CHAPTER VI
THE SOIL AND THE SEED
Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sittingbeside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a goodmeal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, andtheir smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling. Intermittently, with theunconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remotefrom our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world,which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals thefamily wants, had brought the day before.
Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy anda still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation ofbecoming acquainted. The little girl was decidedly taking theinitiative.
"How's it come your name is Blair?" she asked, opening fire as soon asthey were alone.
The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Whyshould he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself.
"I don't know," he admitted.
The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought.
"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and myname's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin--but you aren't." Shestroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny," sherepeated.
"Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not apart of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped.
"Let's play duck on the rock," suggested Florence.
The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets.
"I don't know how."
"That's nothing." The small brunette had the air of one to whomdifficulties were unknown. "I'll show you. Papa and I play, and it'slots of fun--only he beats me." She looked about for available material.
"You get that little box up by the house," she directed, "and we'll havethat for the rock."
Ben did as ordered.
"Now bring two tin cans. You'll find a pile back of the barn."
Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of"selects," each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of theingredients of succotash.
"Now watch me," said Florence.
She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on theground. "This is the rock," she explained. On the top of the box sheperched one of the cans, open end up. "And this is the duck--my duck. Doyou see?"
The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. "Yes, I see," he said.
Florence came back to the barn. "Now the game is for you to take thisother can and knock my duck off. Then we both run, and if you get yourcan on the box ahead of me, I'm _it_, and I'll have to knock off yourduck. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"All right." And the sport was on.
Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly.
"He, he!" tittered Florence. "You missed!"
He retrieved his duck without comment.
"Try again; you've got three chances."
More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can.
"Missed again!" exulted the little brunette. "You've only one more try."And the brown eyes flashed with mischief.
For the last time Ben stood at position.
"Be careful! you're out if you miss."
Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung his arm overheadclear from the shoulder, and threw with all his might. There was a flashof gaudy paper through the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood,and the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of danger.
For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a moment; then shestamped a tiny foot imperiously.
"Oh, you naughty boy!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, naughty boy!"
Once more Ben's hands were in his pockets. "Why?" he asked innocently.
"Because you don't play right!"
"You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!"
"But not that way." Florence's small chin was high in the air. "I'mgoing in the house."
Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth,then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye.
"Are you very sorry?" she asked.
Ben nodded his head gravely.
There was a moment of indecision. "All right," she said, with apparentreluctance; "but we won't play duck any more. We'll play drop thehandkerchief."
The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.
"I don't know how," he admitted once more.
Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.
"Don't Mr. Rankin, or--or anyone--play with you?" she asked.
Ben shook his head.
"All right, then," she said obligingly, "I'll show you."
With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet indiameter.
"You can't cross that place in there," she said.
The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrierpresented itself to his vision.
"Why not?" he asked.
Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't," sheexplained. Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added,"Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there.Anyway, you can't cross!"
Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a momentdoubtfully.
"Now," she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you takethe handkerchief." She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B"embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place ifyou can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me beforeI notice you--you can kiss me. Do you see?"
Ben could see.
"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim,apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.
The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed,he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. Hisback toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glancebehind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look ofinnocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle--thatcontained hot irons, or snakes, or something--back to hisstarting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon theshoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.
"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit oflinen. "You're it."
"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time,didn't you?"
Ben agreed to the statement.
An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelongglance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.
"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl."Papa never does."
The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate tohalt the game; but he made no comment.
Again there was a lull.
"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the softbrown skin.
Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was notwell.
"You're _it_, ain't you?" he hesitated at last.
This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color whichbefore had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to theroots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire.
"Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into hervoice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but thesudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystifiedface of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was allbut involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair onthe mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"
Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethicsof sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinctprevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon hislips, his face grew ver
y white.
"What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily.
Defiant still, the girl held her ground.
"Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid catsalways are!"
"But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of."
Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision.
"You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing," sheventured.
Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and theearth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate. At thenorth end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort ofinclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up helost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he saidnothing. The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-polewithout accident. Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket,stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raisedhimself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, andjumped.
That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. In a sort ofvision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozenground,--and all through her fault! She shut her eyes, and clasped herhands over her face.
A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further sound, and sheslowly opened her fingers. Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse,she saw the boy standing erect before her. There was a smear of dustupon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon hischeek, which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. Frombeneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers,deliberate and unsmiling.
As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition passed. In anindefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation ofdisappointment,--a feeling of being deprived of something which was herdue. She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew.A moment so the children faced each other.
"Do you still think I'm afraid?" asked the boy at last.
Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin.
"Pooh!" said the girl, "_that_ was nothing!" She tossed her head inderision. "Anyone could do that!"
Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee to shake offthe dust, and put it back upon his head. The action took only a halfminute, but when the girl looked at him again it hardly seemed he wasthe same boy with whom she had just played. His eyes were no longerblue, but gray. The chin, too, with an odd trick,--one she was destinedto know better in future,--had protruded, had become the dominantfeature of his face, aggressive, almost menacing. Except for the size,one looking could scarcely have believed Ben's visage was that of achild.
"What," the boy's hands went back into his pockets, "what wouldn'tanyone do, then?" he asked directly.
At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad to occupy some otherperson's shoes. Obviously, the proper thing for her to do was to admither fault and clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with herdisposition, and she looked about for a suggestion. One came promptly,but at first she did not speak. Then the brown head tossed again.
"Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts out there!" Sheindicated the pasture near by. "Papa said the other day he'd rather notbe the first to try."
The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that Scotty had justimported from an Eastern breeder. They were absolutely unbroken, butevery ounce thoroughbreds, and full to the ear-tips of what theEnglishman expressively termed "ginger."
To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea that herchallenge would be accepted. Implicit trust in her father was one of hervirtues, and the mere suggestion that another would attempt to do whathe would not, was rankest heresy. But the boy Benjamin started for thebarn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved toward the gate.Instinctively Florence took a step after him.
"Really, I didn't mean for you to try," she explained in swiftpenitence. "I don't think you're afraid!"
Ben opened and closed the gate silently.
"Please don't do it," pleaded the girl. "You'll be hurt!"
But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well have askedthe sun to cease shining. Nothing could stop that gray-eyed boy. Withouta show of haste he advanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats inthe pan, and whistled enticingly. Full often in his short life he hadseen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly.
Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest. At first thecolt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of its appetite, it drewnearer, then ran frisking away, again drew near. Ben held out the pan,shook it at intervals, displaying its contents to the best advantage.Colt nature could not resist the appeal. The sleek thoroughbred castaside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle deep into thegrain.
Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding the pan near theground to reach the straps over the ears; then, pausing, looked at theback far above his head. How he was to get up there would have perplexedan observer. For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an idea occurred tohim. Once more holding the remnants of the oats near the ground, hewaited until the hungry nose was deep amongst them, the head welllowered; then, improving his opportunity, he swung one leg over thesleek neck and awaited developments.
He was not long in suspense. The action was like touching flame topowder; the resulting explosion was all but simultaneous. With a snort,the head went high in air, tossing the grain about like seed, and downthe inclined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Benjamin slidto the slippery back. Once there, an instinct told him to grip therounding flank with his ankles, and clutch the heavy mane.
And he was none too quick. For a moment the colt paused in pure wonderat the audacity of the thing; then, with a neigh, half of anger and halfof fear, it sprang away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashingin and out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity on its backmeanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey. For a minute, thenanother, the youngster kept his seat, pulling upon the reins atintervals, gripping together his small knees until the muscles ached.Then suddenly the colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feetfirmly into the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shotoverhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which fairly drovethe breath from his body. But even then, half unconscious as he was, hewouldn't let loose of the reins. Not until the now thoroughly arousedcolt had dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the boyand the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap upon the earth.
Florence had watched the scene with breathless interest. While Ben wasmaking his mount, she observed him doubtfully. While he retained hisseat, she clapped her hands in glee. Then, with his downfall, a greatlump came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to see theoutcome, she ran sobbing to the house. A moment later she rushed intothe little parlor where her father and Rankin, their cigars finished,were sitting and chatting.
"Papa," she pleaded, "papa, go quick! Ben's killed!"
"Great Caesar's ghost!" exclaimed Scotty, springing up nervously, andholding the little girl at arm's length. "What's the matter?"
"Ben, Ben, I told you! He tried to ride one of the colts, and he'skilled--I know he is!"
"Holy buckets!" Genuine apprehension was in the Englishman's voice.Without waiting for further explanation he shot out of the door, andran full tilt to the paddock behind the barn. There he stopped, andRankin coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side watchingthe approach of a small figure still some rods away. The boy's face andhands were marked with bloodstains from numerous scratches; one leg ofhis trousers was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when hewalked he limped noticeably. All these things the two men observed at adistance. When he came closer, they were forgotten in the look upon hissmall face. The odd trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forwardwas now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the upper. Insympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely or cruelly, but with afixed determinatio
n which was all but uncanny. Scotty shifted a bituncomfortably.
"By Jove!" he remarked, with his usual unconscious expletive, "I'drather have a tiger-cat on my trail than that youngster, if he was tolook that way. What do you suppose he's got in his cranium now?"
Rankin shook his head. "I don't know. He's beyond me."
Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned. He had another bridlein his hand and a fresh pan of oats. As before, he started to passwithout a word, but Rankin halted him. "What's the matter with yourclothes, Ben?" he queried.
The lad looked at his questioner. "Horse threw me, sir."
"And what are you going to do now?"
"Going to try to ride him again, sir."
Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more severe.
"Ben," he said at last, "did Mr. Baker hire you to break his horses? IfI were you I'd put those things away and ask his pardon."
The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly. Obviously, thisphase of the matter had not occurred to him. Obviously, too, the pointof view must be correct, for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as thegrave. The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke volumes;then he turned to Baker.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said.
Scotty caught his cue. "Granted--this time," he answered.
A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully washed, therents in his trousers temporarily repaired, were ready to go home. Notuntil the very last moment did Florence appear; then, her face a bitflushed, she came out to the buckboard.
"Good-bye," she said simply. There was a moment's pause; then, with adeepening color, she turned to Ben Blair. "Come again soon," she addedin a low tone.
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