CHAPTER XLV
JOYCE MAKES PIES
Juan Otero carried the news back to Malapi. He had been waiting on thecrest of the hill to see the issue of the adventure and had come forwardwhen Dave gave him a signal.
Shorty brought Keith in from where he had left the boy in the brush. Theyoungster flew into his sister's arms. They wept over each other and shepetted him with caresses and little kisses.
Afterward she made some supper from the supplies Doble had laid in forhis journey south. The men went down to the creek, where they bathed andwashed their wounds. Darkness had not yet fallen when they went to sleep,all of them exhausted by the strain through which they had passed.
Not until the cold crystal dawn did they awaken. Joyce was the first up.She had breakfast well under way before she had Keith call the stillsleeping men. With the power of quick recuperation which an outdoor lifehad given them, both Shorty and Dave were fit for any exertion again,though Sanders was still suffering from his burns.
After they had eaten they saddled. Shorty gave them a casual nod offarewell.
"Tell Applegate to look me up in Mexico if he wants me," he said.
Joyce would not let it go at that. She made him shake hands. He was inthe saddle, and her eyes lifted to his and showered gratitude on him.
"We'll never forget you--never," she promised. "And we do so hope you'llbe prosperous and happy."
He grinned down at her sheepishly. "Same to you, Miss," he said; andadded, with a flash of audacity, "To you and Dave both."
He headed south, the others north.
From the hilltop Dave looked back at the squat figure steadilydiminishing with distance. Shorty was moving toward Mexico, unhasting andwith a certain sureness of purpose characteristic of him.
Joyce smiled. It was the first signal of unquenchable youth she hadflashed since she had been trapped into this terrible adventure. "Ibelieve you admire him, Dave," she mocked. "You're just as grateful tohim as I am, but you won't admit it. He's not a bad man at all, really."
"He's a good man gone bad. But I'll say this for Shorty. He's some _man_.He'll do to ride the river with."
"Yes."
"At the fire he was the best fighter in my gang--saved one of the boysat the risk of his own life. Shorty's no quitter."
She shut her teeth on a little wave of emotion. Then, "I'm awful sorryfor him," she said.
He nodded appreciation of her feeling. "I know, but you don't need toworry any. He'll not worry about himself. He's sufficient, and he'll getalong."
They put their horses to the trail again.
Crawford met them some miles nearer town. He had been unable to wait fortheir arrival. Neither he nor the children could restrain their emotionat sight of each other. Dave felt they might like to be alone and he leftthe party, to ride across to the tendejon with Bonita's bulldog revolver.
That young woman met him in front of the house. She was eager for news.Sanders told her what had taken place. They spoke in her tongue.
"And Juan--is it all right about him?" she asked.
"Juan has wiped the slate clean. Mr. Crawford wants to know when Bonitais to be married. He has a wedding present for her."
She was all happy smiles when he left her.
Late that afternoon Bob Hart reached town. He and Dave were alone in theJackpot offices when the latter forced himself to open a subject that hadalways been closed between them. Sanders came to it reluctantly. No manhad ever found a truer friend than he in Bob Hart. The thing he was goingto do seemed almost like a stab in the back.
"How about you and Joyce, Bob?" he asked abruptly.
The eyes of the two met and held. "What about us, Dave?"
"It's like this," Sanders said, flushed and embarrassed. "You were herefirst. You're entitled to first chance. I meant to keep out of it, butthings have come up in spite of me. I want to do whatever seems right toyou. My idea is to go away till--till you've settled how you stand withher. Is that fair?"
Bob smiled, ruefully. "Fair enough, old-timer. But no need of it. I neverhad a chance with Joyce, not a dead man's look-in. Found that out beforeever you came home. The field's clear far as I'm concerned. Hop to it an'try yore luck."
Dave took his advice, within the hour. He found Joyce at home in thekitchen. She was making pies energetically. The sleeves of her dress wererolled up to the elbows and there was a dab of flour on her temple whereshe had brushed back a rebellious wisp of hair.
She blushed prettily at sight of her caller. "I didn't know it was youwhen I called to come in. Thought it was Keith playing a trick on me."
Both of them were embarrassed. She did not know what to do with him inthe kitchen and he did not know what to do with himself. The girl wasacutely conscious that yesterday she had flung herself into his armswithout shame.
"I'll go right on with my pies if you don't mind," she said. "I can talkwhile I work."
"Yes."
But neither of them talked. She rolled pie-crust while the silence grewsignificant.
"Are your burns still painful?" she asked at last, to make talk.
"Yes--no. Beg pardon, I--I was thinking of something else."
Joyce flashed one swift look at him. She knew that an emotional crisiswas upon her. He was going to brush aside the barriers between them. Herpulses began to beat fast. There was the crash of music in her blood.
"I've got to tell you, Joyce," he said abruptly. "It's been a fight forme ever since I came home. I love you. I think I always have--even whenI was in prison."
She waited, the eyes in her lovely, flushed face shining.
"I had no right to think of you then," he went on. "I kept away from you.I crushed down hope. I nursed my bitterness to prove to me there couldnever be anything between us. Then Miller confessed and--and we took ourwalk over the hills. After that the sun shone. I came out from the mistswhere I had been living."
"I'm glad," she said in a low voice. "But Miller's confession made nodifference in my thought of you. I didn't need that to know you."
"But I couldn't come to you even then. I knew how Bob Hart felt, andafter all he'd done for me it was fair he should have first chance."
She looked at him, smiling shyly. "You're very generous."
"No. I thought you cared for him. It seemed to me any woman must. Therearen't many men like Bob."
"Not many," she agreed. "But I couldn't love Bob because"--her steadfasteyes met his bravely--"because of another man. Always have loved him,ever since that night years ago when he saved my father's life. Do youreally truly love me, Dave?"
"God knows I do," he said, almost in a whisper.
"I'm glad--oh, awf'ly glad." She gave him her hands, tears in her softbrown eyes. "Because I've been waiting for you so long. I didn't knowwhether you ever were coming to me."
Crawford found them there ten minutes later. He was looking for Joyce tofind him a collar-button that was missing.
"Dawggone my hide!" he fumed, and stopped abruptly, the collar-buttonforgotten.
Joyce flew out of Dave's arms into her father's.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I'm so happy," she whispered from the depths of hisshoulder.
The cattleman looked at Dave, and his rough face worked. "Boy, you'rein luck. Be good to her, or I'll skin you alive." He added, by way ofsoftening this useless threat, "I'd rather it was you than anybody onearth, Dave."
The young man looked at her, his Joy-in-life, the woman who had broughthim back to youth and happiness, and he answered with a surge of emotion:
"I'll sure try."
THE END
Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West Page 45