s -control, Uncle Hank? And she said it was natural. I don’t think she -ought to have said that. And they all talked about minor children, -the estates being wasted before they came of age. Is a ranch an -estate, Uncle Hank? What’s of age—am I of age?” - -Hank chuckled and shook the thin little shoulder softly. “You’ve -asked me so many questions I ain’t a-goin’ to answer nary one of -them,” he said. “Them ladies were talking general and wide-flung, -Pettie. They don’t mean to throw off on your Uncle Hank none.” - -But Hilda knew of something that was not general and wide-flung, -that applied directly to him. - -“What does uncouth, mean, Uncle Hank?” she asked. - -“Now, you ask me what I can tell you,” he returned genially. “That -there was a great word with my mother, back in the Tennessee -Mountains. When we young ’uns rampaged about so far, she’d use it on -us. If we raced up to the table and commenced filling our mouths too -full before we got good settled in our chairs, she’d tell us not to -be uncouth and make us lay down knife and fork and set for a spell.” - -“I wish you’d do that way, too, Uncle Hank. You just correct me if -I’m ever uncouth. I’m sure _you_ never are.” - -Hilda thought she was very diplomatic to put it that way, but she -was a little startled to feel the broad blue-flannel chest against -which her head leaned lifted by a silent chuckle, and to have Uncle -Hank echo: - -“Uncouth—I bet your Aunt Valery thinks so—and says so! Why not? Way -I talk must sound heathenish to a New York lady.” - -“Well, I like the way you talk,” the little girl held to her point. - -“That’s right,” Hank agreed. “You like it—for me; don’t you foller -it. You’re to grow up a nice lady, and talk dictionary, like your -Aunt Valery does. When you folks first come here, I tried to brush -up a little; when your pa left you to me, I shore thought I’d -straighten up my language; but it couldn’t be did. I’ve gave it up. -I’ve done gave it up. I’d look a bigger fool trying to talk New York -fashion than what I do using the lingo that I was raised on and -learned in six weeks of an Old Field Hollerin’ school back in the -Tennessee mountains. A hollerin’ school?” as Hilda looked puzzled. -“We-e-ell, some calls it a yelpin’ school. It’s a school where all -the young ’uns sits on benches and hollers their lessons. The school -teacher—be it man or woman—walks up and down between them benches to -see that the scholars mind their books, and don’t leave off -studying; and the feller that hollers his lesson loudest is the best -scholar—see, honey? That’s what it is.” - -“I should think it would make an awful noise, Uncle Hank.” - -“It does, that. You can hear one of them yelpin’ schools for nigh a -mile.” - -“But—I should think you couldn’t learn anything—on account of the -noise,” the little girl went on. - -“You got to learn,” Hank said. “Teacher cuffs you side o’ the head -if you don’t. You can get used to most any way of doing things, -Pettie. I got as far as long division, in the cipherin’, and read -’way into the Bible—taking all the hard words as they come. Then my -pa died off, of lung fever,—pneumonia they call it now—and I had to -go home and run the farm for my mother. We hadn’t got to grammer -yet. Don’t know if the teacher knew it himself. So you see that left -me with just the English language to use, and after I come to Texas -I picked up the Texas language that a man uses workin’ cattle.” - -“Well, you can run a ranch ’most better than anybody, and Shorty and -all the boys say so.” - -“Yes, your Uncle Hank can run a ranch.” - -“Well—you can teach me that—you can teach me to run a ranch.” - -“Why, yes. Reckon I can.” - -“Well, I can ride some now, can’t I? And I’m not afraid—very bad—any -more. I’m going to be lots of help to you, Uncle Hank, aren’t I?” - -“Lots of help,” the man repeated softly. - -“When Aunt Val goes to Fort Worth, there’ll be just you and me to -run the Three Sorrows ranch, won’t there? And you’ll teach me all -the time—” - -“Outside of school and your books, Pettie. Outside of them, we’ll be -full pardners. You and me’ll run this ranch.” And he swung her down -on the door-stone. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - THE NORTHER - - -So Hilda, alone at the ranch with Uncle Hank, Sam Kee in the -kitchen, the cowboys out in their own place, came up to the first -Christmas since her father’s death. There’d been Christmas cards -from Aunt Val and Burchie, at the Sanitarium, and some talk of their -trying to be at the Three Sorrows for the week; but in the end Miss -Valeria sent a blue silk party dress for her niece, and a letter -saying she could not risk having Burch exposed to changes of weather -at this time. There was a Miss Wingfield, of Kentucky, in the -Sanitarium, who played a very fair game of cribbage. She had found -some rather good society in Fort Worth itself—and so on, and so on. - -Uncle Hank puckered his lips as though he might be going to whistle -when they unpacked the expensive-looking little frock, so utterly -unsuited to any of Hilda’s uses or needs. And when they came to try -it on, they found it too tight in some places and too big in others. -Miss Valeria’s letter said, just as she would have said it if she -had been there, that, since she didn’t have Hilda’s measurements, -there might be changes to be made, but that a local seamstress could -probably attend to it. - -“Well,” said Uncle Hank doubtfully, “there’s a Mrs. Johnnie DeLisle -at Mesquite that’s a crackerjack at sewing—sewing and cutting out -things. I reckon Miss Valeria would call her a seamstress. She ain’t -very local—not to us. We’ll have to go sixty miles to her. But as we -was going in to-morrow—weather permitting—to do a—er—a little -Christmas buying, why we can take it along, and have her fix it.” - -They were to start before sunrise and make the trip in one day. He -sent Hilda off to bed early; and twice before going to bed himself -stepped from the front door to study the weather. They drove away in -the buckboard next morning in the dark after a hasty breakfast; -Hilda had never seen him push the ponies so. Neither of them seemed -in a humor for talking; she was sure Uncle Hank was worried—or -anyhow he was absent-minded, and Hilda had absorbing affairs of her -own to think of. She carried in a little pasteboard box one -carefully saved whole quarter, two silver dimes and seven pennies, -that were to buy at Brann’s store the finest necktie to be had for -Uncle Hank’s Christmas present. She couldn’t trust any of the boys -to get the exact shade of Uncle Hank’s blue eyes. She must select it -herself. And Uncle Hank had finally agreed to take her. - -The air seemed very still. The thud-thud of the ponies’ hoofs -sounded dull. When it was time for the sun to come up, things just -got a little lighter; the gray began to turn blue. Suddenly Uncle -Hank spoke, looking down at her, still pushing his team hard. - -“Better get your other coat out of your war-bag, honey.” - -Hilda couldn’t trust the situation to words. She drew from under the -seat a very small bundle, opened it and showed that the largest and -heaviest garment it contained was a cambric nightgown. - -“Pettie! Is that all you took for a trip like this? Where’s the big -bundle I saw Sam Kee toting down the stairs just before we left? I -thought that was your coat and things.” She shook her head. - -“I guess that was the washing, Uncle Hank,” she faltered. “I guess -he was just taking it into the kitchen. He said he’d get it done -while we were gone, don’t you remember?” - -“M-m,” the old man murmured noncommittally. “And that’s all you’ve -got? And I let you come out like that?” - -“Well—it was kind of warm this morning.” Hilda defended them both. -“And I didn’t think about the big coat. I’m not c-cold, now, Uncle -Hank—hardly a bit,” and she tried not to shiver. - -It was a curious, wild, beautiful day. Up there in the north -everything was a clear, strange, wicked blue, out of which there -began now a keen, steady wind. Over in the east, to their right, the -sun was just a blurry pink spot in the heavens. - -“I’d never have come out like this—I’d have seen to things myself—if -I hadn’t been sort of troubled in my mind,” said Uncle Hank. “But -that’s no excuse.” He looked down at her. “Not cold? Why, Uncle -Hank’s baby’s just about perished! We’ve got a blue norther—just as -I was afraid—and it’ll blow for three days. If you had your coat, -I’d turn round and go straight back home. But you can’t travel in -that little jacket in a norther. I’ll cut in here to the left; see—” -as he turned into a side trail—“it puts our backs to the wind. We’ll -stop at the Bar Thirteen; you remember, honey, the Reynolds and -MacQueen ranch. Frosty MacQueen, he’s that staving big feller with -the tow-colored hair. You seen him at the last roundup on our -place—” He checked suddenly. - -Hilda shook her head. She didn’t remember any one at that roundup -which ended so tragically. Hank glanced sideways at her, and went on -in a cheerful, commonplace tone: - -“He’s sort of a joker—Frosty is. Calls hisself - - ‘Frosty MacQueen - Of the Bar Thirteen.’” - -“Oh!” Hilda’s big eyes danced. “That rimes—doesn’t it?” - -“Yeah,” Uncle Hank agreed. “And if any one takes notice of it riming -that-a-way, Frosty’ll say, ‘I was a poet—and didn’t know it.’ He -aims to be funny.” - -Hilda’s mother had always read poetry to her; she knew a great deal -of it by heart, and used to love to go about sort of saying it under -her breath, or even with closed lips letting it say itself in her -head. Since she’d come to Texas and planned to grow up and be Uncle -Hank’s partner and a ranchwoman, she sometimes wondered if she ought -to do this. And too, out here the plains, the sky, the movements on -these two of the morning and evening which made day and night, also -set her to stringing words together. Sometimes these rimed, and then -it would give her a thrill that was almost painful. There was nobody -to tell about it. Aunt Val, even when she was there, would only have -told her to run away and not interrupt when a person was reading, -and Burchie was too little. So it had made itself into a secret; and -when a thing does that it pretty soon gets to be seeming like -something wrong. Now, here was this Frosty MacQueen, a grown man, -owner of a ranch, and it seemed he was allowed to make rimes without -loss of social standing. She plucked up sudden courage and asked: - -“Uncle Hank—did you know I could write poetry?” - -“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you could.” The old man was busy with -his team, getting over a bit of a gully. She watched close to see -whether he was pleased or displeased with her statement, but could -make nothing of him. As he seemed not to be going any further with -the subject, she was obliged to take it up again herself, an effort -that gave a little too much force to her statement: - -“But I won’t—if you’d rather I wouldn’t.” - -“Wouldn’t what?” They were going smoothly now without further -attention, as she went on: - -“I love it, in the books, too; and maybe—at nights, and times when -you’re resting—but you know I intend to learn to ride and—and grow -up to be a real ranchwoman and your right hand. Do you think I could -do that and write poetry too?” - -“Sure, Pettie. Why not? Lots o’ good riders and such write poetry. -I’ve knowed boys that sung it to the cattle, riding night herd. You -go ahead; if you grow up along of me, you’re bound to grow up a -rancher; that’s all there is to be, around here. I couldn’t help you -none in the poetry business; but you can read me any of your little -pieces that you’ve wrote, any time you want to. I expect they’re -fine.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank, I will!” in a flutter of embarrassment and delight. -“But I haven’t got any very good ones—yet. If you don’t think it’s -foolish—I will write a nice one out for you.” - -Pearsall was looking keenly ahead. - -“Like as not neither of the boys at home,” he said. “But Frosty’s -been pesterin’ me to bring you along some time to see his white cat, -Lily. He’s plumb foolish about Lily; says she’s all the family he’s -got, that she has more sense than some humans. Lily’ll be at home, -anyhow.” - -“I’m almost glad the norther come,” Hilda murmured. - -Hank drove on a moment in silence, then he said: - -“Pettie, I ain’t sure and certain of myself in this here grammer -range; but from what I can make out from the brands and ear-marks, -that there word ought to be ‘came’—not ‘come.’” - -The child looked at him wide-eyed with amazement. “Why, Uncle Hank, -you—you say—” she faltered. - -“Yes, Pettie, yes, honey—you’ve got me there,” slowly shaking his -head. “You see an old cowpuncher like me—never had no schooling to -speak of—I sure do say a sight of unproper words. That’s one place -where it ain’t a-going to do for you to follow your Uncle -Hank—Pettie, I can’t lead. Cattle ranching—that’s one thing I know, -forward or backward; but that there grammer trail’s a plumb blind -one to me. You’ll have to quit me there, and learn one of your own. -I’ll always try to provide the right party to scout it out and blaze -it for you. Never mind my flinging my rope at ‘come’ and ‘came’ and -such. Ask Miss Belle about ’em when you go back to school after -Christmas. She knows. That’s what she’s here for. And when you get -so you can ride with the grammer pretty stiddy, why I’ll just tail -on the best I can. That’s how you and me’ll work it, Pettie—that’s -the way we’ll operate this here proposition.” - -With his free hand he reached over and pulled the blankets up around -the child, exclaiming: - -“I thought so! Here she comes.” - -And with the ponies at a long steady lope they drove the last -quarter mile to the door of the little Bar Thirteen shack in an -ever-thickening cloud of snow that came steadily out of the north on -that strong wind. - -“Ain’t no smoke,” muttered Hank, peering at the shanty through -whirling flakes. “Hop out, Pettie! Hop out, honey, and skalarrup -right into the house, while I put the ponies up. Jest make yourself -to home till I get there.” - -When, a few moments later, the old man came into the small front -room, after stamping the snow from his high boots, he found the -child standing forlornly in the middle of it. - -“They’ve likely went to town for Christmas,” he said. “But that -don’t make no difference to us; we’ll mighty soon have things -humming here.” - -He hung up his big white cowboy hat, hustled off Hilda’s snow-soaked -outer garments, and came back from a foraging expedition with a -small blanket, in which he wrapped her, tucking her into a -comfortable chair. - -“Now you’re done up like a papoose,” he laughed. “Can’t move none in -that there _serape_. You just set and watch your Uncle Hank while he -shows you how folks make theirselves to home in Texas when they come -to see you—and you ain’t there.” - -Soon fires were roaring gayly in both the kitchen and front-room -stoves, a can of tomatoes was opened, a can of corn beside it; the -odor of brewing coffee floated pleasantly through the house; -condensed milk, butter,—all that goes to make a cozy meal was -brought out. A lamp was lit—as the darkness thickened—the table -spread, and they ate their supper. - -Hilda could not get the great white cat to stay with her. Lily came -in and welcomed them sedately; then, in spite of all Hilda’s -petting, offering of diluted condensed milk and other dainties, she -walked away with the air of a hostess who feels her duty complete. - -“Leave her go,” said Uncle Hank easily. “You can gentle her -to-morrow. We’ll be right here for three days.” - -“I keep on being almost glad,” Hilda said. “It’s like a desert -island—sort of. And the plain out there is the sea. If it had -happened on the way back, and I’d had—er—something I wanted to get -in Mesquite, I think Christmas here would be lots of fun.” - -“Ye-ah. So do I, Pettie.” The old man spoke absently from a small -wall cupboard, where he was pushing aside a home-made checkerboard -with buttons for checkers, several incomplete and very dirty packs -of cards, that had made many a solitaire in long lonesome evenings, -and Frosty’s extra supply of tobacco. “If I had—” His voice trailed -off. His plans had not been so exact as Hilda’s, but he had expected -to fill a small stocking to overflowing with what he could buy at -Brann’s store; and now there was nothing to “do with,” as he himself -would have put it, but whatever he could find in or about the Bar -Thirteen shack. He sighed a little, then turned with a smile to drop -another stick of mesquite wood into the little air-tight stove. He -surveyed the bright, warm room, while outside the norther had its -own way on the naked plain. “Comfortable! Why, we’re just -a-suffering with comfort, you and me—ain’t we, honey?” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - A CHRISTMAS VALENTINE - - -That night Hilda slept soundly in big Frosty MacQueen’s bed. And all -through the dark hours snow came down on that long slant from the -north, so that it coated that side of the house. It froze, thawed a -little, and froze again; morning found a sparkling glare, almost -like thin ice, all over the snowy crust on which the flakes had -ceased to fall. The sun was shining; it was very beautiful, but -bitter cold—not the kind of day to go out in. Like a great knife the -wind raked the gleaming levels; it played with the dust of dry snow; -it tried at the doors and windows of the shack, rattling them -loudly. It made what was inside them seem all the more secure and -cheerful by contrast. - -A curious preoccupation had taken hold of these two castaways. They -wandered about the house, and didn’t look at each other. Hilda’s -coins burned in her pocket. Uncle Hank seemed to be vaguely looking -for something. - -“From his gal, I reckon,” was the comment brought out by a small -bonbon box full of much-read letters. “No, they ain’t likely to be a -thing on the place that Pettie would care for.” But anyhow he could -cook. And so, soon after the noon meal, he barricaded himself in the -kitchen, telling Hilda to occupy herself with such amusements as -could be found in the parlor—“like a lady.” She agreed, promptly and -without comment. She had important plans of her own afoot. It never -occurred to her that she could take the liberty of presenting her -Uncle Hank with anything that belonged to Frosty MacQueen. She dived -instantly and eagerly into her own inner consciousness and personal -belongings. The small bundle was unrolled and looked over. - -The desperate plan of slashing right into one of the breadths of -that blue silk dress to make a necktie for Uncle Hank wasn’t given -up because Hilda would have grudged the sacrifice, only for lack of -proper needles and thread. Frosty had a “housewife,” but the -needle-book in it contained nothing but darners, some wicked -three-cornered affairs for sewing leather—Hilda cut a finger on one -of them and respectfully let them alone after that—and one short, -fat needle almost as big as a darner. As for thread, there was some -number eight, black, and some number thirty, white, and a mass of -darning cotton. Did all Frosty’s sewing consist of darning and -sewing on buttons? It looked like it. The cambric of her nightgown -would have furnished pocket-handkerchiefs—of a sort—but again, she -couldn’t hem handkerchiefs without fine thread and needle. Beyond -this was a tooth-brush, a comb, an extra hair ribbon of faded -complexion, and a little red Russian-leather note-book with her -father’s name upon it. - -This last brought the happy inspiration. She would write Uncle Hank -a Christmas valentine—the combination was her own invention. Since -the spirit of the gift must be all, she would freight it with that -love which sometimes seemed to swell almost too big for her heart to -hold, and hint delicately at something more material that would come -later, when she could get in to Mesquite. - -The last words of this composition were labored out in the dusk, and -Hilda rose with a start to light her lamp and finish her -preparations. There was no sound from the kitchen, but a most -delicious odor oozed through a crack of the door. “Stay there, -Pettie!” sounded Uncle Hank’s voice as she took the first step -toward his part of the house. “I put you a lamp and matches on the -table before I quit ye this afternoon. Is your fire all right? Are -you—er—are you a-having a good time, honey?” solicitously. “I’ll -open the door pretty soon.” - -“No—don’t! I can light the lamp myself, Uncle Hank. Yes—oh, yes, I’m -having a fine time. I’m busy—don’t open the door.” - -A satisfied chuckle from behind the panels reached the child as she -went back to the little stand and her Christmas valentine. She had -carried her work to the window to have the last faint daylight upon -it. Now, as she approached the pane, lamp in hand, two great eyes -like balls of fire glared in at her from the snowy outside. She had -just presence of mind to thrust her papers into the stand drawer as -she turned back, crying out for Uncle Hank—for, beyond the first -pair of fiery eyeballs, she had made out shadowy forms and yet more -and more burning eyes! - -The old man threw the door open with a bang, letting in a whiff of -aromatic sweetness, and she plunged at him, clutching his shoulders -with her little brown hands, hiding her face against his rough -flannel shirt. - -“Oh! Uncle Hank—the eyes—the eyes—glaring at me!” she cried. - -“What!” his tone was hearty as he good humoredly shook her a little. -“Not whiffenpoofs again—right here with Uncle Hank—and a good light -and all?” - -“Oh, no, no! Like panthers or—or wolves. You look—out the window, -there.” - -Hank glanced across the shivering little figure crouching in his -arms to the window, and at once understood. The cheerful shine from -the small ranchhouse windows, sending messages of comfort out over -the snow-covered levels, had attracted the unhappy cattle, whose -only food—the short, rich plains grass—was covered deep in snow. It -was their eyeballs which glared so. - -“It’s just poor, hungry cows, honey. The lamplight makes their eyes -shine that-a-way. They’ve went without supper—and without breakfast -and dinner, too, I reckon. A winter in this here cattle country is -sure a-going to wring a man’s heart, if he’s got any.” - -“Oh,” said Hilda. She ran to the window now and looked out at the -ring of glaring eyes. She caught her breath. “Uncle Hank—it’s -Christmas,” she said pitifully, and gazed up into his face, pulling -at his hand. - -“I know, honey—I know,” he said, soothingly. “But these here Bar -Thirteen folks out there hain’t hung up no stockings—and we ain’t -Sandy Claus. Wish we had a stack of hay for ’em—though like enough -the drinking tank is froze over, and they’re more thirsty than -hungry.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank,” Hilda pleaded, “do be Santa Claus, and I’ll be -Kris Kringle. Let’s go out and rake the snow off that little -haystack by the corral and let the bars down! Do let’s give the cows -a Christmas tree!” - -There was a fizz of something “boiling over,” and a sudden blast of -steam that smelled heavenly from the kitchen. Hank hurried to quiet -matters. A moment later Hilda heard him stamping into his tall -boots. - -“All right!” he called. “I’ll see what I can do for them Bar -Thirteens.” - -“But me too—me too, Uncle Hank!” insisted Hilda, running after him. -“If I’m going to be a ranchwoman I’ll have to know what to do about -northers—and—everything.” Her hand was on the knob of the door -between living-room and kitchen, when Uncle Hank’s voice stopped -her. - -“Stay there! Whoop! Hi—hi—hi—don’t come no further, honey girl! I’ll -be with ye in a minute! Yes, you can go if I can wrap you up -sufficient.” - -Hilda backed, coughing with excited laughter, from the communicating -door. And a few minutes later there followed the old man across the -snow in the moonlight a queer figure—a little girl with a pair of -Frosty MacQueen’s heavy woolen socks pulled on over her shoes and -stockings, a man’s corduroy coat reaching to her skirt edge, its -sleeves hanging six or eight inches below her little paws like the -sleeves of ancient Russian boyars, a woolen comforter tied over head -and neck, a hoe grasped valiantly in one hand, and a long string of -pathetically hopeful Bar Thirteen cows trailing after. - -The snow was raked from the small stack of coarse Laguna hay; but -the old cattleman had been right, the cows were too thirsty to eat. -They nosed it and turned away, muttering, to mumble at the snow. -Uncle Hank knew in the stillness, and without any light, that -Hilda’s big black eyes were filling, and she was struggling with -sobs. - -“All right,” he spoke out cheerily, shouldering his axe; “now we’ll -get a right good drink for ’em; an’ it’s turning off so warm that -the tank ain’t likely to freeze again this trip.” - -With a queer sound that might have been a cough, a sob, or a -chuckle, the child grasped his hand, and together they hurried -around the tank, where the old man, addressing himself vigorously to -the task, soon had the thick ice which covered it broken up until -only one great cake rode in the middle. Then he set Hilda—who was -laughing joyously as she looked on and applauded—across the tank -from him, provided with a long pole to push the big ice-cake toward -him, and smashed it also. The poor thirsty cattle, who had followed -trustingly close at their heels, crowded up to drink; and when Santa -Claus and Kris Kringle reached the ranchhouse door they could look -back and see the happy Bar Thirteens clustered around their -Christmas tree, “taking off the presents,” as Hilda said. “And, oh, -Uncle Hank,” squeezing his hand hard between her two little ones, -“isn’t it—just—beautiful!” - -Supper found the little kitchen bare of any object suspicious to the -eye (even the eye very, very big, very black, and preposterously -keen, of eight years old), but in the air still hung a noble aroma, -and Lily, the white cat, paced up and down, mewing now and then, -rubbing against old Hank’s legs, and stopping to sniff most -indelicately at the pantry door. - -Hilda giggled—or would it be more exact to say that a giggle rippled -its way from the little girl’s abashed and apologetic throat—when -the old man spoke reproachfully: - -“You, Lily! I’m plumb outdone with you. Don’t I tell you they ain’t -no mice in there—leastways none that you could ketch?” - -The meal went off amid a sort of eccentric joviality, which was -liable to blossom into open hilarity with no particular cause -apparent; indeed, joy bubbled so hard that there seemed perpetual -danger of a wholesale eruption. - -“’Spect you better go to bed right soon,” the old man cautioned. -“And don’t forget to hang up a good long stocking.” - -“Why, Uncle Hank, do you believe Santa Claus can get down a stove -pipe?” gurgled Hilda in an ecstasy of delight. - -“Sure!” replied the old man gravely, but with twinkling eye. “He -knows many a way to get in where the stocking is—that draws him, as -you might say.” - -Together they unearthed from big Frosty MacQueen’s kit an amazing -and Brobdingnagian pair of golf hose. “These was sure made for this -business,” murmured Hank in chuckling enjoyment, as he gazed upon -them. He helped the little girl fasten one of the great, gayly -plaided things to the wall behind the stove, all the time muttering -delighted comments upon their size and the cheerfulness of their -color scheme. - -“Well, now, you hang up the other one for your own self,” suddenly -urged Hilda, though she looked a little doubtfully at its -capaciousness. - -“Huh?” exclaimed the old man, facing around upon her. “Don’t you -reckon Sandy Claus would get sort of mixed up by me being at the Bar -Thirteen, when I ought, speaking proper and by the book to be at -Mesquite—or to home at the Three Sorrers ranch house?” - -Hilda shook her head. “He won’t get mixed up about you any more than -he will about me,” she argued, with lips that tried hard not to -break into laughter. - -“Well—now!” he murmured, pinning up the second stocking beside the -first. “I—er—mm—” He trailed off into silence; but it could not last -long. Something must say itself. “I take that mighty kind in Sandy -Claus,” thumping his thumb briskly and never knowing it. “It’s right -gentlemanly of him to spend the whole day fixing for—ouch!” suddenly -realizing the pounded thumb—“I mean, you know, for him to go -a-loping all over the Texas Panhandle hunting for me. If Sandy Claus -wasn’t most generally understood to be a man—a little old fat -man—I’d say it was plumb sweet of him.” - -Well, well! Then to bed! It had been a busy day. The sharp tussle -with the cows’ Christmas tree in the frosty air had left the little -girl ready for deep, dreamless sleep, and it seemed but a moment -after she had shut her eyes, when she heard Uncle Hank calling from -the kitchen: - -“Better get up and ’tend to that stocking, or it might take legs and -walk away!” - -She was out of bed with one bound. There was a good fire; and behind -the roaring stove hung a stocking that bulged and—yes, and twitched! -As she looked, a small three-cornered white ear, pink-lined and -furry, came in view above the hem. Its mate followed; and then two -round bright eyes with an utterly adorable slant, as a sleepy white -kitten looked out and yawned at her. - -She slipped into her dress, then cried: “It’s alive! It’s a kitten—a -real, live, human kitten! Oh, come and see it, Uncle Hank!” - -Thus invited, the old man gently pushed open the kitchen door and -sat down upon its step to share her happiness. - -“Oh, it’s like a swan’s-down kitten—so white! Did it snow down, -Uncle Hank? Oh, isn’t it lovely and dear?” - -“Why, Sandy Claus brought him,” corrected the old man. Then, coming -down to plain facts, he added, reassuringly, “Frosty said you could -have your pick. There’s two others; one is a sorrel and one a pinto. -I judged you’d like this one the best.” - -The kitten, as though it thought poorly of these revelations, gave a -tiny sneezelike “Whszt!” which set Hilda to laughing, and at this -the gay little atom, pretending to be angry, backed off and, like a -boxer, began to make passes at the corner of her coat. - -“He’s a high-spirited kitten, all right,” commented Uncle Hank, -watching them with a smile. “But there’s more live stock in that -stocking—leastways more things with legs.” - -Gently Hilda pulled the stocking from its nail, put in a cautious -hand and began drawing out fat gingerbread animals. - -“Oh—a pony!” she cried. “And the gingerbread is just the color of -Shorty’s Gold-dust sorrel!” - -“It’s just as well Shorty can’t hear you—and see that thing,” -chuckled Uncle Hank. “I take no pride in that nag. He was a tricky, -deceivin’ critter, Pettie; looked well enough in the dough, but, -come to bake him, he sort of drawed up in the legs like he was -spavined.” - -“Oh, but this dear little jack-rabbit!” Hilda went on with her -investigations. - -The old man watched her a moment silently; then, as she made no -correction of her statement, “That there was aimed for a burro,” he -said mildly. “You can’t always go by the long ears. Look at the pack -on his back.” - -“Oh, yes—the pack!” cried Hilda eagerly. “Why, of course!” She had -taken the pack for the hump of a rabbit! - -There were now hauled out of the great stocking, one after another, -a coyote, whose color helped along the illusion, and whom Hilda, -grown more cautious, did not call anything till she had artfully -induced Uncle Hank to classify him; a cow, which Uncle Hank -willingly, even a bit hastily, named, adding in an apologetic tone, -“Them horns—no, them there—them’s its horns—swelled something -ridiculous in the baking!” Then there was really a jack-rabbit -(about the cow’s own size, and much resembling her), some mice, and -a flock of fat little yellow ducks, made by knotting a string of -dough, flattening one end for the tail, and bunching the other for -the head. These looked so good that Hilda suddenly became conscious -of her lack of breakfast. Down in the toe of the stocking was a -small jar filled with that which had yesterday spread such maddening -odors abroad and had fizzled and boiled over—a most marvelous, a -truly heavenly soft taffy, all juicy and moist with chopped prunes. - -“Oh,” she said, concluding her investigations with a sigh of -rapture, “you’ve made me a lovelier Christmas than as if we had got -in to Mesquite. Now, Uncle Hank, look in yours.” - -“Reckon I better?” he debated, glancing doubtfully at the lank -stocking. “Sometimes Sandy Claus gets stalled in the snow, and you -don’t get your gift till some days after Christmas. I’ve knowed it -to happen in the Tennessee mountains, and I ain’t going to hold it -against him if that’s the case this time.” - -“But it isn’t—it isn’t!” cried Hilda, with very bright eyes. - -The enterprising kitten ran up Hilda’s chair at a rush, tumbled into -her lap and began nibbling at a gingerbread duck. Uncle Hank crossed -the floor in two big strides and thrust his hand deep into the -swinging stocking. He drew out the small red book. As he stood and -looked down at the name upon it, his tanned weather-beaten face -softened beautifully. - -“Charley’s book, God bless him—poor boy!” he said, hardly above his -breath. He looked at her, not seeing her, his gaze—full of pitying -love—fixed on things a short way back on Hilda’s and his own life -trail. “The little book Charley always packed. Charley’s baby was -bound to see that Uncle Hank was remembered.” He turned it in gentle -fingers. Against one inside cover was a pocket, and in it lay a -length of tinsel ribbon, such as comes about bolts of muslin; a baby -picture of Hilda’s self, a bit of Charley’s dark, curling hair, a -pressed flower—treasures of a lonely child—and with them a folded -paper. - -“Open it!” Hilda couldn’t restrain herself. “It’s just a valentine—a -Christmas valentine—Uncle Hank; but I want you to keep the book, -and—and you said I could be a ranchwoman—and write poetry at nights -and while I’m resting.” - -She had worked with her own red-and-blue pencil and Frosty McQueen’s -violet ink to put a vine around the page by way of border. The -blossoms of this stem were botanically erratic, but they would -commend themselves to Uncle Hank’s partial eyes. A red bird plumed -itself in the upper right-hand corner of the sheet, supported by a -blue fowl on the left. The little girl had written in her large, -clear, childish hand between: - - My Uncle Hank - I wish to thank - For all he teaches me. - To ride and rope - And soon I hope - A ranchwoman to be. - - The “Sorrows” fair, - Shall be our care, - Where we shall tend the kine. - There through the years - Of hopes and fears - I’ll be your valentine. - -“Kine are cattle—in poetry—you know, Uncle Hank,” she explained -hastily, as she saw he had finished the verses. “And I put in a note -to tell why I had to give it to you now, instead of on Valentine -day.” - -He turned the sheet and found: - - “To My Dear Uncle Hank: - - “This is a Valentine only it is Christmas you know and I - have nothing to give you but my love because the Necktie - is at Mesquite and it Snows. But you will understand and - I can get it then. - - “Your loving little girl, - “Hildegarde Rensselaer Van Brunt.” - -With misty eyes, the old man was reading: “Nothing to give you but -love ... but you will understand....” He folded the sheet together, -and bent to kiss the upraised childish face. - -“Nothin’ but love—why, Pettie, that’s a gift to fill the -whole—wide—world!” - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - STOCKINGS AND SHOES - - -Spring came along while Aunt Val and Burchie were in Fort Worth. - -Think of it—think of being away when that happened! Hilda wouldn’t -have missed it for anything. For she knew that this country of the -Staked Plain played a yearly prank. Throughout the long, dry summer -it hid beneath the soft green-brown that clothes its mighty levels, -dreaming delicate mist of dream, that showed to mortal eyes as -mirage. In winter, it lay under the great reaches of snow. But on -some magically determined day in spring, when you were not thinking -of anything in particular, it suddenly burst out upon you and -shouted, “Booh!” - -“Booh!” cried the Texas plains of Lame Jones County (a place -supposed by the foolishly learned to be a dry, windswept, -featureless waste, almost desert) in a great voice that had no -sound, and seemed to come from everywhere at once. And you looked -about and said, “Why, you almost scared me!” You looked a long time -and then you said, “How beautiful you are—oh, how beautiful! Where -have you been all year?” - -“Right here!” laughed the Texas plain. Its laugh was green, oh, -green with pure joy, radiant with incredible stretches of blue and -rose and gold—wild hollyhocks, cactus blooms, phlox—nodding, dancing -in the April breeze. - -Hilda was getting along without any knowledge of cities, except the -London or New York of romance, or the Bagdad that came into a fairy -tale. She’d never even been to Mesquite, for she and Uncle Hank -turned back from the Bar Thirteen after that Christmas blizzard, and -the old man found plenty of work on the Sorrows to keep him there. -But who would ask for more? Her world was bounded by the great -pastures that stretched out and away to the horizon; the foreground -of existence was made up of the daily small happenings at school or -around headquarters, as the low, rambling stone house was called. -Visitors here were few and far between; the people of her home world -were Sam Kee in the kitchen, the cowpunchers over at the bunk house, -with Shorty O’Meara, Buster, Missou’ and Old Snake Thompson for -prominent citizens and Uncle Hank for kindly ruler. - -Sam Kee let her mix up things sometimes in his big clean kitchen. -She propped Rose Marie beside her in a chair and read to the doll; -or she drifted about the house murmuring verses or speeches from her -favorite stories. Oh, she was happy at the ranch, with Uncle -Hank—she sometimes felt guilty that she didn’t miss Aunt Val, or -Burchie—or even her father—at all. Her mother’s memory was getting -to be a dim thing, like a beautiful sweet dream that you tried to -call back in the morning—and couldn’t. - -When Uncle Hank shook his head a little once or twice and said he -was afraid she was sort of running wild, she knew what he meant, but -she didn’t tell him. It was her “personal appearance,” as Miss Belle -had called it when she spoke to her on the matter. The truth is, it -was getting harder and harder for Hilda to make herself neat for -school. She looked at the great acres of hollyhock, phlox and -daisies and wished that a little girl could just grow dresses as -they did. There had been a big supply of clothing provided by her -mother: so many linens, such a number of ginghams, and the heavier -frocks in proportion. In Aunt Val’s time Hilda just picked out -whatever she thought she’d like to wear and put it on. There was -never any trouble about it then, only sometimes if she went down -stairs in the morning wearing a little lace frock with ribbons and -the open-work stockings and slippers that belonged to it, Aunt Val -would send her back to her room again to put on something “more -suitable.” But now, even Aunt Val was gone, and pretty much -everything that had traveled to Texas in the big trunk was worn out, -soiled, torn or getting too small for her. - -She was growing to be a tall girl—“leggy” Shorty said, and Uncle -Hank shook his head at him for the word. But there couldn’t be any -doubt about it—her legs were getting longer. Sam Kee said the same -thing when she complained that he must have shrunk the skirts of her -dresses in the wash. - -“No! No slink in wash.” He looked at her severely out of his slant -black eyes. “Skirt no slunk. You stletch. You legs stletch fas’ -now.” - -“Well; I can’t help it.” Hilda had been on the point of tears. - -“No wanchee help.” The Chinaman grinned amiably. “Mebbe pu’ soon be -big leddy. Heh! Sam Kee feed you plenty good glub—thass why. You -tell Uncle Hankie. He buy you dress plenty big.” - -Hilda sighed, and looked enviously at Captain Snow, the white -kitten, a fine half-grown cat now, in high favor with Sam Kee, who -said that “pu’ soon now he ketchy lat.” Captain Snow’s coat grew -right along with him, and was laundered where it was, in calm -leisure moments. How much better! - -Upstairs, strewed about on the chairs and tables of a disused -bedroom, were the discarded fineries Miss Val had left—splendid to -play princess in; but they didn’t offer anything for a decent -“personal appearance” at school. And the matter of stockings and -shoes absolutely stumped Hilda. You couldn’t pin them together, or -let them out. You just couldn’t make feet that had got too large go -into shoes that stayed the same size. Finally, in desperation, she -brought out a pair of French-heeled, beaded slippers of black satin -that had pinched even Miss Val’s small foot, and were therefore -thrown aside little worn. These could be held on with a string tied -around the instep and ankle. And a pile of Miss Valeria’s worn-out -silk hose began to furnish the stockings. Hilda made this do for -school; at home she took to going barefoot. - -She did not follow Sam Kee’s suggestion that Uncle Hank be bothered -with any of these troubles. Aunt Val and Burchie there in Fort Worth -were costing him an awful lot of money. There were mortgages. Hilda -didn’t know what a mortgage was, but when she asked Shorty he said -it was something that ate money and spit fire. Hilda understood this -to be more or less figurative. But anyhow, if Uncle Hank had -mortgages to deal with, she wouldn’t add the worry of her clothes. -Besides, she was getting along pretty well now that it was warm -weather. She did just love to go barefoot. - -So she was barefoot when she ran, one hot Saturday afternoon, down -the long box-elder avenue, and turned eastward, going after some -milkweed pods she had seen the day before growing in a place where -the trail came in from the Ojo Bravo. She was playing Persian -Princess, and needed some of the lovely silvery-white pompoms that -could be made from these pods. It was a good way off where the weeds -grew, but she didn’t stop to get her pony. Maybe one of the boys, or -even Uncle Hank, would be coming in—it was getting toward supper -time—and give her a ride home behind him. - -And sure enough, as she came within sight of the milkweeds, there -was Uncle Hank on Buckskin, loping in from Ojo Bravo way. She left -the trail and made for the weeds, running faster now, to get the -pods and be ready by the time he came up with her. She was just -reaching out to pick them—they had to be taken off carefully, or -they would open out and all blow away like dandelion balls—when -Uncle Hank’s big voice roared out at her, from where he had pulled -up Buckskin: - -“Stop!” - -Hilda stopped, fairly frozen. Never had Uncle Hank spoken to her -like that before. She stood there like a well-trained pointer dog, -rigid in the attitude of running. - -“Stand. Don’t move—for your life. I’m a-going to shoot!” - -A hideous moment, then a noise that seemed to Hilda to split the -sky, and send the earth reeling. Uncle Hank leaped from his pony and -was running toward her. He had her now. She was lying back over his -left arm, while the pistol in his right hand cracked again. - -“Uncle Hank’s baby! Did he scare her most to death? You ain’t hurt, -Pettie. Look. See what it was I killed.” - -She opened unwilling eyes, first at the clouds that still ran -circles above her in the blue sky; then she saw Uncle Hank’s eyes, -almost as blue, and full of the same fathomless kindness. - -“Over there by the milkweed you was goin’ for—look, Pettie.” - -And now she held herself erect a moment, and saw the brown, rusty -coil, the shattered diamond-shaped head, of the rattlesnake Uncle -Hank had shot. She hid her face against the blue flannel sleeve and -trembled. - -It was afterward—after he’d gone over to make sure the snake was -dead—when she could get her breath easily again, and was climbing up -on Buckskin with him, that the old man, looking down at the little -foot set on his boot-toe, whispered: - -“Barefoot!” - -They rode a moment in tremulous silence, then he said sternly, -“Never let that happen again, Pettie. You wear your shoes.” - -“I love to go barefoot.” - -“Pettie,” he turned and looked at her, “I don’t like that. Your pa’s -daughter ought to be brought up a lady. She ain’t got no place in -the barefoot brigade. You mind what I say about the shoes. Keep ’em -on.” - -“All day? In the house?” - -“D’ruther you would,” and he swung her down at the ranch house door. - -No more was said of the matter. But at supper time, it was with the -feeling of a martyr that Hilda came creeping down stairs stockinged -and shod—after a fashion. She paraded around in front of Uncle Hank -while they waited for the meal, but he paid no attention other than -to remark cheerfully that he had two men’s work to do to-morrow—if -it was Sunday—and didn’t she want to take one of them off his hands. -Sitting at table during the meal, Hilda had no chance to give Uncle -Hank an object lesson in the superiority of bare feet over -ill-fitting shoes. If he got away from her and off to bed, she’d not -have a chance till next day. - -“Anybody seen that left glove of mine?” he asked, when he finally -pushed back from the table. “I had it in here to mend, and I reckon -Sam Kee must a-put it away for me where I can’t find it. Run ask -him, Pettie.” - -Hilda ran. As she came ostentatiously hobbling back, the glove in -her hand, Hank failed to take it. Thank goodness, at last he was -looking at her feet. - -“What you got on, child?” - -“Shoes—like you told me to,” said Hilda, sadly. “Or slippers, -rather.” - -“Slippers?” He eyed with disfavor the shabby glories of Miss -Valeria’s cast-off footwear, the toothpick toes, the preposterous -heels. “Slippers, heh? Well, you just go and pull ’em off—and don’t -you ever put ’em on again.” - -“Oh, may I, Uncle Hank? I wanted to ask you if I could—in the house. -But I thought after I promised—” - -She was half way to the door when he called after her: “You take -them things off and put some sensible shoes on.” - -She turned, and said in a weak voice: - -“These are all I’ve got, Uncle Hank.” - -“All you’ve got?” He picked her up and carried her to the lamplight -as though she’d been a doll, examining the footgear. “Who in time -would buy shoes like that for a child?” - -“They weren’t bought for me,” Hilda had to admit. “They’re some old -ones of Aunt Val’s.” - -“Why don’t you wear your own?” - -“My own are all worn out—and—and I can’t get my foot in any of -them.” - -For a minute Hilda thought Uncle Hank was very angry at her. - -“Gimme them things off your feet,” he said, and set her down. - -She handed the slippers to him. He took them, walked out through the -kitchen calling to Sam Kee to bring a light. At the chopping block -in the side yard, with the Chinaman holding his lamp high in the -door, Hilda peering under an elbow, Hank caught up an ax and chopped -off the French heels. - -“There,” he grunted, pounding down nails, looking the slippers over -before he brought them to her, “put ’em on, honey—they’ll do till -to-morrow.” Then he raised his voice in a shout and called across to -the bunk house: - -“Hi—some of you boys! Shorty, that you? Tell Thomps to take charge -up at the big pasture in the morning. I’ll not be there. I’m going -to Mesquite.” - -When he came back into the room with Hilda, he asked: - -“Didn’t Auntie get you any shoes when she ordered all them things -from New York?” - -“No. She just got clothes for Burchie—to go to Fort Worth, you know. -I guess she got him shoes. Mine weren’t so bad then.” She sat down -and thrust out her feet to put the reformed slippers on. The old man -stared at those feet and frowned. - -“Are those your best stockings, Pettie?” - -“Well, these are a pair of my every-day ones,” Hilda said slowly. - -“You put on your best ones, then.” - -“But the best ones are a lot worser—about having holes in the feet, -if that’s what you mean, Uncle Hank. I keep them for best because -they’ve got the holes mostly where they don’t show.” - -The old man held out a hand for the stockings which she pulled off -and gave to him. He stood with one drawn over his big fist, shaking -his head. - -“Pettie, these stockings ain’t got any holes in the foot,” he said -unexpectedly, and she saw that his eyes were twinkling. “Ain’t any -feet to ’em to have holes in. All that’s left where feet was is just -a bunch of fringe. You bring me the best you’ve got, and I’ll show -you how my ma used to foot stockings sometimes for us children back -in the Tennessee mountains.” - -Hilda brought the best of Miss Valeria’s silk stockings. The lamp -was trimmed, turned high, Uncle Hank’s spectacles were got out and -adjusted—which was almost a ceremony in itself—and he opened the big -housewife that contained his needles and thread and a queer steel -thimble open at the end. He sighed a bit over the coarseness of his -implements and the fineness of the material he was to work on. - -“Ain’t got no heavier ones than these, have ye, Pettie?” he asked, -and when she shook her head, “Oh, well—it’ll never be seen on a -galloping hoss, and that’s sure what you are these days, honey.” - -The stockings were spread out evenly, their tatters cut away, a foot -formed on exactly the pattern you may find in some woven stockings, -a good new sole cut from the stoutest part of another stocking sewed -in. The leg was seamed down to a reasonable fit for Hilda, and -finally the job was complete. - -“There,” Hank laid his scissors by. “Might stand you in hand to know -how to do that right—if you should ever have it to do, Pettie. My -mother held that a woman that would fix over a stocking by just -sewing it into a kind of a bag, with no real shaped foot, as I’ve -seen done, was a slommick.” - -“Oh, I’ll fix over all the rest of them, Uncle Hank, now that you’ve -showed me the way. I can do it. I’ll take pattern by these,” she -looked fondly at the neatly folded pair lying on the table. “I won’t -just sew them up into bags and be a slommick.” - -Through her mind drifted the vision of what a slommick might be -like—a slidey creature, of the most slatternly, reprehensible -“personal appearance,” and with a sort of elongated head, trailing -hands that fumbled whatever they touched, dropped things and left -them lying. Yes, as Shorty would say, she “savvied slommick, all -right.” - -“You’ll not have to fix any more of ’em, this time,” said Hank with -decision. “I’m going to Mesquite to-morrow.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank—and you’ll get me some stockings? Maybe two pairs? I -can do with two pairs—and these that you’ve fixed over so -beautifully. Or”—suddenly remembering the money-eating, -fire-spitting mortgages—“maybe I could get along with only one new -pair.” - -He smiled a little, and said: - -“Have to have new shoes, too. And I bet you need frocks, and other -things. Uh-huh, I see you do,” as he caught her eye. “All of ’em -have to be tried on, so’s they’ll fit. Nothing for it but to take -you in with me.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank—is beef up?” Hilda asked breathlessly, and he -laughed out. - -“Does happen to be up, honey. Also, I wouldn’t have to sell a steer -to git you what you need. But if I did, and beef was down to half -price—and it would take the price of a herd—I’d sell. Uncle Hank’s -little girl needs a new set of harness, complete—and she’s going to -have it, too.” - - - - - CHAPTER X - - THE CARRIAGE - - -After that visit to Mesquite there was never any reason for -complaint of Hilda’s neatness at school. The Mrs. Johnnie, that -Uncle Hank had thought might be classed as a “local seamstress,” had -made up the stuff they took her into plenty of dresses and -undergarments, while as to stockings and shoes, now when she ran out -of an evening to ride with Uncle Hank she had on such as even a -rattlesnake might respect. - -These rides in of an evening, on the front of Uncle Hank’s saddle, -with Buckskin going very slowly and soberly, were still the times -best worth while out of all the day. Hilda always came primed with -her day’s news, small happenings about the ranch or at school. But -there arrived an evening when she burst forth somewhat incoherently, -and quite breathlessly, while she was yet climbing on the boot-toe. - -“We can get it—can’t we, Uncle Hank?” - -“I ’spect so,” the old man agreed, looking down into the flushed, -eager little face as he hauled her up cautiously into his arms. Then -he added, as a casual afterthought, “Get what, Pettie?” - -“Oh—I forgot you didn’t know.” Hilda squirmed herself into a -comfortable position. “Clarkie Capadine says the Three C’s is going -to try. Kennie Tazewell, he says it’s every fellow for himself. And -so we can get it—you just now said we could.” - -She sat astride the high-pommeled saddle in front of the old man, -her head against his chest. He smiled and slipped his left hand -under the pointed chin. - -“What you think you’re talking about, honey?” he inquired. - -Hilda tipped her head back further and glanced briefly up at him. - -“The carriage,” she said. “Clarkie told us about it at recess. It’s -got sea springs—sea springs, like waves, Uncle Hank.” (The small -brown hands paddled about in the air to piece out a vocabulary that -failed to undulate in the required luxurious manner.) “Sea springs, -and ‘the best of material everywhere in its construction.’” (Smooth -going here on a direct quotation from some manufacturer’s -catalogue.) - -“Honey,” said Hank with a little drop in his tone, “I’d love to buy -a carriage for the Sorrows—land knows, we need it, with the -ambulance a staggering cripple like it is—one leg broke, an arm in a -sling, both eyes blacked and an ear chawed off—but we ain’t got the -money. You see, Capadine’s fixed differently, Pettie. He could buy a -carriage for his folks any day.” - -Hilda had hung in rapt silence upon that fascinating description of -the ambulance, a characterization whose every feature she recognized -perfectly; but now she broke in: - -“Oh, I didn’t mean to buy a carriage! We’re going to win it—over at -Dawn—at the fair—it’s the prize for the roping match.” - -“Hold on a minute.” Hank tightened one arm around her, and with the -other reached down into the mail sack where, after some fumbling, he -brought out a folded handbill. “Seems to me I saw something of that -sort in here,” he said. - -Within the last few months, Lame Jones County had been organized; it -had now a county seat of its own, in the little new cow-town of -Dawn, much nearer to the Three Sorrows than Mesquite; they were -celebrating with a county fair, with all the usual cattle country -contests and the approved cattle country prizes. - -The sheet was unfolded in front of them both. Hilda instantly began -to read: “The Committee will spare no pains—” while Hank was running -a finger slowly down the line of prizes offered. It was well that -Buckskin knew the way, for he got no more guidance. - -The traveling forefinger reached the prize offered the successful -contestant in the roping match. Hank’s bearded lips moved: - -“M-m-m, ‘cushions and cover genu-wine leather,’” he muttered. “You -was about right, Pettie.” - -“Well, then, we can get it, can’t we?” she reiterated her demand as -he let her down carefully by one hand at the door-stone. - -“Why, you see, Pettie, it’s a prize; and I don’t know for sure yet -whether we’re prize-winners or not.” - -“Yes—course it’s a prize.” Hilda looked up at him impatiently, -fairly dancing where she stood. “That’s what I told you at first. -For the best roper. And Shorty’s the best roper.” - -“Yes,” assented Hank thoughtfully. “Shorty’s pretty good.” - -“Uncle Hank! Shorty’s the best roper in Lame Jones County—bar -none—if old Snake does say it. And Shorty’s ours.” - -The old man looked at the great black eyes, glowing with excitement, -the flushed cheeks, the parted, tremulous lips; and he sighed a -little. - -“All right, sister. We’ll do the best we can; but don’t let it get -in the way of your supper.” - -“I won’t, Uncle Hank.” Hilda shook her head earnestly. She was -answering words he hadn’t spoken; she understood quite as well as -though he had said aloud, “And don’t talk any more about it -to-night,” and she assured him again, “I won’t.” - -He rode away to the corral to put up Buckskin, and Hilda hurried -upstairs. He hadn’t laid a command upon her; but she answered to -what she knew to be his wish with a zealous and adorned obedience: -clean frock, smoothly combed curls, perfectly cleaned finger nails, -a composed countenance. When she had accomplished all this she flew -downstairs to watch for his return from the corral. She hastened the -serving of the supper, giving Sam Kee to understand by means of a -hint so broad that it was almost a fib that Uncle Hank was already -in the house. - -He arrived at last and went straight to his room, to wash up. Hilda -nearly burst with impatience before he finally came down, the -crinkled black-and-silver hair smooth and damp, the whole man -soberly spick and span. They sat opposite each other at the -dining-table, from which many leaves had been taken out to make it a -suitable size for two, as they had so often sat before, served by -the Chinaman. They talked as usual, but the thing they did not -mention was, as ever in such cases, biggest in the conversation. - -“Don’t wiggle your feet so much, Pettie. And eat that fine, juicy -beefsteak. Your Uncle Hank fetched that quarter of beef all the way -from the C Bar C especially so his little girl could have nice fresh -steak, and Sam’s broiled it just right.” - -“I will, Uncle Hank,” and Hilda made a violent attack on her portion -of steak. She kept the letter of the law. She never mentioned the -carriage in words; but it pretty nearly wheeled out of her eyes -every time she looked at Uncle Hank—and he saw it. She came nearest -to breaking silence on the forbidden subject when at last he got up -from the table and said, with a touch of embarrassment, that he must -go over to the bunk house and see the boys about some work for -to-morrow. Hilda did not ask to go along, as she often did; she only -said: - -“All right, Uncle Hank,” and added suddenly, “Aunt Val and Burchie -will be here in time.” - -Hank asked no questions and made no comments. He just took his hat -and went, after a somewhat lengthened and considering survey of her. - -She had not meant to follow. But the moment the door closed, her -feet walked her very softly and very quickly after him. The tall old -man strode along the path that led from the side door, around the -corner of Sam Kee’s vegetable garden, and in the dusk Hilda’s little -figure flitted from bush to bush, behind him. She halted quite a -distance away, at the last bush that was big enough to hide her, and -there she gazed and listened, fascinated. Uncle Hank stood at the -edge of the porch, talking to one of the boys. He didn’t speak very -loud. - -“Carriage” was the first word she got; then, “There’s some things -that ought to be did, and there’s some things that just has to be -did.” His grammar alone would have assured Hilda that he was very -much in earnest, as he finished, “This here’s one of the kind that -has to be did.” - -She saw Shorty squared up before Uncle Hank, half sheepish, half -puzzled. - -“Er—I was thinking of trying for that silver trimmed sombrero they -offer for the best gentleman rider.” The lamp shine from inside -showed him grinning broadly. “You know I sure can ride pretty when I -try.” - -“Ride pretty!” grunted old Snake, leaning in the doorway. “I ain’t -never seen it. I’ll allow you can rope a little.” - -“Well,” cut in Hank, “it’s come right down to this: Charley’s -buckboard is a wreck. It just can’t be drove no more. The ambulance -is all we’ve got to take Miss Val and the kiddies out in, and it’s -not very much better.” - -“That’s so,” agreed Thompson. - -“We’ll see Charley’s children hoofing it, or riding broncos,” Uncle -Hank said severely, “unless something’s did pretty quick.” - -“You want me to rope for the carriage?” Apparently Shorty began to -understand. - -“I reckon you can wear your old hat another season,” Snake jeered. - -Hank turned and sat down on the top step, and Hilda, afraid that he -would see her, backed off into the friendly darkness where the talk -came to her only in broken scraps. She could tell that they were -planning the campaign. Shorty said he would catch up his crack -roping pony, Pardner, and grain feed him; he would go over his rope -and entire equipment, and be in training for the match from this day -forth. - -Of course he would. They always did practice for the contests, even -when they were the best ropers in Lame Jones County—bar none. She -wasn’t much interested in hearing them go over the names of those -who, they were sure, would enter for the roping match. Shorty said -Lee Romero was about the only one of the lot that he was much afraid -of. Lee was with the Matador ranch this year, and known to be out -after that carriage for them. In the dark Hilda smiled, all to -herself. Lee was one of the Romero relatives of Maybelle and Fayte -Marchbanks. Let him be out after the carriage for the Matador—Shorty -would win it for the Three Sorrows. Bubbling with triumph, she -slipped back to the house and up to her own room. She undressed -without lighting her lamp. All that night the new carriage glided -and sparkled through her dreams. - -Two days later Miss Valeria and Burch came home. No word of the -wonderful new enterprise that was afoot was said to Aunt Val—Hilda -knew better than that—but on the first day, the instant breakfast -was swallowed, Hilda had her little brother out at the asequia, a -favorite play place, and told him all about the carriage they were -going to have. It got Burch’s attention because it had wheels. He -was almost as silent with other people as when he went away, but to -Hilda, he talked a little when the subject interested him—short -sentences, like a man. Now she pulled down the cottonwood limb that -leaned low across the water, had him climb to his place on it, -seated herself beside him and gently waggling and teetering the -bough with a pushing foot against the ground, she declared: - -“That’s the way the new carriage will ride, Burchie. And Uncle Hank -said Shorty was to get it for us. Shorty has to do it if Uncle Hank -says so.” - -Burch, filled full of breakfast and happy confidence, voted a strong -yes. The two childish voices rippled an accompaniment to the -rippling water. A king’s coach of state would have appeared a modest -vehicle beside the one Hilda described. She had no need to have seen -it. The shining of her belief in Uncle Hank alone lent glitter to -the varnish and softness to the cushions. - -A dragon-fly flashed out from the other bank and hung above the -water in all its burnished bravery, turning, wheeling, flickering, -darting here and there, a dazzle of blue-black polish on body and -wing. Hilda welcomed it as an illustration. She had all along been -afraid that her eloquence alone might fall short of convincing the -material-minded Burch. Here was something concrete, visible, with -which to back up her assurances, and she cried out softly: - -“It looks just like that, Burchie, only bigger. It’s as shiny as -that, and it can go ’most as quick; but it’ll go the way Uncle Hank -wants it to.” - -“It’ll go the way I want it to,” said Burch solemnly, watching the -darting brightness. “I’ll drive it—when we get it.” He nodded his -flaxen head toward the funny little green mound that stood in the -side yard, matted with woodbine in the summer and wearing a peaked -cap of snow of winters. “I’ll drive right up on top of the mountain, -and down on the other side,” he announced. - -Hilda surveyed the mound doubtfully; it was as sharp and definite as -an upturned cup. - -“Oh, no, brother,” she demurred. Then as she saw protest in his -face, she hastened to modify, “Well, not right at first. You’d -upset, I’m afraid. Let’s just drive round on the level for a good -while; then, if Uncle Hank says you may, you can go over the -mountain.” - -Day after day, for a whole week, their play was all concerned with -the new carriage. It was present, with a wonderful reality, down -behind the corral on sunny afternoons, out along the road from -school, and beside the _asequia_. - -When the wonderful morning of the contest came at last, the ancient -crippled ambulance was, in Uncle Hank’s phrase, “toggled up,” a pair -of good ponies put to it, and the old man drove his household over -the eighteen miles of open plain to Dawn. Rose Marie—a creature of -infinite fineness, quick intuition, and warm, responsive sympathies, -a pal to share a jest or a triumph with, and one who could hold her -tongue till the stars fell, in short, the perfect friend, the -companion genial yet reticent, discreet without austerity—Rose Marie -sat between Hilda and Burchie. Ahead, Shorty, Jeff, Buster, Missou’, -old Snake Thompson, and the other Three Sorrows cowpunchers rode in -a brave squad, from which came the sounds of jingling spurs, -creaking saddles, and that deep, satisfying music of big bass -voices. - -It was a customary caravan. Sometimes as Hilda rode on, she was a -Persian princess in her palanquin, with her retinue of slaves; or a -prisoner, torn from some stately and glittering home, her cruel -captors galloping beside, exchanging callous jest and laughter -across her delicious, silken-robed despair. Aunt Val, on the seat by -her, even Uncle Hank in front driving, never guessed what a world of -her own, splendid, terrifying, marvelous, the child was riding -through. Only Rose Marie might know. - -But to-day all such imaginings were put aside for the more instant -matter of the new carriage. She neglected to make sounds of pursuit -or rescue out of the thudding hoofs of the led horses behind the -ambulance, where trotted Pardner, Shorty’s “gilt-edged cutting -pony,” and the sober buckskin-colored mount from the back of which -Uncle Hank purposed later to view the races and the contest. Though -Rose Marie displayed a new frock constructed from a veil of Miss -Valeria’s, the pressure of realities made it impossible for the doll -to impersonate anything but a lady of the present day, residing in -Lame Jones County, the Texas Panhandle. - -Even The-Boy-On-The-Train—who almost always took an important part -in Hilda’s invisible dramas—when bidden to appear and bear Hilda -company, arrived in the character of a judge of the races, who, with -grace of manner indescribable, and in a large round voice, -announced, at the close of the contest, that the rider for the Three -Sorrows had so far outdistanced all the others, that the carriage -would have been his more than thrice over. “More than thrice.” Hilda -liked that phrase, and she repeated it several times, with -variations and additions. Absorbed thus, she was oblivious to the -natural and usual stages by which they arrived at Dawn and the fair -grounds, where, stepping abruptly from the world of fantasy, she -became just a little girl with eyes, ears, and thoughts for only one -item of all the gay show. The horses, the cattle, the patchwork -quilts, buttonholes, preserves, tidies, and hand-painted -pin-cushions got no attention from her. Uncle Hank, reading her -state of mind correctly, found a comfortable seat for Miss Val, and -then led Hilda and Burchie to where stood the special prize for the -roping contest. - -With a good child’s outward docility, she listened, mute, to the -eager speculations as to who would probably win it. Of course nobody -knew yet that the carriage was Hilda’s very own. At any rate, the -civil thing was to let these idle remarks pass unchallenged; and now -the time was at hand when, Shorty having roped his steer, the Three -Sorrows group could openly take possession of their own. - -Life went by with little flavor or meaning, while the many products -of nature, and of man’s and woman’s skill, were sampled, judged and -the awards made. It still crept on listless wing where Hilda sat -with Miss Val and Burchie in the grand stand; and the gentlemen rode -for the bullion-trimmed sombrero, which Scotty MacQueen won; and the -ladies rode for a resplendent cow-girl saddle, which fell to Miss -Jessie MacGregor. It made little better progress during the races, -and the bestowal of the purse and the cup, the giving of the various -first, second and third prizes. Yet it did pass. The moment did -arrive when one said, and truly, that the roping contest was the -only event now remaining. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - THE ROPING MATCH - - -“Don’t squirm like that, Hildegarde,” remonstrated Miss Van Brunt. - -Hilda’s dilated eyes were questing wildly for Uncle Hank among the -group of horsemen. He was gone. If she asked Aunt Val she would -never be allowed to leave; so without a word she slipped away in -search, and presently found him at the corrals. Before him Shorty -stood, nursing upon his broad breast, with his left hand, something -wrapped in a blood-stained handkerchief. - -And that something? Oh, surely it was not Shorty’s own right -hand—the hand which could cast the swiftest, cunningest lariat in -western Texas—the only one which could write, with a twirl of the -looped rope, the children’s formal deed to the dear, dear carriage! -Yet it must be so, for Shorty, a grown man, was crying. Down his -cheeks the big tears of anger and humiliation and disappointment -were following each other, and he groaned: - -“Oh, durn a fool—they ain’t worth raisin’! Here I been working my -arms and legs off for weeks to get a fine edge on for this roping -match—Hank, I ought to have better sense than to let them Romeros -get me into a scrimmage—I knew well enough they was out after the -carriage for the Matador. Now I’ve busted my hand on Juan Romero’s -jaw. None of our boys is readied up to ride for the Sorrows. There’s -nobody to get that carriage for the kids. Hank—you ought to fire -me.” - -Uncle Hank’s back was to Hilda. Unseen, unsuspected she stood there, -a small but excellent statue of Dismay. Here, at one blow, all hope -and delight were struck out of life. Quite blind with despair, she -turned and made a stumbling and uncertain way back to the grand -stand, squeezing into her place beside Aunt Val and Burchie, -carefully drawing her little dusty feet as far as possible from that -lady’s flounced skirts. - -Darkness had fallen upon her world. Did these people about her think -that the sun shone and that they were having a fair? Within Hilda’s -mind final disaster had arrived. Listlessly she sat beside her aunt, -watching heavy-eyed while the preparations for the favorite event -were made. She saw the wild outlaw steers, that had been gathered -from all the ranches about, driven in, fighting, bellowing, -protesting, as they poured into the oval in-field of the race-track, -where they were held in a large pen from which a smaller one opened -by heavy bars. This should have been a glorious sight, but now it -was only part of the pageant of Hilda’s defeat. - -Even when Colonel Jack Peyton, formerly of Kentucky, rode out upon -his gold-dust sorrel with the cream-colored mane, and, lifting high -his hat with a double-curved sweep, announced that the roping match -was about to begin, she just let him be Colonel Peyton. If Shorty -couldn’t ride, it was no use summoning The-Boy-On-The-Train to be -judge. The crowd cheered him, as it always cheered the pictorial -Kentuckian. Peyton bowed, flashed his white teeth in a smile beneath -his dark mustache and recited the terms: - -Each man should have only one trial, thus making the struggle short -and sharp, and tincturing it with the stimulating element, chance. -For the battle was lost to him who failed to get a quick start after -the steer at the outset, who missed his cast too often, or whose -horse stumbled in a prairie-dog hole. From the mouth of the smaller -pen, a steer was to be loosed to each contestant, and the moment his -steer crossed the chalk-line he should be free to follow. - -The contestants rode out and arranged themselves in front of the -judge’s stand. Hilda loved the sight of mounted men, accoutered as -she was used to see them, for action. But she gave these a leaden -glance—Shorty was not there. Young Doctor Ellis was near the center; -he had a ranch of his own—maybe he’d win, and his little girls would -ride in that carriage and never know that it belonged to Hilda and -Burch—that it belonged to them “thrice over.” Dark and hateful -looked the faces of the Romero brothers; Hilda would have had no -trouble in placing them in her ballad world just then. They were -“the enemy.” - -Suddenly she straightened up, trembling. Her heart gave a vicious -buck and seemed to stand still; for, the last of the line -(apparently a hasty afterthought in the entries), rode—Uncle Hank on -Buckskin! - -A breeze of bantering applause greeted the old man. Some of it came -from the grandstand. - -“Go it, Hank!” - -“Hi, Pearsall, hi!” - -“Say, Hank, whirl in and learn the boys how to rope a steer and tie -him.” - -One strange, squeaking, falsetto voice, the mere sound of which -called out peals of mirth, piped: - -“Well, I’ll be hanged—from head to foot! If old Hank Pearsall ain’t -a-linin’ out after that kerridge.” - -At the ludicrous tone and the laughter that answered it, a familiar -voice bawled: - -“Yes, and watch him get it too!” - -Hilda looked to where Shorty stood, just below. She was thankful for -a champion who could make himself heard. The great black eyes in her -little peaked face flashed, and her lip trembled. They’d better not -treat her Uncle Hank disrespectfully! But no—it was all right; the -old man was laughing. - -He took off his sombrero and bowed, with a touch of burlesque in his -manner, in response to the familiar, hearty rallying. Even on -horseback, his commanding six-foot-two of stature made itself -noticed, while his hard leanness and his tremendous reach of arm -were unmatched in that group of more youthful candidates. - -The riders drew back to station; the bars between the two pens were -let down and a steer was admitted into the smaller enclosure—a lean, -sorrel-colored animal which ran instantly to the farther extremity -of the pen, found it closed, and turned to rush back the way he had -come. A mounted man with a big whip held him in check till the -dividing bars were up. The bony, yellow brute whirled, and leaped -from side to side of the little pen, attempting first one fence and -then the other, to be opposed at each essay with whoops and yells, -so that when the outer bars were finally withdrawn he shot forth, a -tawny streak of maddened Texas steer. - -At the pen’s mouth waited Jim Tazewell, from the Quien Sabe, on his -nervous bay cutting pony, Rusty. As the horse made after the yellow -streak, Jim sitting easily in the saddle, his rope swinging about -his head, over all the great assembly there was silence so intense -that the soft noise made by the irregular thudding of those eight -flying hoofs sounded curiously distinct. Tazewell had a pretty good -start; Rusty was swift and dexterous. But there was a good deal of -galloping and several thwarted attempts before the cast was -successfully made; then came the moment of suspense when the pony -was straining every nerve to keep with the steer, while both horse -and rider watched for a chance to throw him. - -When they had succeeded, Tazewell leaped from the saddle to -tie the animal, sprang erect and held up his hands, signaling -that the business was done. The applause which followed its -successful completion quieted down, the judge read out Tazewell’s -time—sixty-two seconds. - -Throughout this spectacle, Hilda had sat bent forward, scarcely -breathing. Her cold little hands were clutched tightly together. Her -heart was torn between the very real demands of neighborly kindness -(for this was Kenny Tazewell’s papa) and her fierce loyalty to Uncle -Hank. Even the carriage was forgotten in the new emotion—this -passion of blind partisanship, this spirit of crude, savage -competition. Rose Marie, love’s martyr, clutched to strangulation in -an unconscious grasp, made never a sign to betray her agonies. - -But now the yelling and whooping was renewed; a piebald steer -galloped swiftly away from the outlet bars, followed by the rider -from the Matador, young Lee Romero, nicknamed “the Kid,” a boy yet -in the early twenties. - -Lee had ridden the range since he could crawl up on a horse, and was -a crack roper, proud buster of broncos and of more than one faro -bank. He made very certain, in his heart, of carrying the prize home -to Velva Ortez of the Matador, and, as Hilda looked piteously at -him, her own heart sank still lower. She secretly confessed that -perhaps he was right. - -When the piebald shot across the chalk-line, Romero, upon Nig, his -black horse, close after him, tears rose and swam in Hilda’s eyes; -and when, with no mishap whatever, Lee made his cast and the noose -settled as though predestined about the curving horns, the little -girl’s throat ached, a great tear splashed into Rose Marie’s -skittish gamboge hair, and she murmured bitterly, beneath her -breath: - -“But—but Uncle Hank’s older. He—Lee Romero ought not to—They might -know—Uncle Hank can’t—” - -Her chest contracted spasmodically and cut the poor sentences in two -with painful gasps. And the last, choking, whispering cry was -always: - -“He—Uncle Hank—he’s older’n they are!” - -Meantime Lee had dropped into the carelessness of the cock-sure. As -the steer fell heavily to the jerk of his staunch pony, he took two -or three dallies round the saddle-horn with an off-hand flourish, -skipped smiling from horse, and hastened, cord in hand, to tie his -victim. But the instant the steer felt the hand of man upon him, he -surged to his feet, casting Romero into a somewhat unsightly wad on -the dusty turf. Of Hilda’s emotions at this sudden collapse of Lee -Romero’s fortunes probably least said is best. - -Nig pulled backward on the rope, but the Kid’s hasty dallies had not -made it fast to the horn. With the first jerk it tautened, gave, -gave yet again, and at the final vicious lunge, came off the saddle -entirely, the piebald steer going over and over sidewise, Nig -falling backward, just as young Romero was rising, somewhat dazed. - -A roar of amusement went up from the crowd; for nobody was hurt, and -it would have been hard to say which of the three looked most -sheepish, as they all got to their ten feet at once, the spotted -steer, the vain-glorious Kid, or the pony, which had nowise been at -fault. Hilda laughed and trembled and cried all together. She -prayed, too, a little, under her breath and doubtfully, fearing that -it might not be altogether respectful to approach God in such a -connection. Yet refrain entirely, she could not. - -The next man was a rider of the C Bar C, Clarke Capadine’s ranch. He -missed his throw repeatedly, and time was finally called upon him -from the judge’s stand. - -There followed Zeph Baird, for the Bar 99, on his little horse, -Scotty. When Baird at last negotiated a successful cast of the rope, -the big, heavy steer, with a tremendous plunge, jerked the light -horse and rider forward on to their heads. Baird rolled free. There -were exclamations and cries of distress as pony and steer struggled -to their feet and, connected by the lariat, ran and pulled back and -forth dangerously near the prostrate man. - -At sight of him lying there, a sense of bloodguiltiness was upon -Hilda, from which she was only rescued by mounted men going out and -bringing him back, not seriously hurt. - -Meanwhile the pony, Scotty, seizing his chance when the lariat -trailed beneath the big steer, suddenly “set back on the rope,” and -the animal went over in a somersault, whereupon there broke out a -perfect storm of relieved laughter, hand-clapping and cheering, amid -which Scotty—true to his name—continued with great caution to move -slowly backwards, keeping the rope taut, dragging the steer, inch by -inch, until a man rode out and tied the animal’s feet. - -Here was a triumph which Hilda might praise with a light -heart—Scotty was not a contestant with Uncle Hank. She clapped her -hands and shouted generously, till Aunt Valeria fretfully bade her -be still. - -Jack Pardon of the Cross K, MacGregor’s ranch, rode next, and there -was much noisy enthusiasm at the announcement of his record of sixty -seconds, which bettered Jim Tazewell’s time by two seconds. There -followed several riders whose respective performances were not -especially notable, and none of whom succeeded in lowering Pardon’s -record. - -At last, standing up on her strained tip-toes, looking over the -heads of those in front, Hilda could see that there was just one -steer in the pen; she had already noted, with wildly beating pulses, -that only one rider was left. In Lame Jones County’s great premier -roping contest, with Jack Pardon’s time of sixty seconds so far the -best, there remained but one round to be fought: old Hank Pearsall, -on Buckskin, the party of the first part; a long-horned, wild-eyed -steer of the original Texas type, fleet, savage, knowing, the party -of the second part. - -The tall, gaunt, brindled steer, at the yelling set up by the -drivers, leaped over the lowered poles into the small pen and flung -himself half across the outlet bars, refusing to be beaten back, -bursting through them before they could be taken down. Pearsall, -somewhat delayed in getting his start after the animal, was received -with a laugh. It was undeniable that both Buckskin and his rider -bore a touch of the antiquated, which, despite old Hank’s look of -the thoroughbred cowman, was irresistibly suggestive of humor in -such a connection—a graybeard at the Olympic games. - -Hilda felt her chest swell and pinch in—swell and pinch in—not as -though she were really breathing at all. Her throat seemed to close -up altogether. A dimness was over her vision as she watched Uncle -Hank, who, with his long loop swinging free from his right hand, the -rein hanging as loosely in the left, leaned forward, very upright -and at an angle with his saddle, speaking a low word to Buckskin, -while that worthy made for the flying steer. Hilda saw his lips -move, and wondered if he, too, were praying, but decided against the -likelihood of it. - -This steer was a notorious outlaw, which had made more than one -roping match interesting. As Buckskin and Uncle Hank drew toward his -left quarter, he whirled suddenly upon them. Hilda thrust Rose Marie -down on the bench and sat on her and never knew it. She cried aloud, -and was not aware of it. She instantly trafficked with Heaven, in a -desperate panic of love and terror, proffering back all hope of the -precious, much-needed, long-desired carriage, if Uncle Hank were -only permitted to return safely to her. A carriage one might forgo; -it was in the nature of a luxury; Uncle Hank was the very groundwork -and underpinning of existence. - -But Hilda had not reckoned with Buckskin, just as the brindled steer -had not. If the steer was a survivor of numerous encounters, -Buckskin was no less seasoned a warrior. Disciplined cow pony that -he was, veteran of many a roundup, wise, alert, quick as a cat and -of an indomitable spirit, able to whirl where he stood almost like a -man, Buckskin, whose eyes had never left the steer and whose -instinct had warned him in advance of the big brute’s intended -maneuver, made of the apparent check his rider’s opportunity. - -The movements were too quick for the eye to follow, but when again -Hilda saw the group clearly, Buckskin had evaded those long, sharp -horns and was once more upon the steer’s quarter, well back of him. -Uncle Hank’s right arm lifted, the swinging coil of rope rose to the -horizontal, sang round and round and out of it a line darted -forward, exactly as the serpent sends forth its length from the -spring of its coil. - -The noose opened like a live thing, dropped, clutched and fastened -upon those spreading horns. Buckskin swerved in behind the running -steer; Uncle Hank allowed the rope’s length to drop to the ground, -and the steer, in his stride, ran over it, so that it trailed back -to the rider’s hand from between the galloping hind feet. - -Instantly, Buckskin “set back on the rope,” with crouched haunches -and braced forefeet. The line tautened; the brindled nose shot to -earth; the hind feet rose and cut through the air in a half-circle, -and the beast, having turned a somersault, alighted upon his back -with such a thump that it seemed his spine must have cracked. - -There was hesitant cheering; Uncle Hank slipped from the saddle and -ran to tie those four motionless feet. A sea of gratitude went over -Hilda. Just as the old man’s weight was thrown upon him, the steer, -which had been stunned for a moment, recovered breath and -consciousness and reared, tumultuously. But no cocksureness had been -Hank’s. If he failed this day, please Heaven, it should be because -he could not possibly win through, the best that he and Buckskin -could do. The rope had been made firmly fast to the saddle-horn—the -rope which, prepared for Shorty’s use, they had tested and tried for -this very exigency. With the creature’s first wild plunge, Buckskin -heaved himself backward, while Uncle Hank’s strong arm grappled the -big horns, and all his weight was flung upon the rearing head, which -once more went down flat upon the plain, the long, brindled neck -stretched out to Buckskin’s zealous pull. - -Once more the clapping and cheering broke forth, but this time with -no assistance from Hilda. She was past speech. The sudden relief had -left her weak. To an accompaniment of friendly applause, Uncle Hank -tied his steer’s feet, sprang erect and threw up his hands. The -cheerful noise held for a moment, then all was intensely still as -Colonel Peyton was seen to ride up to the judge’s stand, stop-watch -in hand. - -Judge Eldredge leaned across and spoke to the colonel. There was a -brief space of uncertainty, during which Hilda was sure she aged -rapidly; several voices were heard in unofficial statements, which -cleft her heart like so many swords. - -“Sixty-two seconds, I make it,” announced one. “It’s a tie with -Tazewell’s time.” - -“Better’n that,” declared another. “Pearsall made it in exactly—” - -Old man Morrison broke in with: “Oh, no, you’re ’way off. Hank’s -time is only sixty seconds—jest one plumb minute. My watch—” - -“Ssh!” cried the crowd as one man, for Colonel Peyton and the -gold-dust sorrel were coming forward. - -“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Kentuckian began, as he bowed, smiling, -“friends and fellow-citizens of our new county, I think we have all -been given a surprise.” - -A vague murmur arose. The smiling speaker waited a moment, then -continued: - -“I take pride in stating that the best time made to-day is -fifty-eight seconds. The winner distanced all other contestants by -just two seconds. Ladies and gentlemen—” - -The dark eyes enjoyingly swept the mute expectant faces before -him—none knew better than Colonel Peyton of Kentucky how to heighten -an effect by dramatic delay. - -“Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure in announcing to you -that the prize goes to Henry J. Pearsall, riding for the Ranch of -the Three Sorrows.” - -Colonel Jack Peyton smiled and pranced away on his gold-dust sorrel, -without the least suspicion that he had just made an appearance and -uttered a speech that would, by comparison, leave all after efforts -of his life vain and useless. - -Meantime, the surprise and approval which The-Boy-On-The-Train’s -understudy had bespoken, had answered the announcement. Uncle Hank, -quietly leading in Buckskin, was met and hailed and pounded on the -back, as he made his way toward the grand stand, where a small girl -with very large dark eyes stood up on the seat and unconsciously -cried aloud her inmost heart, mopping the tears from her face with a -rag-doll’s gamboge hair. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - THE FUGITIVE - - -After that roping match, on the ranch of the Three Sorrows—a small -island of human life and interests, surrounded on every side by a -sea of grass whose fishes were cattle—year followed year until five -had been added to the number of them, and Hilda was thirteen. - -The carriage, now a sober, elderly vehicle, had carried Miss Val and -Burchie many times as far as Mesquite on their journeyings to Fort -Worth, for Miss Val—who was now frankly the invalid—found there at -the sanitarium a system of baths and massage which she said helped -her neuralgia very much. But it never helped it enough to let her -live at the ranch more than a month or so at a time, and Burch she -must have with her. She put him in a Fort Worth school and said -she’d keep him under the doctor’s observation till he should be -perfectly sound. - -To anybody else’s notion but hers, he had been that for a long time. -It appeared there had never been anything the matter with his -hearing; anyhow, he was now a particularly well-grown boy for his -years, still silent, and with that air he might have inherited from -his father, or caught from Aunt Val, of being just a visitor at the -ranch. He never seemed to belong to it—or it to him. Hardly any of -the things Hilda cared most for were of interest to Burch. - -Of course, he was off there in Fort Worth during the “Winter of the -Big Snow,” that heart-breaking season which followed the blizzard -that marooned Uncle Hank and Hilda on the Bar Thirteen. The Three -Sorrows had been provided, as well as Uncle Hank could provide, -against such a happening with stacks of the coarse laguna hay; but -Hilda would never forget that time when, kept home from school by -the weather, she tried to help with the poor weak cows that pawed at -the frozen snow without being able to get through to anything they -could eat, or licked it without being able to get anything they -could drink. Uncle Hank said she worked like a little Trojan, and -from that year she felt herself more and more increasingly his right -hand. - -So the brother to whom she wrote dutiful letters, whenever she wrote -to Aunt Val, and who soon began to send her back short answers that -were rather better written and spelled than her own, came to -cut little figure in her life of work and play. At school there -were companions of her own age to contend against, confide -in—boys and girls who lived the ranch life. And there was always -The-Boy-On-The-Train to remember. In all this time, Hilda had never -forgotten him. He seemed more real in some ways than Burch or Aunt -Val or any one or anything that had belonged to the old life. All -else that concerned that time got dim and changed; he remained the -one who was always just right—the one who could do no wrong. - -But when there is a live boy, like Kenny Tazewell or Clarke -Capadine, at hand to ride races with, how then? Does one forget the -absent—at least while the hot blood is drumming in one’s ears, and -every trick that Uncle Hank has taught is needed to keep the pony -going straight, to stay on him and avoid dog-holes? We-ell, maybe -so. But when the there-present boy wins, and isn’t very nice about -it, and there might be some suspicion that he didn’t ride fairly, -ah, then one recalls with pride and joy The-Boy-On-The-Train, the -being without fault, the dweller in the fair mirage-land of memory, -who could be nothing less than noble and generous! - -_He_ would never have ridden the faster pony. _He_ would be -incapable of crowding one in so close to the fence that it was pull -up or be scraped off—and that, too, after treacherously offering -that side of the road in all appearance of good faith. No, no! Far -otherwise. _He_ would have brought the proud-crested barb, or the -milk-white palfrey swifter than the steeds of dawn, or the -coal-black stallion eagle-winged, for his lady to ride. _He_ would -have helped her on, resigned the best place, and smiled when her -mount outran his’n—oh, well, then, _his_. - -The Marchbanks children had never come again to the Capadine ranch. -Colonel Lee Marchbanks stayed in New Mexico. They all went into -Hilda’s world of memory and tradition. The further edge of this -world of tradition and memory melted into the world of books. And -Hilda had got to be a great reader of books. - -There had come to Texas with the Van Brunt furniture quite a -library. Some of it was unpacked and filled the bookshelves in the -living-room; when it overflowed these, a lot of it went into the -little place they called the office; but there were still books in -boxes in the cellar. The things Hilda loved best she read over and -over; she knew pages of Marmion and Lady of the Lake by heart, not -to mention her beloved ballads. Great musical, stirring lines from -these were always jingling through her head when she played at home. -Sometimes she went about saying them under her breath. Or—and this -was a sort of fearful pleasure—saying some lines of her own that she -more or less made up as she went along. - -If you did that long enough, the things around you changed, kind of -melted into a dream: the ranch house became a castle; Shorty and -Missou’ and the others were retainers; old Sam Kee, in the kitchen, -was a Swart Paynim—he made a very good Swart Paynim, indeed. - -With one of Aunt Val’s cast-off dresses on, a veil arranged for the -headdress of a castle lady, the dream thrived splendidly. At these -times she instinctively dodged Uncle Hank and the boys as much as -she could. It broke in dreadfully to have one of them sing out: -“Hello, Hilda—playin’ lady?” It even hurt to have Uncle Hank look at -her with absent fondness and call her “Pettie,” when it seemed he -might almost have seen that she was the despairing lady of “the -house of the Rhodes,” with bloody Edom o’ Gordon besieging her -walls. - -But one day, in the spring of the year she was thirteen, rummaging -in the cellar, trying to pry open a heavy box of books, she made a -wonderful find. Back of these boxes, concealed by them and -forgotten, because they had stood untouched there for years, she -discovered an opening in the earth wall—an unmistakable door. It was -low, not very wide, unframed except by the earth-and-stone walls of -the cellar side, made of rough, heavy planks marked with -hieroglyphics of dust and draped mournfully with cobwebs; it had -iron hinges like those on the stable door, and was closed only with -a loop of leather and a big nail. Silent, unknown, unsuspected—a -very gateway of mystery—all alone down there under the ground, this -crude, sinister, little door stung Hilda’s imagination like a -strange, threatening word out of another tongue, whispered in the -dark. - -Trembling, she pushed upon it. It gave inward creakingly. Utter -blackness was beyond it. She flew up the cellar stairs to Sam Kee -with a breathless demand for a candle. After some argument, the -candle was secured and lighted. She hurried to the cellar and, with -a heart that beat to suffocation, cautiously shoved open the -door—her door—her discovery. - -She entered, not without half-ecstatic tremors. It was an -underground passage! She traversed twelve or fifteen feet of the -narrow corridor, where earth showed between rough planking, and came -to another door. This one sagged half-way open, revealing a -fair-sized chamber, earth-walled also behind its planks, and with a -heavily timbered ceiling, big beams in its corners and at intervals -along the sides, and a window with a batten shutter opposite the -entrance. She stood a moment, enraptured, the candle flame going up -very straight and sickly in that unaired space. Then she went almost -reverently across the floor of beaten earth, set down her candle and -pulled at the rusty hasp of the shutter. It came back suddenly with -a creak. Daylight streamed in—sunlight—checkered by a strong lattice -of naked woodbine stems. Between these she peered. There was the -spring, with the sheen dancing on its waters as it pulsed away into -the asequia. She must be standing inside of the steep green mound by -the willows, the “mountain” up which Burch had proposed to drive the -new carriage. This window must pierce its slope, masked by the -woodbine. She had in fact come upon the forgotten cyclone cellar of -the ranch house. In a daze of delight, she looked about her. - -“Oh, oh!” she whispered under her breath, then flew to bring in an -old broom from the cellar outside, and with it some cloths; swept -and wiped away the accumulated dust. Her mind was clamorous with -plans. Rose Marie and Captain Snow would be the only companions she -could have here, the only sharers of the secret whose discretion -might be trusted; and the place must be made fit for the great white -cat’s fastidious fancy, the doll’s cambric daintiness. - -There was a big box for the table, a smaller one for a chair, and -Burchie’s disused high-chair to prop the doll in. At one side was a -shelf with some empty bottles and cans on it. These she replaced by -an armload of her favorite books from the library. She made a game -of this, though there was nobody in the house but stolid Sam Kee, -who never asked any questions. It was delightful to pile up the -things she wanted taken down, then scout and see that “the coast was -clear,” catch them up and run with them, outwitting espionage, -evading pursuit. When all was done she surveyed the chamber and its -furnishings with satisfaction. Here was the place to read, to make -up stories, to dream and act those she read or made up. In short, -here was a new stage—secret, safe, solitary—on which the -never-ending, always-changing drama might go forward. Here was -innocent escape from the world about her, well-loved, comfortable, -but too definite, too importunate to permit the dream—the blessed -and beautiful dream—which would undoubtedly come true in such a -place as this. - -One sunny, blowy Sunday afternoon Hilda forsook the light of day and -made her way through the dark passage into the cyclone cellar, her -candle held high in one hand, the other carefully conveying a -battered tray on which were some cakes and half a glass of jelly. On -the box table lay a sort of costume into which she got, after she -had set down tray and candle before the doll’s fixed stare. - -The dress was her favorite of all those cast-offs of Miss Valeria’s, -a changeable silk, shimmering from green to gold as the plain itself -did when the buffalo grass was tall on it and the wind went over. -There was a froth of lace and little bright-colored ribbon bows for -trimming, exactly like the tossing bells of wild hollyhock or the -phlox that bloomed in millions on that plain. Oh, it was a heavenly -dress to wear when you were playing Flora MacDonald rowing Prince -Charlie across the lake, or Katherine Douglass barring the door -against the enemies of King Jamie—barring it with her arm, which -they broke as they burst through! - -To-day it was to be Flora MacDonald, and the _asequia_—the little -irrigating ditch—was to be the “practicable water” for the scene. -Hilda pulled the veil into place on her hair, swung the long -trailing skirts smoothly down her slim little figure and slipped -across to open the shutter behind the masking lattice of woodbine -stems, her lips already moving, murmuring fragments of high -converse, phrases of faith, loyalty, gratitude, renunciation. Her -big black eyes swam full, misty with the vision. She had stepped—as -always on entering the cyclone cellar—from Texas soil into the realm -of romance. - -The open shutter let in the dancing light reflected from the water, -and all checkered with the beautiful thatch of tender green leaves -that the woodbine was sprouting. Without coming to earth at all, -Hilda felt the joy of it. Leaning ardently forward, she rustled the -woodbine stems, whereupon some one, stooping to drink at the spring -just outside her casement, started violently, sprang half erect, -whirled and stood staring directly into her face. - -A fugitive! Even to Hilda the fact spoke plain. She—expecting to -see, with the vision of fancy, exactly what now confronted her in -the flesh—was not greatly startled. The young fellow stood looking -at her, his head, with its fair hair flung up, the blue eyes full of -terror. While she gazed at him, lips apart, unable to emerge from -her spell of fantasy, he reached out vaguely to the dusty, big hat -that lay beside him on the grass, got quite to his feet and, with a -glance behind him, came up to the woodbine lattice. He laid a -shaking hand upon it, peering through at her face, anxiously, -doubtfully—and began with a sort of faltering haste: - -“Can I—could I get—in there? Can you hide me? They’re close after -me!” - -“They” had been “close after” pretty much everybody in Hilda’s -cyclone-cellar world for a long time now. He looked the part, and -this was the one thing he could have said without jarring the dream, -without so much as brushing the down from the tip of its rainbow -wing. At the words, she sank back gratefully into the realm of the -fabulous, and he receded from the world of reality to follow her -there. - -“Why, yes,—your—” she hesitated an instant. “Your Majesty,” she -whispered, just above her breath. - -Perhaps he was not quite sure of the word; perhaps he was too -perturbed to notice such a detail. - -“Quick!” he urged; “show me how to get in there.” - -Something about his face challenged and puzzled her. There was a -haunting resemblance about the look of his eyes. Yet all realities -strove vainly for more than vague recognition now. She was in a sort -of rapture as she leaned forward and whispered: - -“Stay for me; I will not fail you.” Then, to make sure: “I’m coming. -I’ll bring you in here.” - -She gathered up her draperies and ran. The daylight world of the -Three Sorrows had never seen those trailing, faded splendors, -ravished from Aunt Val’s cast-offs; but haste was indicated. A -moment later, to the young fellow at the spring, hanging doubtfully -on his heel, a hunted glance over his shoulder, preparing for -flight, there came skimming across the grass a quaint figure. The -dress of Hilda’s contriving trailed behind her flying feet, the -tangle of mist-fine dark curls was half covered by a coiffing veil, -worn in the manner of castle ladies as they appear in the -frontispieces of feudal romances. The fugitive looked in wonder. She -ran to him and took his hand and pulled him toward the house. He -held back a little, but she urged vehemently: - -“You’ll have to come right through here. It’s the only way.” - -In the kitchen door, at sight of the Chinese cook, the young fellow -checked wildly. Hilda gripped his hand in both hers, and dropped -momentarily out of her part to explain: - -“It’s only Sam Kee. He doesn’t count. He never tells on me—do you, -Sam?” - -The Chinaman looked placidly about eighteen inches over their heads, -smiled, and seemed to imply that the room was empty except for -himself. There was something reassuring in this attitude, and -Hilda’s chance guest followed her quickly down the cellar steps, -behind the pile of boxes, and through the passage that led to the -cyclone chamber. - -“Are you—are you an-hungered?” she asked, with a sort of -half-tentative hardihood. - -He dropped down on the box seat and eyed the food with an air so -exactly suited to his rôle that she took heart and fell into the -familiar phraseology: - -“Here is the humble meal I have provided. If you will rest and -refresh yourself, I’ll, I’ll—” - -Her voice trailed a bit at last. The newcomer was looking at her -with so sharp an inquisition that it sent a vague pang through her -heart. - -“Yes,” he said slowly, “I’m hungry.” The blue eyes went swiftly over -the items on the cracker-box table. Under that glance they seemed to -diminish somewhat in bulk and decline in nourishing quality. Hilda -became acutely aware of the realness of his trouble, the actual dust -on his clothes, the parched, cracked lips, the exhaustion and -distress of his whole young figure. - -“I can get something more,” she said hurriedly. “I can make -Sam Kee give me a glass of milk and some bread, and, I guess, -some—some—chicken.” - -“Wait—” He caught her as she passed, examining her face with that -bluntly inquiring, suspicious gaze. “Can you get the things without -anybody else knowing? You wouldn’t tell any one else—” - -“Oh,” cried Hilda, aghast. “Betray you? No, no, no—never—of course -not!” - -Slowly, as though still half uncertain, he released her. She turned -and almost ran through the familiar dark passage. In her breast -choking sympathy reproached the triumphant delight of having her -play come true. And there hung, as it were, on the heels of these -swifter emotions, a slow, uncomprehending sense of hurt at the -fugitive’s lack of trust in her. - -Negotiations with Sam Kee were brief, for Hilda had that within her -which reckoned with no refusal. It seemed to her but a moment that -she was gone, yet she found that her guest had eaten the last crumb -of the little cakes. He fell ravenously upon the more substantial -food she brought back. - -“Sam Kee’s making a cup of coffee,” said Hilda. - -The young fellow nodded his head. When he had finished the food, he -looked across at her and said: - -“I guess I’ve got to tell you about myself.” - -“You needn’t,” Hilda maintained loyally. - -He sat for a while, looking away, a clenched hand lying on his knee. -Twice he drew in his breath to speak, and turned his head, without -ever quite bringing his gaze around to hers. Suddenly he got up and -went to the window. He stood there, plucking at the vine leaves. Her -big black eyes followed him; they noted that bright hair—dusty now, -sweat-darkened in streaks, yet such as a prince ought to have; they -dwelt on the outlines of his tired figure, rimmed with its halo of -light; gallant, victorious, yet in danger, needing her—she could -read all that into it. He whirled abruptly and came toward her. - -“Suppose they told you I’d killed a man,” he said. - -There was an awful silence in the close little room. Hilda was as -one who comes upon a dizzying abyss, horrible, chaotic, yawning to -swallow both dream and reality. But she was made of heroic stuff. In -spirit she approached the edge and looked down, wincing but resolute -and clinging to the hand of her hero. - -It was terrible; why, yes, to be sure it was terrible. But, oh, it -had a gorgeous thrill to it! What was the use of hiding a fugitive -and enduring “all” for his sake if he hadn’t committed some dreadful -deed—several of them, for that matter? Richard Cœur de Lion slew men -in heaps and piles; so did King Harold. Why, all the kings and -princes did, and the splendid warriors, in those old times. Shorty -knew fellows that had killed their man, and Buster and the others, -too; and they said they were good boys just the same. More than once -there had been a man at the Three Sorrows table, or sequestered in -the Three Sorrows bunk house, about whom it had been an open secret -that he was “on the dodge” because of a shooting scrape. If you came -right down to it, Uncle Hank himself had lent the last one a horse -and money. These considerations did not decide Hilda’s course. She -was for her fugitive anyhow, right or wrong, and whatever or whoever -might have been against him. But there was a certain pleasure in -realizing her immediate public opinion to be with her. Aloud, she -said: - -“How—why—how did you know to come to me?” - -He answered, curiously, with another question, coming slowly back -and sitting down again: - -“This is the Three Sorrows ranch, isn’t it?” - -“Yes.” - -“I thought it was, but I didn’t dare to ride up and ask.” Then, -after a moment’s pause, in which he studied her, “You must be Hilda -Van Brunt.” - -“I am Hilda.” - -“Thank God. I’m all right, then.” - -“Yes,” said Hilda. “I’ll take care of you.” - -“Is your father in the house? Can you bring him down here?” - -They were sitting on opposite sides of the box table, the candle -between them sending up its flame very tall and straight and steady. -When the boy said this Hilda’s little peaked face looked suddenly -white, because the eyes became bigger and darker with the dilation -of their pupils. She locked her hands hard together in her lap to -keep from sobbing outright in her excitement. She reminded herself -of the dust on his clothes, the feeling of his hand when she had -taken it to drag him past Sam Kee. There was nothing to be so -dreadfully frightened about. After a long time—the boy watching her, -puzzled and uneasy—she got her voice under control. - -“Didn’t you know my father was dead?” she asked, very low. “He was -killed in a roundup seven years ago, and there’s nobody to look -after my brother and me and the ranch—and even Aunt Val—but Uncle -Hank.” - -The newcomer sat perfectly still a moment, staring blankly. Slowly -the bright head went down on his arms, his shoulders began to heave. - -Hilda gazed with an agony of repressed pity at that prone, boyish -head. The young fellow seemed to her a man, and his grief a thing to -shake the foundations. Her hand longed to steal out and touch him, -but she drew it back. She looked about the dark little plank-walled -chamber, lit by its one candle. With a start of something so alien -that it was almost distaste, her eye encountered Rose Marie’s saucy, -smiling beauty over among the shadows of one corner. Yet the big, -somber burden of Hilda’s yearning sympathy was played upon, shot -through and through and lightened by delectable, rosy shafts. It was -so very real; it was so very dear to be of use—to be of great use. -With instinctive tact she took no notice of her guest’s outburst, -but crept away to take the dishes to Sam Kee. Returning, she gave -considerate warning with a little fumble at the inner door, and when -she entered caught up Rose Marie and thrust her out of sight (a -gesture as significant in its way as, in an earlier day, was the -investing of the Roman lad with the toga _virilis_) this was no -affair for dolls. She edged into the seat across from the fugitive. -Presently he raised his head and spoke: - -“Hilda” (somehow his use of her name startled her), “those men are -after me—if they get their hands on me—I guess they’ll hang me.” - -“Oh,” breathed Hilda, and the dream began to draw away. - -“I remembered that Three Sorrows was right over here in Lame Jones -County”—yes, that’s just what he said: “I _remembered_ that the -Three Sorrows was right over here in Lame Jones County,” and Hilda’s -eyes grew bigger as she gazed at him. Her breath began to come -short. - -“You’re—” she whispered. - -But he went on, not heeding, “I knew if I could get here, I’d be -safe.” - -Then Hilda cried out: - -“You’re The-Boy-On-The-Train!” - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - THE-BOY-ON-THE-TRAIN - - -“H-s-s-sh!” The boy’s anxious eyes were on her. “I—I thought you -knew me, Hilda. I’d never have come into this place to hide—if I -hadn’t thought you knew me. I knew you, the minute I saw your eyes.” - -“Did you?” Hilda thought that was rather a stupid, inadequate thing -to say, the minute it was out. But the shock of having the memory -and the dream burst in upon the realities of her play and mix up -with it like this left her almost without words. “It’s all right,” -she whispered, finally. “I’ll take care of you—same as Father would -have done.” - -There was no danger of being overheard, yet she whispered. In her -breast flamed all the ardors of all the heroines whose brave deeds -she delighted in and envied. The amazing, the incredible, had -happened. The-Boy-On-The-Train was here. He hadn’t arrived with -music and flying banners. He had fled to her, accused, pursued, in -danger. He had fled to her! That thought would have given her -strength for more than she had to do. She bent forward and murmured -eagerly: - -“Nobody knows this place but me. Nobody can find you. I’ll bring you -food—I can bring plenty—even if you have to stay for days and days. -I’ll get the coffee now—just wait.” - -She hurried out, threaded the passage swiftly, went up the stairs -into the kitchen—and came upon Uncle Hank standing talking to Sam -Kee! - -Why did she not rush to him with news of the lad in the cellar? He -had given money, as well as shelter, to that other fugitive—the one -the boys had hidden in the bunk house that time—the one that had -killed a man. Was it only an unwillingness to share her -responsibility and her joy in that responsibility? - -Hank had never seen the castle-lady dress which she now carelessly -exposed to his view. It made him smile, as he asked: - -“What you up to, Pettie, all rigged out that-a-way? Playin’ lady?” - -She stiffened at the kindly patronage of the tone. - -“Yes, I’m playing,” she said briefly. A furtive look went to the -candle and cup of hot coffee which Sam Kee had prepared and set on -the table, according to the bargain made and ratified with him. She -got away from Uncle Hank, just how, she could not afterward -remember; details of this sort escape from persons of her -temperament. As a matter of fact, she had made up her mind to be a -little severe with the old man if he was too inquisitive. But, -fortunately for him, he was busy, his thoughts were elsewhere, and -so he escaped this severity, and she got downstairs with the coffee -before it cooled. - -When Hilda got back she found that the boy had opened the shutter -under the woodbine, and stood there looking at something he held in -his hand. - -“Oh—ought you?” Hilda asked. - -“Yes. It’s all right. When I was out there, and spoke to you, I -couldn’t see a thing till I came right up and put my face against -the vines. What does this mean, Hilda?” - -She saw now that he held a letter-head of the ranch; printed at the -top was: “Ranch of the Three Sorrows, Lame Jones County, Texas, -Henry J. Pearsall, Mgr.” - -“Is—is that man here—now?” - -“He isn’t in the house—but he will come—at dinner time, I guess,” -Hilda spoke falteringly; her responsibility for the fugitive had -been sweet; but, of course, he’d rather depend on Uncle Hank than on -a small girl. “I’ll tell him about you when he comes, if you want me -to,” she finished in a diminished voice. - -There was a long silence between them, of a quality curiously -embarrassing to Hilda. She felt ready to cry. - -“Don’t you want me to tell Uncle Hank?” The boy looked bewildered. - -“Is that your father’s brother? It isn’t any one that was with you -coming out here?” - -“He’s not my real uncle. It’s—you know—the manager.” She pointed to -the sheet he still held. “He’d be just the same as papa. He’d do -anything that papa would do.” - -She broke off, noting how reluctant he seemed. - -“I’ll not tell him—or anybody—if you’d rather not,” she said—and -felt a guilty thrill of rapture as he responded: - -“Well—for the present—maybe it would be better.” - -Hilda tried to say something in answer to that, but somehow she -couldn’t. A sort of disconsolate silence held the dim little chamber -for a time. Then, just as the young fellow seemed about to speak -again, this silence was broken startlingly by the jingling and -thudding sounds of mounted men coming at a trot into the side yard, -almost over their heads. - -Instantly he reached forward and snuffed out the flame of the -candle, and Hilda darted to the window and softly closed the -shutter. As she came back on her way toward the passage, he groped -out in the darkness and caught her hand, whispering: - -“What shall we do?” - -“Just be still,” Hilda breathed, close to his ear. “You’re safe -here. I’ll go and deceive—the—pursuers.” - -She went toward the door; stopped a moment, looking over her -shoulder, trying to see him in the dark, then went out; dragged shut -the sagging door after her; blundered along the passage; slammed the -outer one with a noise that scared her; pantingly shoved the empty -boxes and barrels in place to conceal it, and ran up the cellar -stairs. In the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen Sam Kee was making -dried-apple pies. As she fled past, she thought he said to her, “You -all light. No be scare.” Then she was in the office door, and some -strange men were coming in at its other door with Uncle Hank. - -“You’re free of the whole ranch, Sheriff Daniels,” the old man was -saying. “You and your posse are welcome to search.” The crispness of -his tone made something way down deep in Hilda giggle and clap its -hands. Goodness—wasn’t she glad she hadn’t told Uncle Hank! He—even -he—couldn’t have spoken up that way if he’d known what was hid in -the cyclone cellar. Now he went on: - -“Miss Van Brunt has got the little boy with her in Fort Worth. Just -at this speaking there’s only Pettie and me and the cook about the -place. It’s broad daylight. Couldn’t nobody have got into the house -without being seen—but you’re free to search. And you’re welcome to -go around to the bunk house and see if you can find any one there. I -always give the law any assistance in my power.” - -“Well, we trailed him so far, and I’ve been pretty well over your -ranch, Pearsall,” the Sheriff said in the irritable tone of a man -who is losing. “If he ain’t in the house, I don’t know where he’s -at. With your permission, we’ll look here, and when your boys come -in at noon we’ll see if he’s lifted a horse off of you and made a -getaway.” - -Pearsall’s eye fell on Hilda, and the look on her face instantly -struck him. He stepped across at once and put an arm around her -shoulders. He did not notice that she had not come to him. - -“Ain’t a thing to be afraid of, Pettie,” he reassured her. “These -gentlemen think they’re on the trail of a feller that’s—” he -hesitated appreciably—“er that’s got into trouble down in Wild Hoss -County. They believe he’s rode right into the Sorrers and et his -pony and camped in one of our bedrooms.” - -There was a somewhat sheepish acknowledgment of this sally as the -men trooped after Pearsall, making a search of the rooms, upstairs -and down. After that Hilda crouched above them on the steps, -daylight behind her, her face in shadow, watching in fascinated -terror while they explored the cellar, carrying lamps and candles. -But they gave only a negligent glance to the tiers of empty cracker -boxes which screened the door to the passage, as everybody else -except Hilda had done for years. They abandoned the cellar finally -and tramped noisily back into the kitchen. - -“You see ’um white man?” the sheriff demanded of Sam Kee. “Heap -tired—been ridin’ long ways—all dusty and dirty—you see ’um?” - -Hilda’s heart stood still. But Sam Kee never glanced toward her. - -“I see ’um you,” he grunted, looking Daniels up and down, and turned -aside to his pie-making. - -The men grinned. - -“Look-a here, you don’t want to get fresh with me.” Daniels’s face -was red. “You never can get nothing out of a Chink,” he growled. -“Scatter out, boys, and search the yard.” - -The yard! Hilda shook so that she could hardly walk; but she -followed them. Sam Kee’s hen-house gave up nothing; the shrubbery -was inspected without profit. They finally trailed down to the -spring for a drink, preparatory to riding away baffled, if not -satisfied. Hilda was so close after them that it brought Uncle Hank -along, though it had been his thought to speed them, somewhat -stiffly, from the porch steps. - -Right at the edge where the fugitive had stopped to drink Hilda saw -footprints. - -“Whose tracks are these?” demanded the sheriff, bending to them. “By -jinks! They’re mighty like those we found where that feller’d camped -last night.” - -“They’re mine, I guess,” Hilda spoke out very loud, because she was -so afraid to speak at all. - -“Come here, Pearsall,” called Daniels. “Listen to what this young -lady says. She never made these tracks.” He glanced curiously at -Hilda’s flamboyant attire. - -“I’m not a lady!” The small hands flew up to Hilda’s breast in a -startled gesture. “I’m just a little girl. This is a—a play dress.” -She looked down at the footprints, and the world about her wavered -toward the awful calamity, but she went on gallantly: “When I’m -playing sometimes I wear different clothes and different shoes.” - -“Were you down here this morning?” - -“Yes. I was here. I was right where I could see this place all -morning.” - -“Where you could see this place?” The sheriff repeated her words, -and Hilda’s tortured eye sought the woodbine lattice which masked -the window of the cyclone cellar. They were all watching her. Hank -came at a stride and took his position beside her. She almost wished -he hadn’t come. He was sure to look at the vine stems and see what -she saw. - -Her captive must have opened the shutter; she thought she could make -out the faint white blur of his face inside there. She dragged her -gaze away and looked dumbly at the men about her. Had she betrayed -him, after all? Would they take him out and kill him, through her -fault? - -“Well?” demanded the sheriff, impatiently. “Speak up, little -girl—and be quick about it, too.” - -But at that Uncle Hank bristled. - -“See here, Daniels, the child may say she’s not a lady, yet, but -you’ve got to treat her like one. She’s Miss Hildegarde Van Brunt; -she and her little brother are owners of the Three Sorrows ranch, -and I’m her paid manager.” - -It gave Hilda a strange thrill to hear herself thus set forth by -Uncle Hank. It was as though she had all at once grown years older. -The sheriff stepped back a bit, and a fumbling hand found and -removed his hat. - -“Well, Miss Van Brunt,” he said, “I’ve come on your ranch kind of -sudden; but I had no intention of being rough. I was obliged to -search—you ain’t no objection to that, have you? I didn’t aim to -make no trouble for you. You’re willing for us to search, ain’t -you?” - -Hilda looked mutely to Uncle Hank. - -“Sure, she’s willing,” assented the old man. “Hilda’s not very tall, -but she’s a law-abiding citizen. If they’s any help she can give you -to ketch up with a criminal, she’ll do it gladly.” - -Every trusting word was to Hilda a blow. She was keeping the -presence of the fugitive a secret from Uncle Hank; she was going to -do that and more. It was strange that it could be right—and yet it -was. She was sorry for the old man, with a great rush of compassion -which she herself could not understand. She caught his arm and clung -to it, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve—but she never wavered in -her determination to tell him nothing. - -“I had to foller my duty, wherever it led,” Daniels continued, -defensively. - -“Whoo—ee! Whoo—ee!” came a hail from the man posted down by the -gate. - -They turned to hearken. - -“Come on, boys. Nothing doing there. Billy’s got the track of that -pony up yonder in the road.” - -Without a word, the sheriff and his men ran to their horses, and in -a moment’s time there was no reminder of their presence or their -errand left but a little dust. - -Uncle Hank and Hilda stood alone. The old man brought his gaze back -from following the last departing rider, and it encountered the -queer little figure beside him. He took her by the shoulder, looked -a bit anxiously in her face, and said: - -“I was hunting for you, Pettie, to tell you that I may not be home -to-night before ten o’clock. Shorty’s getting cattle ready for -shipment, out in the Spring Creek pasture, and like’s not I’ll have -to stay at the camp there till late. But this pesky business of -Sheriff Daniels coming up this-a-way—you going to be afraid here -alone in the house with just old Sam Kee?” - -“Oh, no, Uncle Hank—not a bit afraid!” she cried. - -“Don’t feel as if any skulking Door-imps or Barrel-tops would be -likely to pester you? Reckon mebbe Daniels and his men has scared -away all that sort of cattle—hey?” - -Hilda laughed a little nervously, yet relieved—why what a world away -was the girl who had been afraid of such things! - -“I’ll be all right,” she declared. “I’ve got something—I’ve got a—” - -“—A story to read,” supplied Hank, out of ample experience. And, -with a sense of guilt upon her, Hilda let the matter go at that. - -And it turned out to be a story after all, only she heard it instead -of reading it. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - SOME ONE RIDES AWAY - - -Pearse came on Sunday. That was great luck. Great luck, too, that -Uncle Hank should have happened to be at the house when the sheriff -rode in with his posse. He might just as likely have been out -somewhere on the range; for though he tried to keep Sunday on the -Three Sorrows, where the business of life deals with living -creatures—cattle—there will be acts of necessity and mercy—the ox to -be gotten out of the ditch, and that sort of thing. But he’d been -there, and he’d saved the day, for her and for Pearse—though he -didn’t know it himself. Then, as soon as he’d done so, Hilda did -wish he’d go off to the Spring Creek pasture and leave her the place -clear. Yes, she’d heartily wished that—and never noticed that it was -the first time in all her life that Uncle Hank’s presence had, for -any reason, been unwelcome. She had finally to take her chance, -while he was in the house, to steal down to Pearse to tell him all -about the sheriff and set his mind at rest. - -“Well,” he said quietly, “if they’re thrown off the track for a -little while, that ought to be enough. I didn’t do what they think I -did. They’ll find the right man. It was this way, Hilda: I camped -Friday night out toward Wild Horse canyon, with three men. I didn’t -very much like their looks and they weren’t giving any names.” - -“How did they look, Pearse? Describe them,” Hilda interrupted; and -when he’d done so, they were identified in her mind as Fayte -Marchbanks’s three Romero cousins. Some time during the night -Pearse’s horse got away. He felt sure now that one of those three -men must have taken off the hobbles and turned it loose, or more -probably led it to some near-by place of hiding and picketed it on a -short rope, for in the morning they all got out and helped him hunt -for it, and that hadn’t been the way they acted the night before, by -any means. Also they talked a great deal about feeling to blame for -the loss of his mount and wanting to help him out. So they gave him -a led pony that they had with them, explaining that it had a broken -shoe and he’d better ride easy, turn in at the first ranch he came -to which had a blacksmith’s outfit and get the pony re-shod. He did -this, but fortunately before he’d told that ranchman his errand, the -man offered him the information that a sheriff’s posse was out after -cattle thieves and that, in lifting the cattle, these thieves had -killed a man and stolen a pony with a broken shoe. - -He saw the plot then, but it was too late to turn back. He rode all -day Saturday, trying to push on to the Three Sorrows. Finally, -Saturday night, he abandoned the pony whose broken shoe left a trail -that the officers would follow, and in the morning had drifted in, -across pastures, to the bank by the spring at the _asequia_, when he -looked up and saw two black eyes staring at him right out of the -side of a hill. - -Hilda had brought down needles and thread and was doing her best to -make a neat job of mending his coat while they talked. - -“Where’s Burch?” Pearse asked suddenly, as they heard the thin, -penetrating echo of Sam Kee’s gong from upstairs and Hilda got -unwillingly to her feet. “He must be a good-sized boy by now. Think -maybe you’d better tell him about me? He could help you, couldn’t -he?” - -“Burch is in Fort Worth with Aunt Val,” said Hilda, and was -thrillingly glad it was so—that she, Hilda, alone, could do anything -for the blessed Boy-On-The-Train. “Aunt Val’s the aunt I told you -about, that came out after you people had left Denver. Papa sent for -her to come to Texas with us. She doesn’t like it on the ranch. I -must run now. Are you all right? I’ll bring you down some supper. -Sam Kee will give it to me. Sam was splendid with the sheriff.” - -As Hilda had expected, the Chinaman was willing enough to give her a -good meal for her fugitive, but before she got it smuggled down to -him she almost hated Uncle Hank for being so much in the way. There -was the later adventure of stealing down with some bedding, and -assuring Pearse that he’d be free of the house as soon as Uncle Hank -left. He seemed deathly tired and almost careless of what might come -if he could only rest. - -That was Sunday night. And after Sunday—Monday comes. You can’t help -it. It’s just that way. They string the days of the week together -without any regard for people’s feelings—or even the necessities of -the case. How could she go to school on Monday and leave Pearse -there hidden in the cyclone cellar? Of course, Sam Kee would never -tell; also, the Chinaman had furnished food enough to last through -the day: But it was like parting soul from body to ride away from -the Three Sorrows that morning, to turn her back on what might -chance, to give up hours with her fugitive that might have been -hers. - -At school, Miss Belle found she had a strange Hilda in her classes. -The banner pupil was inattentive; no statement seemed to get through -to that mind, which her teacher knew to be usually so quick. A book -before her, motionless, apparently scarcely breathing, Hilda sat at -her desk, the image of a very studious little girl. But she did not -use the slate and pencil that lay under her hand; she did not see -the printed lines before her. What if the ranch house at the Three -Sorrows should burn down while she was away? It was a stone -house—but couldn’t stone houses burn? The things in them could, -anyhow. What if Sam Kee fell suddenly ill and, in his extremity, -“confessed all” to Uncle Hank? What if she, Hilda, were thrown from -her pony on the way home and broke a leg—no, turned an ankle—that -was more like the girls in stories—well, what if she turned an ankle -and lay helpless and couldn’t get down to see after Pearse? What -would become of him? - -Her mind flew wildly to her aunt. If Miss Val had been at home would -she have dared to trust her with Pearse’s secret? Aunt Val hadn’t -met Mr. and Mrs. Masters, but they were her sort of people; she -would think that a boy brought up as Pearse had been couldn’t be a -cattle thief. Well—Uncle Hank would think so too if he knew Pearse. -But there was that way Pearse had looked when he heard Uncle Hank’s -name. She tried to forget it. It was too bad when people you were so -fond of wouldn’t like each other. - -And of course it had to be that afternoon that visitors came to the -school. It was only Mrs. Capadine and the new Capadine foreman’s -wife; but Miss Belle wanted to show off the school, so she called on -Hilda Van Brunt, as she always did at such times. And Hilda -disgraced herself. Worse—she disgraced Miss Belle and the school. -Three times she said “I don’t know,” and one of those times the -question was such that any baby would have known the answer. Miss -Belle was asking it that way to make it easy. - -As a last resort Hilda’s teacher called on her to recite—“speak a -piece” they called it when they mentioned it on the playground. -You’d think that was the thing she could do in her sleep. She loved -Friday afternoons because of the speaking. She now, standing in -front of them all, dashed nervously into: - - “The stag at eve had drunk his fill—” - -Then, suddenly, her mind jumped three miles and a half. What was -Pearse doing? Had they found him? She came back, with a jerk, to the -schoolroom, looked down at the faces of her schoolmates as they sat -at their desks, arms folded, listening; at the plump, expectant -ladies in the chairs. Then she repeated her statement about the -stag. Three times she said it; that stag, if he was full the first -time, must have been quite dangerously filled when she got to the -next line— - - “As danced the Moon on Monan’s rill.” - -Well, even then it would have been all right; she might have gone on -from there. But there was a snicker all over the room, and she -realized that she had said “Ronan’s mill.” Even the visiting ladies -were laughing at her. She burst into tears and sat down, hiding her -face in her arms on the desk top. She heard Miss Belle—Miss Belle, -angry and mortified—telling her that she would have to stay after -school! - -Nothing to do about that. She just sat with her head on her desk and -cried and cried. The company left. The other scholars all filed -out—Miss Belle was letting them go a little early—Hilda heard them -getting on their ponies, riding away. Then Miss Belle came and sat -down in the seat beside her and put her arm around her, saying, more -kindly: - -“What’s the matter, Hilda? You’re not a bit like yourself to-day.” - -“Oh, Miss Belle,” Hilda’s face, all swollen with tears, came up; she -laid hold of the ruffle on Miss Belle’s shoulder with shaking -fingers; “oh, Miss Belle—let me go home. I—I’ll do anything for -you—if you’ll only let me go home—now.” - -“Why, Hilda,” the teacher was only a big girl herself, “I believe -you’re sick. Do you feel bad? Is that it?” - -“I feel awful,” choked Hilda, and didn’t mean to be untruthful; but -she knew afterwards how Miss Belle understood that. “If you’ll just -let me go home, Miss Belle—it’ll be all right. Let me go, please.” - -“In a minute.” Miss Belle got up and hurried to her desk and began -writing something. She came back, folding it, asking anxiously, “Do -you think you can stand the ride home, Hilda? I hate to send you -alone. Want me to go with you? I will, if you need me. It’s out of -my way, and I’ve written to Mr. Pearsall—but if you think you need -me—” - -“Oh, no, Miss Belle. I’m all right.” Hilda was on her feet, reaching -for the note for Uncle Hank. “Yes’m, I can ride home all right. -Oh—thank you, Miss Belle!” - -“Well,” the teacher stood in the door watching the streaking figure -of a little girl on a pony vanishing down the trail toward the Three -Sorrows, “well—if that was any one else but Hilda Van Brunt I’d say -she was putting it all on to get sent home. Maybe I needn’t have -said three days—but Mr. Pearsall will know when he sees her.” - -Oh, the confidence of the grown-up world that the youngsters they -care for and look after are so easily understood! Hank, peering over -his spectacles from Miss Belle’s little note, in which she said she -found Hilda nervous and overexcitable, was afraid she wasn’t well, -and thought maybe she’d better be kept home from school for two or -three days’ rest, saw before him a Hilda whose eyes were big and -almost wildly bright, whose cheeks flamed with unusual color. He -laid two fingers against the hot curve of one. - -“Feverish, Pettie?” he suggested. - -“Aunt Val would say I had a temperature.” Hilda laughed a little -excitedly. She hadn’t had to tell any story. All she needed to do -was to keep still and let them fool themselves. She wouldn’t have -done it for her own sake—but for her fugitive down there in the -cyclone cellar anything was fair. - -For five days Hilda stayed at home from school; and the boy, Pearse -Masters, lay hid in the cyclone cellar. Hilda heard through the boys -that Sheriff Daniels was still searching for him. It seemed the trap -the Romero boys—if it was they—had laid with that broken-shoed pony -still deceived the officers of the law. And Hilda’s behavior these -days was queer enough to make Uncle Hank feel that she needed to be -at home rather than in school. Most of the time when she was -upstairs her heart was in her mouth, as the saying is, or anyhow so -close to her mouth that it jumped right into it if some one spoke -suddenly to her. The feeding of her captive, planning for his -comfort, scouting for his safety, kept her at a nervous tension. - -Pearse wasn’t nervous; he stood being cooped up in that little dark -hole all day wonderfully. Whenever the coast was clear, and all the -men off the place, she hurried down to him. She had scoured the -office for checker and chess board, packs of Authors, a puzzle -game or two that ought to be lying about somewhere. But mostly -she and Pearse would just talk. To the girl of thirteen, this -Boy-On-The-Train was, of course, different from the one she -remembered as so wonderful, from the figure that had lived in her -recollection all those years, having added to him a great many -things that hardly belonged to a real, flesh-and-blood boy. He was a -more experienced person than Hilda might have expected; he was as -tall as a man, and better-looking, Hilda decided, than any one she -had ever seen. He had an awfully interesting disposition; he could -be merry and full of fun—but as hard as flint, too. He got that hard -look in his eyes whenever she mentioned Uncle Hank. Well, then, the -best way was not to talk about Uncle Hank to him at all. So they -played checkers and told stories, and Pearse sent her upstairs for -books she’d told him were on the shelves up there, but she hadn’t -thought she’d like. And he read aloud to her from some of them—and, -oh, she did love them! - -But the one thing that was always right between Hilda and Pearse was -their feeling for this beautiful plains country of the West. They -both loved it! Like her, Pearse would rather ride than anything in -the world. She was crazy to have him see the Three Sorrows in -daylight; for you couldn’t get any idea of things at night, which -was the only time he had to get out and move about; and, of course, -he couldn’t have got any real view of the place that day he came in -over it, afoot, half starved, parched with thirst, thinking only of -some place to hide. - -Finally, she did get Sam Kee to keep watch, when everybody else was -out of the way, and she took Pearse out through the front door, all -the way down the box-elder avenue to the trail, back again, around -by way of the _asequia_, past the spring and the kitchen garden, to -the corrals and stables, and out into the home pasture, where some -of the best horses were. - -He praised it all, as she had been so eager to hear him do. And -Hilda had been anxious, without saying a word of the sort, to show -him how well Uncle Hank managed and took care of them all. She was -the more urgent about this, since she felt, down deep in her heart, -that she didn’t actually want Pearse to meet Uncle Hank—this time. -He’d come back some day, when all the tangles had been straightened -out, and then—it was breathless, exciting to have him all her own -guest, her responsibility—but, oh, she loved it! - -And the long talks in the cyclone cellar, when he told her how he -came to be adrift here in the western cattle country, heading for a -job over on a New Mexico ranch—they were like chapters out of a -story—a much more fascinating story than any in the books. - -When he and Hilda saw each other last, he’d been a rich man’s son, -just back from Europe, where he had been traveling with his parents. -Now both Mr. and Mrs. Masters were dead. - -“They weren’t my real parents, you know, Hilda,” he explained. “I -was only an adopted son.” - -Hilda’s heart gave a little bound; the wandering heir—the prince in -disguise—was an adopted son. Pearse was going on: - -“They had other children—grown and married. We’d traveled around a -lot, in Italy and Switzerland. My tutor went with us. We lived in -England a while, and a while in Italy; and one whole summer in -Ireland; and in those places I went to school. Gee!” she heard a -little gulp, “I was happy then. But Father got called home on some -important business, and the next day after we landed in New York he -was killed—in a street-car accident.” - -“Papa was killed in a roundup,” murmured Hilda. - -“Taken suddenly that way,” Pearse went on, “his business was left -all at loose ends. Mother went to live with her married daughter. I -felt I couldn’t go there—except to see her. They didn’t like me. -Well—I guess they hated me.” - -“Why would they?” Hilda bristled. - -“Natural enough,” said Pearse easily. “I suppose they’d never wanted -Father and Mother to adopt me—a poor little rat running away from an -uncle that beat him.” - -He laughed when he said that, but Hilda’s eyes were full of tears. - -“Mother was sick when she went to Nelly’s house,” he went on. “She -died within the month. I felt then that there wasn’t anything in the -East for me. I belong to the West, Hilda—same as you do. Father had -owned a share in that cattle company in New Mexico. He always said -that he intended to leave it to me—or give it to me—but now I -couldn’t find out a thing about how it was left. Nelly’s husband and -George had everything in their hands. Anyhow, I felt sure that -Father’s name would get me a job on the J I C, if I could get to -them. I sold my watch and my books and some other things to get the -railroad fare, depending on my own work to make good with the -company, once I had the job. Had a fine opinion of myself, didn’t -I?—a fellow that would let himself be taken in by such a bunch as -the three I camped with that night, and get set afoot on the bald -plain, with the sheriff after him—have to sneak in to a little girl -like you for help! Hilda, you’re a lot better at cattle-country -business than I am.” - -“I’m not, Pearse. I just know the ways out here a little better. And -I don’t know them so very well. Maybe, after all, you’ll let me go -to Uncle Hank and ask—” - -She stopped there. The blue eyes that had been laughing were -suddenly full of anxiety; the voice, too, was anxious as Pearse -said: - -“You’ve been awfully good to me, Hilda—a regular brick in every way. -Now you won’t go and spoil it all by—” He broke off, frowning. Hilda -stared at him apprehensively. Finally, he said: - -“I’ll make a bargain with you; no use pretending that I like the man -you call Uncle Hank, or that I enjoy the idea of meeting him again. -But I will some time. I’ll come back some time when I can walk up -the front steps. I’d never have sneaked in here to hide if I’d known -he was manager of the ranch; but as I have done so, and found you -again, Hilda, and we’re such good friends—I’ll come back. Now let’s -forget it.” - -Words wouldn’t come. Hilda felt sure that if she’d tried to make -them, tears would, instead. She just shook her head silently. That -might have meant anything. Pearse seemed to think that it meant she -agreed to what he said. - -“All right;” the gruffness and rasp were out of his voice now. -“Let’s just talk about ourselves, then. When I get over to New -Mexico I’ll write back to you. You and I aren’t going to quarrel -because of any one else—are we? We’ll always be great friends.” - -“Oh, always—always!” That was what Hilda said, with all her -heart—and wondered at herself a little for saying it. How could she -be friends with one that wasn’t friends with Uncle Hank? Yet she -must be—she must. And maybe, some day, when she and Pearse had been -good friends for a long while, she’d get him to think differently -about Hank—she’d be the peacemaker between them. Anyhow, there -wasn’t much time now—she couldn’t waste any of it arguing with -herself. - -She got Shorty—Shorty was close-mouthed, and he seldom asked -questions—to shoe her pony Sunday on his front feet, and the night -upon which they had agreed that Pearse must get away she used the -utmost of her influence with Sam Kee to get the necessary provision -of food. She had a little money—her small hoard toward the joys of -Christmas. It was eleven o’clock when she was able at last to slip -down cellar and bring back her guest. They had a night of white -moonlight for the enterprise, such a night as only the high plains -country ever sees. It appeared that every object was as clearly -visible as by day, yet all was subtly changed, flooded with -mysterious beauty. - -The low, spreading ranchhouse silently brooded its sleepers; but -cottonwood leaves whispered loud in a light night breeze above the -little stream that flashed its myriads of sparkles back to the moon. -The Willow Nixies over by the tank were dimly visible, bowing down -as at some magic affair of their own. Suddenly, upon the lonely -stillness, a mocking bird gave voice. Up from deep, deep, ancient -wells that song bubbled, liquid, divine. The boy stood a moment and -hearkened, Hilda watching, breathless, furtive. He made an impatient -gesture and moved on. Without a word, the Sunday horse was led out -from where Hilda had tied him. She went to a peg on which hung a -handsome saddle, bridle and saddlecloth. - -“They were papa’s,” she said. - -“All right,” Pearse spoke with some difficulty. In silence he -bridled the pony, saddled him and made the bundle of provisions fast -by means of the long tie-strings. “I’ll take them, Hilda. I’ve got -to. But I’ll send them back as soon as I can.” - -“Oh, no—” Hilda was beginning, but he interrupted her: - -“What’ll you say to Mr. ——. What’ll you say to your Uncle Hank?” - -She trembled a little at that, but answered with reasonable -steadiness: - -“I think I’ll ask him not to make me tell him anything about it. I -never have asked Uncle Hank that, but he’ll do it for me. Here—you -must have this.” - -Her little brown hand was putting some coins into his, and he caught -the fingers and closed them, distress, reluctance, in look and -action. - -“I hate to take your money,” he broke out. - -Hilda’s face raised to his, white in the moonlight, seemed more than -ever all eyes, as they slowly filled with tears. The many-hued, -gleaming cloak of romance was slipping from her; she began to feel -the chill of naked realities. In vain she strove to have it that she -was arming her prince for the fray, defending her fugitive, making -good his escape; she could not think one thought or draw one breath -as Kate Barlass, as Flora MacDonald, or any of the rest of that -devoted throng. She was just herself—her own small, lonely self—out -behind the corral with Pearse, unknown to all the sleeping -household; and it was the last time she would be there with him. He -was going away from her. A little money—what did it matter, one way -or the other? - -“Oh, you must take it—you must!” she protested, the choke of rising -emotion in her tone. “I wish it was more. There’s only two dollars -and thirty-five cents.” - -His voice failed huskily. He stood looking at her a moment, as -though he would have said more; then, without a word, shook his -head, turned, and his foot was in the stirrup. The realization that -this was good-by reached its climax in Hilda’s heart. He was really -going away. Like a big, black, engulfing wave rolled over her the -thought of the time coming when there would be no Pearse to talk to -or read with, to feed or care for; no delicious hiding and -intriguing enterprises—nothing but the round of ranch and school -life. Blindly, she caught at his sleeve. - -“Oh, don’t! Don’t go! Come back in the house.” - -A whirlwind of sobs shook the slim figure, and Pearse hastily, -awkwardly, put his arm about her to steady her. - -“Let’s tell Uncle Hank!” she gasped. “He’ll explain to the sheriff -and those men. He can. You’d better stay here, Pearse.” - -She looked up into his face in the dimness, and knew, before he -spoke, that he was going to refuse. - -“Hilda—I can’t. If I’d known he was manager here, I’d never have -come in the first place. I told you that. If ever I see you again— -Oh, say, Hilda! don’t cry so. I just can’t stand to see you feel so -badly.” - -She dried her eyes with piteous eagerness and strangled the sobs -that still shook her. - -“Goo-good-by, Pearse. Good-by—and good luck,” she achieved without a -break. “You’ve got it all clear in your mind about the trail?” - -“All clear. Good-by,” answered the boy hoarsely. And, not venturing -another look at her, he rode away. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - NO QUESTIONS ASKED - - -Hilda stood there, chilled and shivering, and listened to the sound -of his horse’s hoofs, cautious and slow at first, breaking into a -canter further away and dying out in the night air. He was gone, -leaving her utterly bereft. For, in the presence of the living -Pearse himself The Boy-On-The-Train had at once shrunk and faded to -a vain shadow—oh, no, she could never call that up again. She had -lost them both. - -She turned stumblingly toward the house. Halfway there, blinded by -her tears, she walked almost into Uncle Hank! - -“Pettie!” he said. “Why, Pettie—it’s you?” - -With the strangest movement, a perfect anguish of reluctance, the -child who flew to meet him whenever she saw him coming, who ran to -him with all her troubles and perplexities, approached. The poor -little feet lagged at every step. Plainly they would rather have -turned and fled. The eyes beseeched, apologized. The trembling hands -went out and made movements of dumb entreaty. For one instant he was -confused by memory of her fear of the sheriff; then, like a knife in -his heart, came the clear knowledge that she was afraid—of him! For -some reason beyond his understanding, she did not want to come to -him. Yet come she did, and the man, moved, as it seemed to him, -beyond the occasion, gathered her up in his arms, just as he had -been used to do when she was six years old and went to sleep on his -breast. He carried her in to the living-room, sat down on the couch -there and, loosening his arm a bit so that he might look in her -face, said: - -“Pettie, I was scared about you, honey. Don’t you want to tell Uncle -Hank? Can’t Uncle Hank help you?” - -Hilda was resolute not to cry. She straightened up in the circle of -his arm and lifted to him brimming eyes. - -“Uncle Hank,” she began desperately, “Father’s dead—he’s gone.” - -“Yes. Why, yes, dear,” said Hank gravely. “He’s been gone five year. -We have to get over it when our folks die and leave us. The world -wouldn’t get on without we did.” - -“I know. It isn’t— What I mean is that, now he’s gone, we’re all -there is left of him. We’ve got to do what he would if he was -here—isn’t that so?” - -“That’s so.” - -“Well—he always helped people that were in trouble, didn’t he?” - -“He sure did, Pettie. Your pa was as good as gold. He was the -dearest father a little girl ever had. What he done when he was -here, and what he would do if he was here now, would always be right -for you to pattern by.” - -Hank was puzzled on some points, but very clear as to what he wanted -Hilda to understand on this. He was glad to see that his words were -a relief to her. - -“Then” (she was feeling her way, plainly with some secret difficulty -in explaining herself), “if somebody came to you or me in trouble—in -very dreadful trouble—some one that had been trying to get to -father—some one that depended on him—that didn’t know he was dead -and couldn’t help him—” - -The big, black eyes, so like Charley’s own, held steadfastly to -Uncle Hank’s attentive glance; they never wavered, till he bent down -and laid his cheek upon her curls. - -“You needn’t say another word, Pettie—nary another word. You’ve got -just as good a right to keep your affairs to yourself as I’ve got, -or as any other man’s got. If I can help you—if you want anything -from Uncle Hank—just tell me so. Let me know what it is.” - -“It’s awful good of you, Uncle Hank,” said Hilda. She debated with -herself a moment in silence, then took it with a brave rush. “You -mustn’t ask me where the Sunday pony’s gone, nor papa’s saddle and -bridle.” - -Hank plainly was startled, but he got his breath and came back -gallantly with: - -“I won’t, honey. By the holy poker—this is your own business! I -don’t see why it ain’t—just as much as if you was a man a hundred -and thirteen years old, instead of a little girl only thirteen.” - -Hilda had all along assured herself, almost feverishly, that Uncle -Hank would understand; but now, climbing the stairs to bed, looking -back over her shoulder to where he sat, the sense of his forbearance -was like a pang in her heart. She’d done something she dared not -tell Uncle Hank. She’d deceived him. And she had done it for a boy -who didn’t like Uncle Hank—who, for some strange, unaccountable -reason seemed almost to hate him! Well, that had to be. But now she -would make up to him for it. Never again—not on any other subject, -anyhow—would she keep anything back from him. But Pearse—she knew if -Pearse needed it she would again deceive the old man. It was very -strange and puzzling; it hurt her. - -She fell asleep, finally, then waked to the startling thought—that -she’d put Uncle Hank second. He’d always been first. Well—she -couldn’t help that, either. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - “TWEN-TY—SEV-EN—HUN-DRED—CAT-TLE!” - - -Sheriff Daniels clung resolutely to the trail of that broken-shoed -pony. He discovered, finally, who the man was that had ridden it -away from the ranch where it was stolen. The thief was traced into -old Mexico, then into a little place in Arizona, brought back from -there, tried and convicted of that and of the killing. Every one -supposed that it was he who had been at the Three Sorrows that day. -His trial brought out the fact that the Romero brothers were the -others in the affair. They disappeared from Lame Jones County and -stayed away. - -The matter was cleared up now; Pearse Masters could have come back -openly now, if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t—he didn’t even write. A -whole year rolled round, and Hilda had heard nothing from him or of -her Sunday pony. Yet in the cattle country, where the distances were -so great, people sometimes borrowed a horse and kept it for more -than a year, waiting for the time when it would be convenient to -return it by some friend traveling in the necessary direction. - -Of course, feeling as he did about Uncle Hank, Pearse himself would -never ride up to the Three Sorrows leading Sunday. Yet, in her own -mind, Hilda never gave up the hope that some time she would find a -way to bring the two together and make them friends. Nobody, she -felt sure, could really know Uncle Hank and not love and trust him. - -As time went on, and there was no Pearse and no word from him, and -here was Uncle Hank, more than ever part of everything good and -comfortable, Hilda slipped into a position of even greater -confidence with him. It was as though she tried to make up to him -for having liked—for still so very much liking—a person who thought -badly of him. Those long talks on the door-stone in the evening -would have surprised some people. Hank laid all his plans and ideas -before the slim girl as he never would have thought of doing before -her father. Hilda was going to be a ranchwoman. The Sorrows would -belong to her and to her brother. She loved it all; she had the -feeling for it; and the old man believed that a sense of -responsibility could only come with a knowledge of what the -responsibilities were. - -So, in March of the year when Hilda was fourteen, she knew as well -as Hank did what the financial situation was on the ranch, and why -it had come to a point where her guardian was almost at his wit’s -end to go on. He had saved everywhere he could, doing with less help -than he needed always, getting more out of his men by good -treatment, making up the lack by extra work of his own, buying -supplies with careful judgment, hesitating over every expense except -those that Miss Valeria demanded—no use hesitating with Aunt Val; -she always got what she wanted in the end. But the Sorrows had never -been able to run enough cows, as the cattle country phrased it. Hank -had helped out wherever he could by taking other men’s stock to -pasture, “on the shares,” or “for the third calf.” He had paid off -the smaller mortgage and kept up the interest on the larger one. - -He stood one afternoon near the side door of the ranch house, gazing -out across the fields of the Sorrows, green as an emerald and sweet -with the evening song of meadow larks. Hilda came up to him, slipped -her hand into his and looked up into his face as though she had -said, “What is it, Uncle Hank?” - -“Pasture for ten thousand cattle,” he sighed, “and I reckon we’re -a-doing well if we can count up twenty-eight hundred in all. Well, -honey, we’ll make out somehow—we always have made out so far—but I -wish the Lord would show me how.” - -A big, six-mule freight wagon was just pulling up at the lower gate. -They watched with interest while Slew-foot Crosby, the freighter, -climbed down from the driver’s seat and started toward the house. -When Slew caught sight of the two he raised a letter in his hand and -shook it high above his head. - -“Howdy, Hilda. Hey, Pearsall; I brought this out from Dawn for you!” -he shouted. - -“Hmm,” said Hank, “who’d be writing to me? Miss Valeria’s home, and -Burch.” - -Drawing up, Crosby handed him the envelope and waited to share any -interest that might be in its contents. - -Pearsall turned the letter over curiously a time or two. - -“Looks like I ought to know that there handwriting,” he meditated, -scratching one ear reflectively. “Now, who in time is it makes them -kind of tails to the—? Hm-mm. El Capitan,” he squinted at the -postmark. “Huh—El Capitan. Well, I don’t know as—” - -“Why don’t you open it?” suggested Hilda, and Crosby winked at her -and added: - -“Yes, rip ’er up and have a look at the inside.” - -Without further ado, Hank inserted his thumb and “ripped her up.” -Carefully he drew forth and unfolded a soiled, dog-eared sheet of -paper and stood studying it for some moments in silence, Hilda -watching, Slew shifting from one foot to the other. Gradually the -manager’s face changed, losing its anxious lines, taking on a -half-surprised, half-incredulous expression. He looked out again -over the green levels. - -“Lord! Lord!” he whispered. “Why, this almost scares me.” - -“What, Uncle Hank? What?” demanded Hilda, and the patient Crosby -thanked her with a glance. - -“All right, Pettie. Ye see, Slew, this here’s from my old pardner, -Tracey Jacox, that I used to run cattle with down yonder on the -Pecos. He—Trace, he’s had some difficulty there at Capitan. He’s -wrote for me to come and get his bunch of cattle and keep ’em—that -is, till he—” - -“Till he gets out,” supplied Crosby, with prompt intelligence. - -“Well, yes—till he gets out,” assented the other mildly. - -Crosby’s eyes followed Pearsall’s across the tremendous sweep of -green pastures. He knew well what was in the manager’s mind. - -“Comes in mighty good. I brought you something worth while this -time, didn’t I? Well, so long! I got to pull my freight.” - -He walked away down the long line of box elders to his patient -mules. Left behind, the old man stood murmuring over and over: -“Twen-ty—sev-en—hun-dred—cat-tle! Twen-ty—sev-en—hun-dred! Why, -Pettie, it looks like a hand stretched right down to a drowning man. -For, as sure as my name’s Pearsall, I didn’t know whichaway to turn -this spring.” - -“And we’re to keep the cattle how long, Uncle Hank?” - -The old man took out the penciled scrawl, and she read with him: - - El Capitan, Sandoval Co., Texas, - March 28, 18—. - - Mr. dere Hank Pearsall, - - Ime in a little trubble and I write to know if you are - thare at the Sorers if so would like to have you come - imedietly and git my bunch of catel. Ime in a little - trubble. he was a poplar man and the jury was pretty - strong for hanging but my lawyer was a good one and I - will be glad if you can come imedietly. Thare is 2700 of - the catel most all grade Herefords and you can keep them - on the Sorers thare till I get out that will be four - years and I know Hank you will do right by me. my lawyer - is pade and I want to see the catel in your Hands before - I go and I will be glad to see you imedietly the sooner - the better. - - Your old pardner, - Tracey Jacox. - -“Reckless feller!” muttered Hank, and shook his head. “I always told -him he’d shoot up the wrong man some time.” - -He put the letter carefully back into his pocket, and they went to -the house together. - -That evening it was known at headquarters, and by the next morning -it had flown all over the Sorrows that the boss was going to take an -outfit down the trail to Sandoval County and bring home the herd. - -“We’ll have to have, at the very least, twelve riders and a horse -wrangler,” he said. “I’ll be cook and foreman both—that’s fourteen -men in all. Four of us ll go from here, and I’ll hire ten men in -Sandoval. It’ll take a hundred and twenty-five horses to handle that -trail herd—and _I’ve got ’em_! Ain’t I glad now I kept all the -ponies! It sure took nerve to do it. I’ll not have to buy a -horse—not one. I feel like patting myself on the head for my -smartness. Pettie, I’ll give you that job of patting. You might -start on it right away.” - -“How long will you be gone, Uncle Hank?” Hilda asked, in a voice -whose utterance seemed somehow to displace very little ordinary -atmosphere. - -“Well, it won’t take more’n four or five days to get there—flying -light. Then there’s the counting, road-branding, signing up -contracts, hiring the new hands and getting supplies—I reckon it’ll -take nearly two weeks to make the trip home with the herd. Say, jest -about three weeks in all, Pettie.” - -“Oh—three weeks!” whispered Hilda, and he looked at her curiously, -but said nothing more. - -Such an outburst of vitality the ranch had not known for years. -There was an inspiring rush of preparation, a great looking to -stirrup leathers, re-cinching of saddles, mending and overhauling of -equipment, and almost more skylarking and horse-play. Out at the -corrals, Shorty and two other boys who were to make the trip, stole -up behind one another and knocked each other sprawling by way of a -delicate intimation that the situation was humorous. They scuffled -and rolled over and over like bear cubs, hammering one another -joyously. All day, while working furiously, they turned again and -again from their occupation to fight at the trembling of an eyelash. -Shorty came wheezing out of one of these encounters with a black eye -and bleeding knuckles, the shirt on his back torn to strips. But his -only complaint was: - -“Darn you, Buster—this is the best shirt I got,” with the husky -threat, added, “I’ll wear you to a frazzle—when I get my breath.” - -Burch and Miss Valeria were the only ones who seemed to be out of it -all. The little lady looked up mildly once or twice at the extra -amount of noise and bustle going on about her, then relaxed into her -book or the endless piece of Battenburg which never seemed to get -itself finished under her slim, aristocratic white hands. Burch was -a silent boy, who cared enough about his books to have made a very -good student and whose deportment would always have been rated -one hundred if he hadn’t had such a queer way of taking an idea -into his head, saying nothing about it, and putting it into -execution—whatever it was—without any one’s permission. - -There was the time when the school clock got out of order, and Burch -took it out of its case to oil it. Miss Belle caught him with it -just when he dipped it in a bath of kerosene. He wouldn’t say he was -sorry. It went on all morning till the young teacher said she was -going to whip him—and expel him from school. Even that didn’t move -Burch to say anything but: - -“I wish you’d let me oil the clock now and put it back in the case -and put the hands on. It’ll run all right now.” - -But Miss Belle wouldn’t even do that, and Hilda, crazy with anxiety, -had ridden after Uncle Hank, begging him to come quick and not to -let Aunt Val know. She’d been locked out of the school room. She -thought Miss Belle was in there whipping Burchie. Miss Belle -wouldn’t listen to her when she told her he was always learning -about machinery; and maybe he really could fix the clock. - -She and Uncle Hank had come into the school room to find a boy that -had been whipped, a clock that was ticking away in good order—and a -teacher who was hysterical. - -“He ought to have told me that the watchmaker there in Fort Worth -had showed him what to do—let him help him at such things,” she -said. - -Uncle Hank agreed to that, but when they were climbing on their -ponies to leave, Burch said: - -“Aw—people talk too much. Anyhow, she didn’t ask me if any one had -taught me how to fix a clock. I told her I could do it. After she -whipped me, she cried and let me show her. She doesn’t hit very -hard. It didn’t hurt very much.” - -“And you see, Burch,” Uncle Hank put in, “you shouldn’t never have -touched the clock without permission. Long as you done that, I’m -glad to see you are willing to take a licking for it.” - -This was Hilda’s brother, very dear to her, yet caring for almost -none of the things she cared for. He wasn’t interested in -ponies—because they were live creatures, not machines. - -“But you’re going to live on a ranch when you grow up,” Hilda -argued. - -“No, I’m not. I think I’ll be an engineer of some kind. I’d like -building bridges. You can stay here and be the ranchman.” - -And so it was only Hilda who, drifting about the house or garden, -lingering at the corral, like a little woebegone shadow, took no -part in the joy. She followed Hank as though she could not let him -from her sight, hastening to bring what he needed before he asked -for it, stooping to pick up a thing he dropped, anticipating his -wish with a low-spoken word. He was used to having Hilda hang about -him—but not this Hilda. Also she was getting to be of a size and age -when she very commonly had some more or less important concerns of -her own which took her apologetically from him at intervals. Now, -whatever he was doing, he knew she was there; he was aware of just -the look he would meet in those dark eyes if he glanced up. If the -old man wheeled suddenly and faced it, this haunter of his trail -would turn aside hastily and at once be occupied with other -business. But Hank knew that he was watched. - -The start was to be made in the morning. After supper Hilda sat down -on the side-door stone, where so many of her interviews with Uncle -Hank took place, waiting for him and trying hard not to weep. He -came out noisily, man-fashion, calling back some last remark over -his shoulder to Shorty O’Meara, and dropping suddenly beside her -with a great sigh, mingled of weariness, relief, content. - -“Well, it was short notice, but we’re sure ready, and we’re ready -good. Pettie,”—he spoke aloud and cheerfully—“I don’t know as I ever -in my life looked forward to anything with more pleasure than I do -to going down to El Capitan and bringing back them cows.” - -Slowly it was borne in upon him that he was getting no response. In -the silence came a choking sound. There was no need of words. He sat -awhile, mute. It’d occur to him that he might say, “_You_ don’t want -to go—a little lady like you—on a long, hard, lonesome, messy trip -with nobody but a lot of rough boys that can’t talk a lick of -grammar.” But the uselessness of it, as well as the hollow -insincerity, held him silent. The old man acted a mother’s part by -his orphans, but he possessed none of the age-honored mothers’ -tricks. Now he got up suddenly and went into the house, where Miss -Valeria sat reading, and blurted out to that lady: - -“I reckon I’m the most forsaken old fool that ever trod -shoe-leather. But I can’t stand it any longer. Pettie’ll have to go -with me down the trail.” - -Following close behind, as she had been following all day, Hilda -heard those last words. She dared not explode into a joyous whoop, -for her aunt’s bewildered face promised resistance. Miss Van Brunt -took off her delicate, gold-rimmed glasses nervously and rubbed her -eyes, as though, perhaps, looked at without their medium, Hank might -change his mind. - -“I—why, really, Mr. Pearsall,” she began, with her small bustle of -feminine authority, “you are very kind to think of bothering -yourself with the child. If it were Burch, now—but I’m afraid it’s -rather a long trip for a little girl—and—” - -“Aw, let her go,” mumbled Burch, looking up from the table, where he -was busy over a book and some diagrams. “I don’t want to. It suits -her. She likes it.” - -“—and certainly not a proper sort of a trip—for a little girl.” - -“Burch!” Hilda exploded. “Why, Burch can’t ride.” Her aunt looked -bewildered. “Oh, I know—he can sit up on a horse. But he wouldn’t be -of the least bit of use to a trail outfit, would he, Uncle Hank? And -I can help you lots—can’t I?” - -“I didn’t understand from Mr. Pearsall that you were to help with -the work,” Miss Valeria said severely. “I think the work must be a -great deal more unsuitable for you than the trip itself.” - -“Oh, please, Aunt Valeria—dear Aunt Valeria!” entreated Hilda, -surging up to her aunt’s knee. “I’ll be so good. When we come back -I’ll study anything you want me to, and not read so many stories.” - -“Well, your music—but then we’ve no piano,” Miss Val sighed. “And I -believe you said, Mr. Pearsall—” - -She broke off, looking up with a slightly aggrieved expression at -the tall ranch manager. She had announced to him that Hilda must -have a piano, and for once Hank had been resolute in refusing to -sell some ponies and purchase the instrument. - -“We’ll get a piano all right, now, Miss Valeria,” he assured her. -“Them horses, that I had the nerve to hang on to, gives us plenty -for the drive. You see, it would take a hundred and twenty-five -ponies to handle a trail herd of that size, and I don’t know where -in Texas I’d ’a’ got the money to buy with right now. By next -spring, if we have luck, I could set you a row of pianos plumb -acrost the room.” - -“I hardly think we’ll need more than one,” Miss Valeria said, -somewhat hastily. “But about Hilda—” - -“Run along upstairs and pack your war bag, Pettie. We’ll start soon -as it’s light in the morning,” said Hank to the child; and Hilda -flew to obey, leaving him to conclude the argument with Miss Van -Brunt. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - WITH THE TRAIL-HERD - - -In the first gray of morning, a caravan swung out from the corral at -the Three Sorrows. They were making a start at dawn. You can go -almost anywhere if you start at dawn. Indeed, there are worlds that -may be penetrated at no other hour. A group of riders were in the -lead, the remuda, or saddle-band, following, herded by the wrangler; -the chuck wagon, driven by Pearsall, brought up the rear; Hilda, -beside Uncle Hank on the high seat, with heaven knows what dreams -under the thatch of dark hair, peeping out sometimes from the clear -windows of her eyes. - -Early morning on the bald plain. To Hilda, moving along in its -wonderful dimness, curiously the thought of Pearse Masters was -almost as present as though he, and not Uncle Hank, had been beside -her on the wagon seat. She remembered the long evenings together, -the games they had played, the talk about books they had agreed on, -the talk about books they disagreed on—one was as interesting as the -other. She had so wished they might have had one ride together. Oh, -if only he were riding with them now—one of Uncle Hank’s hands! -She’d let him be a right hand. She’d be willing to be the left. -People said jokingly, when they offered it in shaking hands, that it -was nearer the heart. She nestled a little toward the big arm beside -her. - -“Happy, Pettie?” he questioned, without looking around. - -“Awfully happy.” - -They pushed on all forenoon, under the waxing sun, stopping at noon -beside a well and windmill for dinner. And so the trip went, -sleeping at night under the open sky, near lonely little Llano, -where they had bought supplies; listening to the boys telling -hunting and cattle stories till the big bass voices became a -dream of a bumble-bee; waking in the early morning, in response -to Uncle Hank’s hail: “Roll out! Roll out! Roll out! All the big -two-fisted fellers that hires for this trip has to get up soon of -a-morning—ladies the same as gents.” Then breakfast, and once more -the starting on the day’s journey. - -They came to the outskirts of El Capitan about three o’clock on the -fifth afternoon. Uncle Hank halted the outfit and took Hilda with -him over to the courthouse, which also included the jail. The -sheriff, a most obliging person, was, in point of fact, at that -identical moment, sitting out behind the building playing checkers -with Tracey Jacox. The latter, who seemed very cheerful, greeted -Hank warmly and introduced the official to him as Berry Henson. Mr. -Henson then courteously withdrew, saying: - -“I know you gents will like to have some private talk, and I’ll be -right inside here if—er—I’m needed.” - -A lithe, black-haired, gray-eyed man, deeply weathered, Jacox had -white teeth that showed often in smiles beneath a black mustache. -The suggestion of him was swift, elastic, lawless, irresponsible, -like a child or a pleasing animal. Hilda’s pulse had quickened with -the first sight of him—this careless Tracey Jacox, who had finally -“shot up the wrong feller” and was taking his medicine so -uncomplainingly. Now, when he was formally presented to her, the -little-girl heart in her bosom fluttered its short, fledgling wings -toward him in dumb salute. Was he not in some sort a prince in -misfortune, a fellow-sufferer with Pearse? - -The two old partners sat down on their heels close together, -cowpuncher fashion, to a long pow-wow. Hilda, looking on, thought -how different they were. Uncle Hank, not more than ten or twelve -years the elder, looked like Tracey’s father; indeed, he looked like -the father of all the world, with those kind, shrewd, tolerant eyes, -that benignant brow, that air of paternal solicitude. Jacox was the -typical soldier of fortune, the gamester, light-hearted and -reckless—a thoroughbred cowpuncher. Hilda’s eyes continued to dwell -upon him with pleasure until the sheriff hove in sight, coming -slowly around the corner of the building, coughing apologetically. -Jacox stood up and spoke out loud to Pearsall, with emphasis: - -“You have the contract drawn like I tell you—hear? Why, great Scott! -I’d stand to lose the whole herd—fixed like I am—less’n I had an -honest man and a mighty good friend to hold ’em and pertect my -interests. You make a good thing out of it? Well, you needn’t fret -about that—I want you to.” - -“All right, Trace.” Uncle Hank’s answer was lower, but the little -girl heard it. - -“Well, that’s settled,” said Jacox. “Come on, Berry; we can finish -our game now. Me an’ Pearsall’s all done.” - -Uncle Hank and Hilda went back to the Three Sorrows outfit, which -camped on the fifth night at the Lazy W., three miles beyond -Capitan. - -The cattle were all rounded into a fenced pasture for tally. With a -little sack of pink Mexican beans, Hilda, on her pony, was stationed -to one side of the gate, while Uncle Hank, pencil and paper in hand, -held Buckskin quiet on a rise a little way inside the pasture. As -the boys drove the cattle up and strung them out through the gate in -single file, Hank put down a straight, upright mark for what he -called “every cow-brute” that passed him. When the same cow-brute -got to Hilda, she dropped a bean from the full sack into an empty -one she held on the saddle horn before her. When Uncle Hank had -marked down ten animals he drew a slanting line through the ten -upright ones. His record was going to look a good deal like a picket -fence. Hilda kept no record of tens. She was only the checker. When -the herd was through into the other pasture, where the boys were -rushing the road-branding, Uncle Hank would add up his tens into -hundreds, and then Hilda would sit down in some quiet spot, if she -could find any such, and count her beans one by one. - -She was very proud of coming out within three of Uncle Hank’s -reckoning. She had made it three more than he did, and she told him -she believed they got by him that time the new hand interrupted -their work with a call from the branding-pen. He agreed, and said -they’d give Trace the benefit of her count, not his. - -Ten new hands had been hired for the work, and on the second day the -big herd was put in motion; one of the new men drove the grub wagon, -and after herd, riders and wagon were all started, Uncle Hank and -Hilda rode out side by side. - -“We’ll swing around by way of town. I want to stop and say good-by -to Trace,” he told her. - -At the courthouse he dismounted and went up to his partner, who was -sitting with the amiable sheriff on the shady side of the jail, -their chairs tilted back against the adobe wall. Hilda saw that -there was a long, speechless hand-grip; and when Hank was mounted, -he wheeled again to answer the other’s “Good luck!” which -accompanied the free-hearted, open movement and smile of one who has -no complaints to make and to whom a few years in jail comes as one -of the fairly plentiful bad jokes of the cattle-country life. - -A lump rose in her throat as she thought of that man of wind and sun -and open plain shut away from it all for four years. Maybe, too, the -“poplar man” was offensive; maybe prison would be as terrible to -Jacox as it would have been to Pearse Masters. But there had been -nobody to hide him and bring him food and lend him a horse. Uncle -Hank, wrapped in his own somber reflections, did not see the furtive -wiping of tears; and, presently, as by mutual understanding, they -put their ponies to a lope and caught up with the outfit. The drive -up the trail home was actually begun. - -The column of cattle, with attendant riders—Hilda being one of -these—strung out over a mile long. It looked like a great snake on -the face of the open country, a vast snake that, day in day out, in -dawn or noon or dusk, moved always northwestward, traveling with -rustle and swish of twelve thousand hoofs in the short plains grass, -or sending forth a murmur as of a smothered rain-storm when it -inched itself over naked places; this continuous undernote -punctuated and picked out by the plaintive bleating of calves; the -occasional more remonstrant lowing of a steer, the clinking of -stirrups or bridle bits, the squeak of saddles, the swift patter of -galloping hoofs and the calling back and forth, as the boys rode up -and down along the flanks of the herd. - -They were up in the morning at daybreak, so as to travel as much as -possible before the heat of the day. At noon there was a long rest, -with dinner, the men lying at ease to smoke afterwards, the cattle -scattered out under the fewest herders, grazing. On the trip down -they had scouted out and marked the route, noting places where a -herd of this size could be watered, and each afternoon there was the -eager looking for a curving line of growth that advertised the -expected stream, or the clumps of tall cottonwoods about a carefully -fenced-in spring or water-hole. - -There was some rough country to be traversed. They crossed -steep-sided arroyos, breaks and gulches, where lariats were attached -to the back of the wagon as it plunged down, the ponies “setting -back on the rope” to prevent the big vehicle from coming bodily on -the mules that pulled it. Once down, the ropes were transferred to -wagon-tongue and singletrees, and, with a whoop and a great -whip-cracking, snorting ponies and straining mules rushed the bank -ahead. - -One stormy night Hilda awakened to find all about her lumbering, -plunging cattle, clashing horns, yelling men and, for a few moments, -cracking pistols. It seemed to her like a pandemonium—chaos—the end -of the world. Later, from the safe spot under a handy mesquite where -she had been placed, she dimly saw the heading back of the cattle, -the milling of them round and round and, finally, their safe bedding -down. - -Then came, thin and airy on the night wind, the broken strains of -“The Sweet Bye and Bye.” Indian Joe, one of the hands hired at El -Capitan, played beautifully on the mouth organ. He was riding night -herd; she got snatches of the tune as he circled the quieting -cattle. She fell asleep on it and waked next morning to hear the -talk of Buster and a casual rider who had stopped at the camp to -borrow tobacco. - -“Had a stampede?” suggested the stranger, as he rolled his -cigarette, and Buster shook his head negligently above the broken -stirrup strap he was mending. - -“Shucks, no. They run a little—nothin’ much,” was his notion of last -night’s frightful hazards, its inhuman toil. “You’re welcome, old -timer,” he nodded to the other’s thanks. “So long!” - -That drive, with its vicissitudes, its new, strange experiences, its -open sky and measureless outlook, lay like a bright baldric across -Hilda’s childhood, dividing what went before from what came after. -She watched, day by day, how the boys buckled to their labors, how -they faced with a laugh all the hardships of the trip, making light -of the long night watches, going without sleep sometimes in -emergencies till they nodded and almost fell forward in their -saddles. She heard them jeer each other mercilessly for the least -mistake or shortcoming, clothing their rare praise of each other in -half-sarcastic terms; she believed they would have jeered a broken -leg—their own or another’s. Not “be good” but “make good” was their -slogan. Life was mostly a joke; a sour one or a gay one, but still a -joke. The impression of unquestioning, off-hand fidelity to exacting -duties, of uncomplaining bravery and good nature, was laid -ineffaceably on the young spirit. The code all this contributed to -build up was, inevitably, more a man’s than a woman’s. - -Fourteen men the outfit traveled; fourteen strong they snailed the -big herd across the face of northwestern Texas toward Lame Jones -County. But it was the fifteenth, the limber, swift fellow, with -eyes keen and bright like daggers, that was the life of all. Him -they never saw, this lively comrade, this clever adversary; only his -voice they heard in the deep note of the water that rolled down like -a wall on the face of treacherous Maricopa, from a cloudburst above; -in the thunder of hoofs at night when skulking rustlers flapped a -blanket in a steer’s face and the sleeping cattle rose as one and -broke away; the gleam of his eyes they caught dancing in those -curious little flames that play sometimes on the tips of clashing -horns, in the furious night stampede that followed; a flash of his -flying hair upon the wind, or amid the dust-cloud that enwrapped the -approach of a bunch of bad men or hostile Indians. - -Ah, that fifteenth rider—viewless and unapparent, but vividly -present—that one who, in the eighties, crossed the plains with every -trail herd and gave zest and spirit to the trip, in whose company no -labor, no hardship could become mean, commonplace, sordid; he who -was never licked—or being so for the moment, always came again, -fresher, more vigorous, more inciting, more taunting than before, -whispering: “My name is Danger—come out and face me!”—the opponent -with whom every man in the outfit was always eager to try a fall—the -fifteenth rider rescued all from the dullness of routine, maintained -men and enterprise ever upon the iris-hued border of true romance. - -So faring and so companioned, they arrived within one more day’s -drive of the Sorrows, Hilda brown as an Indian girl, men and cattle -in good shape. Yet Hank had planned the drive economically, with as -few hands as he dared. This made hard work for all, and the boys -were so tired that there was less talk and story-telling around the -fire now; sleep was instant and deep the moment they got from their -horses and into their blankets. They camped that night near the -breaks of Seboyeta Creek, where there was wood, water and shelter, -and Hilda’s bed was tucked in by some scrub cedars. With but one -more day to go, they put the herd under very light night guard, and -the rest of the outfit were soon snoring. It seemed to Hilda only a -few moments later that they were all turned out by the cry: - -“Herd’s on its feet and actin’ restless!” - -Instantly every man grabbed his boots and ran, Uncle Hank calling to -her as he rode out: - -“Make a good fire, Pettie, and stay by it.” - -“What do you suppose started them?” Hilda asked of Buster, who was -the last to get away. - -“Couldn’t say; coyote, maybe. Or it might have been no more than -some one riding past cutting across here for the trail. If them -long-horns were as tired as I am, they wouldn’t stampede none,” and -he galloped away into the dark. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - SUNDAY COMES BACK - - -Hilda sat alone and fed the fire until its flame rose tall and -strong. Over her head, the blue-black sky was spangled and netted -with the great white stars of the high plains country. Hands clasped -around her knees, head flung back, she studied them in a sort of -musing trance. Distant and diminished, she could hear men’s singing -and calling, out yonder with the herd. - -Suddenly, near at hand, as though it spoke right out of her fancies, -yet sharp and real, a voice uttered her name. She straightened up, -alert, not believing her own senses. Oh, she must have dreamed it! -Her gaze dived deep into the blot of shadow on the edge of the -break, from which the voice had seemed to come. There, against the -deep darkness of the cedar scrub, something moved. She sat, -motionless, watching. The voice came again: - -“Hilda!” - -“Pearse!” - -Into the shaken light of Hilda’s fire came stepping a tall young -fellow in chaparajos and sombrero, his spurs clanking as he strode -toward her. The blood checked all through Hilda’s body, making it -tingle; her breath seemed to stop. She jumped up and ran stumblingly -toward him, pushing him back into the shadows. The year that had -gone by since she hid him in the cyclone cellar was wiped out—she -was still trying to hide him. - -“The others mustn’t see you,” she whispered. - -“They won’t”; his voice seemed deeper than she remembered it; he was -more self-reliant. “They’re all over there with the cattle. My -coming through must have started the herd moving. Sorry. I didn’t -mean to do that. I was just bringing in your Sunday pony, with the -saddle and bridle; meant to turn him in to the corral at the Sorrows -to-morrow night, and maybe get a word with you. How are you? How’s -everybody at the ranch?” - -“Oh, Pearse,” unconsciously Hilda was going with him toward the rope -corral which held the remuda. “Just pull the saddle off Sunday and -throw it in the wagon, and—and turn Sunday in here—and—and you’ll -stay and see Uncle Hank this time, won’t you?” - -“I hadn’t intended to—‘this time.’” Pearse repeated her words with a -hint of a laugh in his voice. “You see, I’ve got the pony with me. -He’d know in a minute all about my having been at the ranch -before—hidden.” - -“Oh,” said Hilda impatiently. “I wish you’d kept Sunday—and the -saddle and bridle, too. You’d have been more than welcome to them.” - -But in her heart was relief. Not yet—not yet was the big secret to -be told. She could still have it to dream of—all her own. Now that -Pearse was here, her heart pounded way up in her throat and choked -speech, but she knew that when he was gone—if he got away without -any of them seeing him, there would be a precious memory added, of -romance and adventure. He was speaking: - -“You’re a good friend, Hilda, and the pony was everything to me—got -me over to New Mexico in short order. I’m sure my coming in well -mounted helped me with those folks I was going to see about my job -and all. Sunday and I are mighty good pals—and I thought of you -every time I looked at him—and that was every day.” - -“Every day—and Sunday,” Hilda laughed softly in sheer happiness. “If -you were thinking about me so much—I think you might have written. -You said you would. Why didn’t you?” - -“Oh, well, I’d start to,” Pearse said, rather reluctantly, “and then -I’d get to thinking what if any one should get hold of my -letter—open it, maybe—” - -“Why, Pearse,” Hilda broke in, “Uncle Hank wouldn’t open a letter -addressed to me—and he’s the only one that could—if that’s what you -mean.” - -“All right,” Pearse nodded. “If you think it’s safe, I’ll write. But -I didn’t want him to get the idea that I’d been hanging around the -ranch where he was manager, begging favors.” - -“You didn’t ask favors!” Hilda burst out. “You didn’t hang around. -Don’t be so—” - -“I don’t know what you call it.” But he was laughing now. “I begged -you into hiding me. I hung around the ranch five days. And you -certainly did pile the favors on me, Hilda. You were as good as -gold. I’ll never forget you for it. Anyhow, you and I are good -friends, and always will be, whether we write to each other or see -each other, or not. Isn’t that so?” - -Hilda nodded. Pearse looked at her a little anxiously. - -“I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you this time,” he said hastily, “but -I wanted you to know how grateful I am. There’s a little bundle tied -to the saddle horn. Something for you. Not what I’d like to give -you, but the best I could get hold of on short notice.” - -“For me? Oh, that was awfully nice of you!” Then she groped for some -one thing of all she had so long wanted to say—to ask—and faltered: -“Where are you living now? At that place in New Mexico where you got -the job? Are—are you all right?” - -“Still there. Doing well, thank you, Hilda. Got three raises the -first year. And I’ve heard from George and Nelly’s husband. I’m to -have the share in the J I C that father promised me. Oh—and, Hilda, -I ran into some people over in New Mexico that know you. Name’s -Marchbanks.” - -“Oh, yes. Maybelle and Fayte Marchbanks—their father’s Colonel Lee -Marchbanks.” - -“Those are the folks. Their ranch, the Alamositas, is next biggest -after the J I C—the ranch I’m with—in Encinal County. I’ve never -been to headquarters on the Alamositas, but I understand it’s a fine -place. Say, Hilda”—a moment of listening—“I’ve got to get out of -here.” - -She held to his sleeve, and couldn’t utter a word. He hesitated, -embarrassed. - -“I will write to you, then, if you—if you think it’s all right. Look -out for my letters. Don’t let any one else get hold of them.” - -“Will you, Pearse—will you? I’ll watch for the letters. Nobody shall -see them—and—oh, Pearse—must you go?” - -She heard the faint sound of hoof-beats coming nearer, from the -direction of the herd. The boys and Uncle Hank would be here in a -minute. Pearse caught her hand with a whispered: - -“There they come. Good-by.” - -“Good-by,” she echoed whisperingly, then looked down at her empty -hands. He was gone. The men were clattering in. She ran toward the -fire, arriving just as Uncle Hank, with Buster and several of the -Sandoval County men, rode up. - -“Buster, I’ll get that salve for you,” the foreman was saying. “A -rope burn is about the meanest kind of a—” - -He broke off abruptly. Hilda, stooping to feed the fire in order to -cover her confusion, had not noticed that he was rummaging in the -wagon. Glancing up, she saw him back away from the vehicle and put -his hand to his head. - -“Pettie,” he said softly, “come here, honey.” And as she approached -he added still lower: “Am I losing my wits—or is there—a—er—a -saddle—?” - -“Yes, Uncle Hank,” Hilda whispered vehemently, laying hold of his -arm. “It’s father’s. Sunday’s come back. He’s in with the other -ponies.” - -“Oh, is he—is he, so?” echoed Hank, feebly. - -“What’s the matter, Pearsall?” Buster called. “Can’t you find that -salve?” - -“Sure—it’s right here. I’ll fetch it in a minute,” and Hank turned -hurriedly back to the wagon. - -But before he succeeded in finding the box of salve there was an -outcry from one of the new hands. - -“Say, Shorty—look here, will you—there’s a strange cayuse in the -remuda. We seem to have drawed another card to our hand of ponies.” - -Then came Shorty’s voice: - -“Well, I’ll be jiggered! Come and see, Pearsall. Here’s that Sunday -horse of Hilda’s that’s been gone a year; done flew through the air -and lit in our corral. If that don’t beat the dickens!” - -“That’s all right, boys,” Uncle Hank said. “It’s all right, Shorty. -A—er—friend borrowed the pony off of Pettie, and—” - -“Why, yes—I allowed so,” said O’Meara. “But, how in thunder, did -Sunday get here now?” - -“Well, the friend that borrowed him sort of happened along to-night -whilst we was out working with the cows, and fetched him.” - -Shorty made no reply. He only whistled a little under his breath and -glanced keenly toward where Hilda stood. Hank got the salve and did -up Buster’s hand. He was a long time about it. If he intended to -give Hilda a chance to get away without speaking to him, his pretext -failed. She lingered, looking at him uneasily till he was free and -turned to her. - -“Well, Pettie?” - -“Nothing, Uncle Hank.” - -“You ought to be in your blankets and asleep. Run along, honey.” - -He wasn’t going to ask any questions. He wouldn’t even look an -inquiry. Oh, he was good—so good! And she had come short of loyalty -to him. She had not defended him to Pearse. She crept to her -blankets in the cedar thicket, hunched them about her mechanically -and lay sleepless, staring up to where big, bright stars talked -together of other matters than the affairs of mankind. She was -disturbed, elated, unhappy—all in one. - -The counsels of night and silence finally prevailed, and she slept. -The cool wind came from a thousand miles of wandering over dim -levels to ruffle her dark hair. Coyotes whimpered off on the edge of -the world. Hilda slept soundly. But over near the fire a head of -grizzled black-and-silver crinkles was lifted quietly from the -blankets; Uncle Hank’s eyes gazed across to Hilda’s sleeping place -long, with a puzzled, half-bewildered expression. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - HILDA AND THE FLYING M’S - - -They came home next day at evening, everybody dog-tired, but happy. -Out to the south, the men were working the cattle into the pastures. -Hilda rode along up the avenue of box elders. She was glad to get -home, yet it was hard to turn her back on a world in which Pearse -might appear at one’s camp-fire of an evening, and to take up a -permanent residence in the one house it seemed impossible he should -ever visit. - -Burch came thumping down the drive on his pony, full of talk about -his new lathe that had just come from Fort Worth and was a dandy! - -“Show it to you as soon as we get to the house,” he said. “Aunt Val -let me set it up in the office. That makes a good place to work.” - -“Buddy—go see the live things we brought up from Sandoval County,” -Hilda laughed at him, “things that don’t have to be turned out on a -lathe—nearly three thousand of them. Uncle Hank and I counted—or, -rather, Uncle Hank counted and I tallied; but the count stands on my -tally. What do you think of that?” - -Sam Kee stood grinning in the doorway to welcome her. Miss Valeria -got up from her rocking chair and fluttered forward to the -sitting-room door to give her grand-niece a ladylike kiss. - -“My dear, how brown you are!” she exclaimed, holding the girl off a -moment to look her over. “You’re burnt like an Indian!” - -And that was all that Miss Valeria Van Brunt could see of any change -in Hilda. - -With the coming in of the Jacox cattle, existence at the Three -Sorrows took on a richer note. The price of beef could never rule -this mortal life there quite so cruelly again. - -Summer followed spring; ripened to the tan of autumn; the snow fell; -it melted in the sun of spring; and so on, around the circle of the -year four times, while their indiscreet owner paid his debt to -justice between stone walls. On the good feed of the Sorrows, and -under Hank’s management, the herd increased much in value. “The -third calf,” which belonged to the Sorrows for their pasturage, -represented a very handsome profit indeed. - -In spite of his niggardliness in the matter of “language,” old Hank -Pearsall held his men as no other ranch manager in the neighborhood -was able to do. The Texas Panhandle of that day was a frontier of -drifting personalities. When you said “neighborhood,” you meant -several counties. The Capadine ranch, the McGregor place, the big -Matador—a hacienda that had Spanish proprietors—in eleven years -every one of these had shifted the personnel of its working -household entirely; but on the Sorrows payroll were still old Snake -Thompson, Shorty O’Meara, and Buster. Thompson, taciturn and -unrelated to his kind, a sort of fragment of a human character, who -seemed to show the marks of some early shipwreck of the emotions, -put forward that he had “had enough wives,” whatever that might -mean. He had been away from the ranch only three or four times, and -then briefly. It was understood among the other cowpunchers that -Snake, on these excursions, prosecuted some sort of spree of his -own; but no resident of Lame Jones County had ever participated in -these relaxations of the old man’s. - -Shorty, four years married to a young niece of Mrs. MacGregor who -came out from Scotland to visit at the Cross K, had a bunch of -cattle of his own and some land that adjoined both the Sorrows and -the Cross K. His cattle ran with the Three S brand, and Shorty -himself was as near a foreman at the Sorrows as could well have been -under so active a manager as Pearsall. - -Buster, a lad of eighteen when the Van Brunts arrived, had several -times collected the wages due him and gone ambling away, singing, to -some other job. But he had always returned. “Sumpin’ about the old -Sorrers that sorter draws a feller,” was his explanation. He had had -a number of highly interesting love affairs. Finally, by the way of -answering an advertisement, he had entered upon a long, carefully -concealed correspondence with a young lady somewhere in the east. -When he had pursued this exciting courtship for some months, -forbearing to draw a dollar of wages beyond such as went for -cigarettes, he again rode away,—money in pocket. He wrote once to -Hilda, who had been his only confidante, saying that he was married, -that She was the loveliest, the best and the most charming being in -the world, and he the happiest. When he came back, which he did -nearly a year later, Buster looked much older than the lapse of time -alone warranted, and he laughed less frequently and was heard, on -occasion, to give utterance to some cynical opinions. - -The general view of the matter came to be that Buster also had “had -wives enough.” - -“’Cause one’s a-plenty to do the trick, if she’s the right sort,” -was old Snake’s bitter comment. - -Burch was a stocky boy who would never be tall, but well built. He -got what he could out of the little school near the Three Sorrows. -Once there was a young fellow at the MacGregor ranch, a civil -engineer, who taught him mathematics and said the boy was a wonder -at it. He went no more to the doctor in Fort Worth. - -Miss Valeria, whose hair was all white now above her dark eyes and -brows, had tried once or twice to insist that he was ailing—and got -laughed at for her pains, by the boy himself and by Hank. Hank, -quick to note every change in his boy and girl as they grew up, had -already met the new look in young Burchie’s eyes. He watched for it -in the countenance of his unconscious girl. - -“Parents has got to face it,” he sighed, unaware that he spoke -aloud, one rainy day when he and Shorty and Snake were mending -harness. - -“Face what?” demanded Snake testily. “What in the old cat are you -talking about?” - -“About children,” Pearsall explained. “These growing children, you -don’t never know where you lose ’em. Some day or other, you come up -and slap your youngster on the back and commence talking free—like -you’ve been used to—giving orders or making fun; and suddenly a lady -or gentleman that you’ve never seen before turns around on you, with -a polite look, as much as to say, ‘I reckon you’ve got the advantage -of me, sir!’” - -“Well—then what?” demanded the solicitous Shorty, whose -three-year-old bandit of a red-headed daughter held him in shameful -subjection. - -“Only one thing, as I figger it,” said Hank. “Don’t waste no time -whining about duty, and what’s due you for past care and labor. Just -whirl in and court and make much of that stranger. If it’s a boy, my -observation is that he mostly wants to lick you; and if it’s a girl, -she’s keen to hide everything from you.” Again he sighed. “You’re a -stranger to the stranger, and the circumstances is all against you. -Any confidence you get you’ll earn hard.” - -And Hilda? Hilda was seventeen now, of fair height for her years, -but slim and undeveloped. The great dark eyes, with their heavy -fringing and the level brows above them, were still her only marked -beauty. She studied hard and was apt to stand high with her teacher; -released to the playground, she ran rampant. Shorty said she was a -good mixer. She rode with the unconscious courage and freedom of the -cowpunchers. It never seemed to occur to her that she could not do -with her pony anything that they could do with theirs. She and Uncle -Hank had had some little difference of opinion from time to time in -the matter of what horses she should ride, and what ones she should -let strictly alone. The letting strictly alone went strongly against -Hilda’s grain. - -About this time Uncle Hank brought home a steel blue roan—a -snorting, up-headed, four-year-old whose neck had never felt a rope, -whom Buster and Shorty, between them, with the genial irony of the -cowpuncher, re-named Creeping Mose, because he could run like a -streak of blue lightning. - -“He’s been let go so long that it’s a question whether he’ll ever be -plumb gentled now,” said Hank, “But he’s a powerful good animal, and -I took a chance on him.” - -Hilda, who had ridden out to meet the herd and was having dinner at -the wagon, could not keep her eyes off the new horse. A smile passed -between her and Uncle Hank, but nothing was said at that time, -beyond Hilda’s declaration that she was coming down to the corral -next day to watch the breaking. - -Uncle Hank let her accompany him the next morning. At sight of the -horse, head up, ears pricked, snuffing the air suspiciously, Hilda -could not restrain her enthusiasm. - -“Oh, Uncle Hank, I would love to have him for mine!” she whispered. -“I never have had a horse that was really fast. He’s not -vicious—only just spirited and unbroken. I know I could ride him -after the boys have topped him a few times.” - -“There ain’t a thing on earth about a hoss that you don’t think you -can do,” grumbled old Snake, fastening the gate behind them. “You’re -fixin’ to get yourself killed. Pearsall ought to keep you out of the -corral.” - -Hank had passed on to talk to Buster. It was Shorty who jeered the -pessimist. - -“G’wan, Thompson—whose corral is it? If you don’t know, let me -introduce you to Miss Van Brunt, owner of the Three Sorrows. Hilda, -you just shin up on the fence if you want to see the fun. Buster’s -going to top him first. Bet a nickel the blue sends him to grass.” - -The roan was roped, thrown, blinded and saddled, Buster was up at -last and with the cry, “Turn loose!” they were off, the horse -traveling in a series of bucks straight around the corral. But he -attempted no murderous tactics; he was only for shaking off the man -on his back; and he moved with such swiftness and beauty of action -as is not often seen in a range-bred horse. - -“Can’t I have him for mine—oh, can’t I, Uncle Hank?” Hilda shouted -unrestrainably from the top of the fence, where she clung watching. - -“Looks like it,” chuckled the old man, as the blue roan finally made -his point and sent Buster over his head, then ran snorting in -circles. “In about—well, about a year, Pettie, when this feller’s -had plenty of cutting work and range riding—he’ll be fit for a -lady’s use. Whoa, there—Buck!” as his rope circled the horse’s neck. -“Let me try him. Now, Pettie, you’ll see your Uncle Hank get a -fall.” - -The boys held the roan; Hank eased quickly into the saddle, where he -brought to bear a strange skilled gentleness he had with horses -which had often calmed even an outlaw, and which saw him safely -through this time, though more than once the boys whooped that he -was “pulling leather.” - -Hilda watched enviously, until he dismounted after half an hour’s -struggle, horse and man dripping with sweat and trembling with -exhaustion, but the first stage of Creeping Mose’s education fairly -completed. - -For a lady’s use! She would have liked to shout to him that she was -not a lady—that she never expected or intended to be one, if it -meant that she had to ride only horses that a baby would be safe on. -A year, indeed! But she said nothing. She still had that habit of -dreaming things—dramatizing what she would have liked to say in her -own mind, instead of saying it. - -In the old days it would have been The Boy-On-The-Train who tamed -Creeping Mose, with a turn of the wrist. But now, all the time she -sat on the corral fence watching Uncle Hank handle the wild, -courageous thing, she was thinking of Pearse as she’d known him in -the days of the cyclone cellar, in that snatched visit on the trail -coming back with the Jacox cattle. Pearse was on a ranch. He was the -kind to do whatever he did better than those about him did it. As -usual, she just put Pearse in Uncle Hank’s place on the blue roan’s -back, had him take rather more risks, and couldn’t keep from -clapping her hands when he came through gloriously. - -Uncle Hank glanced up, caught her glowing eyes fixed on him, and -looked a little startled. She climbed down and walked soberly away. -After all, the cyclone cellar was the place to indulge in dreams of -Pearse. She was glad now that she’d never shared the secret of her -retreat with Burch—or with any one. - -It was Sam Kee who helped her carry down the old desk that she put -in there, and she even made the Chinaman leave it in the outer -cellar, not removing the shielding boxes she kept piled over its -door till he was back in the kitchen, tugging the heavy piece of -furniture along the narrow passage by herself. Book after book had -drifted down from the shelves upstairs to be added to those she kept -in a row on the desk top; pictures that took her fancy were tacked -up all around; she used to slip away to this retreat at certain -times to read a little, write less and dream much. Stolen hours, -these, when Burch or Aunt Val or Uncle Hank may have thought she was -out for a ride or gone to one of the neighbors. - -And these dreams of Pearse, in the dim, brown-walled, dusky, -shut-away, little chamber, were about all she had left of him. Not -quite, for though he’d never written, as he promised he would, -neither had he forgotten her. Every Christmas and every birthday -brought some gift to her from him. The first Christmas after the -drive there came to her, by the hand of a freighter, a splendid -Navajo blanket. Everybody but Uncle Hank wondered over it. The old -man asked no questions. He knew it must have come from that one to -whom she had lent the Sunday pony, with Charley’s bridle and saddle. - -When the beautiful thing disappeared from Miss Val’s couch, where it -had been spread, and noisy inquiries stirred up the entire -household, Uncle Hank again expressed no surprise. Hilda had carried -the blanket down to the cyclone cellar. It covered the lounge which -had been Pearse’s bed. Captain Snow slept on it and filled it with -white cat hairs that Hilda carefully brushed off. When the next -Christmas brought a quirt and Mexican hackamore of gayly colored and -braided horsehair, she refused to put them to sordid use and, after -a time, they followed the blanket, hanging on the wall over the -lounge. She had a great delight in them. Was not their presence -there, their color and beauty, so lovingly, painstakingly wrought, -visible evidence that he had not forgotten, any more than she had? - -The third year of Jacox’s imprisonment saw his release by an -indulgent governor. When Tracey came forth a free man, more than -four thousand cattle of his brand would trail out of the Three -Sorrows pastures—for the herd had prospered greatly. Hank had bought -a few cows, here and there, judiciously, where he heard of a -bargain; but despite this fact, the departure of the Jacox herd -unexpectedly soon would leave the ranch greatly understocked. The -manager realized that he would need to find other cattle to take on -the shares in order to fill up, and he was glad to receive a -proposition from Colonel Lee Marchbanks of Encinal County, New -Mexico, who wrote to say that the range out there had failed badly -from drouth, and he would like to pasture a herd of probably two -thousand of his Flying M stock cattle on the Sorrows, where he knew -the grass was unfailing. Sitting in the office, Uncle Hank showed -that letter to Hilda; the old man kept to his idea of making her as -full a partner in the running of the ranch as a girl of her age -could be. - -“Seems kind of funny, doesn’t it, Uncle Hank,” she said, “to think -of Marchbanks cattle on our pastures? Do you remember Fayte -Marchbanks telling me when we first came here, and I didn’t know -anything about such things, that this was his ranch?” - -The old man nodded, smiling a little, and turned to the letter he -was writing, to arrange terms. The herd was brought over by -Marchbanks’ range boss in October and left at the Sorrows, to remain -six months. - -They arrived, gaunt and sorry-looking from the long trail and the -months of poor grass that had gone before. But to at least one -person on the ranch they possessed a secret interest and charm. They -had come all the way from Encinal County, in which lies the J I C -ranch, where Pearse Masters lived. Why, any one of those sad-faced -brindle cows might have seen Pearse himself—in the flesh! In some -indefinite way, Pearse seemed nearer to her while the Marchbanks -cattle were on the ranch. - -Late in the following March, Hank announced, one evening at the -supper table, that all hands would be needed next day for rounding -up the Flying M’s. - -Hilda’s head was lifted; her glance fixed eagerly on the old man’s -face. - -“Who’s coming for them, Uncle Hank?” Burch asked, and saved her the -necessity of doing so. - -“The Colonel himself, this time,” rejoined Hank, taking a letter -from his pocket and running over its lines. “He’s liable to be here -to-morrow or next day; going to camp at _Tres Piños_ the last night -and get in here fresh to help us work the cattle and road-brand.” -Hilda had come and leaned over his shoulder to look at the letter. -“Even so,” he told her, as she rubbed her cheek against the grizzled -curls, “it’s going to take every hand we’ve got. You children can -both help.” He glanced across to where Burch, close under the lamp, -had gone back to his figuring and diagrams. “Son, I’ll need even -you.” - -The men were out by daybreak. Hilda was not much behind them. As she -hurried down to the corral, after a snatched breakfast, to get her -horse, she was trying to picture Colonel Marchbanks to herself; she -was carrying on some light, easy conversation with him, in which -there always came up a careless question, variously phrased, as to -whether or not he knew a young man employed on the J I C ranch by -the name of Masters. Buster, the last man out, checked his pony to -point to the mail bag, hanging on the corral wall, and shout: - -“I brought it in so late last night that I hated to wake you all. -Take it up to the house, won’t you, Hilda?” - -She saddled up swiftly, curbed an impulse to leave the bag till she -got back, reached it from its nail, when she was in the saddle, and -rode around toward the back to throw it in on the sacred precincts -of Sam Kee’s porch. Nobody but Hilda dared to do a thing like that. - -As she got through the corral gate, she saw Burch half-way out -toward the main trail. He turned and yelled at her—a brother’s -yell—but she had drawn from among the other mail in the bag a -letter, addressed in a dashing, clerkly hand, to Miss Hilda Van -Brunt, The Three Sorrows, Dawn, Lame Jones County, Texas. In that -hand had come addressed all her anonymous gifts. She neither heard -nor saw anything about her. - -Burch whooped long and derisively, while she sat her pony and read, -over and over, the brief letter the envelope contained: - - Dear Hilda, - - I wonder if this will get to Lame Jones County before I - do. Hope it will, for I’m certainly not going to ride up - to the Three Sorrows and call, and I do want to see you. - I’m making a quick trip through for my company, and I - think I’ll be somewhere in your neighborhood about March - 28th. That sounds pretty uncertain to you, maybe, but if - you should happen to be on the main trail any time that - day—why, then you’d happen to see - - Your friend, - Pearse Masters. - -March twenty-eighth! That was to-day! What luck, that they were -going to work Flying M cattle in the small pasture lying beside the -Ojo Bravo trail! That was what Pearse must mean. She sent one last -shout after the departing Burch, rode her pony along the garden walk -and deftly shot the mail bag in, while Sam Kee grumbled at her, then -loped off to join the working force. Had the small pasture not -commanded the Ojo Bravo trail, Uncle Hank would have lacked her help -that day—in which case, many things might have been different. - -As it was, her eyes, continually turned to the westward way, were -first to see a light outfit coming in on the lower trail. She waved -and shouted to Uncle Hank to call his attention. There were only six -riders and a chuck wagon. Hank joined brother and sister at the -fence and studied the newcomers in the distance with some surprise. -The work of getting ready was well under way. All the Marchbanks -cattle were in one enclosure. It was barely ten o’clock, yet the sun -was beginning to be unpleasantly warm, and Hank pushed back his hat -to rub his forehead dubiously and say: - -“If there was anybody else for that to be, I’d say it wasn’t them. -They’re flyin’ mighty light and goin’ might fast for an outfit that -expects to pick up two-thousand-and-some cows.” - -On they came, the riders at a thundering gallop, the chuck wagon -bumping behind. There was something dashing, arresting, inconsequent -about their approach. Hank rode slowly down the fence line, Hilda -and Burch after him, and greeted the men half doubtfully. - -The leader raised a hand in salute. Here was the father of Maybelle -and Fayte. Here was that Lee Marchbanks, the Virginian whom -Guadalupe Romero had run away to marry. Somehow he was disappointing -to Hilda. Dressed about as any cattleman would be, well mounted, and -unusually well armed, he was still very different from the mental -picture she had of him. In this open-range country it was customary -for an outfit to carry weapons, yet the rifle swung under every -rider’s right leg, the handle of the bowie knife protruding here and -there from a casual boot-leg, in addition to the familiar pair of -six-shooters at each belt, made the group look positively warlike. -Naturally Hilda’s attention centered most on a young fellow, slim, -dark, but with odd, long, slate-gray eyes, who rode next to the -leader and regarded everybody about him with an air of authority and -a little half smile that lifted a small dark mustache. - -“I reckon them are my cattle,” said the leader, abruptly, and -without a greeting. “I’ve come for ’em.” - -“Colonel Marchbanks?” Hank spoke with his usual politeness. The man -across the barbed-wire fence shot him a quick glance of surprise—or -was it suspicion? Then, with a bare nod, repeated: - -“We’ve come for the cattle.” - -“I see,” said Hank. - -The others sat their ponies, alert, looking about them as men who -have never been in a country before may do. Hilda saw the young -fellow nearest to the Colonel say something to him in a low tone, -and Marchbanks spoke again, on a somewhat different note: - -“Sorry to hurry you, Pearsall. We’re taking the cattle right out.” - -“What!” ejaculated Hank, startled into the mild indiscretion of -questioning. “This afternoon? Turn right around and take the trail -without waiting to rest?” - -The colonel reddened angrily. - -“The _cattle’s_ fresh, ain’t they?” he snapped. “_They_ don’t need -to rest. I aim to take em out—and that as damned quick as I can get -’em out!” - -Speech and manner were sufficiently surprising. Hilda looked -anxiously at Uncle Hank. But the manager had caught his breath now. -His steady eyes studied the outfit unhurriedly. The horses were -good, they and the men well accoutered. But the letter in Hank’s -pocket mentioned things that couldn’t be done and get the cattle out -in one day. - -“Well,” he allowed, “I don’t know but by pressing all hands in to -help, we might get ’em out and worked and tallied over for ye. But -what about the road-branding?” - -The colonel shook his head. It might have meant anything. The slim -dark young fellow who held Hilda’s rather unwilling attention, and -got her grudging admiration, in spite of lingering doubts, turned -and spoke to the four others in so low a tone that Hilda thought -Uncle Hank could hardly hear him. What he said was: - -“We’ll go through here, boys—cut the fence. Gid, you’ve got the -nippers—cut here.” - -Gid was instantly off his horse and at work. - -The angry blood flew to Hilda’s face. - -“Hold on!” cried Pearsall. “Hold on! There’s a gate up yonder a -piece. It won’t take you fifteen minutes longer, I—” He hesitated to -characterize so wanton an outrage. “Don’t cut my fence.” - -The wires had already sprung, jangling and quivering, to the ground. - -“The boys’ll mend it. I’ll pay you,” Marchbanks said briefly, -putting his horse through the gap. “Come on.” - -The seven men rode to the herd, from whose edges Burch and the Three -S cowboys were watching the maneuvers of the newcomers. - -“Get to work, men,” said Marchbanks, and the cutting out of calves -was soon in full swing. - -Hilda and her brother were set to hold the “cut.” Burch wasn’t -skillful, but Hilda made up for it. She could keep her eye on the -cattle and still have plenty of attention to give to the young man -she thought was Fayte Marchbanks, riding close to his father, acting -as though he really directed every move the colonel made. If it was -Fayte, he paid no attention whatever to her; didn’t seem to remember -her at all. When he did lift a glance her way, she had a queer -little thrill, not entirely pleasant, at the flashing out of his -odd, slate-gray eyes under the black brows; eyes whose reckless -light matched the bravo slant of his sombrero and went well with the -general air of the heavily armed Marchbanks party. She had half a -mind to leave Burch holding the cut a moment while she rode over and -said “Hello” to him and asked about Maybelle. There was even a -daring thought that she’d inquire of him, instead of his father, if -he’d met Pearse Masters over in New Mexico. She did start to do it, -but Uncle Hank waved her back. Then she noticed how funny Uncle Hank -was acting—so heavy and slow-witted. - -“Careful about cutting out them calves,” he cautioned his men, again -and again. “I don’t want to rob the owner, nor have the owner rob -the Sorrows. We’re all young. Ain’t such an awful haste.” - -“The hell they ain’t!” broke out Marchbanks, in whose hearing this -was said. “Who told you?” - -There was an instant of dubious silence. Old Snake bristled for all -the world like a faithful dog who suspects that his master is -affronted. Shorty sat up suddenly in the saddle, his blue eyes -fairly blazing in his brick-red face. Then Pearsall spoke, with mild -civility: - -“Didn’t camp at _Tres Piños_—did you?” - -Marchbanks, hustling an unruly calf toward the cut, ejaculated: - -“At _Tres Piños_—no! Who said I was camping there?” - -Pearsall pulled up his buckskin pony and let a cow get past him -unnoticed. The Flying M man’s active young lieutenant yelled a -protest in vain. Hilda edged in toward Uncle Hank. She had read that -letter, too; yet it was characteristic of the western cattle -country—of which she was growing to be a well-seasoned citizen—that -not a word, not a glance, passed between them. They both knew that -this _might_ be Marchbanks, and his behavior merely a matter of -temperament or eccentricity; but he might be a rustler. Such -high-handed robbery was not unknown. She knew that there was more -than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stock concerned. The outsiders -were seven, all suspiciously well armed. Presently Uncle Hank -drifted himself to her side, dismounted and, under pretext of -tightening her cinch, spoke to her: - -“Listen sharp, Pettie. Mind, I ain’t sure—you never can tell—there -ain’t one of us here, as it chances, that’s ever seen Lee -Marchbanks. You heard these fellers over there at the fence. What -I’m thinking is that if Shorty, or me, or Thompson—or even Burch—was -to try to leave this pasture, we’d have war on our hands. But you -can go, I reckon. You can make it this-away: talk around free about -being hungry, and ask me to let you go up to the house and get your -dinner. Then, the minute you’re out of sight, you put spurs to that -pony and ride all you know, straight for _Tres Piños_. If there’s -nobody there, come back easy, for I reckon it’ll be all right. If -you find the Flying M outfit camped at the spring, fetch ’em on the -jump, honey.” He raised his voice. “There, I reckon that’ll hold—but -it needs mending with a new one.” - -They sheered apart. Hilda whirled her pony to help Marchbanks with a -calf he was heading. - -“Thank you, little lady,” he said, with an admiring glance for her -horsemanship and skill. “You’re the girl for my money.” - -“I could work better if I wasn’t so hungry,” laughed Hilda. “Oh, -Uncle Hank,” as Pearsall came past, “can’t I, please, go up to the -house and get something to eat? I’m starving.” - -“Aw—you’re shirking, Hilda!” cried Burch, overhearing. “No fair! -Uncle Hank, make her stay, and we’ll all go up together.” - -This accidental detail made Hilda’s exit very plausible. Marchbanks -himself, pleased by the girl’s apparent liking, put in: - -“This work’s not fit for young ladies, anyhow. Let Miss Hilda go.” - -Hilda wheeled her pony and gave him the spur. “I’ll bring you all -some of Sam Kee’s pi-i-ie!” she called back, as she galloped away -toward the gate. - -Through all the excitement of the morning, she had not failed to -keep an eye on the western trail. Suppose Pearse should be coming -along now—just as she crossed it! Her nerves tautened to the -thought. - -Back at the herd, Uncle Hank, a most patient and skillful handler of -cattle, began to make a series of strange blunders. Twice he nearly -stampeded the Marchbanks cut. Once he put his pony so squarely -across the colonel’s path that it was only by fine horsemanship that -that gentleman missed a bad fall. - -“For God’s sake, old man!” he snarled. “Get in the house and tend to -your knitting, and let us work these cows. You needn’t be afraid I -won’t leave you your share. If you stay out here and make many more -passes like that, we’ll have men to bury.” - -“I was thinking about something else.” Pearsall seemed to overlook -the rebuke. “I ain’t generally so awkward. Maybe I’d better go down -and mend fence.” - -“Not till we’ve put our cattle through that gap!” cried Marchbanks. - -“Oh—all right, all right,” agreed the manager. - -Meanwhile, Hilda was pushing Sunday toward the house at his top -speed—which wasn’t very much—Sunday had been faster when he was -three years younger. As she went, there thrilled through her -exultantly the thought of Creeping Mose in the home corral. His -breaking had been interrupted for the gathering of the Flying M -cattle. She shut her lips tight together, and gave Sunday the spur. -She remembered Buster’s first proud introduction of the blue roan to -her attention: - -“Run! He can run like a scared wolf.” - -Having crossed the trail and got no sight of a solitary rider whom -she could identify as Pearse, Hilda was desperate. She must not -refuse to ride to _Tres Piños_ to save the Marchbanks cattle; but -Sunday would be all the rest of the day making such a trip. Pearse -would pass by while she was gone. Creeping Mose was the only thing -on the place that could get her there and back in time to have a -chance of meeting Pearse. Again she spurred Sunday, and he went past -the porch, where Miss Valeria dozed over a novel, with such a burst -of speed that the lady waked up, looked after her niece, somewhat -aggrieved, and called a remonstrance, settling down to a murmured: -“Getting too big a girl for these hoyden tricks. I ought to speak to -Mr. Pearsall. The man encourages her.” - -Hilda took a short-cut through the kitchen garden, where Sam Kee, -cutting delectable heads of lettuce from their stalks, rose in wrath -as the pony’s hoofs plunged into the soft, brown, irrigated soil. - -“You spoil ’um!” he squealed. “Unc’ Hank—he spoil ’um you.” - -For only answer the girl glanced back over her shoulder to where, in -his faded denim, he hopped about like an infuriated and oversized -bluejay, his squawks inevitably suggesting the comparison, and -called: “Come on—come on, Sam. Help me.” - -“No help!” the Chinaman ejaculated, toddling after her. When he -reached the corral and found her with the saddle off the sweating -Sunday, her rope swinging, saw it settle over Creeping Mose and -bring him up short, Sam stopped in the tall, door-like gateway and -burst out in a splutter of dismay: - -“You let ’um blue horse ’lone. Blue horse debbil. Unc’ Hankie say -let ’um ’lone.” - -Hilda had got the bridle on Mose. - -“Come here and hold him for me,” she cried. “Come on—quick, Sam. He -won’t try to stamp you—he never does. He’ll be all right when I’m up -on him. Hurry. He’ll only buck and run.” - -The Chinaman came. He took the reins in practiced yellow fingers. - -“You die an’ be kill,” he said. - -Up went the saddle, but the pony dodged it, lowering himself and -flinching away just at the right instant. Again this maneuver was -repeated, Hilda, panting, desperate over the loss of time. - -“Take your apron off and flap it in his face. Go on, Sam Kee—flap -your apron,” she commanded chokingly. - -Protesting, refusing, “No! No take off ape’!” Sam Kee obeyed. Once -more, Hilda swung the saddle; this time it landed. Almost in the -instant of jerking tight the last cinch-strap, she was up. - -Creeping Mose hung a moment, as in surprise, then humped his back -for the first plunge. She whirled her heavy quirt and brought it -down with all her might. Mose, with lowered head stuck out straight, -shot through the gate in a series of long leaps. - -Sam Kee sat down, legs rigid before him, black eyes blinking, -listening to the thunder of the hoofs as Creeping Mose ran like a -streak out along the __Tres Piños__ trail. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - HILDA AND THE BLUE ROAN - - -The first four miles were covered at terrific speed, though three -times Creeping Mose stopped with a plunge and declared his intention -of fighting it out then and there. But Hilda was aflame. Fear was -wiped out. Between the level plain and burning sky, she knew only -Creeping Mose and herself—herself with neither flesh nor bones, nor -anything but a blind determination to force him to her will. - -She clung like a limpet. When the horse bucked most fiercely, she -swung the quirt and let him have it with all the strength of her -arm. Her black hair was shaken out of its plait and blew behind her, -a waving banner; her face was crimson with the heat and exertion. On -heaving chest and shoulders the shirt-waist clung, soaked. At every -jump sweat flew from the horse and spattered on the dry, hot earth. -At last Mose flung himself obliquely into the air in a whirling -buck. She set her teeth for what she’d seen the boys do, and brought -the head of her quirt down in a thump between his ears. She hated to -do that, but it seemed to be what Mose needed; with a snort, he -gathered himself; then, as though he decided that what he had on his -back was boss of the expedition, stretched out his neck and broke -away in a dead run that was a revelation to Hilda of horse speed. - -No captive of old Rome ever drove his chariot race down the great -hippodrome in a finer ecstasy of rashness than that which thrilled -through Hilda as the long levels streamed back beneath those flying -hoofs. This wasn’t the Hilda of the cyclone cellar who needed to -dress up and make believe for her romance. - -Her whole thought had been to rush the thing through and get back to -the trail where it cut the road to El Capitan, where she would meet -Pearse; but this—this was real daring and adventure. It was the sort -of thing any one of the boys would have done, taking it all as a -part of the day’s work. She, too, let her whole self go in the -action, like one of them, like a soldier on a battlefield. She’d -taken Creeping Mose against Uncle Hank’s orders. But she knew the -rules of the range: if she made good—and she would—she was all -right. At the end of four breathless, flashing miles, the horse was -still running strongly. - -Four miles and a half; he was coming down to a steady, swinging -lope. Five miles; the fierce sun stung her bare head and face, the -wind roared in her ears, continuous, browbeating, and her horse was -almost at the end of wind and strength. - -As the blue roan ceased to fight her, Hilda’s thoughts had a chance -to clear a bit, she had breath and attention to admire him. She -leaned forward and patted him on the neck—and the sweat fumed up -around her hand like suds. A year—Uncle Hank had thought he might be -fit for her in a year—and here she was riding him within three days! - -What was happening back there on the Three Sorrows? That outfit were -rustlers. Uncle Hank thought so, or he’d never have sent her on such -an errand as this. She couldn’t get away from the belief that the -young fellow with them was Fayte Marchbanks. And the cattle belonged -to Fayte’s father. Well—that didn’t make any difference—they were -rustlers just the same. - -Nobody but a rustler would have been as careless as that man was -about the count. People didn’t feel that way about their own cattle. -That look in his eye, when he praised her and called her “little -lady”—she wasn’t exactly sure where and how it offended her so much, -yet she knew that it did offend. Rustler! That’s what he was. - -Far off on that open plain the three pines that stood above the -spring began to show like tiny weeds. With her breath coming in -gasps, scarce able to feel the saddle beneath her or the rein she -clutched in her hands, she yet brought her heels sharply against -Mose’s dripping sides, and he answered with a spurt. Taller and -taller the pines loomed; finally, she could make out beneath them a -hooded chuck-wagon, hobbled ponies, and men lying or sitting about. - -No need of the quirt now; Creeping Mose obeyed her hand or voice -humbly. As she used both to encourage him, he gave a sort of -convulsive cat-hop and, shaking his head, plunged forward at a -jolting, uneven run, which, exhausted, as she was, came near to -unseating her. She could hardly see the camp as she swept in to it, -hardly hear the shouts of the men, who jumped up and ran toward her, -one of them catching the bit, bringing the horse to a standstill, -another lifting her down as she rolled from the saddle. - -She heard some one call: “Colonel Marchbanks—come here!” And then -another voice, saying: - -“Whoa, Buck!” - -“Hold up, sister! Steady, steady, young lady! Had a runaway?” - -“Whoa, Buck—whoa!” roared the cowpuncher who had seized Creeping -Mose, revolving with him, kicking up a great dust. “You old -fool—don’t you know when you’re done?” Abruptly the horse halted, he -dropped at once into exhaustion, a sweat-soaked miserable spectacle. -The man who held Hilda called over his shoulder: - -“Tarpy, fetch a pan of water, quick!” and when the squat little cook -hurried up with the basin, he dipped his handkerchief in it and -laved Hilda’s face and hands. “Plucky young ’un,” he said softly to -Tarpy. “She isn’t going to faint. Hey, you boys—Slim and Charley! -Pull that bedding roll over here.” - -In those first moments, as Hilda lay there in a sort of daze, she -entirely forgot the errand that had brought her out here in such a -fury of eagerness. All she could see was Pearse, going past the -Sorrows gate—missing her. Oh—why had she come? Somebody was lifting -her into a more comfortable position against the bedding roll. The -big man drew the dripping handkerchief again and again across her -face; then dipped hands and wrists into the basin itself. - -“You’re all right now,” he repeated. “You’re not hurt.” - -Her eyes opened in a quick look about her and fixed upon his face. - -“Colonel Marchbanks?” - -“Yes, that’s my name,” he said. “Were you looking for me? What’s the -matter?” - -Hilda’s gasping had moderated. She drew in as much breath as she was -able and spoke clearly: - -“An outfit came in this morning after your cattle—” - -“What outfit?” - -“I don’t know. They came in this morning. They cut our fence and -made Uncle Hank begin work right away.” - -Marchbanks bent forward sharply, Tarpy, the cook, beside him. The -two boys who had brought the bedding roll leaned frankly over the -others’ shoulders. - -“Uncle Hank—they didn’t act right—he sent me here. We thought, when -they wouldn’t road-brand—” - -“You’re a good girl,” said the colonel; “I’ll thank you later.” - -Then he stood up, ordering: - -“Get the hobbles off the best horses. Every man saddle his own. All -come with me but Tarpy and Slim. Tarpy,” he spoke in a lower tone to -the cook, “you stay with the little girl. If she gets able to go -back home and wants to [Hilda tried to say, ‘I do,’ but no sound -came], have Slim put her saddle on my sorrel, and ride over, easy, -with her.” Then he turned to question her again: - -“How big an outfit is it? What do they look like?” - -Hilda answered in little, broken sentences: - -“Six of them—and a chuck-wagon. But they had so many guns. He’s very -young—almost a boy.” - -The colonel was buckling his cartridge belt; he whirled and looked -at her, demanding: - -“Which one is that you’re speaking of?” - -“The one that rode right beside the man that called himself Colonel -Marchbanks. He looked like— We all took him for—” - -The real Colonel Marchbanks glanced to where his men were getting on -their ponies. He waved to them to ride on, and they whirled away in -a cloud of dust. Then, bracing hands on knees, he bent down and -prompted: - -“You took him for—?” - -“Your son.” - -The colonel straightened up without a word, ran to his pony, flung -himself upon it, and was off after the others. - -She rested, with closed eyes, glad to be let alone. Presently she -heard Slim’s voice, in guarded tones: - -“Ye took notice what the little girl said. That’s Fayte, all right.” - -There was silence for a few minutes, then Slim spoke again: - -“Sort of sorry for the colonel.” - -“Yeah,” assented Tarpy. “G’wan an’ round up them horses, Slim, and -have ’em all saddled an’ ready time she’s had this coffee. She’s -game; you’ll git over, mebbe, in time to git a look-in at the -festivities—or the funeral—after all.” - -Slim hesitated, looking doubtfully at Hilda. She sat up as Tarpy -came toward her with a steaming tin cup, declared herself all right -and, to prove it, drank the strong coffee. Tarpy stood looking, and -then stated, respectfully: - -“Slim’ll be ready, Miss, whenever you want to ride over. That sorrel -of the colonel’s is as easy as a rocking chair.” - -“Mebbe we hadn’t ought to hurry the young lady,” Slim put in, -wistfully. “She’s had an awful trip, an’—” - -“Oh, no, no!” cried Hilda, gathering up her hair, beginning to braid -it with hands that shook. “I must go—I’ve got to!” - -“Sure, I know how you feel, ma’am,” sympathized Tarpy. “Fetch up the -sorrel, Slim.” - -Slim responded promptly this time. Hilda turned again to look where -Creeping Mose stood motionless, his feet braced wide, his head -hanging, the streaming sweat drying on his blue-gray coat in rough -cakes. She got to her feet and stumbled over to him. She laid a hand -on his neck—there was no snorting and tossing up of his head now. -Creeping Mose never even flinched—he had all he could do to just -stand on those four wide-braced feet. Hilda choked a little. - -“I feel the same way myself, Mose,” she muttered, a bit thickly, in -his drooping ear. “I ache all over, too. If I licked you, you -certainly hammered me. I wouldn’t have done it—if I hadn’t just had -to.” - -“He’ll be all right in the morning, ma’am,” Slim assured her. -“Tarpy’ll take good care of him, and they’ll lead him in with the -outfit when it follers us. Here’s the sorrel for you.” - -Hilda crawled wincingly into the saddle, with his help. At first -every movement of the easy-gaited creature she rode was pain to her, -and Slim watched anxiously. But soon she swung into the motion and -her bruised, wearied body was forgotten in that fierce eagerness to -“get there.” Slim, on a wiry, glass-eyed mustang, set the pace, and -a stiff one it grew to be. There were scarcely two dozen words -spoken as they put the miles behind them; both leaned forward -eagerly in their saddles, Slim’s eyes always straight ahead, Hilda’s -continually sweeping the levels about them. Long before they covered -the distance, they saw a vast cloud of dust hanging on the horizon. - -“Stand it any faster?” Slim inquired. - -Hilda nodded, and they spurred up. The big dust cloud grew bigger -and more palpable. - -“Looks like they’s a-havin’ a kind of a time,” commented Slim. “We -mebbe could get a finger in the pie yet, if we shove ahead.” The -glass-eyed mustang shot forward, Hilda and the sorrel hanging close -at its quarter. - -“Oh, look!” said Hilda. A flurry of dust approached them, out of -which emerged several head of Flying M cattle, running staggeringly. -Two or three showed long, bloody scratches on head and breast or -shoulders. - -“Bust through the bob-wire!” Slim rose in his stirrups and swung his -quirt, whooping shrilly. He and Hilda, between them, turned the -animals and headed them back. Presently they met two more small -bunches, which they turned in like manner and took with them. When -they got within sight of the pasture where the Flying M stock had -been worked that morning, they saw that the herd was in a pretty -well-established mill, the main bulk of the cattle sweeping in a -great, brown, living, sweating circle. An occasional Three S man, or -one of the Flying M hands, came galloping around on the edge of the -surge. As Slim and Hilda rode gingerly across the prostrate fence, -they heard a shot fired off to the right, toward the Ojo Bravo -trail; another, then three in quick succession. Slim stopped like a -pointer dog and threw his nose up, sighting in that direction. - -“Well, the colonel got there in time, that’s sure,” was his comment. - -Just then Burch came in sight, loping with the swing of the cattle. - -“Hello, Hilda!” he cried. “You made it all right.” - -They put their horses in alongside him and moved with him while he -told them, in a few quick sentences: - -“Uncle Hank stampeded the cattle—only thing he could do—shook a -blanket. We weren’t fixed to open fight—not a gun amongst us—them -all armed. The cattle commenced to run, and everybody flew in to -turn ’em and mill ’em. While we were at it, Uncle Hank rode up to me -and hollered that the Flying M men were coming—and there was -Marchbanks and the whole outfit. The rustlers cut and run for it.” - -“What shooting was that we just heard, d’you reckon?” - -“The colonel and two of his men went after the rustlers—out yonder. -They must have overhauled ’em.” - -Burch rode on with the milling cattle, while Slim and Hilda pulled -out. Presently Uncle Hank came to her and told her to go to the -house and rest. - -“Oh, I couldn’t, Uncle Hank!” she declared. “Let me stay.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - ANOTHER CHANCE - - -As the afternoon wore on, Hilda, helping to gather strays, watching -always the westward trail for Pearse, began to lose hope. The -colonel had not come back from his chase of the rustlers, but his -men were here; again Uncle Hank came to her to say that they were -full-handed now—no need for her to half kill herself; she’d better -get to the house, wash up and have something to eat. - -With her eyes on the way down which Pearse might have come, she -said, in a discouraged tone: - -“I’ll go out just this once more; then I will give it up and ride to -the house; I suppose my face does need washing. I don’t feel as if I -could eat any supper. But I’ll be glad to get to bed to-night.” - -She rode alone, and very slowly. The whole broad plain was beginning -to glow with sunset. But Hilda had no eyes for the glories of the -sky; all she could see was the empty trail that stretched toward the -golden rim in the west. Pearse hadn’t come—or she’d missed him. Back -of her, as she halted, was a break of the creek—a deep, shadowy -place of willows and wild plum. Well—she’d go down there and wash -her face—she knew from the way Uncle Hank had looked at her that -washing was badly needed. But when she turned her pony she saw that -some one else was there; a horse was drinking at the creek; its -rider looked sharply around as she came down the slope. - -It was very dusky in the hollow. For a moment she wondered if she -hadn’t stumbled onto one of the rustlers, or even overhauled Colonel -Marchbanks, who had gone after them. Then the man pulled up his -pony’s head, wheeled it and came toward her. She was in full light, -he in shadow; she could only see that he was a big, broad-shouldered -fellow, fair-haired, in the ordinary cowboy dress, and she believed -him to be some one she had never seen before until he came close, -lifting his hat, with: - -“Why, it _is_ Hilda—and I believe you don’t know me!” - -“Oh, Pearse!” In the first shock of delight, the relief from the -long sense of disappointment, Hilda forgot her flying hair, her -dust-streaked face. “Oh, Pearse—oh, Pearse!” - -He put his pony in close enough to shake hands, smiling at her a -little oddly. And, all at once, she was shy of him, after all. He -looked so terribly grown up. No, he wasn’t her Boy-On-The-Train any -more. It made her catch her breath to remember the five days in the -cyclone cellar, when he’d played games with her, and even taken a -sort of hand at being a princely fugitive while she was a princess. -This tall, dignified young man was different, too, from the big boy -with the grouch who brought the Sunday pony back to her that time on -the trail coming from El Capitan. - -“How did you get here without my seeing you?” she asked, a little -breathlessly. “I was watching—right where you said—as well as I -could. We’ve had a stampede, and—well, I guess you might call it -rustlers—the Marchbanks cattle that we were pasturing on the -Sorrows.” - -“Yes. I know.” Pearse gave her another of those queer looks. But he -let it go at that and finished: “I circled around the short-cut to -get here. Didn’t want to be seen.” - -“Who—who didn’t you want to see you, Pearse?” Hilda asked humbly. -“Uncle Hank?” - -He shook his head. - -“Not that I’d mind going over to the ranch and speaking to him -to-day. I’m in no trouble. I’d not be asking anything of him. It’s -Marchbanks that I don’t want to see me this time, or know I’m in -Lame Jones County.” - -“Oh,” said Hilda. Then, “Listen, Pearse. Pull back in here, if you -mean to keep out of sight.” - -Hoof-beats coming from two directions on the trail. Hilda and -Pearse, drawn close in the shelter of the willows, saw the big gray -pony that Colonel Marchbanks rode splash through the creek. Just on -the further side he stopped. The other rider came on. As Hilda -peered through the screening branches, she saw the young fellow that -she’d been sure was Fayte Marchbanks pull up and meet the rider of -the gray pony. - -“Fayte!” she heard the colonel call. The young man jerked off his -hat in a sarcastic bow and answered, hardily: - -“It’s nobody else, Dad.” - -“Where do you think you’re going?” the colonel snarled. “Turn that -pony and ride after the men you were helping to rob me. Go with -them. You can’t stay here.” - -“You’re mistaken there.” Fayte spoke confidently, but there was fear -in the glance that flickered to his father’s face. “I was with those -men, all right. But we didn’t get the cattle. I’m staying with -what’s mine.” - -“Yours?” The colonel’s tone was loud, furious. “You haven’t got a -cent but what I give you. You—” - -“Just so.” Fayte had out his tobacco and was rolling a cigarette. -Hilda saw how the fingers shook, but his eyes were impudent. “That’s -the way you look at it. You treat me like a child. I’m not standing -for it. A man of my age has debts that he doesn’t care to go to his -daddy with. If you’d give me what belongs to me—I wouldn’t try to -take it.” - -“You’ve got a big idea of what belongs to you,” the colonel growled. -“Get out of my sight. What do you suppose Pearsall and the others -are saying, back there?” - -“Quién sabe?” Fayte shrugged, but he threw away the cigarette he had -not even attempted to light. “Hadn’t we better ride back -together—show ’em it’s all right?” - -He still spoke confidently, and started his pony forward with a -swing, but the watchers both recognized his relief as the colonel, -after a little hesitation, wheeled his heavier mount into the trail -after him. They went off quarreling—but they went together. - -Hilda and Pearse sat on their ponies, hidden, where they were, till -the sound of hoofs died away, then rode out. Pearse glanced about, -and said, uncomfortably: - -“We won’t have much time together, Hilda; I’ve got to be on my way. -But I’ll ride along with you in the direction of the house. You need -to get home.” - -Slowly they took a little cross-cut Hilda knew of. Pearse spoke -again, frowning: - -“I’d rather not have seen or heard that, myself. You see, Hilda, the -colonel’s a member of the Cattlemen’s Protective Association; my -company’s in it, too, of course, and I’m here representing them. -We’ve run up against crooked stuff that Fayte Marchbanks was -connected with before, and we always have to back away from it, -because of the colonel. Anyhow I’ll make my report; and they won’t -move because it concerns the colonel’s own cattle, and he’ll have to -settle it as a family affair.” - -“You—you said when I saw you on the trail, that time you brought -Sunday back, that you knew Maybelle Marchbanks.” Hilda was, -unconsciously, trying to bring some more personal interest into the -talk. “I used to know her over here in Lame Jones County.” - -“Yes.” - -“Do you like her?” - -“Oh,” negligently, “I hardly know her enough to say. There’s mighty -little doing between our ranch and the Marchbanks place.” - -“Is she very pretty?” Hilda asked the girl’s question, and reddened -as Pearse answered, with a smile: - -“You can tell whether she’s pretty or not by Fayte’s looks—they’re a -good deal alike.” - -Hilda thought Maybelle might be very good-looking, indeed, but some -instinct kept her from saying so. - -“Are there other young folks over where you’re living now?” She put -it rather wistfully. - -“Yes, plenty of them,” returned Pearse, and somehow Hilda felt -chilled. - -“Who?” - -“Oh, most of the ranches have young folks on them. Our manager has a -niece visiting him just now, from Galveston. She plays the piano -beautifully.” - -Hilda—tired, bedraggled, a truant at the music lessons—suddenly -hated that girl from Galveston—and was ashamed of herself for the -hatred—and couldn’t be content till she had more details for that -hatred to feed on. - -“Is she pretty?” - -“Our manager’s niece? Yes. Very.” - -“Does she know Fayte Marchbanks?” - -“Why, yes—I suppose she does.” - -“Does she like him?” - -“Why, Hilda—what possesses my little pal? Miss Esmond is a young -lady—you understand—a grown young lady. Fayte Marchbanks has called -on her once or twice since she’s been at the ranch. I think she knew -him in Galveston. He speaks good Spanish, she’s traveled a whole lot -in Old Mexico and likes to talk to some one who speaks the language -well. That’s all there is to it. Most of the nice girls out our -way—young ladies, I mean, of course—keep Fayte Marchbanks at a -distance, I think.” - -They all knew each other; they spoke languages fluently; they had -unforbidden companionship with Pearse, and he with them. She was an -exile from it all. - -“I never get to go anywhere or see anybody,” said Hilda, gathering -up her reins as though to start her pony ahead faster. “I haven’t -got any friends of my own age.” - -“You haven’t?” groped Pearse, taken aback—“I thought you told me -about youngsters on the Capadine ranch that you played with.” - -There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence after that “youngsters,” -a silence in which Hilda was conscious mostly of a tired, aching -body and smarting cheeks. Then she spoke again, in a small choked -voice: - -“I must be getting home.” - -“I’ll ride as far as I dare with you,” said Pearse, alert, -concerned, but all in the dark. “I wish we could have had more of a -visit together.” - -“Oh!” Hilda turned on him tear-blinded, angry eyes, “you needn’t -bother to come any further. I can just play with youngsters, I -suppose!” She lifted the rein and was off at a gallop, and she never -looked back to see how he took that blow. - -She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t look back. But, after the first, -she went very slowly. Any one who’d wanted to could have overtaken -her in a minute. Almost walking her pony that way made her late. -Supper was over. She went in, head down, moving with dragging steps. -She felt beaten and bruised; sunburned till she was almost in a -fever. To these things she was more or less accustomed; a night of -sound sleep would put them right; but the wounds of that interview -with Pearse were new and terrifying; the sting of chagrin that it -had left upon the face of her spirit was intolerable. That parting -cut she had aimed at him was, by some cruel magic, cleaving her own -heart now. It ached and bled. How could she ever bear it? - -She washed up, stumbled into Sam Kee’s kitchen and sat down at his -little table to eat the supper he had saved for her. The old -Chinaman turned from the stove, where he was stirring something, -intending to give her one of his grumbling scoldings. When he saw -how worsted she looked, how she sipped at her coffee and ate almost -nothing, he went instead and fetched a little dish of lemon jelly -from the pantry, saying, more in sympathy than reproach: - -“Sam Kee tell you blue horse debbil. Tell you he kill you.” - -“I had to ride him,” murmured Hilda absently. - -Oh, it hurt dreadfully to be angry at Pearse—to feel bitter toward -him. If she had a chance to talk with him now—only for a minute—only -a minute—she would put her pride in her pocket and make it all right -at any cost. - -She shoved the lemon jelly away; then, catching Sam Kee’s -crestfallen look, drew it back and ate a little of it. - -“That’s all, Sam,” she said, trying to smile. “Can’t eat any more -now. Too tired. Go to bed now.” - -But as she was on her way to the stair’s foot, Hank’s voice called -to her from the office: - -“Come in here a minute, Pettie—I’ve got something to tell you that -won’t keep till morning.” - -She went in and sat down on the low stool near his chair, leaning -over against his arm. Every line of her slim figure drooped; the -arms hung listlessly at her sides. - -“Pettie!” he said, in quick alarm. “Anything the matter, honey?” - -“Oh, I stayed out too long. I’m perfectly dog tired. That’s all.” - -“Umm-humm,” agreed the old man gently, “I should think you would be. -When I went to the corral this evening I seen what horse it was you -rode to _Tres Piños_.” - -Eyes down, Hilda waited for the reproof. She was at that dead ebb, -physical, mental, emotional, that could expect nothing but blame, -defeat. - -“Mose was the only one that could get there,” she said, lifelessly, -offering it as a statement, not a defense. - -“Why, I’m not mad at you about it, honey.” The old man’s voice was -soft. “I’m proud of you. You asked for the horse in the first -place—he’s your’n now.” - -A little tingle of delight stirred the flat level of Hilda’s -depression. - -“You said he wouldn’t be fit for a lady for three years,” she began, -and then broke off—“but then I’m not a lady. I suppose I’m just one -of the youngsters. I can’t play decently on the piano, or—speak good -Spanish—or any of those things. Maybe I never will.” - -Uncle Hank looked at her in blank amazement. When he spoke there was -sort of a reluctance in his voice. - -“The—er—what I wanted to say to you just now has got something to do -with that—” - -She looked up at him, a little startled. - -“—That matter of education, I mean. Colonel Marchbanks rode in -pretty soon after you left the pasture. Brought that boy of his with -him; made some kind of a talk about Fayte having been mistaken in -the day he wanted them cows moved, but that he’d give the boy orders -to meet him here and to help him and—well, Pettie, what is a man to -say? Best we can do is to forget that we had any suspicions. He’s -gone on now to Amarillo—to be back here in about a week.” - -“Yes?” - -Hilda had dropped her head once more; she did not raise it now. -After a short pause, in which Hank regarded anxiously the bit of her -face which he could see, he went on: - -“The colonel’s taken a great liking to you, Pettie. He praised you -high.” - -This was Uncle Hank’s medicine for her depression. She managed a -smile. But he was not done. The tone in which he proceeded suggested -careful restraint. He did not look at her. - -“Marchbanks has asked for you to go and stay at his ranch for a -year—or as much longer as we’re willing to have you—and study under -a good teacher with his daughter, Maybelle. Course, I wasn’t making -any such arrangements as that; but I talked it over with him—on a -business basis, you know. We settled what your board would be and -what our share of the teacher’s pay ought to come to—if you went.” - -Every line in Hilda’s figure had begun to change. She fetched a long -breath. The dusty feet were drawn back under her; slowly the -drooping shoulders straightened; her head lifted; in the eyes that -sought the old man’s face light was growing. - -“Oh,” she breathed—“oh, Uncle Hank!” - -Hank had expected at least some reluctance on his girl’s part to -leave the ranch. She’d had solid schooling, gone flying through the -grammar grades, was well grounded in all the essentials now. To -every proposition for further education she’d always said that she -expected to be a ranchwoman, and, beyond what she had already, -reading would have to take the place of schooling. But now, as he -studied the tremulous face, he saw there would be a different -answer, and he said quietly: - -“That teacher’s a college graduate—the best to be had. She could get -you ready for any college in the country, I reckon.” - -Hilda lowered her eyes hastily. - -“I—I liked Maybelle,” she said, speaking very low. “Isn’t it—a -pretty name—Uncle Hank?” - -“Right nice,” agreed Hank, suppressing a twinge—his girl, like any -other girl, was looking for young companionship; that’s what made -her eager for the New Mexico trip, and change. - -Hilda, her eyes held defensively down, was flying back in thought to -that unspoken prayer of hers for another minute—only a -minute—another chance to pocket her pride and make it all right with -Pearse. Hank watched her, puzzled. - -“Er—you’re pleased, ain’t you, honey? You want to go—don’t you?” - -Hilda started, and the look flashed up at him was almost like -terror. - -“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Why—doesn’t it come in splendidly? Aren’t you -glad?” - -“Well,” said the old man mildly, “seeing that it makes you -that-a-way, I reckon I am. You see,” he took the slim hands that -came out anxiously toward him, “you see, when the colonel first -named it to me, I felt sort of doubtful, but now I know. You’ve -showed me.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - YOUNG WINGS - - -There was no going to bed for Hilda now. Once out of Uncle Hank’s -sight, she turned and ran noiselessly through the dim, empty, -clean-smelling kitchen to the cyclone cellar, lighted her candle and -began, with feverish eagerness, a letter to Pearse. She was tingling -with a joy that had to express itself; all thought of her -unsatisfactory talk with Pearse was swept away or changed. He’d be -as glad of this chance to see her, where they could openly be -friends, as she was. - -Out over the page bubbled her child’s heart, which was scarcely yet -the young girl’s heart, accusing herself—“I was horrid”—“I know -you’ll forgive me”—“Just cross and tired”—“and hate to have to meet -you on the sly.” She was almost drowned in the wonderfulness of the -thought that at last they were to be together without deceit and -without fear. The delight of it singing in her veins, she wrote with -impulsive confidence. “Won’t it be lovely not to have to hide or -tell any fibs, and to have our visit out at last? I have so many -books I want to talk over with you. I have read all of Dickens—have -you? Which one do you think is the best? Of course the critics -praise ‘David Copperfield,’ but I love ‘Tale of Two Cities.’ I can’t -ever read that last chapter without crying, and I’ve read it very, -very many times.” - -So, in sheer joy of heart, the letter ran on and on. It was nearly -ten o’clock when it was finally stamped and addressed, and she -slipped upstairs to find Burch in the front hall calling excitedly -for Uncle Hank, who was just going up the stairs to his own room. - -“I tell you I saw it just as plain as I see that lamp. Buster saw -it, too.” - -“I reckon it was the lamp—the shine of it through the winder, you -know,” Hank argued calmly. “Don’t disturb your auntie.” - -“What was it, Buddie?” inquired Hilda. - -“A fire, out there in the brush by the irrigating ditch,” Burch -replied, glad to have a listener who might display some excitement. -“Buster and I were coming over from the bunk-house, and we saw it in -that vine there, all blazing. We ran as hard as we could and -hollered to the boys to bring a bucket—and just before we got there -it suddenly went out.” - -“Why, that’s queer,” laughed Hilda nervously. How careless of her to -have forgotten the open shutter! - -The letter was sent. She could not put it into the general mail. The -secrecy she felt obliged to maintain brought some small twinges of -conscience; yet it contributed an added thrill, too. She gave the -missive to Sam Kee and asked him to post it when he went in to Dawn -the next day. - -There followed a time of anxious waiting. It seemed to Hilda that -discovery would be certain if the letter came after she was gone and -had to be forwarded. It worried her all the time she was getting -ready, but the day before Colonel Marchbanks was due from Amarillo -an envelope, addressed to Hilda in the fine, bold hand, arrived. As -Uncle Hank sorted the letters over and apportioned them, she felt -that the appearance of this one must shout aloud to him the name and -all the marvelous, romantic history of its writer. She snatched it -so swiftly that she had to be called back to get a magazine and -picture postal card which completed her portion. It was only in her -own room, with the door locked, that she dared open and read. It -began abruptly: - -“Well, Hilda, I’m afraid you and I can see very little of each other -while you’re in Encinal County. So far as I am concerned, you might -almost as well be at the Three Sorrows.” - -Hilda stopped there. She wasn’t going to cry. Nothing to cry about. -Her glance came back to the letter. There was one more sheet. She -turned the page and read: - -“I probably didn’t make it clear to you about how I stand with the -Marchbanks family. I get along without the people at the Alamositas, -and they worry along without me; I couldn’t go to see you there, -Hilda, or take rides with you, and I think you will stand better -with them if you don’t tell them that you and I are friends—or -acquainted at all, for that matter.” - -At about this point of the reading, Hilda raised her head and looked -around. Her eyes were bright and dry, and her cheeks glowed like -fire. This was Pearse’s answer to her childish, impulsive letter, to -the reminders of the time she sheltered him in the cyclone cellar. -Hilda was as generous as an Arab. She didn’t want his gratitude—but, -oh, she burned with an intolerable humiliation at this lack of -return for her friendship! And yet the letter was not unfriendly. In -conclusion, he spoke earnestly, urgently, of the value of a good -education; said how sorry he was that his own had been broken off -early, and how it delighted him to know that she was to have better -opportunities than his had been. This was the closing paragraph: - -“I was awfully sorry to learn from your letter that you were so -lonely, and had no young friends. But your coming over to the -Alamositas will make that all right. They say Maybelle’s a very nice -girl, and I hear they have a great deal of young company at the -ranch; only, little girl as you are, I’m glad Fayte Marchbanks isn’t -at home now, or likely to be back, it seems, while you are there. -He’s not the sort of fellow for you to make a friend of.” - -That was about all. He hadn’t thought worth while to say anything -about the books she wanted to discuss with him. He might have -written about them. They could have corresponded while she was at -the Alamositas, anyhow. She drew her wounded girl’s pride about her -with the declaration that she would never mention Pearse again to -any one, never write to him again nor make any effort to see him. -Then she thought miserably that this was what he had advised her to -do in the letter. Her heart sank to the ultimate zero. - -Meantime Hank had his own worries. A year’s stay on a big, -prosperous ranch like the Alamositas, within easy distance of more -than one small New Mexican town—and he knew well how it went with -young folks in a ranching community, where it is out of the question -to draw any hard-and-fast social line. Quick courtships—even the -ill-considered marriages of boys and girls who were scarcely more -than children—those were the things that came about under such an -arrangement. He was full of anxiety for his girl; she must not be -sent unwarned into that sort of thing. He finally mustered up -courage to go to Miss Valeria and say that, under the circumstances, -he felt she ought to talk to Hilda about “goin’ with the boys” and -such things before they let her leave for New Mexico. - -The little lady listened to him with a bewildered air, which finally -gave way to an embarrassed laugh. When he’d said his say, she -dismissed the whole matter airily with: - -“But, Mr. Pearsall, the child isn’t ‘out’ yet.” - -“No,” agreed Hank seriously, “but she’s a-goin’ out to-morrow, when -Marchbanks comes through for her.” - -“You don’t understand me,” Miss Val said. “You don’t get my meaning. -At home, in New York, we used that expression—” She broke off, drew -her brows a little, and the bright black eyes behind the glasses -studied the ranch boss a moment before she went on: “Hilda’s a -schoolgirl—she goes to Mr. Marchbanks’ as a schoolgirl. She’s not -out in society. Naturally, she won’t be thinking of any of those -matters you mention. I certainly shouldn’t bring them up in talking -to her—it might put foolish ideas into her head.” - -“You won’t take it on you to speak to her?” Hank asked. - -“Certainly not. Those people—the Marchbankses—have a daughter near -Hilda’s age. Of course, Maybelle Marchbanks isn’t out yet, either. I -remember the child when she was here, visiting the Capadine ranch. -Mrs. Marchbanks can be trusted, I am sure, with the management of -the social affairs of two school-girls. Why, Mr. Pearsall, in New -York we shouldn’t be thinking, much less speaking, of such things in -connection with Hilda for—for some time yet. It is the custom there, -you know, to introduce a girl to society—when she is through with -her schooling, and has had, perhaps, some travel abroad—at a ball or -other large affair. They tell me that now a luncheon or a tea is -more usual. I haven’t begun to trouble my head yet about which would -be nicest for Hilda—when the time comes. But I’ll attend to all -that. I’ll attend to it, Mr. Pearsall. Don’t give it another -thought.” - -Hank backed away, nodding. When Miss Val began talking New York— -Well, he could hear her words; but, as for getting any sense out of -them— - -“I’ve got to do it myself,” he reflected, with some misgiving. -“Lord, send me the right words.” - -He was fumbling after those right words on the evening of that day, -as he sat beside Hilda in the afterglow on the side door-stone—the -spot where he and she had lingered so often to exchange deep -confidences. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was -like a young bird with trembling wings lifted for flight. Yet there -was pathos in her face too. And to that he had not the clew of -Pearse Masters’ letter in her pocket. - -“Pettie,” he began, looking out over the plain to where the planet -of love hung luminous in the sky, “I spoke to your aunt about saying -some little things to you that ought to come to a girl easier from -her women-folks than from any one else; and—she said best not to put -it into your head. Now, honey-girl, I know that if your own folks -don’t do it, there’ll be them that will—and anybody that does, will -be the wrong person.” - -There was a startled silence between them. Hilda turned eyes that -were a bit frightened to his grave face. She had understood at once -what it was of which he wished to speak. - -“The wrong person?” She echoed him falteringly. - -“Yes,” he said, “the wrong person.” He looked fondly at the slim -shape beside him. Hilda’s head was now turned away; he got only the -outline of one thin, brown cheek; he couldn’t see the look that was -in the big, black, long-lashed eyes—nor that Hilda had turned them -away from him because she herself was afraid that look was in them. -“You’re only a little girl—as yet,” he repeated it, as though by -repetition he meant to make it true. “And still we’re bound to -remember that there’ll be plenty of young fellers over there to -notice you—and for you to notice. That’s what I’m trying to speak to -you about, honey—and I ain’t finding it easy.” - -A quick glance from Hilda; she hated to trouble Uncle Hank this way. -She tried to help him out with: - -“Fayte’s not going to be there—at first, anyhow. His father said he -was sending him into Old Mexico—on business—he might not be back for -nearly a year.” - -Uncle Hank put that by with a little wave of the hand. Fayte’s -connection with the rustlers was understood by every man on the -Sorrows; his father’s lame explanation that the boy had been -deceived by the gang was accepted silently. This sending him off to -Mexico till the talk blew over was the best Marchbanks could do. - -“I ain’t thinking about that feller,” Uncle Hank said. “You’d not -make a friend of him—though in front of his folks you’d have to -treat him nice. I trust you to handle that. You’re young, Pettie, -but you’ve got good judgment. Just take what I’m saying as mostly a -warning to any young person going out among strangers. Your way is -paid over there. I wouldn’t take nothing for you as a gift from -Marchbanks, though he wanted me to. I intended you should be free -and independent, like your father’s daughter ought to be. Anything -you don’t like—you can just pick up and come home.” - -Hilda’s hand went instinctively to her pocket. Uncle Hank talked a -good deal like the letter there. - -“Oh, well,” she said, half bitterly, “if I’m such a child, Aunt Val -must be right; you won’t need to talk to me about—about these things -for years yet.” - -Hank could not remember when Hilda had ever spoken to him like that. -He couldn’t know that she was answering Pearse’s letter, making her -little stand of maiden dignity with Pearse. - -“Think so?” he asked gently. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Pettie. -You’ll find yourself a grown-up young lady all of a sudden—and then -maybe some of the things you have allowed to hang about will make -trouble.” - -Hilda’s only answer was a sort of inarticulate sound. Presently the -old man spoke again. - -“These here common working people marry very young, Pettie,” holding -the slim wrist and tapping his own palm with her hand. “That’s -natural, and right enough. You see how they live; there’s nothing to -keep them from marriage. They don’t have to have education, like -Charley Van Brunt’s daughter. I see now that I myself didn’t look at -this thing right; seemed to me you was getting—or had got—pretty -well all the learning you’d need—the reading of books and such to -sort of fill out. I thought you felt that way, too, but the way -you’ve took up with this idea of going over to the Marchbanks place -shows me different.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank!” Hilda protested, in a misery of self-condemnation. -What would he think if he knew that most of the rapture over the -idea of going to the Alamositas had been because of what he’d call -“a young feller,” who was working on an adjoining ranch? And she -couldn’t tell him any part of it. The whole cyclone-cellar matter -would have to come out, if she told him any. And it wasn’t her -secret. It concerned Pearse. Pearse had a right to say whether it -should be told or not. She didn’t examine very closely into her own -feeling as to whether she would have told Uncle Hank if she’d felt -free to. She let that go. He was speaking: - -“I’ve always been so sort of drove for ready cash—and not liking to -sell more cattle than needful, or to hitch any mortgages onto the -old Sorrows. You haven’t had a heap of things you ought.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank—” the girl broke out again; he silenced her gently, -and went on: - -“But you have had pretty good schooling, and I do think that by the -time you’re through your work out yonder I can have the money to -send you to college. Then, when you’re graduated and got your papers -to show for it, we’ll talk about a European tour. Miss Valery seems -to think that would be about the figger. I believe we can cover it -for you. The ranch is doing better every year. It’s coming up, -Pettie, hand over fist. If that railroad should go through, as it -seems it might, we’ll all be rich before you know it. Even if it -don’t, I haven’t a doubt but I’ll be ready to put up the money—your -money, of course, you understand, girl—for you and your aunt to go -a-traveling, and for the biggest kind of a _baile_—or whatever -shindig Miss Valery speaks for—when you git back—a young lady. Ain’t -that a bright prospect?” - -The childish hand, hard from much horseback riding, with a good firm -grip in its slim fingers, trembled in his, as Hilda answered: - -“Yes, Uncle Hank; I’ll do my best!” - -He seemed scarcely to hear her. - -“You’re going out there—plumb away from me—to a new life, at least -for a spell. We don’t neither of us know what you may run onto, -honey. I’m just obliged to feel a—to—well, to fix it so’t you’d see -that your Uncle Hank would understand—do you see what I’m driving -at, Pettie?” - -“Yes, I know.” - -“Well, then, I’m a-going to tell you some things about myself—things -I’ve never spoke to any one about. I expect you don’t know your -Uncle Hank was married?” - -“Yes, Mrs. Johnnie told me—that time she made the first dresses for -me.” - -Hilda spoke low, for Mrs. Johnnie was even then at the Sorrows, -making the sewing machine hum while she got Hilda’s outfit ready. -Mrs. Johnnie had stood out for one “party dress” and constructed it -from some uncut silks Miss Valeria had. That party dress, and some -things Mrs. Johnnie had tried on, seemed to make Uncle Hank’s -warnings not unreasonable. He stroked the little hand he held with -steady fingers. - -“She died,” he repeated, “but it wasn’t that that broke my heart so; -any man might lose his wife by death.” He was silent a long minute; -then he began on a louder note, as though resolved to go through -with a painful thing: “You see, Pettie, she was a girl that I knew -back where I was raised, in the Tennessee mountains. It’s what -happened to her that I want to tell you, so’s you get my meaning.” - -He sat silent for a moment. Hilda waited breathlessly. Then he went -on: - -“Mattie’s folks was well to do. They sent her down to the valley -school—sorta like our sending you over to the Alamositas; see, -Pettie? She ran away with a feller, from the school. It was a boy we -all knowed—Judge Moseley’s son. He was in school himself at the -time. She was just a little thing, younger than you are now. I had -my mother, and the farm and the raising of my younger brothers and -sisters on my hands; hadn’t aimed to name marriage to Mattie at that -time; but I never thought of any one else; and when she ran off with -that Moseley boy, seemed to me my heart was broke smack in two. I -got things settled for Ma and the young ’uns and lit out to -Texas—that’s where a Tennessee boy goes usually to better himself. I -done well. My part of it ain’t what I want you to notice, Pettie. -It’s Mattie’s part that means something to a girl. It was seven -years from that time I left Tennessee till I saw her again. And how -do you think I saw her next time?” - -He glanced up. Hilda was all eyes, all attention. - -“Her and Alf came through my ranch—movers. You know what that means, -Pettie. We don’t get so many of them on the Sorrows, being off the -main line of travel, but you’ve seen ’em—a ramshackle old wagon, a -ga’nted team, a man on the driver’s seat, looking out ahead of him, -clear into the nevertheless, never noticing that the woman and -children he’s dragging around with him from place to place—no home, -no comforts, no nothing—are just about perishing on his hands. Yes, -that’s what Alf Moseley had come to be—a mover. He had the itchy -foot. You can’t do nothing for one of them fellers. And Mattie—at -twenty-four or five—Mattie was an old, broke-down woman. - -“They had but one child—and Mattie had named him for me—Henry -Pearsall Moseley. They stayed at my place longer than movers usually -stops. I offered Alf a partnership, but he was aimin’ to strike -toward the Rio Grande, and what I could offer wouldn’t hold him. But -they stayed long enough, even that time, for my heart to get just -wrapped around that little feller that was named for me. He was four -years old, and the finest boy of his age that I ever put my eyes -on—bar none. Well, after that they come and went, as you may say. No -harm to Alf, he didn’t think no more of his own comfort than he did -of the horses he drove or poor Mattie. Except for the time they went -into the bottom country, the baby, Harry, throve well. They’d use my -ranch for a stopping place when they couldn’t git no further—had -lost a horse or such. And finally, at the end of the Brazos bottom -trip, when Alf was dead—climate in there killed him—and all but -killed Mattie—she sent for me, and I went and got her and the boy. - -“We was married before we started on the return trip. It was the -only arrangement to make. Mattie—any girl that thinks she’ll run -away from school and marry some lively boy that she don’t know how -he’ll turn out—well, I wish such a girl could have seen and heard my -poor Mattie on her trip back to the ranch with me. She never mended -in health, Pettie. I done everything I could, even to sending her -back east—and it mighty nigh pulled the heart out of my breast to -part with the boy. He hugged me ’round the neck with his little -short arms and promised he’d take good care of his mother and bring -her right back to me as soon as she was well.” - -“Oh, Uncle Hank!” whispered Hilda, leaning her head against his arm. - -“But she never come back. She died. At the time, I wasn’t where I -could have the boy with me, as it seemed. Jeff Aiken—husband of -Mattie’s sister—wrote that he had the little chap in school, that he -was doing terrible well, and that it was Mattie’s wish that he -should stay there. I sent the money for him, same as I’d been -sending it to Mattie. Everything I had was for him—till— But that -ain’t what I started out to tell you. That’s just an old man’s -sorrow, and the thing that broke me all up and took my ranch and -left me the lonesomest somebody in Texas.” - -“You hadn’t any one left, had you, Uncle Hank?” Hilda found voice to -say finally, when it seemed the old man would not go on. - -“No. I hadn’t nobody. But I’ll tell you how that come, some other -time, Pettie. What I’m trying to get you to notice now is that my -poor Mattie ruined her life when she ran away from school to marry. -She’d never have took Alf Moseley when she was older and had her -full sense. It was the thing being secret—meeting Alf out without -nobody knowing—and thinking it was great—that got her into it. -That’s what I’m warning you against.” - -Hilda nodded. She couldn’t get out a word, so she just nodded. What -would Uncle Hank think if he knew about Pearse Masters and the -cyclone cellar? But that was in the past. And suddenly the knowledge -that she would have been glad of secret meetings with Pearse over at -the Alamositas—that it was only his letter, showing that there was -to be nothing of the sort, that had taken all the glow out of -going—brought the tears. Uncle Hank was very penitent when he saw -them. - -“Don’t cry, honey,” he begged, patting her arm. “Nothing to cry -about. All these troubles I been talking of is in the past. Mebbe I -shouldn’t ’a’ named ’em to you. You got bright prospects ahead. -You’ll be mighty happy over there, with a nice girl of your own age -to go with, and a first-class teacher.” - -“Let’s give it up, Uncle Hank,” she said chokingly. “I don’t want to -go. I don’t care about the education or—or anything that there is -over there in New Mexico. Really, I don’t. I’d rather stay here—at -the Sorrows—with you.” - -Hilda wiped her eyes and showed as clear a countenance as she could -and drew up to face him. One of the boys came whistling along the -path from the bunk-house. Sam Kee opened his kitchen door and threw -out a pan of water. - -“No, Pettie—no, you’re just tired—and a little scared to-night. -Uncle Hank’s seen what it is you really do want—what you ought to -have, anyhow. A chance to try your wings—to try your wings—” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - AT THE ALAMOSITAS - - -After all, going away from home for the first time when you’re -nearly seventeen is a thrilling business. Hilda was the sort to get -joy even out of small things—and the change from the Three Sorrows -to the Alamositas, though it was but from one great ranch to -another, was not small. - -The Marchbanks ranch, most often called the Flying M, for its brand, -got its Spanish name of Alamositas, “little cottonwood,” from the -number of those trees which grew tall all along the Juanajara River, -which wound sluggishly through many of its pastures. At the -Alamositas, headquarters was almost like a small village, with a big -main house of adobe, two-story, built Spanish-fashion, around a -court; numerous bunk-houses for the men who worked for the -Marchbankses; manager’s quarters, a blacksmith shop and the ranch -supply store; standing over across the trail, opposite the front -gate; inviting all sorts of comers and goers. - -Hilda was given a large upstairs room all to herself; it adjoined -Maybelle’s, and she thought that would be nice, remembering vividly -the plump little girl with whom she had played dolls in the tree -roots on the lawn at the Sorrows. She found Maybelle Marchbanks -still plump, and quite pretty; a year older than Hilda, she was very -competent at all household matters, neat as wax, dressed quite like -a young lady and with a great deal of ornament. She could ride, of -course, but not as Hilda could, and she left the interests of the -ranch to the men. She seemed to have forgotten all about that -earlier time, and even when Hilda reminded her she was vague with: - -“Oh, yes, I remember I was over in Lame Jones County once when I was -a little girl—did I visit at your house?” It seemed to Hilda that so -many interesting things had happened to this girl that it was -perfectly natural she should have forgotten. For from the first -morning when Miss Ferguson opened lessons, Hilda sensed the -cross-pull that there was here. The lively interfering tide came -right over from the store porch, where young fellows in -bullion-trimmed sombreros, high-heeled boots and clanking spurs, -were apt to be on hand to intercept the girls if one of them ran -across on an errand. And there was always an errand, when Maybelle -saw any one she liked there. Sometimes when she didn’t do that, one -or more of the boys sauntered across to the ranch house, even looked -in at the schoolroom window to say hello and ask when lessons would -be over. - -Miss Ferguson, the teacher, did the best she could. Hilda realized -at once that here was some one who knew twice as much as Miss Belle -or Miss Bobbie, who had taught Uncle Hank’s academy—a really good -teacher from a well-known woman’s college in the East. But Mrs. -Marchbanks didn’t seem to care how much the lessons were -interrupted. It was almost as though she put greater emphasis on the -girls having a good time. She had two lively, spoiled children of -her own, Tod, the boy, seven, and Jinnie, five. Her immediate -interest fastened upon Hilda’s looks. She had followed on to the -room the first day, gone in with the two girls, sat down on the bed -with Tod and Jinnie on each side of her, and gazed at the new member -of her household with very admiring eyes. - -“Hilda, dear—I’m going to call you Hilda, of course—you ought always -to wear white.” - -Hilda was pulling on a fresh blouse, making herself tidy for lunch. - -“I don’t mean just a shirt-waist—a thin dress, with your arms -showing through a little. They are too sunburned now—you’ve been -careless with them—but I can soon take that off with buttermilk. I -would just love to see you dressed in a thin white dress with a dark -red flower in your hair.” - -“Tod’s freckled like a hop-toad,” little red-headed Jinnie piped up, -suddenly. “Muvver doesn’t take the freckles off of him with -buttermilk. Could you, Muvver? Would they come off? I ast him once -to let me scrub ’em off wiv sand—but he wouldn’t.” - -“Tod’s freckles don’t matter, Baby,” Mrs. Marchbanks laughed. “Tod’s -not a beautiful young lady like Hilda.” - -“Oh—and I’m not a young lady—yet,” Hilda smiled and blushed, -uncertain yet pleased. - -“Well, I wasn’t prepared to find you quite so grown up, or so -lovely,” Mrs. Marchbanks rose and gathered up her youngsters to go, -“though Fayte told me you were a mighty pretty girl. You and Fayte -are going to be great friends—aren’t you?” - -Hilda didn’t know which way to look. Her confusion made Mrs. -Marchbanks laugh, and she turned at the door to say, “You just wait -till Fayte gets back; I’ll bet there’ll be a thin white dress found -somewhere for you to wear, and a red flower for those dark curls.” - -Maybelle, listening silently, had a curious air; dropping her -eyelids half over her eyes in a way that kept you from seeing any -expression they had in them, but she shut the door after her -stepmother and turned the key. - -“Ma’s silly about Fayte,” she said coolly. “Did you see him over at -your place?” And when Hilda nodded, “I think he’s mighty good -looking—but when I say that, I praise myself. Don’t you think we -look alike, Hilda? I wish he was going to be at home now—we always -have a lot more fun when he’s here.” - -Hilda nodded inclusively. It seemed funny to know so much more than -they seemed to about Fayte’s last visit to Lame Jones County. But, -of course, she would never breathe a word of it to any one here on -the Alamositas. She found herself, like Maybelle, a little sorry -that Fayte wasn’t at home; it would have been interesting to see how -he would meet her. She was pleased when Maybelle remarked, as they -were going downstairs: - -“Pa said he’d sent Fayte to Old Mexico to be gone a year—and I’ll -bet Fayte’ll be back in a week. He and Pa are always having -blow-ups. Ma smooths ’em over for him.” - -It was some days later that Hilda came into the schoolroom one -morning on an argument between Mrs. Marchbanks and the teacher. - -“I want to earn my salary,” Miss Ferguson was saying. “Teaching Tod -and Jinnie doesn’t amount to anything. Such young children oughtn’t -to have more than a half hour in the morning, and I’m not a -kindergarten teacher. But these girls—Hilda’s the kind that could -take a fine education.” - -“Pooh! Hilda Van Brunt’ll be taking a husband—that’s what she’ll be -taking—maybe sooner than any one thinks.” It was almost as though -Mrs. Marchbanks had seen her, and wanted her to hear—almost as -though she were speaking to Hilda herself, as she finished, “A girl -like that is bound to marry young. She’d better hurry up and have -all the good time she can before then. You keep the lessons along, -Miss Ferguson; the girls can learn enough, and enjoy themselves at -the same time.” - -Hilda stole away, rather startled. If Uncle Hank had any idea what -sort of views Mrs. Marchbanks held, would he have sent her, Hilda, -to New Mexico? Well, it was done, and as for enjoying herself—that -was exactly what she would enjoy—herself. So, in those first days, -when there were long rides up into the mountains, for which Mrs. -Marchbanks provided the lunch, and saw no harm in the two girls -having two cowboy escorts, the frequent little gayeties at the house -itself where some young fellows brought over a guitar and sat on the -porch, with Mrs. Marchbanks bringing out lemonade and little cakes -for the lively company—Hilda was sure she was just enjoying herself. -It was lovely to be admired. She couldn’t look into eyes that told -her how pretty she was without her own eyes sparkling. Resentfully -she thought of Pearse Masters, who practically called her a silly -little girl and told her to stay in the schoolroom. Even Uncle -Hank—well, he couldn’t quite have known how things were going to be -over here. This wasn’t what he meant when he talked to her that -night on the door-stone. - -She took this first taste of a girl’s good time into that world of -imagination which would always be hers, dreamed on it, as she always -dreamed on the things that came to her; and she bloomed like a rose -in the bellehood that was hers, for it was plain from the first that -the new girl at the Alamositas carried all before her; Maybelle took -second place. - -Six weeks after she left the Sorrows, Uncle Hank came over. Hilda, -wildly excited, rode in to Juan Chico, the little town where the -railway station was, to meet him and ride out to the ranch with him. -Only six weeks—and he caught his breath as he looked at her. What -was the great change? The persistent flattery of Mrs. Marchbanks, -Maybelle’s example, had made her more careful of her appearance, -yet, even if he had been able to place this, it would not have -accounted for the new light in her eyes, the new confidence in her -manner. Riding out she talked to him almost altogether about her -studies. She was perfectly sincere in that; Hilda had an eager mind, -and she enjoyed the teaching of a woman who could show her that -there was so much more in a mere education than she had ever -thought. And when they got to the Alamositas it seemed just his -little girl Hilda who introduced her Uncle Hank with a true child’s -pride and delight to every member of the household, the cowpunchers, -the very cats and dogs. - -But there was no concealing from Uncle Hank’s keen eyes the position -she had instantly taken among the young men visitors in the house. -That evening on the porch was like other evenings; a lot of boys in -to see them, Maybelle, after a little joking and talk, wandering -away to a quiet corner of the court with one of the callers, but -Hilda surrounded by a noisy, competitive group. - -Mrs. Marchbanks, sitting beside Pearsall at the far end of the -gallery, looked on approvingly. She seemed to expect equal pride and -approval from the old man. - -“Hilda’s a regular heart breaker, Mr. Pearsall,” she sighed. - -“M-m,” grunted Uncle Hank, rather crusty, “I don’t know as I have -much use for the heart-breaking business. I don’t want to see her’n -broke.” - -“Oh—Hilda’s heart is in no danger!” Mrs. Marchbanks laughed a -little. “Look over there. Safety in numbers, Mr. Pearsall. You won’t -have to be uneasy about Hilda’s heart till some one of them cuts all -the others out.” - -“I reckon you’re right.” Uncle Hank looked and smiled in spite of -himself. Three young fellows and Hilda were disputing over the -possibility of dancing in the court there, if two of the others, who -looked sulkily on, would oblige with guitar and harmonica. His girl -was all right, her eyes shining, her gay words flying, as the men -quarreled heartily over who should have the first waltz with her -when one of these reluctant idiots could be got to play a waltz. To -Hank’s fond eyes she looked so very much alive in a world where so -many are but half living—only going through the motions by a sort of -formula—no wonder she was dangerously fascinating. - -“And when _my_ boy gets home,” Mrs. Marchbanks was going on beside -him, “there’ll be another. Fayte will be _frantic_ about Hilda.” - -Hank was only stopping one day. Riding over to the station in the -morning he had a final talk with Hilda, which seemed on the whole -quite satisfactory, though again it gave him cause to smile. - -“Of course, Uncle Hank,” she said demurely, “I understand that you -didn’t mean for me to sit about on the porch with young men and play -grown-up, the way I’m doing here. I didn’t really intend to, myself, -but somehow it—it just seems to happen.” - -She tilted her head on one side and looked across at the old man out -of the corners of such liquid eyes, the up-curled lips were such -threads of scarlet, as inquired of him how affairs of the heart were -to be kept away from even a child of this mettle. - -“I expect you do all right, Pettie. I haven’t a doubt that you never -say a word you wouldn’t be willing for your Uncle Hank to hear,” he -suggested, a bit slyly. - -Hilda caught her breath. Then she glanced up swiftly and surprised a -twinkle in his eyes. - -“You know I don’t—or—or do!” in some confusion. “I get as silly as -the rest of them. Foolishness is all you can talk—it’s all they want -to hear. But, Uncle Hank,” thrusting her pony in beside his to grasp -his hand, enforcing her argument by small tugs on it, “it’s lots of -fun. I’m going to tell you something dreadful about myself. There -were two of them that used to come here a great deal, and they were -awfully good friends. Now they hardly speak to each other, and”—the -voice dropping to an exultant, half-terrified whisper—“I did it.” - -“Hilda—you little skeezicks!” - -He swung onto the train; she waited and waved to him almost till it -was out of sight, then rode rather soberly back to the Alamositas. -She’d necessarily let him go without any hint that a great deal of -her interest in the young fellows she played about with so freely -was a hope that one of them—all of them—would carry the news of her -conquests to another young fellow, Pearse Masters by name, who -hadn’t cared enough about her to even suggest that they might write -each other, since she was living in a house where he could not be a -guest. - -Uncle Hank’s visit changed nothing—he saw nothing to change. Hilda -still studied fitfully, played ardently, endeared herself to her -teacher—and apparently at the same time was endeared with more or -less seriousness to six or eight of the young fellows about her. -Mrs. Marchbanks had a knack for dress and ornament. She pulled -Hilda’s hair down and did it over for her, teaching the girl all the -little tricks that bring out beauty. Hilda, a beauty lover herself, -caught these up easily. She’d never thought much about her own -appearance. Aunt Val’s lectures said nothing about making herself -attractive. Maybelle was the pink of neatness; not a bad example in -that respect for any one to follow; if she used too much perfume and -too many ornaments—why, you didn’t need to imitate her there. And -Maybelle became interesting at once when she admitted that she’d met -Pearse Masters several times at the big dances and picnics to which -every one goes in the ranching country, and that she thought he was -awfully good looking. - -Hilda told herself that she had got over feeling bad about him; her -friendship with Pearse was like a book that you shut and put away on -a high shelf. She didn’t realize, herself, how many times she took -that volume down and glanced into it with a good deal of regret, and -that in spite of the fact that there were plenty of other volumes of -the sort at hand, fairly begging her to read them. - -And one experience was coming nearer, though she didn’t know it. One -day of moving air and mild sun she had ridden over alone to a side -cañon of the small, sluggish Juanajara River, to get resurrection -plants. Her saddle-bags were full of the strange, dry-looking balls -which she would later put in water and see open out green and -prosperous. When she got home Tod Marchbanks met her at the corral, -full of importance over his news. - -“My brother Fayte’s come back from Mexico,” he announced proudly. -“An’ you ought to see the things! He brought me a hair bridle, an’ -Jinnie lots of beads an’ such. Maybelle, he brought her -joolry—Mex’can fildygree—an’ a _scrape_ for Ma, an’ a sombrero for -Pa that’s got a gre’ big silver snake round the crown. Hurry -up—supper’s most ready.” - -Now for the meeting with Fayte Marchbanks! She wondered how he would -carry it off! He must know what they all suspected him of back at -the Sorrows. While she was slipping out of her riding habit and -getting washed, she decided that the new white dress would be the -one to put on. She did her hair very carefully, a little -dissatisfied at its plainness, but timid of adding ornament for fear -of seeming to dress up for the new arrival. Then, when she was ready -and passing Mrs. Marchbanks’s door, that lady looked out and said: - -“Here’s a bunch of red geranium I saved for you, Hilda. It looks so -well in your black hair.” - -“Oh, thank you!” Hilda nestled the fiery blooms in the dark curls -just above the ear. “That’s awfully good of you.” And the two went -downstairs together. - -They were late. Everybody was in the dining-room. Billy Grainger and -two young men from Juan Chico were at the house for supper, but the -first figure that caught Hilda’s eye as she entered the room she -recognized instantly. There was no great change from the defiant, -outlaw personality she remembered. He got up and came straight to -her and was shaking hands before the colonel said: - -“Of course, you young folks know each other?” - -Mrs. Marchbanks, who had been talking to her stepson of Hilda’s -beauty, her many charms and many admirers, gave him a triumphant -glance as she saw the surprise with which he greeted the girl. He -had laughed at her talk, remembering the slim tom-boy with a -dust-streaked face and stringy hair who made that wild ride and -brought his father up in time to stop his rustling operations. - -“You can’t fool me with that sort of talk, mamma,” he had said. -“Hilda Van Brunt’s no looker. Yes, yes—I know what you say about the -ranch. Pretty is as pretty has, eh? She’ll be half owner of my -grandfather’s ranch—the ranch that ought to have been mine. But she -sure is not pretty, whatever you say.” - -And Hilda? As she shook hands, there was the instant memory of -having seen and overheard Fayte and his father in that bitter -interview by the creekside. She was glad neither of them knew that -she’d been there overhearing. When supper was done, and they were -moving irregularly from the dining-room, Hilda found herself beside -the returned prodigal. - -“Don’t you want to come and sit on the porch a while?” He spoke in a -low tone, apparently for her ear only. - -“Shall we?” she asked, raising her voice. “Do you think it’s -pleasanter outside than in the house, Mrs. Marchbanks?” - -“Yes, dear, for you young folks,” the hostess said indulgently. -“I’ve got to put Jinnie to bed.” - -Hilda turned to Miss Ferguson, but the lady of the house made -immediate demand on the governess for some trifling matter. Maybelle -took occasion to secure both of the young men guests for herself; -the three went down the steps and into the garden. Hilda found -herself alone with Fayte, facing his half-quizzical smile, allowing -him to bring a porch rocker for her, and sit down very close beside -her. - -“Well?” he prompted. One heavy black lock tossed down across his -forehead, his long gray eyes shining in the dusk; he stared at her -still with a look that was both questioning and mocking. “Say it—say -it. You’ve got a bad opinion of me. You’ve been warned against me.” -He laughed at the idea. “That day over at the Sorrows——” - -“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that,” said Hilda nervously. “Let’s just -forget about it.” - -“Suits me,” said Fayte easily. “All the same, I’ve been wondering -ever since if you were the only one that suspected—Say, Hilda, what -did set you flying off to _Tres Piños_ to warn dad that day?” - -“Why—Uncle Hank sent me,” she said incautiously. “He thought, -maybe—because——” - -“Pearsall.” Fayte looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Then he was -tipped off—as I thought—and there’s another score to even up with -the J I C bunch.” - -“No. No—you’re mistaken. Uncle Hank didn’t see any one from—from -over here.” - -“But you did.” - -Hilda got to her feet, saying decidedly: - -“If you will keep on talking about that—I’m going down where the -others are.” - -“Not yet.” Fayte rose too. They stood a moment. Tall, handsome, a -man now, he was, after all, very much the same as the small boy who -had blown her doll to pieces—and thought it was funny. - -“I don’t want to quarrel,” she began, “but——” - -“That’s all right,” Fayte laughed. “Good way to begin. Hilda, you’re -going to like me a lot, before we’re done. You can’t get away from -me. Better not try to. And you’re too pretty a girl to put on -touch-me-not airs.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - “INVITATION TO THE DANCE” - - -From the first, Fayte Marchbanks’s presence at the Alamositas -affected the whole atmosphere there—and quite differently from -anything Hilda could have imagined. Maybelle had said they would -have more fun if he were home. Hilda wouldn’t have put it just that -way, exactly, yet everything was somehow changed—and rather -exciting. - -That very first evening at the dinner-table he began it. Hilda was -conscious of some strain back of the general talk. It ran on jerkily -for a time, and then Fayte sent one of his narrowed, sliding glances -from her face to the colonel’s and remarked: - -“If I’d known sooner that you were here, Hilda, you bet I wouldn’t -have stayed down there on the border eating frijoles and operating -in wet horses.” - -The queer silence that followed made Hilda a little nervous, and she -asked, smiling uncertainly: - -“What are ‘wet horses’?” - -“Don’t be a bigger fool than you have to, Fayte.” The colonel -scowled at his son. “If you’d really been mixed up in all the things -you pretend——” - -“Shall I tell Hilda what wet horses are, mamma?” Fayte interrupted -unconcernedly, speaking to his stepmother, ignoring his father. - -“Tell her whatever you please, honey,” Mrs. Marchbanks said easily. -“She’ll know you’re only fooling. Jinnie,” to the child in the -high-chair, “quit pounding with your spoon.” - -“Well, then, Miss Innocence,” Fayte turned that mocking look on -Hilda, “wet horses are, technically, animals that have swam the Rio -Grande—in the night—and the good reason for their dampness is that -they owe Uncle Sam a duty, which they haven’t paid.” - -Hilda understood that Fayte meant them to believe that in the weeks -he’d been away—sent from home by his father for bad behavior—he had -been helping smuggle horses across the Mexican border. They all took -it in their different ways, his stepmother not believing a word -against him; Miss Ferguson interested, but puzzled; Colonel -Marchbanks angry, as Fayte intended he should be. - -“Whether you did or didn’t do what you’re hinting at, young man,” he -said finally, “it’s a cinch you ought to be locked up for talking -too much.” And he left the table. - -“Father’s right,” said Maybelle dryly. “Pass me the butter, Fayte. -Don’t pay any attention to him, Hilda. When he brags about those -sort of things we all know he’s trying to string us.” - -It was Hilda’s first experience of a man who made capital of -disgrace. The few she’d seen so far—men on the dodge, Uncle Hank’s -old partner, Tracey Jacox—these spoke differently of anything -criminal they had been connected with—or spoke not at all of it. It -had grown to seem to Hilda one of the decencies of life to maintain -such reserve. Yet Fayte made his queer kind of boasting rather -attractive. Like the rest of the household, she didn’t believe he -was as black as he painted himself, but it was interesting always to -see just how black that would be. - -And mixed up with all sorts of talk about dubious stuff he’d been -into, dangers he’d run, half crimes he’d committed, Fayte—as the -days and weeks went on—showed himself more and more in the character -of her admirer. No stop at the pleasant half-way house of -friendship; he was as carelessly over-confident in pushing to a more -intimate footing with her as he had been in riding up to the Three -Sorrows to rustle a whole herd of his father’s cattle. It astonished -and rather amused her at first to see how little her wishes in the -matter counted with him. The other boys wanted her to like them, -were careful not to offend; Fayte was only interested in liking -her—if his feeling could be called liking—and he didn’t a bit mind -how much he offended. If she showed resentment, aversion, he only -laughed and told her that some day she was going to love him just as -hard as she hated him now. - -Her only defense against this aggressive, almost threatening -sentimentality, was to keep up the half-joking quarrels that young -people use to cover all sorts of situations. For it seemed to her -the two of them were forever together, and that the whole household -kept out of their way and left them so. Apparently Fayte had no -concerns of his own to interfere with his hanging around. He would -follow her from the breakfast table, linger at the schoolroom door -till Miss Ferguson had to put an end to the whispered conversation. -And when the lessons were over and the girls came out, there he -would be lying on his mother’s lounge in the sitting-room, or out in -the hammock, a pile of paper-covered novels on floor or ground, a -circle of cigarette butts and feathery ashes around him; then, if he -didn’t see them first, Maybelle would call him to come and join -them, or Mrs. Marchbanks would send him. - -Hilda was often at her wit’s end; for there were never any of the -other boys about now, whose presence might have helped out; Colonel -Marchbanks had put his foot down on “all that sort of fooling,” had -told the girls that for the rest of this term they must attend -strictly to their lessons; there would be no more of this wasting -their time with those young loafers. It was almost, Hilda thought, -as though they wanted to throw her with Fayte and keep her out of -the way of other people. - -Then one afternoon Maybelle, up in Hilda’s bedroom, helping her -clean her jewelry, asked with a significant glance: - -“These all the rings you’ve got, Hilda?” - -“They’re all I have with me,” Hilda said. - -“Oh!” Again that queer look from Maybelle. “I thought maybe there -was one you weren’t showing. I’ve got one nobody around the house -has seen.” She waited for Hilda to say something, then finished, -“But I’ll let you see it—if you want to.” She fumbled a moment at -the neck of her blouse, got hold of a little ribbon there, drew out -and slipped on the third finger of her left hand a solitaire of -considerable size. Hilda stared at it. - -“Why, Maybelle—where did you get it? It looks like—” - -She broke off, and Maybelle said with one of her sly smiles. - -“Yes—doesn’t it? Looks just like an engagement ring. Maybe that’s -what it is. I’m not saying.” Then, suddenly, “Where’s yours?” - -“Mine? Oh, you mean my solitaire—like that? I’ve got one, only mine -is set lower and—and it’s—” She stopped, a little confused. She -didn’t want to say that the stone in this ring—which had been her -mother’s engagement ring, and was now lying in the safe deposit box -in the bank at Dawn along with some other jewelry and valuables that -would come to her later—was larger and handsomer than Maybelle’s. -Maybelle herself was turning her hand and flashing the gem with a -great deal of satisfaction. Suddenly she stopped and asked in an -aggrieved tone: - -“Well? Aren’t you going to show me yours? I think you might—I -trusted you to see mine.” - -“I—I can’t,” Hilda faltered. And then as Maybelle continued to eye -her. “It isn’t here.” - -“Oh, all right—all right for you, Miss Hilda Van Brunt. Anyhow—I -found out what I wanted to know. I thought Fayte was lying, but I -see he told the truth—for once,” and she flounced into her own room. - -Hilda was too angry to follow and ask what it was that Fayte had -told the truth about. She learned of it later from Lefty Adams, who -clerked in the store, and was almost like a member of the family at -the Alamositas. She and Maybelle—Jinnie tagging along—had gone to -buy marshmallows that evening, and Lefty watched a chance to say to -her aside, - -“No callers over to the house these days, hey? Not getting lonesome, -are you? Oh, no—I reckon Fayte’s enough all by his own sweet self. -The feller that’s got a girl’s promise usually aims to be enough.” - -“Lefty, what do you mean by that?” Hilda asked. And when he -explained that Fayte was telling all the boys that he and Hilda were -as good as engaged—on the sly—she laughed; not because it was funny, -or she liked it, but with a sudden appreciation of how probable that -must look to any one on the outside. That laugh settled it. Her -denials, though they finally became indignant, had no effect. She -saw that Lefty, anyhow, was convinced, as Maybelle had been, that -what Fayte had told was the truth. - -As they came out onto the store porch carrying their tin boxes of -marshmallows, Jinnie capering at their heels, Maybelle caught -Hilda’s arm suddenly and shook it, exclaiming, - -“Look there! Funny we didn’t see that as we went in.” - -Tacked to one of the posts, almost directly in front of them, was a -placard, roughly lettered, by no very skilled hand: - - “DANCE AT GRAINGER’S SATURDAY - EVENING, MAY 3. - - ALESSANDRO GALINDRO’S MEXICAN - STRING BAND. - - BARBECUED SHEEP—BARBECUED - YEARLING—A GREAT TIME EXPECTED. - - COME ONE—COME ALL! - - AND BRING YOUR WIFE AND KIDS AND - YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW!” - -Below had been added—apparently with a burnt match - - “ESPESHUALLY THE SISTER-IN-LAW.” - -Jinnie watched their faces as they read; and when, at the last line, -they both laughed, she pulled at Hilda’s skirt, squealing. - -“Tell me! Tell me!” - -“All right—be still and listen,” said Hilda, and began to read the -poster slowly to the child. - -“It says kids! Can I go? Can I go?” Jinnie hopped up and down in her -usual excited fashion. - -“No—none of us will get to go,” said Hilda, a bit disconsolately. -“Maybelle, do you suppose, maybe, your father—?” - -But when she turned toward where Maybelle had stood, she found that -her companion had dropped back to the doorway and seemed to be -speaking to a man there. Hilda had noticed him when they first went -in, standing far at the back of the store. All through her little -talk with Lefty Adams, she was vaguely aware that this person -watched them with the air of wishing not to seem to do so. He was no -cowboy, Hilda knew, from the way he was dressed; yet he was not an -eastern man—a tenderfoot. He belonged to the West; and she had too -little experience of its small towns to recognize the type, to guess -that this was, as Lefty would have described him, “A tin-horn -gambler.” - -Almost at the instant that Hilda turned, Maybelle sent an uneasy -glance over her shoulder; then—for all the world as though she did -it on purpose—she dropped her box of candy; the lid flew off, and -the marshmallows scattered all about. Instantly the man lifted his -hat with an air of exaggerated politeness and said in a good loud -voice, - -“Allow me, Miss.” - -Hilda gazed in open-eyed astonishment, as Maybelle, making no reply -that she could hear, promptly knelt down beside the man who was -picking up the marshmallows, and the two of them, their heads -together, proceeded to gather every one off the dirty porch floor -and put them back into the box. It was such a ridiculous—such an -incredible performance—that Hilda stood completely at a loss. They -were just getting the last marshmallows back into the box—and, Hilda -thought, talking in swift undertones—when Lefty Adams strolled from -the store, saw what had happened, and called out: - -“Great Scott, Maybelle—you don’t want to eat that stuff after it’s -been in the dirt! Lemme give you another.” - -Maybelle let him. The kind gentleman, who had helped her pick up -marshmallows that were not fit to eat, walked away. Maybelle didn’t -even look after him. Lefty still lingered in the doorway. He rolled -a cigarette, then pointed with it to the placard, the grin on his -face plainly advertising the fact that he himself was the author of -that last line. - -“See our invitation? That’ll be the biggest dance we’ve had this -year. What you girls going to wear? Think I’ll flash my -sky-blue-pink satin with the eighteen ruffles—make all the other -boys jealous.” - -“Yes, we see it,” said Maybelle. “But that’s all the good it’ll do -us. Pa’s said that we shan’t have any company or go to any dances -till we’ve finished this school term with Miss Ferguson.” - -“Oh, Great Scott, Maybelle! That’s plain murder. You tell the -colonel that he’ll have an uprisin’ on his hands if he keeps you -away from that dance.” - -“Huh,” said Maybelle, “I won’t tell him that—nor anything else. I -know a better way.” - -It was at the supper table that evening that Hilda learned what -Maybelle’s better way was; for Fayte announced that the whole -family—Miss Ferguson and the kids included—was going to the Grainger -dance. - -“Well, thank goodness the quarantine’s lifted!” said Maybelle, as -though this was the first she’d heard of the matter. Miss Ferguson -looked about her and remarked, half apologetically, - -“I suppose there might be a good deal of interesting local color in -a dance like that.” - -“Might be!” grinned Fayte. “Miss Ferguson, that dance’ll furnish you -one solid chunk of local color. It’s sure going to be what you call -a very characteristic entertainment.” - -It seemed to Hilda, when once she had the assurance that she would -get to go to the dance, that the Saturday night for which it was set -delayed and dallied on its way down the aisles of time in an -exasperating fashion. All her thoughts of the coming evening -centered around one point. She didn’t dare ask direct questions; she -knew that she couldn’t command her features or her telltale color if -she did. But she came at it indirectly, casually, in her talks with -Maybelle, asking, - -“Who all will be there?” - -“Everybody—just everybody that lives within twenty miles; and some -from as far away as sixty,” Maybelle answered. “The Grainger’s are -great for that. They don’t stop at tacking up notices. Billy and Ed -get on horses and ride for days giving invitations just like Pa does -when he’s electioneering.” - -Everybody. That would certainly include Pearse. Well—if she was to -see him—she was to see him; the readiness was all. And the days went -on, with hurried lessons in the morning, long afternoons of planning -and preparation. Not till Saturday afternoon, during a last -rehearsal of the dresses and the way they were going to do their -hair, was Hilda sure enough of herself to venture another of those -casual questions: A young lady named Esmond—was she likely to be at -the dance? - -Maybelle spoke through the pins between her teeth; she was doing her -hair at the glass. - -“That Galveston girl—niece of the manager of the J I C? No. She’s -gone home. Thought I told you—he’s to follow later—they’ll be -married in Galveston. Some girls have all the luck. Bet I could have -got him away from her—with a fair chance. Fannie May wasn’t what I’d -call pretty. But she had him right there on the ranch—and Pa won’t -let a J I C put foot on the Alamositas.” She sighed. “He’s awfully -good looking. Do you like my hair this way, Hilda?” - -“Why—yes. You’ve got it a little too loose. Let me pin it in for -you.” - -Hilda’s voice didn’t amount to much; but she was thankful to be able -to speak at all. Of course this was what she might have expected. -Yet she hadn’t. No, no—she hadn’t. Going to Galveston, to be -married—married! But maybe it wasn’t true. It might be—why, it might -be just like what Fayte was telling about herself. To-night—to-night -at the dance. He’d be there. She thought she would know when she -looked at him, heard him speak—even if he told her nothing about -Fannie May Esmond—whether it was so or not. - -She came to herself with Maybelle giving dry little details -concerning the girl from Galveston: her looks; how she had dressed; -the “pieces” she played—small, definite things that seemed somehow -to make her a very living presence to Hilda, and the idea of her -engagement to Pearse very real. Her Boy-On-The-Train; her fugitive -of the cyclone cellar; Pearse Masters, who, present or absent, had -filled a place in her life and thoughts that no one else ever -touched or came near to—he was going altogether away from her—almost -as if he died. - -Well, affairs were going on, just as they always do, just as though -she’d heard no dreadful heart-shaking thing. She helped to pack the -two party dresses which were boxed and sent on ahead in the buggy -with Mrs. Marchbanks, Miss Ferguson, Tod and Jinnie. It was about -twelve miles to the Grainger ranch, and they started early, so that -they need not drive fast. Hilda, Maybelle and Fayte, on their -ponies, left the Alamositas in a great, golden haze of sunset. -Maybelle had no escort except her brother; even Lefty Adams—who -really didn’t count, Hilda would have said—was told shortly, when he -proposed to ride over with them, that those were “Pa’s orders.” -That’s what Maybelle said, and tried to appear sulky about it, but -it was plain to Hilda, as they set off, that she was really, in her -quiet way, very much pleased with the arrangement. - -As the three rode, almost entirely silent, the gold and crimson -flamed, and then faded in the west. Dusk stole on; a cooler breath -came sweeping up from the south; one by one the great white stars -began to show in the sky about—and Fayte proposed a race. They let -the ponies out a bit, not so very much, but Hilda soon saw that -Maybelle was being left far behind them. - -“Shall we wait for her—or go back?” she asked, pulling up. - -“We won’t do either one,” Fayte said. “We’ll go right ahead with our -race. Mabs doesn’t want us—and we don’t want her.” - -“She doesn’t want——” Hilda had held back so long that they could now -dimly see Maybelle’s mounted figure following them slowly—and she -was not alone. - -“Oh,” said Hilda; “why, there’s some one with her. Let’s wait and -see who it is.” - -“No—come on. Come on, I say. Hang it all—I know who that is with -Mabs. It’s a man that can’t come to the dance. He wants to get a -word with her. Come on. Leave them alone. You and I want to be -alone, too—don’t we?” And he reached over and caught her bridle -rein. - -“Stop!” said Hilda desperately. “Oh, Fayte, don’t let’s be -sentimental.” - -She jerked at her rein, and her horse reared free. “Let’s race, -then!” she gasped, and dug her spur into the plunging animal. - -He bolted forward on the run. After a moment Fayte followed, -laughing under his breath, stung more strongly to the pursuit by her -reluctance, calling out, - -“All right. It’s a race. You know what the stake is—and I’m bound to -win!” - -After that Hilda felt that there was nothing for it but to arrive -among the lights and people at Grainger’s before her escort. They -would have a late moon, but the night had begun to darken. In the -trail there was small danger from dog holes, and her pony was -carrying less weight than his. Still she thought longingly of a -short-cut as she heard swift hoofs behind her, and leaned down, -using voice and touch of the heel, with a good horsewoman’s -objection to punishing her horse. - -It was Fayte’s temper which won the race for her, after all; he -slashed his pony with the quirt, and it began to buck, wheeling head -for tail. By the time he had it settled once more into its pace, -Hilda was nearly a mile ahead of him. - -She slowed up when she felt safe to do so, and even waited for Fayte -at the edge of the crowd outside the Grainger yard, so that they -rode through the gate together. As he lifted her from her pony, she -said to him in an undertone, - -“I won, but you had no right to say what you did—we weren’t racing -for any stakes.” - -“Oh, no, you didn’t win,” Fayte laughed at her. “That race isn’t -over. We’ll finish it on the way home.” - -And at that moment Maybelle rode in—alone. - -“I like the way you two ran off and left me,” she said as she got -down from her pony without her brother’s assistance. - -“Who was that with you?” Hilda asked in her nervousness. - -“There wasn’t any one with me,” Maybelle returned placidly. “You and -Fayte rode off like two wild Indians. I wasn’t going to run my pony -lame—I need him to ride home on.” - -Maybelle was talking more than usual, also she looked wonderfully -lit up and excited, beyond what just going to a dance accounted for. - -“Excuse me I—I thought there was some one with you,” Hilda faltered -out, embarrassed, glancing from Maybelle to Fayte, who only grinned -sardonically and didn’t say a word. - -“Well, there wasn’t.” Maybelle gave her a swift sidelong look. “I -don’t care to ride races and get myself all hot and mussed up when -I’m going to a dance. Come on, Hilda.” And she led the way to the -house. - -At a table beside the main entrance of the great rambling adobe -structure Miles Grainger was stationed, repeating with the -ingratiating urgency of an auctioneer, - -“Gentlemen, will you kindly lay your guns on this here table? A -heavy six-shooter ain’t a thing to be dancing in, nohow. If it -should ketch on one of the ladies’ dresses and go off, it might take -somebody’s toe. And if we have any—little discussion—as folks is -liable to do at a dance, you gentlemen will get along better without -your guns. Take ’em off, boys. Take ’em off.” - -There was already a goodly pile of weapons before him, and as -Hilda’s amused eyes studied the heap, she noted that Grainger was -addressing himself rather pointedly to her escort, and that the big -fellow bent and whispered to Fayte, a persuading hand on his -shoulder. - -“Oh, all right—I don’t care, I was only fooling,” Fayte answered -negligently, drawing out and laying down a long, blue-steel -six-shooter. “This way, Miss Hilda,” and he guided her to the door -of Mrs. Miles’ bedroom, which was doing duty as a cloak room. As he -turned away he whispered, - -“Don’t forget—we’ll finish that race going home.” - -“Stop! Wait!” cried Hilda. “If you say that, I won’t ride home with -you. I’m in earnest, Fayte Marchbanks. I will not.” - -“I won’t say it then,” smiled Fayte, his tone implying that whatever -he might or might not say, he would do as he pleased. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S - - -The big room they went into was a roil of confusion; two large beds -covered with great cocoons—each one a baby, wrapped in its own quilt -or shawl; several mothers of somewhat older children—though babies -still—trying to convince their offspring that it was time to go to -sleep—and not being very successful at it. - -Jammed in anyway, were girls and women getting out of riding skirts -and into dancing trim, excited, laughing, squabbling over pins or a -chance at the mirror. Mrs. Marchbanks pushed through with the big -box that held the things for Maybelle and Hilda. She helped them to -dress, calling back and forth to the others, introducing Hilda to -every one, hardly taking her gaze off her, even while she hooked up -Maybelle’s waist. Hilda’s glimpse in the glass had shown her that -her color was flaming high. How big and bright it made her eyes -look! She was almost as beautiful in the party dress as she had -dreamed of being. - -“There, you’re both all right now,” said Mrs. Marchbanks at last, -and whispered in Hilda’s ear as she pushed them toward the door, -“Mabs looks nice—but you’re a beauty!” - -Maybelle, who had certainly heard her stepmother’s words, didn’t -seem to mind. It appeared that she had something to think about that -pleased her. - -Outside, the big room was full of people. Maybelle had been right; -surely everybody within twenty miles was there. It was a very big -room indeed, with an earthen floor. The Grainger place, like the -house at the Alamositas, was adobe, and the canvas ceiling, tacked -to beams that were unpeeled logs, bulged with every draft. The deep -window-seats were occupied by young couples. Some of the girls wore -shirt waists and one or two from Juan Chico, or visitors bringing -the fashions of the larger towns, had evening gowns of silk or -chiffon. Hilda was very sure that her own dress, made by Mrs. -Johnnie, would bear comparison with any of them. Mothers were still -hurrying youngsters across the corner of the room. Occasionally -these held back and had to be lifted and carried, protesting, away -from the lights and the music which was beginning to tune up. - -Alessandro Galindro’s sheep-shearer musicians were softly touching -the great harp, a violin and two guitars. The lamps were already -beginning to make the room hot. There would be no lack of partners, -for the young men outnumbered the girls almost two to one. They were -riders from the ranges, in full cowboy regalia, young fellows from -town, in clothing nearer ball-room usage. Hilda knew a good many of -them—had cared a lot for their admiration and their liking. If -Maybelle hadn’t said that about Pearse—this afternoon when they were -trying on the party dresses—she felt that this would have been a -proud and happy moment. As it was, most that might have been -enjoyment was swallowed up in the thought that if she met Pearse -to-night—and saw when she met him that what Maybelle said was -true—she must show him— - -What was it Hilda was going to show Pearse Masters? At thought of -it, whatever it was, her head went up, her face glowed till she -shone out among the other girls as though they were pictures on a -canvas, and she one that had been painted on something transparent -so that the moving, rising, bending fires of life itself shone -through. Oh,—she was likely to show Pearse Masters! - -“The J I C crowd hasn’t come yet,” Maybelle whispered, after a quick -glance around, “but will you look at old Mr. Hipp?” - -A sun-baked ancient with a wrinkled frock coat ambled out into the -open of the dancing floor, displaying the horseman’s bowed legs. - -“Hello, Hippy—going to dance?” Lefty Adams shouted. - -“Sure,” crowed the aged one. “Cain’t you see I’m dyked out for -dancin’? Do you figger that I cain’t dance? Jest watch me a -spell—you’ll see me cuttin’ ’em right along with the yearlin’s.” - -“Come on, quick,” whispered Maybelle. “That old thing is fixing to -ask one of us to dance. Let’s go down where Fayte is.” - -Hilda was following perforce, since Maybelle had not let go of her -wrist, when somebody halted them both. She glanced at the tall -figure, a glance that despite the effort of girlish pride, herded -all her blood in one great pulse. The breath paused on her lips as -somebody said, - -“Hilda!” - -Now was the time for dignity and reserve. She raised her eyes and -tried to look coolly at Pearse, but she lowered them instantly -before his gaze. - -She never knew when Lefty Adams took possession of Maybelle and led -her out to dance. She was not aware of Fayte’s coming from down the -room, pushing people out of his way to get to her, and then halting, -glowering and listening. She had schooled herself to show Pearse a -front of indifference, of smiling unconcern, when she should meet -him. But, after all, this almost young lady was the same Hilda Van -Brunt whose eager little face with its great questioning, welcoming -eyes Hank Pearsall had seen first looking out of the El Centro -stage, and thought how open a way happiness and pain would find to -that young heart. She had no skill at building barricades, at -wrapping veils around her spirit. It just would rush out and answer -with artless candor whenever life hailed it. At the utterance of her -name by Pearse in that tone, the pride and resentment she had tried -to gather about her melted away from her clutch like smoke-wreaths. - -She tried in vain to steady her gaze beneath his, to hold that -highly desirable attitude of friendly indifference. As they stood -together looking into each other’s eyes, the earth floor beneath her -feet seemed to sink gently and slew around a bit; or was it that a -great hand lifted her and turned her bodily about, so that in a -flash all things were changed; she saw them—at a new angle? - -Fayte Marchbanks, over there, with his half insolent flattery, his -open pursuit that had been disturbing, yet somehow fascinating—he -and it were as though they were not. She forgot that her first dance -would be due to him as her escort. The musicians had finally got -their instruments tuned; the violin sent out a little cry, the great -harp throbbed and twanged, the lesser beat and strum of guitars -answered, and all launched away on the music of a Spanish waltz; -Pearse said something, she hardly knew what. She had a swimming -sense of sweetness and relief as his arm went lightly around her -waist, her hand was clasped in his, and they swung forth on the -recurring surge and ebb of sound. Down the long room they circled -without once stopping. They crossed close by the dark-faced -musicians, and came slowly up the other side. - -“Hilda”—Pearse found words by this time—“I hardly know you—yet it -could not have been anybody else in the world!” - -She looked up into his face and smiled a bit, making no attempt to -reply. - -“I saw you from across the room,” he went on eagerly. “I couldn’t -believe my eyes. Why, when I think of the little girl I saw last—” - -He broke off and Hilda laughed at the recollection of her stained, -torn, cotton riding dress on that occasion, her sunburned face, -streaked with dust and perspiration, the soaked hair sticking to it. - -“I must have looked a fright that day,” she half whispered. - -“No—of course you didn’t!” Then he added, “But—but such a child, -Hilda! And now, all in a moment—” - -“Oh, it’s been a good many moments.” She did try to make her tone a -bit sarcastic, though her voice was tremulous. “And maybe you only -thought I looked such a baby. I’m nearly seventeen. You”—she tried -to laugh—“you offered me the kids at the ranches to play with.” - -“I was just a plain fool,” said Pearse. “I’d got used to thinking of -you as a child—and I—but you’ll forgive me, Hilda, and,” eagerly, -“give me the next dance and let’s sit it out. I’ve got so many -things to say to you.” - -In their absorption, they did not notice that harp and violin were -stilled. Now Fayte’s voice broke in upon them. - -“Mightn’t you folks just as well quit when the music does?” - -They looked about them. The other couples were seeking seats. - -“I’m to have the next I suppose, Hilda,” Fayte said, rather stiffly. -He stood squarely between them and the chairs to which Pearse would -have led his partner. He spoke only to the girl herself. - -“Oh, why, I—I just promised that to—” - -Hilda glanced up, in confusion. Pearse’s tone, cool, decisive, -solved the situation. - -“She’s promised it to me, Marchbanks,” he finished for her. “The -room’s hot. We were going to sit on the porch.” Then he added -civilly, “She thought you’d excuse her.” - -Fayte’s eye flashed. He seemed to restrain a hot retort. But Pearse, -choosing to see nothing amiss, pushed past him and kept himself -between Marchbanks and Hilda. The press of dancers around the door -opened out to let them through. Hilda went almost without volition -of her own. She had a sense of a great listening pause in her being. - -Outside the door, Pearse passed ahead of her, leaping down off the -porch end, reaching up to lift her and settle her comfortably on its -edge. - -“This’ll do,” he said. “We’ll get half a chance for a little talk -here.” - -From his seat on the grass below he studied her, a radiant, -victorious Hilda, in the first exquisiteness of girlish bloom. She -got only a reflected light on his face, yet she could see that he -was trying to identify her with the little brown girl he had found -playing romances in the cyclone cellar, the half-seen girl at the -camp-fire beside the trail from Sandoval County, who had just been -making—as she told him—a full hand in a long, hard cattle drive, the -dusty, unkempt rider of that last interview in the little hollow by -the creek, so few months ago. - -“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “why didn’t you give me a chance to see -you before? You must have been out here in Encinal County several -months.” - -“Exactly three, Pearse.” Hilda’s eyes were dancing. “I’ve just about -finished my first term with Miss Ferguson. She’s a splendid teacher. -You’ll be interested to know about my studies. That’s what you said -in your letter.” - -“My letter?” Pearse looked foolish. - -“Yes,” nodding her head seriously. “It was an awfully good letter, -Pearse—sort of noble—but it scared me, too. I was hardly hoping you -would speak to me if you met me on the street over here. It was such -a relief to have you ask me to dance to-night—as though we were -really friends, after all.” - -“Oh, come, Hilda—it wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?” he pleaded. - -“Or worse.” Her delicate, three-cornered face was all eyes. She -caught her breath and took the plunge. “And—and I hadn’t heard then, -didn’t know till late this afternoon—about—about your going to -Galveston.” - -That was as far as she could trust her voice. A curious darkening of -everything—darting lights in it that were like pain. Pearse’s voice -speaking swiftly. - -“Oh, that’ll be all off—now I’ve seen you.” - -What did that mean? What could it mean? Had she heard it right? Yes, -for he was going on: - -“Couldn’t drive me out of Encinal County—while you’re in it, Hilda. -Remember those days in your old cyclone cellar at the Sorrows? I’ll -never forget them—that’s certain.” - -He would never forget. Ah, but he’d not reminded her of them before -with such glowing eyes, spoken of them in such a tone! - -“But you were going to Galveston to be—” she couldn’t finish. The -words, “to be married,” just wouldn’t come. Pearse didn’t seem to -notice. He was all taken up with her—with the fact that they were -sitting there together on the porch edge, people all around, but no -one paying any attention to them. - -“Yes,” he said finally, “I was going down to the wedding. Several -from the ranch are. Fanny May’s marrying our assistant manager, you -know, and she’s the manager’s niece. Nice girl. But you and I aren’t -interested—are we?” - -All Hilda’s forces deserted in a body to the enemy. The overwhelming -sweetness of the moment frightened her into hasty speech. - -“Oh, Pearse,” she whispered, “I—do you know why I came over here? -Uncle Hank didn’t really want me to. I could see that. But he let me -choose—and I chose to come—because you were here. I did. It’s the -truth.” - -People at the tub, getting lemonade. Too close to risk even another -whispered word. Pearse reached down into the shadows and caught a -slim hand that swung over the porch edge. The last time he had held -it, it was a brown little fist, the palm showing small round -callouses from ungloved use. Now three months at the Alamositas, -under the tuition of a lady who believed in, and honored, the -tradition of lily-white feminine fingers, had brought it into its -own. The Rensselaer hand, famous through generations for its pink -palm, tapering fingers and filbert nails, lay in Pearse’s and when -those slim fingers curled up and clasped his own, they took a grasp -upon his heartstrings. - -“It’s awkward—your being with those people,” he said, when they -again had a chance not to be overheard. “But we’ll manage.” - -“You don’t seem to find Fayte much in your way.” Hilda laughed a -little, because she was so happy. - -“Not much.” Pearse’s tone was fairly preoccupied. - -“I really must give him the next dance,” Hilda sighed. “But I don’t -want to ride home with him—and I suppose I’ll have to.” - -“Of course you won’t. I’ll see that you don’t. Here he comes now. -Well—the dance—if you must.” And he helped her up. - -From the doorway behind them Fayte’s voice, raised in a curious -jeering anger, answered some one there: - -“I put my gun back on, because I want it on, Billy Grainger. I’m -liable to catch cold without it.” - -He strode through the door. They got the outline of his figure in -the light, with the bulge the weapon made under his coat. - -“Oh—don’t have any trouble with him,” Hilda whispered. “You heard -him. He’s armed.” - -“And I’m not armed,” said Pearse, quite loud enough for Fayte to -hear. “There won’t be any trouble, Hilda. Don’t you be scared.” Then -to Fayte, himself. “Hilda and I are old friends. She may have told -you? Well—I want to be sure of it, because she’s going to give you -this dance—I suppose that’s what you came after?—and as a friend of -hers I want you to take off that gun you’re packing before she does -so.” - -“I’ll take it off when she asks me to,” Fayte returned, but there -was no real defiance in his voice, and when Hilda made the request, -he was rather glad to be rid of it. - -Fayte had his dance. Then there were other partners for Hilda—many -of them; she could get out of dancing with him again. Pearse had -gone straight to Mrs. Marchbanks, and now sat beside her, talking to -her. Hilda wondered what they were saying. Later, she saw him -dancing with Maybelle. - -When Fayte caught sight of this couple, his sister plainly with her -whole battery of fascinations brought to bear, he was furious. The -waltz over, he got her outside and began: - -“You dance with Pearse Masters just once more, Miss, and I’ll see -what dad’s got to say about the man you rode over here with -to-night.” - -“Let go of me.” Maybelle shook her arm free. The two dark faces so -alike confronted. “I rode over here with you and Hilda. If it comes -to telling things to pa——I guess I’ll have a little something to say -that you don’t want told. Who fixed it for me to ride with -Gene——while you went on with Hilda?” - -She turned and went back into the house; her brother, swearing under -his breath, flung away toward the corral for such consolation as was -to be found among the rougher fellows who were drinking down there. - -Within, the Grainger dance, a great success from the start, was in -full swing. - -“They need one more couple here,” Pearse Masters greeted Maybelle as -she reëntered. “Come on,” and they joined a set where Hilda and -Billy Grainger stood as one of the head couples. Big John Martin, -famous all over the range for his improvisations, was “calling off,” -dealing heavily in freehand epithet, comment and admonition. - - “Now balance—balance all—and cut ’em to one side, - Swing—_swing_! Now chase your squirrels as fast as you can ride!” - -There was applause and laughter from both dancers and lookers-on. - - “Gents to the center. All Hippity-hop; - Hipp’s the youngest calf of all the blame’ crop.” - -The ancient grinned. Some of the boys sounded a mild “Yip-pee!” - - “Ladies, circle ’em, circle ’em, then, - Cut your partners out of the pen.” - -Big John’s admiring eye encountered Maybelle. - - “Miss Maybelle of the Alamo-seet, - She’s the lightest on her feet.” - -“Yip-pee! Johnnie, old boy, come again!” - - “First couple to the center—Bill, stir your lazy bones, - And lead the figger pretty with the beauty from Lame Jones - Yonder on the side porch there’s a tub of lemonade. - Swing—swing your partners. All promen—ade.” - -Supper was to have been served at twelve o’clock; but a little after -eleven the dust kicked up by the dancing feet from the hard earth -floor became so thick that they could scarcely see each other’s -faces. Even Big John’s stentorian tones broke off occasionally in a -sort of barking snort. The company had just retired somewhat worsted -from a polka, when an inspired genius in cowboy boots and clinking -spurs He observed with a bucket of water sprinkling the floor. - -“Hi, hi, you Red LeGraw!” bellowed Big John from his seat on the -edge of the musicians’ table. “For the Lord’s sake, what you doin’? -Quit that! Do you aim to bog this dance down right here?” - -LeGraw stopped and confronted Martin, the bucket in his left hand, -while he gesticulated with his right, flinging large drops of water -into the bystanders’ eyes. - -“Well, I’ve had two partners mighty nigh choked to death, an’ I -ain’t a-goin’ to—” - -Big Martin sneezed at this point, a sneeze that fairly shook the -solid adobe walls. Then he began to get off the edge of the table. -LeGraw set down the bucket and squared his shoulders. There was a -backward movement in the crowd about. But Billy Grainger’s voice -fell soothingly on the disturbance. - -“Aw, say, boys, don’t worry about it. Supper’s ready, anyhow. Come -on, people, and eat. We’ll get this floor fixed by the time you’re -done your suppers.” - -Out to the side yard went the company, sniffling and Wiping its -eyes, and streamed over to the tables made of rough boards laid on -barrels, where the barbecued meats were served with bread, potatoes -roasted in the ashes, coffee in tin cups, and pies, cakes, -preserves, and sweetmeats, that had come from scores of baskets. -Fayte, with Hilda, was among the first to go; Maybelle and Lefty -Adams followed close. Pearse Masters, with an eye on their -movements, took out Mrs. Burkett, from over Caliente way, a -comparatively new neighbor of the Flying M household, and a warm -friend of young Masters. They sat just across from the Flying M -party. - -Hilda, intensely aware of his presence, did not lift her eyes to -look at him. She never knew what she ate, or if she ate at all. They -walked back to the house after supper, Pearse and jolly, loud-voiced -Mrs. Burkett somewhere over to the left of Hilda and Fayte in the -semi-obscurity; and that cheek of Hilda’s, that shoulder and arm, -seemed to her to glow and palpitate in great electric waves, as she -answered Fayte at hasty, joyous random. - -In the house, the floor had been, as Big Martin somewhat -discontentedly expressed it, “hoed off into pretty decent shape.” -Presently came “the roundup,” the cowboy’s own cotillion, in which -the couples are all in one great set, each pair going through every -all-around figure. Pearse came and asked Hilda, and with a throb of -joy touched with fear, she rose. Under cover of the round-up’s -boisterous romping, and during the long waits, these two talked -eagerly, swiftly. - -“You’re not going to ride home with that fellow, Hilda.” - -“I don’t want to, Pearse, but—” - -“You’re not going to—dear.” - -The final word was so low that Hilda didn’t actually hear it—she was -only thrillingly certain that it was there. - -At the end of that dance, the Alamnositas party was leaving. Pearse -must have known that. He went right along with Mrs. Marchbanks, -gathering wraps and belongings, carrying Jinnie. Hilda saw, with a -sinking heart, that her pony, saddled, stood near the buggy along -with Fayte’s and Maybelle’s. There was Maybelle herself. Fayte was -coming from the corral. Lefty Adams rode up. - -The buggy was double-seated, carrying four. Pearse pushed past Lefty -Adams, tucked in robes and bundles, around the children, and reached -a hand to help Hilda with: - -“Hilda’s going to ride home with you, Mrs. Marchbanks. She’s too -tired for the pony. Lefty will lead it over. Good night.” - -“Well, I must say—” Mrs. Marchbanks unconsciously lifted the lines. -The shivering impatient ponies sprang away at a lope. What Mrs. -Marchbanks must say would have to be said on the way home, for her -hands were now full looking after the team she was driving. - -And, oddly enough to Hilda, no further mention of the matter was -made during the drive. Miss Ferguson saw nothing strange in the new -arrangement. An eastern woman, it seemed to her natural enough that -a girl who had raced to the Grainger ranch and danced as much as -Hilda had, should need rest. It was in the hall at home, in front of -her own bedroom door that Mrs. Marchbanks said, - -“Hilda, I’ll have to speak to the colonel in the morning about this. -You know—or maybe you didn’t know?—that he doesn’t allow any of the -J I C men on the ranch.” - -No need to answer that. Pearse hadn’t come on the ranch. He hadn’t -offered to. But how splendidly he’d handled the situation. How Fayte -gave ground before him. She went silently into her room and shut the -door. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - AS MAYBELLE SAW IT - - -Hilda waked next morning after but an hour or two’s sleep. Last -night she had been sure she couldn’t sleep at all. She’d lain for a -long time, it seemed to her, going over and over everything she had -said to Pearse, all he’d said to her, bringing back his every look -and gesture. - -Now, as she opened her eyes on last night’s party dress lying over -the chair, last night’s ornaments strewing her bureau top, the happy -sense of security that had come in dreams, that had pervaded those -dreamy waking thoughts, threatened to leave her. Pearse wasn’t going -away to be married; he was more her friend than ever; he was more -charming, finer even, than she remembered him; to be with him was -more delightful—but— - -Oh, why hadn’t she managed better about Pearse? Why hadn’t she said -to Mrs. Marchbanks last night that she’d known him a long time—that -her father and mother had known him and his parents years ago? The -fatal flaw in that was that she hadn’t mentioned it when she first -came over to the Alamositas. And that came about because she’d -deceived Uncle Hank about him. She sighed and looked about her room, -wondering how late it was. - -There came a tap on the connecting door; she knew that sharp -rattling knock; Maybelle must be up and dressed already; then she -heard Mrs. Marchbanks saying: - -“Don’t wake her. Plenty of time when she comes down stairs. She’ll -surely want to go—any girl would.” - -But Maybelle had already stepped inside and shut her stepmother out. -Last night, when they were alone together, the girls had been very -silent; no talking over the dance. This morning Maybelle stopped in -the middle of the room and stared half frowningly at Hilda, sitting -up in bed smiling at her, a tumble of dark hair over her shoulders. - -“Hilda—what’s the matter with you this morning?” - -“Nothing. Do I look awfully tired?” - -“Tired!” Maybelle turned to the bureau, and continued to study -Hilda’s face as it showed in the glass there. “You don’t look as if -you ever had been tired in your life—or ever would be. Riding twenty -miles—racing at that—and dancing all night seems to agree with you.” - -“I guess it does.” Hilda slipped out of bed and into a bathrobe and -began to lay out what she was going to wear. Maybelle settled -herself on the bed edge. - -“Run along and get your bath. I’ll wait for you here. Something I -want to talk to you about.” - -Hilda came back, rosy, refreshed, declaring: - -“I’d like to go to another dance to-night. I never felt so utterly -rested in my life.” - -“All right. That’s what I want to talk about. Mother’s been afraid -you’d be too used up to care to ride over and see the doings on -County Day—it’s to-morrow, you know.” - -“I did know,” Hilda said doubtfully, for Fayte had been talking to -her about County Day. So far as she could see, it offered only a -chance for him to hang about her and push his usual tactics of -monopolizing her. “I’m not sure I want to go, Maybelle. I don’t -think we ought to break up the lessons so much.” - -“Don’t you?” Maybelle waited a long minute, then added just three -words: - -“He’ll be there.” - -Hilda, bent low over tying her slippers, tried to think of something -careless to say, and finally ejaculated weakly: - -“Oh—will he?” - -“Yes, he will. Everybody goes; small parties; just the Burketts and -Lefty Adams and some of the other boys in our crowd. But you’ll get -a chance to see him again—if I help you.” - -Hilda glanced up, startled; Maybelle was smiling at her meaningly. - -“When there’s somebody you want to see, and you can’t get a chance -to without sneaking it—” - -“It isn’t the way you think—” - -“How do you know what I think?” Maybelle interrupted. “What you -blushing so for? I’ll bet anything that I’ve got that it is—and more -so. You’re carrying on with a man that your folks don’t know -anything about. Well—I’m sort of glad. Helps me out.” - -“I’m not—” - -“Yes, you are. If it wasn’t a secret affair—you’d have told Ma and -Pa as soon as you came over here that you were acquainted with -Pearse Masters—that he’d visited at the Three Sorrows. Caught you -that time!” Maybelle looked like Fayte when she grinned that way. -“Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You help me out and I’ll help you -out. There’s some one in the town crowd that’ll be out at the picnic -grounds County Day that I want to see—that I’ve got to see. I guess -you know who it is. Same fellow that stole a ride with me on the way -to the dance last night. The one you saw in the store the other day. -You do what you can to get me my chance to speak to him, and I’ll -get Mrs. Burkett to invite Pearse Masters to eat lunch with her. Pa -can’t say a word if Mrs. Burkett gives the invitation—and then -throws in with us, and she’s going to do that.” - -“He won’t come,” said Hilda faintly. - -“Oh, won’t he?” jeered Maybelle. “Well, I wish I was as sure that -I’d get a chance to talk to the one I want to see as I am that -Pearse Masters is from now on going to go to any place he thinks -he’ll see you. He’ll camp on your trail, all right, if I’m any -judge. Huh,” with a little excited giggle, “didn’t you like the way -he put it all over Ma? Say—he’s the kind that runs things his own -way, isn’t he? The Masterses were rich. He’s been used to money—in -the East—and in Europe. Does make an awful difference in a fellow. I -don’t wonder you’re crazy about him.” - -“Maybelle—” Hilda broke off. What was the use? Maybelle’s mind—her -way of looking at things—was her own. Hilda couldn’t say to her that -the friendship between herself and Pearse Masters was a very -different thing from any secret affair she, Maybelle, might have -with that older man, with his strange, hard face. From the window -where she stood, Maybelle glanced sharply over her shoulder at -Hilda; then, as though she were answering an argument that had been -carried on aloud, said in a flat voice: - -“Well, there’s Mrs. Burkett turning in at the store, now. Shall I go -over and fix it so she’ll invite Pearse Masters? Shall I—or shan’t -I?” - -“Yes—go—quick!” cried Hilda, all in one breath. “Hurry. She might be -gone before you get over there.” - -The two girls raced down the stairs, passed Fayte in the hall; he -looked around and called, “What’s the grand rush?” But they didn’t -stop. Half way to the gate, Hilda caught up little Jinnie, who was -playing, and hugged her tempestuously. - -Five minutes later, Maybelle, returning from her errand, found the -two of them sitting on the Bermuda grass, playing cat’s cradle. -Maybelle whispered: - -“I made her invite him. She wasn’t going to, but I told her he was -an old friend of yours, and that your folks thought a great deal of -him.” - -“Oh, Maybelle—you oughtn’t to have said that last; it isn’t true.” - -“Whiskerin’ secrets! Whiskerin’ secrets!” squealed Jinnie. “I hear -you two girls whiskerin’ your secrets!” - -“I thought that was what you said.” Maybelle’s face was as innocent -as a pan of milk. “Anyhow—it’s done now. You just keep quiet—and -it’ll work out all right.” - -Hilda was quiet enough, outwardly; but she could never have told how -she got through the day that followed. Yet she did get through it -without actual betrayals. - -Maybelle was in the kitchen, making tamales for to-morrow’s lunch. -Hilda, at a desk, elbows on it to prop her face into studying -position, had no realization of how time passed. She had drifted so -far away from her surroundings that Miss Ferguson’s hesitating, -embarrassed voice startled her, saying almost in Maybelle’s exact -words: - -“Hilda—what is it?” - -“What is what?” - -“If there was—anything—if you needed advice—you could come to me, -you know.” - -“Advice?” Hilda came to herself with a jerk. She glanced from the -book in front of her to her teacher’s face. “I don’t need anything, -thank you. I am all right. Everything’s all right.” Poor Miss -Ferguson—what would she know? What could she do, or say? No use. You -had to keep such things to yourself and do the best you could with -them. She seized her pencil and went to work again, saying softly, -without looking up, “You’re very kind—but it’s all right.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - OLD MAN HIPP’S STEER - - -The Flying M crowd and the Burketts had agreed on a place all to -themselves in the willows along Caliente creek. The colonel said he -intended to try for some plover up there. Hilda, riding with -Maybelle and Fayte, watched eagerly as they neared the picnic -grounds, saw that the Burketts were already there ahead of them; out -of their vehicles, off their ponies, moving about a camp-fire and -spreading a tablecloth. - -“There’s Lefty Adams and Billy Grainger,” commented Maybelle, -softly. But nobody said, “There’s Pearse Masters.” - -There was no need to say it. Fayte, glancing aside at Hilda’s -glowing face, might easily have been aware whose was the tall figure -moving beside Mrs. Burkett across from the B Z B ambulance. Even -Miss Ferguson, looking back from the buckboard and catching sight of -her pupil, got some guess as to that secret happiness which was -transforming her. Pearse, hurriedly placing Mrs. Burkett’s basket -and coming to help Hilda down, got Colonel Marchbanks’ shoulder -turned to him with a grunt; the colonel spoke afterward, low and -angrily, to his wife. But what did it matter? Pearse’s look and -gesture as he swung Hilda from her saddle, and they stood a moment -gazing in each other’s eyes, suggested that the two of them were -alone on the Staked Plain. - -“Well, I declare! I thought he was going to kiss her—didn’t you?” -Maybelle observed to her brother, whose only answer was a black -look. - -The hurry of getting the Flying M lunch spread out, of finding a -place on the coals for its coffee-pot and its kettle of frijoles, -covered, but did not conceal, the state of affairs between Hilda and -Pearse. By the time the party was settled around the long tablecloth -it was plain that the colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks had a disturbing -consciousness of it. Nobody could fail to note the glances that -passed between the two. Pearse sat close enough to speak unheard by -the others, and Mrs. Burkett, being a woman and therefore a -match-maker, looked with smiling defiance at her neighbors, as she -raised an already round and hearty voice another notch or so to -cover their whispering. Altogether, things began to be somewhat -strained before the meal was over. - -Jinnie Marchbanks, from the first, had dotted on Hilda; and took an -instant liking to the new man, who had been nice to her at the -Grainger dance. She sat between the two, or rather slightly in front -of their dropped hands which sometimes thus found an opportunity for -joining. Hilda wasn’t aware of what she ate and drank—or if she was -eating or drinking at all. It didn’t even infringe on her joy that -the Marchbankses, excepting always Maybelle, seemed to be trying to -make an interloper of Pearse. Every one else appeared to like him. -She could see he was popular and had a standing of his own. And he -showed himself very openly and decidedly her special friend—her -property, Maybelle would have said. - -Lunch was eaten and cleared away. It was two hours later; every -known game that would keep the group together had been proposed and -carried on as long as the young folks would stand for it. The thin -echoes of shouts and laughter came across from the farther end of -the big picnic ground, where the town crowd from Juan Chico had long -tables that the restaurant men supplied. It had not been noticed -that the children were no longer with them till Tod and Jinnie with -the Burkett youngsters came surging into their midst, announcing -that they had been up the creek, and that there was a steer bogged -down there. - -“He’s dest a-swingin’ his horns and goin’ ‘Mrrr! Mrrr!’” sputtered -the excitable Jinnie, while Tod came in grandly. - -“’F I’d had a rope, I’d ’a’ snaked him out o’ that mighty quick.” - -“S’pose we sa’nter up there and have a look at him?” suggested Lefty -Adams, throwing away his cigarette butt and reaching around for his -saddle, of which he had been making a pillow. He cinched it on the -pony deliberately. “Hi, fellers, what do you say? Shall we go and -pull a steer out of the mud?” - -“You boys mind what you’re doing,” said Colonel Marchbanks from -where he lay under a big juniper, his hands clasped behind his head, -a cigar between his teeth. “Those fellows are due to go on the prod -when you drag ’em out of the mud. Don’t turn any cavorting steer -down the creek here on us.” - -Three or four young men had hastily saddled, mounted and wheeled to -follow Adams. - -“All right, Colonel,” Lefty called back over his shoulder. “Us -girls’ll be powerful careful. We’re kind o’ scairt o’ cow-brutes -ourselves.” - -Then he caught his hat from his head, slapped it down in a loud -“flop” on the pony’s neck, and clattered out of sight along the -trail, leading the way with a long “Yip-pee!” - -Among the group that rode at his heels were both - -Pearse Masters and Fayte Marchbanks. Maybelle caught Hilda’s arm and -without a word dragged her in their wake. - -“Now,” she whispered urgently, “now’s your time to get a word alone -with him—and help me. I want to slip across to that town crowd -without Pa or Ma seeing me. Won’t take me but a minute. You wait for -me here by the creek, and we’ll go back together afterward. They’ll -think we’ve been together all the time.” - -No time to debate. The girls ran blindly up the trail beside the -creek. It was the quickest way for Maybelle’s enterprise too. Rough, -twisty going; breathless, they swung around a clump of scrub—and -there right before them was the steer, sunk nearly to his knees in -the soft mud. The young fellows sitting their ponies about him, -joking over the enterprise, hadn’t gotten sight of the two girls. -Maybelle pulled back a little, out of range; it was no part of her -plan to be caught by her brother in what she was doing. Lefty Adams -was rolling a fresh cigarette, one leg thrown over the saddle horn. -He slanted a glance at the unfortunate one in the mud who was still, -as Tod had said, shaking his head and grumbling, rolling bloodshot -eyes. - -“Huh! One of old man Hipp’s lazy H’s,” drawled Lefty in a disgusted -tone. - -“That’s what he is.” Fayte Marchbanks began to re-coil the rope he’d -been loosening from his saddle horn. - -“Old man Hipp!” sniffed Sam Cole. “Anybody that wants to, can pull a -steer out of the mud for that old skeezicks!” - -“Aw—we ain’t going to pull it out for Hipp,” argued Lefty. “Just -going to snake the long-horn out for fun. Go to it, fellows. First -one speaks has got first go. Who wants to dab a rope on him?” - -On the instant Fayte Marchbanks caught sight of those light -fluttering dresses on the path below. Here was a chance to show off -before Hilda. - -“I’ll snake him out!” he cried, sat forward in his saddle, and with -a flourish his rope flew out and settled over the broad, swinging -horns. Fayte was pulling in the slack, making fast and starting his -pony, when Pearse Masters, glancing toward the path below, called -out sharply. - -“Hold on, Marchbanks! There’s some one afoot down there.” It was the -first word that had passed between these two since the night of the -dance, and the red surged up in Fayte’s dark face, his eyes gleamed. -His answer was lost in the queer, yelping bellow of the steer as the -rope grew taut. The other boys laughed. One more heave and the brute -would be free. - -“Hold on,” Pearse repeated. “I tell you there’s some one afoot down -there on the path. Give them a chance to get out of the way!” - -But with a great kicking and splattering and lashing out of gaunt, -powerful legs, the steer had already hauled free from the mud, gone -almost down, rolled partly over—and Fayte’s rope slipped from his -horns! - -“Rope him! Rope him—some of you!” Fayte yelled, coiling frantically -at his own rope so that he might send it out again. But no one else -was ready with a rope. The steer scrambled to his knees—to his feet; -now on firm ground, free, blind with fury. - -The cheer the boys sent up when Fayte made his successful cast, the -shouted words between him and Pearse, had reached the picnic party -back at the camp-fire and started them running up the path. They -were still out of sight of what was happening as the steer, tail up, -charged those unmounted figures. - -“Run, girls!” yelled Fayte. “Why the devil don’t you run?” - -But Hilda, dragging at Maybelle’s arm, knew why; the other girl was -paralyzed with fright. She stood rigid, and Hilda could not leave -her. - -In the one fleeting instant Hilda saw Pearse crowd his pony against -Fayte, saw his arm go over as though striking a blow. But the hand -that shot out toward Fayte came away with a loaded six-shooter in -it, and on the instant Pearse fired. - -The shot caught the beast in full gallop; with one last plunge his -nose dropped to earth; he flung a complete somersault, his kicking -hoofs cutting close past Hilda’s head; then he lay still. - -Pearse was off his pony and running to the girls. His cheek bled -from a cut. When he reached over Fayte to jerk the pistol from its -holster, they all had seen that young man turn and strike at him. A -small, jagged tear was made by the glancing blow of a heavy ring, -dark, Mexican gold, which Fayte always wore. - -So much Hilda saw, and then the party from below came up on the run, -Colonel Marchbanks ahead, Mrs. Marchbanks panting close after, -catching at her husband’s arm, begging him not to get excited. - -“Let go of me, Evelyn.” He shook her off. “Now you”—he faced -Pearse—“haven’t you any better sense than to go dragging a steer out -of the mud when these girls were here afoot—and children playing -around? What the devil do you mean by it?” - -Fayte Marchbanks got down from his horse, still white, but very -defiant. The other boys looked to him. None of them would speak -until he did. There was an awkward silence for a moment, then he -said, - -“Hold up. I guess we were all into this thing. Reckon you’re right. -We ought to have had better sense. But it was Masters who shot the -steer.” - -“Did, did he?” - -“Well, he saved these girls’ lives,” said Mrs. Burkett sharply. -“Good thing one of you had sense enough. What were the rest of you -doing?” - -“Why, you see,” Lefty glanced sidewise at the colonel, “wasn’t -another rope in the crowd ready for use. Feller that roped the brute -had just used his’n, and the rest of us hadn’t got ours out a-tall. -That’s the way it happened, Ma’am. We none of us saw the -girls—unless Fayte did. He was facin’ the right way to see ’em— Did -you, Fayte?” The inquiry was put with great innocence. Fayte -answered it: - -“You go to the devil! What difference does it make that Masters -happened to be quickest on the draw? One or the other of us would -have shot that steer, if he hadn’t.” - -“Oh, Masters is quick on the draw,” grinned Lefty, “even when he -draws from another feller’s holster—and gets a smack on the jaw for -doing it.” - -All the cowboys were grinning now. This thing of Pearse Masters -being blamed—in any part—for Fayte’s reckless behavior, tickled -their sense of humor. - -“Lots of fuss about nothing,” Fayte muttered, and he scuffed -negligently at the dead steer, which Jinnie and Tod were already -investigating. - -“All right,” Colonel Marchbanks raised his voice; he understood now -where the fault lay. “If you boys want to rave around and kill -cattle for fun—I suppose you’ve got the price. Evelyn—get those -children out of the way here. You girls go back down the creek. -We’ve had about enough picnic for one day. You can get ready to go -home. Where’s Maybelle?” - -“Right here. Been here all the time, Pa.” Maybelle’s arm was slipped -suddenly around Hilda’s waist. She spoke innocently, but Hilda could -feel her panting. - -Colonel Marchbanks herded his household down the path. - -“Well, let’s have our supper anyhow, before we start back,” said -Mrs. Burkett, going to the baskets. - -But Colonel Marchbanks decided that his folks should eat their -supper at home; Miss Ferguson and Maybelle were started at the -packing and getting ready, the children sent to wash their faces. - -Lefty and Sam Cone had ridden in with Fayte; apparently Pearse was -still up the creek at the scene of the accident. After a cautious -look about her, Hilda started back that way. Out of sight of the -others, she came on Tod and Jinnie lingering in the path. - -“Where you going?” Tod got in front of her. - -“Just up here. I’ll only be gone a minute. Don’t tell any one where -I am—will you?” - -“We won’t,” Tod agreed much too easily. “I won’t tell him.” - -Hilda ran along the path a few steps when a saw-edged shriek from -behind stopped her, turned her. There was Jinnie throwing herself -bodily on her brother, pounding him fiercely, while he ducked and -dodged the best he could—it was against family rules for him to hit -back at Jinnie. - -“Yes, he will tell!” squealed Jinnie. “Buvver Fayte’s goin’ to give -him a korter-money for tellin’!” She grabbed at Tod’s hay-colored -hair; he pulled free and ran. “Git him! Git him! He said he wouldn’t -tell—and he’s running right now to tell Buvver Fayte— and get ’at -korter-money!” - -“What’s the matter, kids?” It was Pearse, leading his pony. Hilda -turned to him instantly, crying out, - -“Oh, Pearse—you won’t let it go like this, will you? Everybody ought -to be told just how it was.” - -“What’s the use?” Pearse came close and took her hand. “Fayte knows -how it was. The other boys know. The colonel could find out—if he -wanted to. You and I don’t care. You’ll see that Marchbanks will pay -old man Hipp for his steer. That’ll show he knows whose fault it all -was.” - -“Yes—and Maybelle. I thought she’d say something,” said Hilda. - -“Oh—here you are, Hilda,” Mrs. Marchbanks came up, Jinnie at her -heels. Tod had found some one to tell, if not Fayte. “Run back, -Jinnie. Get your face washed, dear. We’re going to start home in a -few minutes. I want to talk to Hilda.” Pearse, lifting his hat, led -his pony past them, then checked and looked back to where Mrs. -Marchbanks was already pulling Hilda down beside her on a fallen -log. - -“I’ll see you on the way home, Hilda,” he said quietly and went on. - -“Well”—Mrs. Marchbanks stared after him with an offended air—“he -doesn’t seem to have any doubts about what he’ll do, does he?” - -Hilda was silent. Mrs. Marchbanks looked around at her and began -hastily with a speech that sounded as though it had been prepared. - -“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make trouble by the way you’ve behaved -with this Pearse Masters. You’re just young and thoughtless. Fayte’s -got a heart of gold, and he’s perfectly devoted to you. But he’s -hot-headed, and if you—” - -“I wish you wouldn’t talk to me this way, Mrs. Marchbanks,” Hilda -protested. - -“But a beautiful, fascinating girl like you has a great -responsibility, Hilda; sometimes the very salvation of one of her -boy friends may depend on her.” - -“Oh, please don’t!” Hilda got up; Mrs. Marchbanks got up with her, -still talking urgently as they started slowly back. - -“You could make anything of this boy of ours. A little wild—any -high-spirited boy is—but he only needs steadying down. You be nice -to him, Hilda. Be kind to him.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - THE CLOSING OF A DOOR - - -The six young people on their ponies came stragglingly together at -Alamositas headquarters. They checked there a little awkwardly, as -though waiting for the big family carriage to come up. - -Pearse had ranged his horse up to Hilda’s as they left the picnic -place on the Caliente, and without invitation or permission, or -anything being said one way or the other, had ridden the whole -twelve miles beside her. Maybelle, in an excited, defiant mood that -Hilda had never seen in her before, laughing loud and playing -tricks, skylarked with Lefty and Sam, galloping, all dust and noise, -sometimes ahead, sometimes behind the other three. Fayte hung -persistently at Hilda’s other side. He looked black, but said -nothing. It was clear to her—and the assurance thrilled her—that he -was afraid of Pearse. The Mexican boy ran out and opened the front -yard gate, and Maybelle, leading the way, called gayly: - -“Come in, all of you. Mr. Masters, stay and have supper—the boys are -going to,” paying no attention to her brother’s angry, astonished -glare. But Lefty and Sam rode on, with hasty, muttered excuses. -Pearse shook his head at the supper invitation, but moved with them -slowly through the gate. - -“I’ll run on ahead and get things started.” Maybelle jumped from her -pony. “Come on, Fayte—you help me.” - -“I’m only waiting till the colonel gets here, Miss -Maybelle”—Pearse’s tone was cool and civil—“I’ll be on my way -then—thank you just the same for your invitation.” - -Pearse’s words covered the fact that, having come on Alamositas land -against a settled understanding, he had no intention of seeming to -run away before he had shown himself here to the man who had issued -that order. Maybelle stopped where she was, the rein of her pony -over her shoulder; Fayte didn’t even dismount; they waited in -silence, drawn back to the edge of the gravel so that the big -carriage, when it came, would have room to turn. In it rolled -finally, and it seemed to Hilda that every one riding in it was -staring at Pearse, as it made the sweep and the colonel threw his -lines to the waiting Mexican boy, got out and turned to help out his -wife, Miss Ferguson and the children. - -“Well, Pa,” Maybelle strolled forward with this new, jaunty air of -hers, “aren’t you going to speak a word? I don’t even remember -hearing you say back there at the creek that you were much obliged -to this young man that shot the steer and kept your oldest daughter -from getting killed. You are obliged to him—aren’t you? Even if you -could spare me pretty easy—there’s Hilda to think about. What could -you have said to Mr. Pearsall if she’d been killed?” - -So far, the colonel had kept his back to them; now he twisted around -and looked at Maybelle, then past her at the others. His glance -lingered longest on his son, and Fayte swung down with the air of -one who had got an order, came around to help Hilda off, but she -shook her head and sat in her saddle, waiting for what the colonel -would do or say. Maybelle laughed hardily. - -“Make you acquainted with Mr. Masters, Colonel Marchbanks,” she went -on. “Ever meet the gentleman before? Hilda has. She says she’s known -him ever since she was a baby.” - -“She does?” - -There fell a curious silence after the colonel’s two words, only the -movements of the ponies, Jinnie’s tired whimpering as she pulled at -her mother’s hand, the creaking of saddle leather making itself -heard. At last Marchbanks, looking Pearse up and down, observed -dryly: - -“Funny Pearsall never mentioned you to me.” - -“I don’t think it’s funny.” - -Pearse’s reply seemed to cover a good deal. But what it covered was -not for explanation here. - -“You don’t? Then you’re not a friend of his—only of Hilda’s? That -it?” - -“That’s about it,” agreed Pearse coolly. - -Hilda clutched her bridle rein in fingers that shook, as she looked -at the two men facing each other. - -“Pearsall is Hilda’s guardian,” Marchbanks said sharply; and once -again it flitted across Hilda’s mind how, years ago, he had tried to -oust Uncle Hank from that place. “I’m not. But till you have his -permission you can’t visit her in my house.” - -“I had no intention of attempting to do so, Colonel Marchbanks,” -Pearse returned steadily. “Good night, everybody.” He wheeled his -pony. “Ride with me to the gate, Hilda,” and she found herself -following him, the people they left at first letting them go -silently and then seeming to begin to quarrel about it. - -“Pearse,” she cried, bringing her horse up beside his, “what a -shameful way to treat you—after—They know well enough that Maybelle -and I might have been killed if it hadn’t been for you.” - -“Never mind about me. I don’t care how they treat me.” He glanced -carelessly back toward the group at the porch edge. “It’s you I’m -thinking of.” - -“Well, I care!” Hilda’s voice shook with anger. “I feel as though I -never wanted to see one of them again. I’d like to go straight home, -if it wasn’t for—” - -“Better not do that,” said Pearse uncertainly. “Not right away, -anyhow. But you and I are going to be friends, aren’t we, Hilda? -Even if I have to go over to the Three Sorrows and eat humble pie.” - -“Oh—would you come?” cried Hilda breathlessly. - -“Of course I’ll come,” Pearse said. “But your Uncle Hank, as you -call him, may treat me about as Marchbanks did just now. Had you -ever thought of that?” - -“He wouldn’t. And if he did—” - -“Well, if he did—you’d have to choose between us—wouldn’t you, -Hilda?” - -“I couldn’t—Uncle Hank—” The words came almost unconsciously. A -moment to think and Hilda never would have said them. For the Pearse -she’d known before to-day—before the night at the dance at -Grainger’s—would, she was sure, at the sound of them have ridden -away and left her. This Pearse didn’t. He held in his impatient -pony, and they sat looking at each other, close. - -“That’s the way you choose between us, is it?” he asked. - -“I’m not choosing,” Hilda cried in distress. “I haven’t any choice. -You don’t understand, Pearse. If it was my own father, I might. But -Uncle Hank didn’t owe me anything—he wasn’t paying a debt he owed -me—and he’s given everything. He’s got nobody but me. I couldn’t. -Don’t ask it.” - -Through this snatched moment of talk, they had been conscious of the -wrangling of the Marchbanks family, back there by the porch. Now the -voices went up to an angry climax; some one started down the path -toward them. - -“All right,” said Pearse hastily. “Then you won’t go—just yet, -anyhow? Not till I’ve seen you again? ... Here comes our friend -Marchbanks.” Pearse reached for her hand. Holding it, speaking low -and rapidly: “Stay here till I get the chance,” His hand tightened -down hard on the one he held in a farewell pressure. Then he -loosened the reins, started his horse, and said in a good loud -voice, “See you soon again, Hilda. Good-by for the present,” and -went off at a lope. - -Of course the colonel heard that last—and, of course, Pearse -intended he should. Exasperated, unable to retaliate, as she went -through the gate he did that unforgivable thing—reached up and took -hold of her pony’s bit with a jerk. - -Instantly she was out of the saddle. She’d not go back to the house, -led like a bad child. Marchbanks flung the rein to the waiting boy -and followed at once. Not a soul on the porch now. They went through -the front door almost together. - -Hilda walked into the whole family; Fayte over at the farther end of -the big dining-room, apparently getting himself something to eat at -the sideboard; Maybelle, half-way up the stairs, looking back across -her shoulder, making a little sign to Hilda—Maybelle was thinking -only of her own affairs and the possibility of Hilda, under -pressure, letting out something about them; the children were -pulling at their mother, begging for their bread and milk. Mrs. -Marchbanks tried to shove them off with Miss Ferguson. They didn’t -want to go with the teacher. The two women were moving slowly in the -direction of the dining-room arch when Mrs. Marchbanks caught sight -of her husband and Hilda at the front door. She came toward them. - -“Hold on a minute, Hilda,” the colonel was saying, “I don’t want you -to make any mistake about this. Understand—you can’t stay in my -house and keep up an affair with a fellow like Pearse Masters.” - -Hilda stopped short; her face flamed as though it had been slapped. - -“I’m not keeping up an affair—with anybody. You’ve no right to say -such a thing to me, Colonel Marchbanks!” She looked about; all the -eyes were upon her, “And I think I’d better not stay in your house, -anyhow.” - -“Now, don’t go and make her mad, Lee.” Mrs. Marchbanks came over. -“She’s tired and excited. Of course she’s going to stay with us. -We’re all sort of upset this evening. It’s no time to pick at the -girl about—about— Run on to your room, Hilda, and wash up for -supper. I’ll talk to this cross man. It’ll be all right.” - -“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Marchbanks, I don’t want any supper,” -Hilda said; but she moved toward the stairs from which Maybelle had -disappeared. The children were established at the dining table, -eating noisily, poor, bewildered Miss Ferguson trying to wait on -them. Fayte stood, a sandwich in his hand, backed against the -sideboard, laughing silently at her. - -“She’ll stay, all right,” he called, half tauntingly. - -“I’ll not!” At his words and tone Hilda whirled from the lowest step -of the stairs. “I will not. You’ll see!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - THE RESURRECTION PLANT - - -In her own room, the door slammed and locked, Hilda faced the -situation. She fairly glowed and palpitated with the rage that ran -like fire in her veins and seemed to burn out timidity and -indecision. She’d done it now. Pearse had asked her to stay—and -she’d told those people downstairs that she was going to leave. She -would leave, too. If Pearse knew, he’d want her to leave. He’d want -her to walk right out of the house. - -Without stopping to change from her riding dress she hurried from -closet to bureau drawers, pulling out things, throwing them on the -bed, folding them, dragging out her trunk, her valises, and -beginning to pack. - -Movement in Maybelle’s room; but the door between wasn’t even -touched. Well, she didn’t want to talk to Maybelle. She had nothing -to say to any of them. She was going home. - -She worked more systematically now. The supper bell rang. Maybelle -left her room and went down, humming, clattering on the stair. Then -Mrs. Marchbanks herself came to call Hilda. Without opening her door -Hilda repeated that she didn’t want any supper. - -“Not pouting, are you?” - -“No, I’m not pouting.” - -“Of course you aren’t. Well, come down when you get hungry, then,” -Mrs. Marchbanks said finally. “I’ll leave something on the table for -you.” And she went away. - -Sounds of the household at supper down there; then people moving -about, talking. After a while, they began to come upstairs, the -children first, Mrs. Marchbanks with them, stopping to tap at the -door and ask if Hilda was all right. - -“Yes. All right, thank you, Mrs. Marchbanks.” - -The crispness of her tone seemed to send Mrs. Marchbanks away pretty -promptly. Later Miss Ferguson’s slow, precise tread, its hesitation -at her door, then the going on. Hilda was glad of that. Miss -Ferguson was a good sort, she meant well; but Hilda didn’t want to -see her now. Maybelle in her room again, moving about softly; the -colonel’s heavy step; sounds of him locking up; he and Fayte on the -stair, quarreling as usual, but in low tones. - -And then the house grew still, except for those light, almost -stealthy movements in the next room. Finally they, too, ceased. It -was after ten o’clock, and Hilda’s work was done, when she suddenly -realized that she should have taken off her riding clothes and -packed them in the trunk. Well, it was locked, and strapped; they’d -have to go in the bag now. She gave one last look around, to be sure -she had forgotten nothing, then went to the window. That -resurrection plant Maybelle had said she’d give her when she went -home; she wanted it; the queer things didn’t grow over on the plains -of Lame Jones County. Yet—she didn’t like to open the door and ask. -Probably Maybelle was already asleep. She leaned out and looked; -that other window beside hers was dark, and there sat the little -plant in its bowl. Hilda made a long arm, reached around and -transferred it to her own sill. She emptied the water in which it -had grown green, and left it to dry out so that it would be ready to -carry away in the morning. - -Through all the flame and rush of her, the thought of Pearse had -never been absent from her a moment. At first there was a desperate, -irrational idea that she would see him before she left. Then, as the -mere physical work began to clear her mind, she knew that she -couldn’t do this. She’d have to write. After that, as she moved -quietly, swiftly to and fro, her eyes went continually to the little -table where pens and paper lay, her letter to Pearse forming itself -in her mind. She wanted him to know that, if it had seemed possible, -she would have stayed here as he asked her to. She must beg him to -come over to the Sorrows. No—she shook her head above the dress she -was folding—hadn’t been able to do a thing with him any of the times -when he was right there. It—crowding paper into slipper toes—it was -different now. She’d say—she’d say— - -Everything done, she went over and sat down. The sheet before her, -the pencil in her hand, she sat a long time staring, not seeing it. -The furious activity of her moments of packing and getting ready, -the hot anger that had sustained them, were gone. Cold doubts -huddled around the edge of her mind; they clamored for attention. -Suppose Pearse wouldn’t come over to the Sorrows? Suppose he changed -back into that old Pearse she had known, who could be hard and -indifferent? If she was here— When she could see him— But she was -risking all in going away and trusting to a letter— - -She finally began, wrote rapidly for a while, stopped, frowned at -what she had written, tore it up, and sat thinking. This whole round -of action she repeated several times. Then in desperation she dashed -down a few lines, signed, folded them, got them into an envelope—put -her head down on the table and began to cry. - -It wasn’t noisy grief, just the slow tears of exhaustion. She must -have cried herself to sleep. - -What was it waked her? She sat up suddenly in the dark. Her lamp was -out. Dim moonlight made a gray square of her window, and as she -stared at it, there came once more the rattle of gravel against the -glass—then a low, guarded whistle. - -The house was still. It must be some time in the small hours. She -didn’t dare strike a match to look at her watch. She stole across -and peered out between the curtains. Over there by the cottonwoods -that gave the place its name—wasn’t that a mounted man in their -shadow? Pearse! It must be. It couldn’t be any one else! She waved a -hasty signal, then slipped over, got her own door open as silently -as she could, and hurried down stairs. - -As she struggled with the fastening of the front door, she was -desperately afraid he might have been there longer than she knew—be -discouraged—leave without seeing her. But she’d waved to him from -the window. She thought he answered. Oh—the door gave at last, but -noisily. - -She crossed the court on winged feet; some one caught her in a rough -embrace. A face was pushed down against hers. Some one whispered, - -“You made a lot of noise getting out, girlie. Where’s your bag?” - -She drew back, bewildered, scared, answering mechanically: “It’s -upstairs.” - -“Well—for the Lord’s sake!” - -That wasn’t Pearse’s voice—even in a whisper Hilda knew it wasn’t. -She’d known this wasn’t Pearse as soon as he touched her. Who was -it? Who did he think she was? She tried to pull free. As her head -went back, her eye caught the row of upper windows. The resurrection -plant changed from Maybelle’s sill to her own—the gravel on the -pane—she’d blundered into some arrangement of Maybelle’s! - -“I’m not—” she began; but the man’s fierce whisper interrupted, - -“Shut up—whoever you are! Do you want to give the whole thing away?” - -His grip on her arm dragged her back into the shadow. She saw a -light flash up and go out in Maybelle’s room, the movement of a -window-curtain there. The man beside her saw it, too. But now there -was noise in the house. He loosed his hold on her arm and backed -away toward his pony. Hilda stood where she was and looked while the -house over there became all lit up. What should she do? Slowly she -went toward the side door, and, as she stood hesitating there, some -one tore it open and stood in it—Colonel Lee Marchbanks, a bathrobe -pulled on over his night-clothes. - -“What the devil’s this?” - -“Oh, Hilda!” That was Mrs. Marchbanks, following him, getting ahead -of him and taking hold of her. Fayte came from somewhere. Miss -Ferguson was on the porch. The lights from the windows flickered -over their faces. The sound of galloping hoofs came from the -trail—two ponies, plainly. - -“Who were those people?” the colonel demanded. - -“Only one people, I guess,” Fayte explained jeeringly, when she -didn’t answer. “Masters brought a led pony for her.” - -“Masters? Was that Pearse Masters?” - -“Let me pass, Colonel Marchbanks.” Hilda pushed by, the rest of them -trailing after her. - -In the hall they all came together, and the colonel, who had tripped -on one of his flapping slippers and come up angrier than ever, -exploded, - -“You ought to be ashamed, Hilda! That young hound—here on my -place—after he’d been as good as ordered off of it—you dressed and -ready to run away with him! Oh, you can’t lie out of it, young lady; -any fool could see what was up. May—” Hilda saw that Maybelle was -halfway down the stairs, a kimono pulled on, one bedroom slipper and -one riding boot, which latter nobody but herself seemed to -notice—“May, go back and step into this girl’s room; see if she -isn’t already packed to leave.” - -“She—she is, Pa,” Maybelle was almost whimpering. “I’ve just been in -there. Everything she’s got is packed up.” - -Then she was down the stairs in a rush, her arms around Hilda’s -neck, whispering, - -“Don’t. Don’t give me away. Oh—Hilda! It won’t make any difference -to you. You don’t want to stay here, anyhow. But—” - -Hilda pushed her off and turned to Colonel Marchbanks. Of course, -Maybelle’s things were packed, too; under that kimono Maybelle was -dressed, ready to have gone with that man. - -“What Maybelle says is true,” she told them all, “I’m going to leave -in the morning.” - -“You’ll leave for Lame Jones County in the morning,” the colonel -growled. - -“Certainly. That’s what I mean,” Hilda agreed. - -“Fayte, go dress,” said his father; “I want you to ride in to the -station and send a telegram to Pearsall. The rest of you get -upstairs to bed.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - THE RETURN - - -It was strange to Hilda to be going home to Lame Jones County by -railroad. Not once before, since that journey from New York that -brought the Van Brunts to Texas, had she traveled on a train. The -thought flitted vaguely through her mind—why she’d hardly know how -to act—what to do. - -But, once settled in the car, sunk in her own thoughts, she found -that the people in the other seats or passing in the aisles were -almost like shadows. Even the Marchbankses out there at the ranch, -in that queer breakfast at dawn, Mrs. Marchbanks and Maybelle -stealing down for it in wrappers, sitting with her under the -colonel’s watchful eye, hadn’t been real people. They all swung in a -sort of dream. Mrs. Marchbanks’s little signals to her when the man -at the end of the table wasn’t looking—that trying to get in a word -alone with her before the final good-by. What did it matter? -Maybelle’s anxious, apologetic whisper that she’d tried to find out -what Pa said in his telegram—guessed it was just a notification to -the folks at the Sorrows of Hilda’s unexpected return—got little -attention. Fayte wasn’t at the table. Probably he hadn’t come back -from Juan Chico. - -But, when they’d driven the miles in to the station, the colonel -hardly speaking a word to her on the way, they didn’t see anything -of Fayte there, either—and Hilda felt sure that the colonel was both -disappointed and angry at that. He was angrier still when she openly -posted with her own hand the note she had written to Pearse. Then -they were checking her trunk; the colonel was having it brought -close to the track where it could be loaded as soon as the train -pulled in. Some one came hastily around the corner of the building, -speaking to her as Miss Van Brunt, lifting his hat—the marshmallow -man—the man who had stolen the ride with Maybelle on the way to the -dance—the person Maybelle called Gene. In the morning light he -looked more hard and objectionable even than she’d thought. His air -was furtive. She moved back a step; he followed up, saying -hurriedly: - -“I didn’t mean to be rough last night when you butted in on my game. -Of course I took you for Maybelle. How about her? She send me any -word? Have her folks found out anything? What’s my chance to see her -now?” - -“What—what’s all this?” Marchbanks pounced on them from around the -pile of baggage—he had heard every word. “Stop—wait, Hilda!” - -The train roared in; her trunk—the only one to go—was hustled -aboard. - -“Hold on!” But she went past him. It was the conductor who helped -her up the step, while he shouted “All aboard!” As the train moved -out, she looked back to see the two men confronted. The wheels -gathered speed. Soon the station was a toy house, those two she’d -left beside the track just little vibrating dots—and finally they -were out of sight. - -Thump-thump of the wheels—the swift-flying landscape outside of the -windows.... Time—place—were things that wavered, dissolved. She was -again the little girl Hilda of nearly twelve years ago, on that -journey from New York to Texas; her mother lying ill in a berth the -porter had made up; all the people trying to be kind to them, but -the Masterses seeming like own folks; Pearse’s mother sitting -beside her mother, fanning the sufferer’s pale face, and her -Boy-On-The-Train making himself a little girl’s hero. With this came -more sense of reality than anything about her held. She could see it -and feel it more vividly than she saw the conductor when he came -through for her ticket now, or these other people about her in the -seats of this other train. - -Through the long day’s journey, the stopping and starting, the -getting on and getting off of passengers at stations, Hilda lived -over and over the few short days that Pearse Masters—in the -flesh—had occupied in her life; the many long hours that he had been -with her mentally. Why he’d always been there. He was one of the -fundamental facts of existence—like Uncle Hank. - -He had asked her to stay in Encinal County so he could see her—once -again, anyway. She’d failed him. She hadn’t stayed. Well—but—she’d -told him in that note why she couldn’t stay. And she fairly begged -him to come right over to the Three Sorrows as quick as he could. -Would he do it? And if he did.... How would it be when he came? - -At the lowest of her depression she had a sick, cold clammy feeling -that what she’d done—hiding Pearse in the cyclone cellar, and never -telling Uncle Hank all these years; keeping him out of sight when -she met him that night at the camp-fire, and again when she saw him -on the trail the day the rustlers were at the ranch; not admitting -to Uncle Hank when he talked to her on the door-stone that there was -such a person as Pearse in Encinal County, and that his presence was -the greater part of the reason for her wanting to go to the -Alamositas to school—sometimes all this arrayed itself against her -and seemed unforgivable. Then she’d excuse herself—and Pearse—by -remembering how long ago most of it was. He was different now. She -was different. Yet it was a very pale, spent Hilda who saw, for the -first time, the roof-lines of the little new station out on the -western edge of the Three Sorrows, who got up and followed with -dragging step when a porter jerked her valises together and started -out with them. - -Uncle Hank was there to meet her with the buckboard. Well, it was a -relief to have him to face—first. Uncle Hank was going to be the -hardest part of it. She could deceive the others, if necessary; but -she knew those kind blue eyes would look right through her. - -And that’s just what they seemed to do as he swung her down from the -steps, searched her face gravely and said in a sort of subdued tone: - -“My, it’s a weight off my mind to have you here, all right, Pettie!” -Then after another anxious survey of her pale cheeks, the lips that -she couldn’t keep from quivering, the eyes that were only bright -because of unshed tears, he finished on a falling note, “I got Lee -Marchbanks’s telegraft about noon.” - -The trunk had been thrown off. The train thundered away. Now Burch -rode in from the trail, swung down from his pony, and came across to -give her the usual funny, bumping kind of Burch kiss and ask in -blunt boy fashion as he picked up the valises: - -“What started you home all in a hurry before the term was over, -Hilda? Not sick, are you?” - -She glanced sidewise at Uncle Hank, who was bringing her trunk to -lash on the back of the buckboard, and got a little shake of the -head, which showed that he alone had whatever disquieting -information there was in that telegram of Colonel Marchbanks’s. - -“S’pose we leave sister tell us why she come home when she’s ready -to say, Bud,” he suggested. “Reckon we’re glad to see her—whatever’s -the reason. When folks get back ’tain’t polite, right at the first -go-off, to ask too many questions, or so I was fetched up to -believe.” - -“All right, Uncle Hank.” Burch, piling valises into the buckboard, -grinned across at the old man strapping on the trunk. “Of course -you’d stick up for Hilda, whatever she did. You always do. All I’ve -got to say is that it takes something more than a quitter to get -ready for college. Bet I beat her yet.” - -“I guess you will, Buddie.” Hilda’s foot was on the step. “I never -said I was going to college, anyhow. Uncle Hank and I are going to -be partners and run the ranch; you know that.” - -Burch stared up at her, absently chucking a bag to see if it was -firm. - -“Aw, that was the talk when we had to save money. We don’t, now. -Hilda,” with a sharper look at her, “I believe you are sick. You -look like it, anyhow.” - -“Ride on ahead, son,” Hank said gently. “Tell Auntie we met the -girl, and it’s all right. You and her can talk out this college -business when we get home. This child has had a hard trip. No wonder -she looks sorta peaked; traveling on the railroad is mean work, if -you ask me.” - -“But it’s lovely to have our own station, right here on our own -land,” Hilda put in nervously. “It’s ever so exciting.” - -“Ye-es,” drawled Burch, grinning again as he heaved himself into the -saddle and held his pony for a moment close beside them. “I noticed -how excited you were when you first came—just like some one walking -in their sleep.” He loosened the rein and galloped ahead. - -There was a trying moment just after he was gone. Uncle Hank -wouldn’t demand anything of her—he never did. That was what made it -so hard. She must begin. She couldn’t begin. As though he felt her -trouble, he said in a low tone, - -“I wasn’t aiming to ask any questions, Pettie.” The hurt in his -voice pierced her. “I can wait for you to say your say.” - -“Oh, can you, Uncle Hank?” Her voice was husky. “Would you do that? -I think—or anyhow I hope—that he’ll be over here at the Three -Sorrows—well—soon. If you could wait until then—” - -“I’ll wait.” The old man’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, on the -empty plain. “That telegraft of Lee Marchbanks’s sorta made me think -there might be a young man coming over here to see me pretty soon.” - -“Did it? Did they say it was—Pearse Masters?” - -Hank glanced up at her with a brief nod. - -“That’s the name,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll show it to you,” and -he began searching through his pockets. “Long as it wasn’t that -feller Fayte Marchbanks,” he muttered half to himself, “I felt I had -something left to be thankful for. What’s that name again, Pettie? -Masters?” - -“Pearse Masters.” Hilda, studying his face, saw that apparently he -had never heard the name before. It meant nothing to him. But Pearse -knew Uncle Hank by name; seemed to have known him—or known of him—a -long time. Oh, why couldn’t she have had a chance to be told about -that before she came home! The telegram was being smoothed out on -her knee. She glanced down at it. - - “Your ward, Hilda Van Brunt, made attempt to elope from - my house with man named Masters. Am sending her home on - this morning’s train. Marchbanks.” - -She sat staring at it dumbly. Of course that was what the colonel -would have said. But she could tell Uncle Hank the truth about that. -She could tell him the whole thing. And he would believe her. As she -began to speak, some one behind them called out, - -“Hi, Pearsall!” - -Looking around, they saw the agent standing in the station door -waving a paper. Uncle Hank turned, almost with an air of relief, -went back and got it. Hilda watched as he read and re-read the -message, spoke to the man over his shoulder, and then came toward -her, his hat pushed back, his hair ruffled, demanding, as he turned -the sheet over to her, - -“What in time does this mean, Pettie? I can’t make nothing of it. -The agent says that it’s been delayed. Looks like Marchbanks must -have sent it soon after you took the train.” - -“He did,” said Hilda, as she read. “He must have sent it right there -at the station at Juan Chico.” For the second yellow sheet that she -and Uncle Hank now read together ran: - - “Statement in my earlier message entire mistake. Very - much regret whole circumstance and apologize to Miss - Hilda. She behaved most honorably. She will explain. - - “Marchbanks.” - -And explain Hilda did, as she and Uncle Hank finally drove away, -headed for home. When all was told, and Uncle Hank seemed relieved -as she expected he’d be—he said slowly, - -“And yet you tell me this young man, of the name of Masters, is -coming over here to see me, Pettie?” Hank tried to smile. “No, you -needn’t answer that. I said I’d ask no questions. Looks like I might -keep my word—for a few minutes, anyhow.” - -The buckboard rattled ahead. Hank’s wide gaze took in the Three -Sorrows pastures, the glimpse, beyond there, of the low roof. There -was the property he had pulled out of debt, saved for Charley Van -Brunt’s children. Not so young as he had been—no, not so young. Yet -to Hilda’s eyes, which had always seen him with the silver in his -hair, he shouldn’t have appeared noticeably older than when on that -first occasion, in the office room, she, frightened that he was -going away and leaving her, had wanted to say to him, in the words -of her fairy tale, “If you will never forsake me, then I will never -forsake you.” He stirred uneasily and began to speak. - -“You got my last letter?” - -Instantly there flashed into her mind the details of that letter: a -sort of summing up of the Three Sorrows business affairs—in which -he’d reminded her that she was said to be his partner in them, but -in fact, though he was their guardian, she and Burch owned -everything in full, and would be his employers, and he wanted her to -see what this railroad proposition meant to the estate. It had come -the day before the dance at Graingers. Other things, to her much -more important, had so filled her thoughts that she had not answered -it. She came to herself now with the knowledge that Uncle Hank was -stealing glance after glance at her, apparently distressed by the -look in her face. - -“I—oh, of course, you did write me in the letter all about it,” she -said confusedly. “I guess I didn’t quite understand. Are we—will it -put us out of debt, Uncle Hank?” - -“Pays everything.” The old man smiled a little sadly. “With the -State & Gulf Line running that spur right through here, gives -a-plenty to pay off—and stands to make you and Burch rich young -folks. Within a few years, if things is managed right, you’ll be -very rich, I doubt not. You can see from that, Pettie, why Lee -Marchbanks’s news of you—” He broke off and gave his attention to -his team, finishing after a minute, “You will both be rich. I ain’t -uneasy about Burch. He’s a boy; and old-headed at that. It’s -you—and—and things like this telegraft that scares me.” - -No, it wasn’t that he really looked so much older; he seemed somehow -stricken, disappointed. Why, he’d had that second telegram—she’d -explained how the first one came to be sent—that it was all a -mistake; yet he could sit there and tell her that the ranch was paid -out of debt and they were going to be rich—and still look that way. -Well, it was— Oh, didn’t he know she wasn’t forsaking him—that she -never would? You might like another person very much too. That -didn’t mean— - -“You—you will try to like him, Uncle Hank, when he comes—if he -comes?” Hilda spoke with tremulous eagerness. “I—oh, I just feel as -though it would break my heart if you and he weren’t friends.” - -“All right, Pettie girl.” Again that effort to smile; it made her -throat choke up. “You know the Bible says it’s hard for a camel to -go through the eye of a needle. I’ve been told that the needle’s eye -is really a low gate, so called, and the beast has to kneel down and -shuffle through on his knees. Reckon that’s the way any young men -you bring around will have to come through with your Uncle Hank.” - -“Oh—I’m just hoping to get him over here for you to see—that’s all.” -The red rushed up in Hilda’s face; she flashed a shaky little smile -at him. “How could he be a friend of mine—without being a friend of -yours?” - -He seemed about to answer that; thought better of it; finally said -mildly: - -“Pettie, spose we don’t speak no more of the matter—till he comes. -Let’s put it by and be just like old times. There’s your Auntie on -the porch. It’s doing Miss Valeria lots of good to be rich again. -She’s a’ready got in new servants. I doubt not she has many a fine -plan laid for you—now that expense doesn’t have to be considered.” - -But all time is new time. Even “times” are always new ones—never -just like “old times.” Always something has been taken out—or -something added—that makes the new different. Here was Hilda eager, -fond, loving everything and everybody on the ranch of the Three -Sorrows more demonstratively than ever before in her life, yet Hank -felt the difference as she rushed up the steps to greet her aunt, as -she ran through the house to find Sam Kee in his kitchen. - -An unseen presence seemed to come with her, very real: the young man -who would be here in the flesh to-morrow—or the next day—or the -next. Oh, he’d come. Hank never doubted that. Surely it was the -thought of him that gave her such glowing cheeks, lit soft fires -under the dusk of her lashes as they sat that night at the table. - -“After all,” smiled Miss Val, very complacent in the new order of -things, “it’s as well that Hilda’s come home. That ranch place -wasn’t very suitable. Mr. Pearsall and I have been talking about -your future, Hilda. Probably a good finishing school near New York -for awhile—and then travel.” - -Hilda and Uncle Hank exchanged a glance, both acutely conscious of -the young man who was coming to the Three Sorrows on the next day—or -the next. Neither said a word to Miss Valeria of the matter. They -were still partners, that far. If Pearse Masters’ coming was to be -the wedge between them—it had not yet divided them completely. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - A TELEGRAM - - -A pale Hilda, still plainly on nervous strain, sat at the breakfast -table next morning. Uncle Hank—up and out an hour or two earlier—had -ridden in for the meal. Aunt Valeria’s whole attention went to the -new waitress she was training. At a signal from her, the girl -brought a yellow envelope on a tray and offered it to Hilda—from the -wrong side. - -Miss Valeria frowned, signaled again sharply; the telegram—it could -be nothing else—was whisked away from her niece’s eager fingers and -properly presented. Hilda snatched it up and opened it with hands -that shook. - -Aunt Val and Burch were looking at her with frank inquiry and -interest; but Uncle Hank, after one quick glance, paid close -attention to his food. - -“Oh,” she said, the strain relaxing into tremulous smiles, “this -is—it’s a friend of mine coming over from Encinal County. He—he says -he’ll be here on the afternoon train.” - -Burch returned to his oatmeal; Aunt Valeria’s expression invited -further details; so Hilda went on, - -“His name is Pearse Masters, Aunt Val, maybe you’d remember that the -Masterses were people we met coming out to Texas; and when Mamma got -sick, they stopped off in Denver with us and stayed till—stayed -there through it all. They were gone before you got there—but -perhaps you remember the name.” - -“Oh, yes, I remember very well,” said Miss Valeria. “Does Mrs. -Masters come with him? Are they living in New Mexico now?” - -“Mr. and Mrs. Masters are both dead; this”—the color deepened in -Hilda’s cheeks; her voice wavered a little—“this is their son.” - -“Oh—a young man?” Miss Valeria went on with her breakfast, murmuring -vaguely, “The afternoon train? He’ll be here in time for dinner, -then; that’s very nice.” - -The talk went quite buoyantly after that, Hilda asking questions -about things on the ranch—and hardly hearing the answers, Miss -Valeria explaining new arrangements in the household matters. Now -that there were plenty of servants, this small lady—who had never -ceased to be a resident of New York merely sojourning on a Texas -Panhandle ranch—took a great deal more interest in the Three Sorrows -domestic machinery. It was after breakfast, in the hall, that Uncle -Hank and Hilda came together alone. - -“I’m so glad—” she began, oh, how unnecessarily! One look at her -flushed cheeks and glowing eyes would have been enough. “I’m sure -Aunt Val’s going to like him. Burch already knows him—though, of -course, I don’t suppose he can remember—and now, if you—” - -“If me,” Hank said gently. “I can’t see why you’re uneasy about me, -Pettie. No special reason for it, is there?” - -“No—yes—Uncle Hank.” - -Hilda moved on with him to the office, where they could speak -together without fear of interruption. “There is a reason; that’s -why I’m so glad he’s coming over here—again.” - -“Again?” Quickly. “Has he ever been at the Sorrers before? Not that -I’ve known of.” - -Hilda’s eyes never left the anxious face that confronted her as she -told, at last, the whole story of her hiding Pearse Masters in the -cyclone cellar, of the snatched interview during the drive up with -the trail-herd. That was easy. She was glad now to share that with -Uncle Hank. But when she came to the part over in New Mexico, the -dance at Grainger’s, the picnic on Caliente Creek, she found it -harder going. Yet, the bare facts of these things too she got before -him, tried to express something of what they meant to her, broke off -blushing, and finally finished, - -“So you see, he’s The Boy-On-The-Train that I was always telling you -about when I was a little girl, Uncle Hank. And when I hid him here -on the Three Sorrows—he wasn’t a cattle thief—but if the sheriff had -got him that—” - -“I see. I see, Pettie.” Hank stood looking down, sorting out this -new information. Finally he went on without looking at her: - -“What you said in there at the breakfast table, and what you’ve said -here to me, does make a good deal of difference. If that’s all -so—and, of course, I know it is so, when you tell me it is—what -makes you keep on talking like you thought this young man and me -might not take to each other? That he should have persuaded you into -hiding him here in the Sorrers unbeknownst to me—I ain’t holding -that up against him. Must have been but a boy at the time. You was -only a little girl, Reckon he was scared. Didn’t know me, and had -knowed you and your folks before. I reckon that was all there was to -it, wasn’t it?” - -“Not—not quite all, Uncle Hank.” Hilda was trembling. Her face -burned, her eyes wavered and fell away from his. “He—he did seem to -know about you, and—there seemed to be something—something—” her -voice failed her. After a moment, she was able to finish, in a husky -whisper, “He didn’t feel friendly—to you.” - -“Sho!” Uncle Hank looked at her blankly. “Seemed to know me? I’ve -been figgerin’ he was a son of the Masters that was part owner of -the J I C company out there in Encinal. Rich eastern man, as I -recollect it. Them the people?” - -“Yes,” said Hilda faintly. “Mr. Masters died just before Pearse came -out West—you know—the time I hid him here.” - -“Left his share in the company to the boy,” Hank nodded. “Well, it -ain’t anything against him to be a rich man’s son. Some of ’em are -some account.” He spoke heavily. Hilda felt that he was making an -effort. She hurried to help out. - -“Oh—he isn’t quite that. They had other children, grown up, that got -most of what was left. They’d given Pearse a fine education—but he’s -really sort of poor. He says it’s just a little share he has in the -J I C. He wasn’t even sure he’d get that. But he loves this western -country just the same as you and I do.” An appealing glance. “So -that’s what brought him out here when Mr. Masters died—he came to -get a job with the J I C. And he got it. And he worked awfully hard. -He was promoted three times in the first year. And now he’s doing -splendidly. He—” - -She stopped, looking entreatingly in his face. He said very quietly: - -“You think a heap of him, don’t you, Pettie?” - -“Oh, I do. And you will, too, Uncle Hank, when you know him.” - -“Well, dear,” he said slowly, “I’m bound to warn you that it sorta -puts my bristles up—the idea of a young feller that’s a friend of -yourn, and that I hain’t never seen, coming all set to be unfriendly -with me—your guardian. It—Hilda”—when had he ever used her full name -like that!—“it don’t look so good to me. Well—what is it, Buster?” -as a head was poked in at the door. “Want me over at the north -pasture, this morning? All right,” with apparent relief; then to -Hilda, “Run tell Sam Kee to put me up a snack, Pettie. Have to make -a day of it up there, I reckon. But if I ain’t on hand when your -company first gets here, you and Miss Valery can make him welcome. -Reckon I won’t be missed.” - -He seemed to become aware that he’d spoken disconcertingly, smiled -and patted her shoulder. - -Hilda wanted to say that he would be missed—very much—but she had a -habit of truth-telling that interfered. She got the lunch for him, -ran out to the corral with it, and stood looking rather blankly -after the two men as they rode away. The thought that Uncle Hank and -Pearse might never like each other at all, might actually quarrel, -that the thing which Pearse seemed to hold against the older man -might turn out to be something that couldn’t be explained away— -Well, only a few hours now. She flew to the kitchen, borrowed broom, -cloths, dustpan, from Sam Kee, rolled her sleeves high, tied a towel -over her hair, and slipped down to the cyclone cellar to make it -beautiful for Pearse’s first view of it. Here—nowhere else—they two -alone—he would tell her. She would know at last. - -Captain Snow had followed down; while she worked he dozed on the -foot of the couch where Pearse had slept, on the blanket which he -had sent to her as a gift. But her noisy cleaning work annoyed the -old cat. He was getting to an age when he disliked excitement. He -finally jumped down, ambled gravely across and mewed to be let out, -swishing his fluffy tail and pawing delicately at the door edge. -Hilda let him go, an unusual frown between her brows. She worked on, -periods of absolute rigidity alternating with moments of fiercely -energetic action, till Sam Kee’s gong sounded above stairs—and she -wasn’t decent for the table, let alone dressed to go over and meet -Pearse. - -Hilda started for the station very soon after lunch. When the -buckboard came around, Burch jeered that she’d be fully an hour -early for the train. But once she had seen her little retreat all -spick and span, the checkerboard she and Pearse had played so many -games on laid out, the books they had read together on the shelf, -she was too restless to wait longer. - -At the station the agent came out as she rode up; looked very hard -at her and called the time. Indifferently, it flitted through her -mind; oh, yes, all those telegrams had come through his hands. Of -course, he knew. He understood who this was she was meeting. She -tied her ponies to the rack and began walking up and down. - -She couldn’t be still. She looked at her watch every few minutes, -tried to make a game counting her steps. Some men rode up, -dismounted, and went into the office; people she’d never seen -before. There were a lot of new folks around now. The railroad -brought them, maybe. The clicking of the instrument in there, sound -of voices; she made her path a little farther away, so that she -shouldn’t hear, so that it might not interfere with her thoughts, -then, in a panic, was afraid she might be too far off when the train -arrived, came back and found a box a little way up the track, where -she could sit down and wait. - -All at once she knew she was tired. There by the track, the sky a -great blue span above her, she dropped into a musing so deep that -time went swiftly by; it seemed but a moment when there was a little -speck far off on the horizon, coming nearer. Suddenly, and -strangely, she was the little girl Hilda, waiting for Uncle Hank on -the door-stone. No—that little moving speck, far off and coming -nearer, wasn’t Uncle Hank on Buckskin. That was Pearse’s train. -Swiftly it grew; there was a humming now, a puff of smoke, the -diminished hoot of the whistle. - -“She’s going to stop. Some one to get off.” The station agent had -come out with those other men. He was hanging a mail bag on the -crane. The train was pulling in. Pearse was here! - -Under three pairs of curious eyes—those that might look from the -train didn’t count—they shook hands. Nothing really said till they -got over to the buckboard, and then Hilda, as he helped her in, the -happiness of it all looking out of her shining eyes, glowing on her -cheeks, whispered: - -“It was awfully good of you, Pearse, to come so soon. I was afraid, -when I wrote you, that you wouldn’t—” - -“Did you write me a letter?” Pearse stopped, looking up at her. -“What did it say?” - -“Oh—just explained that I couldn’t stay any longer at the -Marchbankses’ and asked you to come over here instead. Why, -Pearse—if you didn’t get it, how did you know to come?” - -Pearse laughed a little, circled the buckboard, and got in on the -other side, taking up the lines she offered him, and starting the -ponies. - -“You seem to think I need a good deal of bringing, Hilda,” still -smiling. Then, after a quick, sidelong glance at her face, where the -lowered lashes made a sweeping dusk against flaming cheeks, “I -don’t. But I wish I’d had your letter too.” - -“I wonder why you didn’t get it.” - -“Oh, I wouldn’t have got it. You say you posted it at the station? -It wouldn’t have gone out to the ranch till night; one of the boys -always rides in and fetches the mail in the evening; and when -evening came I was in Juan Chico. You know what a little town like -that is—everybody’d heard of your having gone home. Fayte had -talked, too, when he came in to send that telegram, about how I’d -been at the Alamositas in the small hours, with a led horse, to -steal you.” - -Hilda’s heart leaped guiltily at the words. - -“But,” she began hastily, “but the colonel knows better than that, -now. He knows who it was came to the ranch that night. It was by -mistake the man got my window instead of Maybelle’s. It”—she stared -down at her fingers, speaking in a very small voice—“it was awfully -silly of me to think you’d come back and throw gravel on my window; -but I’d been asleep, and—before that—I’d just finished writing my -letter to you; and you know how confused everything is when you’re -waked up suddenly that way. I heard it, and—I ran down—and never -realized till he spoke that it wasn’t you—that it couldn’t have been -you, of course.” - -“Oh—it couldn’t have been me, of course—eh?” Pearse echoed, his -voice a little unsteady. And then, for a long moment, there was no -sound but the quick, soft thud of the horses’ hoofs. - -“We”—Hilda tried to speak in a nice, practical tone—“we’re sensible, -aren’t we, Pearse?” - -“I suppose we are,” Pearse conceded, a bit grudgingly. “And I’ve got -to see your people, and—” - -“Yes, of course,” Hilda broke in nervously. “That’s what I said in -my letter. I asked you to come over and have the little talk you -spoke of—and make friends with Uncle Hank.” - -“You’re still thinking that it will be making friends?” Pearse -stiffened a bit, and pulled the horses down to a slower pace. “More -likely that Pearsall and I will never have anything to do with each -other, Hilda; that it’ll have to be you and me—or you and him.” -Then, slackening the lines so that the horses went forward faster, -“Colonel Marchbanks and Gene Denner fought all over the station -platform. Everybody knows now who was at the Alamositas that night, -and what girl he was after—everybody but the Marchbankses did know -already about Maybelle’s affair with that fellow.” - -“Oh, but it’s different with us,” Hilda’s voice failed at the end of -that statement. She had no words to answer as Pearse asked softly, -looking straight ahead, - -“Are you sure it’s so different?” - -They were at the gate, turning in to the long avenue of box elders, -and she caught at the first little commonplace thing to say, with, - -“Look at our trees, Pearse. Aren’t they lovely? Haven’t they grown a -lot since the last time you saw them? Right over there is the spring -at the head of the _asequia_ where you came in that day. You can’t -quite see it from here for the mound—Burch used to call it the -little mountain when he was a baby—that mound’s over the cyclone -cellar.” - -There wasn’t another word said till Pearse was lifting her down at -the steps, and Aunt Val rose from a rocker on the porch to meet -them. Miss Van Brunt seemed to like at once this tall, good looking -young fellow who had known her brother and her brother’s wife and -children. She felt that such a person had background, and background -was the thing she was apt to miss in her western acquaintances. -Burch came out and said “Hello,” amusingly certain that he perfectly -remembered Pearse, and took the visitor up to the room which had -been prepared for him. When they came downstairs again, Hilda was -waiting for them. - -“I’m going to show Pearse over the place a bit while it’s still -light enough to see things,” she said easily, then in a -half-whisper, “Quick, Pearse. Come this way. Around the house. We’ll -have to go in by the back. Nobody knows about my cyclone cellar -yet.” - -They ran, hand in hand, like two children, ducking under the -low-swung branches of trees, skirting shrubs. When they burst into -the kitchen, old Sam Kee, straightening up from the range where he -was sliding a pan of biscuits into the oven, looked at them with -such twinkling eyes that Hilda was sure he had already watched -Pearse’s arrival. - -“You know who this is, don’t you, Sam?” she smiled. - -“Sure, I know,” the Chinaman grinned back at her. “Plitty nice boy -you got. Fine young man, now.” - -“That was good coffee and chow you gave me,” Pearse offered -diplomatically. - -“This dinner-time more good chow.” Sam Kee’s yellow face was a -pucker of amiability. “You stay here, I feed you all time good -chow.” - -“Well, that’s something to stay for,” Pearse said solemnly, and the -Chinaman went off into long, silent chuckles. Hilda was already -calling over her shoulder: - -“Come on, Pearse. If dinner is as near ready as all this, we’ve got -to hurry.” - -With her leading, they crossed the big cellar and threaded the -passage. But once in that little chamber of memories, how was either -of them to remember that life presented any problems, that there -might be breakers ahead? Pearse went from one thing to another -admiring; Hilda had full reward for making the place so fine and -festive. - -“Why—you’ve kept every one of them!” Pearse looked around at his -gifts, proudly displayed. - -“Yes. I showed them to the folks. They were too lovely to keep -entirely to myself; but after that I brought them down here.” - -“I’ll get you a better serape than this.” Pearse fingered the -blanket on the couch. “I know where I can pick up a Hanno -Chaddie—that means ‘chief’s blanket’—ever see one?” And he went on -to tell her of the pattern. - -But it made no difference what either of them said, one thing lay -under it all—Pearse had come back—as he said he would. He’d walked -up the front steps this time; he’d met and made friends with Miss -Valeria and Burch. Now there remained—Uncle Hank. After they’d -talked a while, eagerly, of that former time of hiding here in the -cyclone cellar, Pearse said suddenly: - -“Shall you tell Pearsall about having hidden me here, that time?” - -“I’ve already told him, Pearse. Was that wrong? Didn’t you want me -to?” - -“Doesn’t make any difference. I suppose I’d have told him myself -when I saw him. I suppose I shall see him to-morrow, shan’t I? He’s -on the ranch, isn’t he?” - -“To-morrow? You’ll see him to-night, Pearse. At dinner—in a few -minutes, now. He might come in any time.” - -She hurried over to the little window and stood nervously pushing -the vine lattice aside so that she saw the spring, the stream, the -little bridge that led across to the bunk house. And at the instant -she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing and whirled, crying: - -“Pearse—there’s Uncle Hank, now! Come on.” - -“All right—tell you all about it on the way up,” Pearse said almost -desperately, and while they hurried stumblingly, through the dark -cellar, he talked in hasty, broken sentences. - -“What! What!” Hilda cried out. Then, “Oh, if I’d only known when you -were here before—if you’d only told me then!” - -She clutched his hand and pulled him close after her. Both of them -flushed, excited, they ran across the kitchen and came in behind -Uncle Hank in the hall, moving toward the open door of the office -just ahead. As Hilda, still drawing Pearse with her, followed, and -pulled the door shut behind them, her call rang out strangely: - -“He’s here, Uncle Hank! He’s come!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII - - AN ARRIVAL - - -In the office Hank faced sharply around, and the tall men stood -looking at each other; there was a moment of silence, in which the -cooing of Sam Kee’s pigeons could be heard. Hilda was breathing -short. - -“I—I thought maybe you’d know him,” she faltered at last, and Uncle -Hank looked from one of them to the other in astonishment. - -“I reckon this is young Mr. Masters, ain’t it, Pettie?” - -“Henry Pearsall Moseley,” Pearse made the statement he had made to -Hilda in other words as they crossed the cellar down there. “Masters -is the name of my adopted parents. I just told Hilda. But she didn’t -want to wait for details. She hurried me right up here to you. I—I -had thought, myself, that it would be better to speak to you alone, -at first. You would rather not have her hear—” - -He made a significant pause. Hank wasn’t listening; all his soul -seemed to be in the gaze he set on this young man. When he spoke, it -was to say, huskily, wonderingly, - -“Harry!” Then slowly, “It is you. Yes—seems I must have knowed you, -even without the name. You’ve got the look of your mother, boy.” - -At that mention of his mother, Hilda saw an angry gleam come into -Pearse’s eyes. - -“See here!” he burst out. “I’ve not told Hilda anything but my -name—and that I’m your stepson. She’d never have known from me that -you and my mother were separated, and that you turned your back on -me, as though I’d been a stray dog. But if you want her to hear it—” - -“No! Oh, no!” Hilda broke in before Hank could find words. “That -wasn’t the way of it, Pearse. Uncle Hank told me long ago about the -little son he loved so, and— Oh, tell him, Uncle Hank! Tell him -quick!” - -“Come over here. Set down. Both of you,” said Hank’s quiet voice. -“We got to get the rights of this.” He took his place in the desk -chair. As they were getting settled so that they faced him, Pearse -said more mildly, - -“I’m sorry I spoke as I did just then. I don’t want to make Hilda -feel bad. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones—if you will, sir.” - -“So, my boy’s come back to me, after a-many year—come back with a -grudge against me, has he, Harry? Of all the things I thought to -expect—that wasn’t, somehow, one. And what you said just now about -me and your mother having parted? She never told you such a word. -Where did you get it?” - -“From Uncle Jeff Aiken,” said Pearse bitterly. “The man you shoved -me off on—that you had shoved her off on.” - -“Jeff Aiken ain’t no uncle of yours.” Hank’s tone was patient. “He’s -but the man who married your father’s sister. Shoved you off on him? -When you and Mattie went there to visit—at her wish, son—you was -well furnished with money, and I sent money regular. After the Lord -took her, I sent money for your keep with Aiken for two years— And -by that time—well—well—” - -He searched in the desk drawer, found a packet of letters, laid them -beside him. “Them’s Mattie’s, son. I’ll leave you read them later. -You’ll find in them if she thought she was cast off. Here’s some of -Aiken’s, receipting for the money I sent for your board and -schooling, telling me that you was doing well and wished to stay -where you was at. And I’ve got another here, the one you wrote -before you took and run away from him.... Poor little feller.” - -The yellowed sheet Pearse and Hilda read, sitting there side by -side, was a child’s appeal to the father he still trusted to come -and take him away from a home that had become intolerable. As Pearse -looked from it into Hank’s face and back again, his own face went -through many changes of emotion. - -“I felt pretty bad when I wrote that,” he said doubtfully. “I had no -idea there was any money being sent for me. Uncle Jeff’s way was, -when he’d come to a deadlock and licked me till he was afraid to -lick any more, to start in on a tongue-lashing. He could hurt me -worse that way than he could with a stick, and he knew it. He’d tell -me that you and mother had separated when she left Texas, and that -you said you never wanted to see my face again. Sometimes I didn’t -believe him. After a while I did. I just wrote that letter on a -chance, and because I was desperate.” - -“Yes. I know.” Hank nodded. “When I went back there—as I did—at the -news that you had run away, I found how things had been. Aiken -thought he was justified—if such a man can be said to think a-tall. -Told me that your mother had spoiled you, and some one had to take -holt and straighten you out. Admitted that he set in to break your -will. Man of his sort gets that idea into his head about a -child—he’ll go to any lengths. He held out my letters on you. Why, -Harry, I wrote as regular as the time come, hoping all the while -that you’d change your mind and want to come back to me. All I’d get -in answer would be Jeff’s receipt for the money, and his statement -that you was satisfied where you was and hadn’t seen fit to write. -He still justifies himself—Aiken does—says he done it for your -good.” - -“If I had only known.” Pearse was back in the bitterness of his -boyhood struggle. - -“Or if I’d known,” said Hank. “But the first word I got was when you -run away. It come to me late, by the hand of a rider that chanced to -be passing and brought my mail. I was right in the middle of the -fall roundup, but I dropped everything and struck straight for -Missouri.” - -Hilda’s hand found Uncle Hank’s; Pearse already held her other. The -three of them drew together. - -“I pretty near run through everything I had trying to hunt you up. -Looked like I just couldn’t turn back to Texas without my child. -Ranches and cattle and roundups and such”—he gestured helplessly -with his free hand—“they looked like nothing but a pack of -foolishness to me then. Didn’t seem nothing in the world of any real -value at the side of a little tow-headed feller that had run -away—that was lost to me—out in the world somewheres. I sold my -ranch. Most that it brought went into the search for you. It was -when I give up and thought that you must be dead that I took this -job as manager of the Sorrers. And after I’d been here three or four -years the company sold to Pettie’s mother, and Pettie herself come -out here to sorta fill the place that you’d left so turrible -vacant.” - -“Father!” Hilda thought that word in Pearse’s voice must make up to -Uncle Hank for a great deal. “Nobody on earth ever meant as much to -me as you did. That’s why it hurt so when I had to believe you -weren’t what I’d always thought you. A poor fool of a kid—are you -going to forgive me?” - -“Ah, law, son! If I could be forgiven my own sins as easy as I can -overlook your being a little too ready to be suspicious of me, and -sorta holding onto a bad view of me whether the evidence seemed -sufficient or not—if I could do that, I’d sure have a clean record.” - -In the deep silence that followed came again the velvety coo of Sam -Kee’s pigeons. A belated bee from the hive out near the spring -circled in through the window, hummed drowsily once around the room, -and blundered out again. In the back hall the gong made its -low-toned, persuasive announcement under the Chinaman’s hand. Steps -came down the stairs, Miss Valeria’s little high-heeled slippers. A -resounding bang from the living-room told that Burch had clapped-to -the lid of his desk. - -In the crimson and gold glories that streamed from the west, last of -the sunset fires, the three rose and stood together a moment -lingeringly. Hank’s eyes wandered out over the prospect in front, -basking in that radiance, then took on a far-away, dreamy look. - -“The evening’s a mighty sweet time, too,” he said low, as though -speaking to himself. - -“We’ll go and tell the others, now, won’t we?” Hilda suggested with -tremulous eagerness, as Pearse’s hand holding hers closed tighter -over it. And when Hank turned and looked from her face to his boy’s, -he saw on them the morning. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A GIRL OF THE PLAINS COUNTRY*** - - -******* This file should be named 63044-0.txt or 63044-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/0/4/63044 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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