Carolyn June was accustomed to obedience from men creatures. The Ramblin' Kid's indifference to her request, together with his apparent cruelty in refusing to aid in relieving the cat from its torturing dilemma, angered and piqued the girl.
"Help Skinny take it off, I tell you!" she repeated, "haven't you a spark of sympathy—"
The Ramblin' Kid resented her tone and detected as well the note of wounded pride. Instinctively he felt that at that instant the cat, with Carolyn June, had become a secondary consideration.
"Well, some, I reckon," he answered, speaking deliberately, "generally a little, but right now darned little for that old yaller cat. I figure he's a plumb free moral agent," he continued as if speaking to himself; "he got his head in that can on his own hook an' it's up to him to get it out or let it stay in this time, just as he pleases—"
"But Sing Pete put butter in the can!" Carolyn June said, arguing.
"He's done it before," the Ramblin' Kid answered with a glance at the Chinese cook still gleefully enjoying the results of his cruel joke. "He won't no more. But that don't make no difference," he laughed, "th' darn' cat hadn't ought to have yielded to temptation!"
"You're a brute!" she exclaimed passionately, "—an ignorant, savage, stupid brute—" The harsh words sprang from the lips of Carolyn June before she thought. The Ramblin' Kid flinched involuntarily as if he had been struck full in the face. A look came in his eyes that almost made her regret what she had said.
"I reckon I am," he replied, gazing steadily at her without feeling or resentment and speaking slowly, "yes, I'm an 'ign'rant, savage, stupid brute,'" deliberately accenting each word as he repeated the stinging phrase, "—but—what's the use?" he finished with a mirthless laugh. "Anyhow," he added, glancing again at the cat and Skinny's futile efforts to catch it, "I ain't interferin' this time, at least, with that damned cat!"
Carolyn June knew she had hurt with her unintentionally cruel words. For an instant there was a humane impulse to temper their severity.
"I—I—didn't—" she started to say, but the Ramblin' Kid had turned and, ignoring the cat, Skinny and herself, was leaning on the fence with his back to her, looking off across the valley, apparently lost in thought. She did not finish the sentence.
The cat bucked its way to the fence. As it went under the wire the can caught on a barb of the lower strand. Jerking furiously, the animal freed itself from the can, leaving splotches of hair and hide on the ragged edges of tin. Still spitting and clawing, with its tail standing out like an enormous yellow plume, it dashed toward the barn, eager to put distance between itself and the thing that had been torturing it.
"Gosh a'mighty," Skinny said, sweating with the exertion and the excitement of trying to catch the cat, "it'll be noon before we get started for that ride!"
"We'll go now," Carolyn June answered, "—before some other horrible thing occurs."
"We're going over to the river and maybe out on the sand-hills a ways," Skinny casually remarked to the Ramblin' Kid as Carolyn June and he passed through the gate. "Oh, yes," he added, "Chuck said tell you he took your rope—there was a weak spot in his and he didn't get it fixed yesterday!"
The Ramblin' Kid did not answer.
Skinny had been wrong about the Ramblin' Kid not caring what any one thought of him. He was supersensitive of his roughness, his lack of education and conscious crudeness, and the words of Carolyn June were still in his mind. When Skinny and the girl were going toward their horses the Ramblin' Kid turned and entered the gate. Sing Pete was still at the kitchen door.
The Ramblin' Kid stepped up to him.
"You damned yellow heathen," he said in a level voice, "if you ever play that trick on that cat again th' Quarter Circle KT will be shy a cook an' your ghost'll be headin' pronto for China!"
Without waiting for a reply he went back to the gate and watched Skinny and Carolyn June ride down the lane. The deftness and skill with which the girl handled the horse she rode forced a smile of admiration to the lips of the Ramblin' Kid. She sat close in the saddle and a glance showed she was a born master of horses. "She's a wonder," he said to himself, "a teetotal wonder—" A shade of melancholy passed over his face. "An ign'rant, savage, stupid brute!" he murmured bitterly, "well, I reckon she was right—Hell!" he exclaimed aloud, "I wonder if Skinny'll remember about that upper crossin' bein' dang'rous with quicksand after the rain—Guess he did," he finished as the two riders turned to the right toward the lower and more distant river ford and disappeared among the willows and cottonwood trees that fringed the Cimarron.
CHAPTER VII
THE GREEDY SANDS
When the Ramblin' Kid, working the rope-conquered and leg-weary Gold Dust maverick from the North Springs back to the Quarter Circle KT, crossed the Cimarron at dawn Captain Jack and the filly swam a raging, drift-burdened river. Less than twelve hours later Carolyn June and Skinny, at the lower ford, rode into a stream that again was normal. Old Blue and Pie Face splashed through water barely reaching the stirrup leathers. Only the fresh rubbish flung out on the meadows by the flood's quick anger or lodged in the willows, still bent by the pressure of the torrent that had rushed over them and slimy with yellow sediment left on their branches and leaves, told the story of the swift rise and fall of the Cimarron the night before.
On the bluff north of the river Carolyn June and Skinny checked their horses while the girl gazed down on the panorama of green fields, narrow lanes, corrals and low buildings of the Quarter Circle KT. The sight thrilled her. On all the Kiowa range there was no more entrancing view.
"It's kind of pretty, ain't it?" Skinny ventured.
"Beautiful!" she breathed.
"I'd—I'd like to stand here and look at it always—if you—if you'd enjoy it!" he said and was instantly appalled by his own audacity.
Carolyn June flashed a quick look at him.
"We had better go on," she said, then added lightly: "Does it always affect you so when you get this view of the valley?"
"No. But, well, somehow it's different this morning—maybe it's because you are here!" he blurted out hurriedly.
"Please," she said, starting Old Blue toward the west along the crest of the ridge, "don't be sentimental. I'm afraid—" she added, intending to say it would spoil their ride.
"You needn't be, with me along!" Skinny interrupted hastily, misinterpreting her meaning.
She laughed and without explaining urged her horse forward.
Skinny followed pensively on Old Pie Face.
The Ramblin' Kid, while going from barn to corral, glanced across the valley and saw Carolyn June and Skinny as they rode along the ridge. It was two miles from the ranch to the bluff on which they were riding, but so clear was the rain-washed air that the horses and riders were easily recognized. He watched them until they reached the corner of the upland pasture. There the roads from the lower and upper fords came together. The couple turned north along the fence and disappeared beyond the ridge.
For a mile Carolyn June and Skinny rode without speaking. He felt already a reaction from his over-boldness of a while ago and silently swore at himself for his rashness. She was not eager to resume a conversation that had threatened a painfully emotional turn. She was quite content to enjoy the fresh air of the morning, the changing scenes through which they passed and the easy motion of the horse on which she was mounted.
The bronchos pricked forward their ears at the sound of galloping hoofs.
"Somebody's coming," Skinny spoke as Pedro, riding rapidly toward them, rounded the point of a low hill a little distance ahead.
"What's wrong?" Skinny questioned, when the three met and stopped their horses.
"The pasture fence is bu'sted," Pedro answered; "at the northeast corner it is broke. The cattle are out. Ten—fifteen maybe—are dead—the lightning strike them perhaps. The others all of them are gone. They go pronto, stampede I think, toward the Purgatory. Chuck and me can not get them alone—I go to tell Old Heck so the boys will come and help!"<
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It was plain to Skinny what had occurred. The cattle had drifted before the storm until stopped by the wire. While crowded against it a bolt of lightning had struck the fence, followed the metal strands, and killed the animals touching or nearest to it. In the fright the others plunged madly forward and had broken their way to freedom. Five hundred Diamond Bar steers, recently bought by Old Heck and brought from the Purgatory forty-five miles north of the Quarter Circle KT were out and rushing back to their former range.
"You go help Chuck," Skinny said to Pedro. "Carolyn June and me will turn around and take the news to Old Heck and send some of the boys to help you. If them cattle ain't bunched before they hit the Purgatory and get scattered over their old range it will take a month to gather them and get them back again!"
"Why don't you yourself go with Pedro and Chuck?" Carolyn June asked
Skinny. "I can ride to the ranch alone and tell the others about it."
"I'm supposed to stay with—" he begun.
"With me, I presume," she interrupted. "Well, this is one time you don't. Go on with the boys. You are needed after those steers a lot more than you are to 'herd' me back to the ranch!"
Without waiting to argue she wheeled Old Blue toward the Quarter Circle KT. Skinny watched her a moment, then started with Pedro in the other direction. Suddenly checking his horse he swung around in the saddle.
"Go back the way we came!" he called after the girl. "Don't try the upper ford!"
Carolyn June looked around and threw up her hand, motioning toward the north. Thinking that she understood, Skinny touched Old Pie Face with the spurs and soon overtook the Mexican.
He was mistaken. Carolyn June had not understood the warning. The distance was too great for his words to reach her distinctly. She thought he was merely protesting against her going alone. At the fork of the road she saw that the trail that led to the upper ford was much the nearer way to the ranch. Reining Old Blue into it she rode swiftly along the ridge and down the slope toward the dangerous crossing.
* * * * *
The Ramblin' Kid spent the morning at the circular corral. He was studying the moods and working to win the confidence of the Gold Dust maverick. He was watching her and thinking always a little ahead of the thought that was in the mind of the mare. His love for a horse and understanding of the wonderfully intelligent animals was as natural as were the brown eyes, the soft low voice, the gentle but strong touch, by which it was expressed. He wooed the outlaw filly thoughtfully, carefully, as a lover courts a sweetheart. The beautiful creature reminded him of Carolyn June. "They was made for each other!" he repeated softly as he worked with the mare. From the corral he could see the road across the river where Skinny and the girl had gone. Often he turned his eyes in that direction.
He was fingering the garter in his pocket and looking toward the river when Carolyn June appeared on the ridge as she returned alone to the ranch. He stood and watched her. The ugly words she had spoken at the gate came into his mind and a bitter smile curled his lips. Still he watched the girl, expecting Skinny would ride into view. She turned down the ridge toward the upper ford.
"That's funny," he thought, "wonder where Skinny's at?" Then it flashed through his mind that something must be wrong for the girl was riding alone. "Hell!" he exclaimed aloud, "she's by herself an' headin' straight for th' upper ford!" Only an instant he paused. "Jack!" he cried sharply, running to the corral gate and swinging it partly open. "Come—quick!"
The roan stallion started at a trot toward the gate, then, trained to obey instantly the word of the master he loved better than life, leaped nimbly through the opening. Slamming and fastening the gate the Ramblin' Kid ran to the shed, the broncho at his side. He threw the blanket and saddle on the little roan, cinched quickly but carefully the double gear, slipped the bit into the waiting mouth of the horse and without stopping to put on his chaps sprang on Captain Jack's back and whirled him in a dead run around the corner of the shed and down the lane toward the north. At the pasture corral below the barn he guided the broncho close to the fence and scarcely checking him leaned over and lifted a rope, coiled and hung on a post near the gate, from its place—the one Chuck that morning had left because of the flaw.
"God!" he groaned, "—an' a bad rope!"
He glanced toward the ridge across the river. Carolyn June had disappeared down the trail that led to the upper ford.
"Go, Little Man, go—for th' love of God, go!" the Ramblin' Kid whispered as he leaned forward over the neck of the horse. Captain Jack answered the agonized appeal as he would never have responded to the cruel cut of spurs and leaped ahead in a desperate race to beat Old Blue and his precious burden to the greedy sands of the Cimarron.
As he rode, the Ramblin' Kid slipped his hand around the coils of the rope till his fingers found the broken strands that told of the weakness that caused Chuck to leave it behind that morning. Bending over it, while his horse ran, he worked frantically to weave a rawhide saddle string into the fiber and so strengthen the dangerous spot.
* * * * *
Thinking only to reach the ranch as quickly as possible Carolyn June guided Old Blue down the trail and through the thin patches of willows and cottonwood trees that grew along the river. The stream looked innocent enough and the crossing perfectly safe. Swift but apparently shallow water flowed close to the northern bank. Beyond that was a clean, pebble strewn bar and then a smaller, narrower prong of the river. On the south side stretched a white, unbroken expanse of sand a hundred feet or more wide and ending against the low slope of the meadow land.
At the brink of the stream Old Blue stopped short and refused to go on.
"What's the matter," Carolyn June laughed lightly, "—afraid of getting your 'little tootsies' wet?"
The horse reared backward when she tried to urge him ahead and wheeled half around in an effort to get away from the water.
"Look here, Old Fellow," she spoke sharply, tightening the reins as she touched his flank with her spur, "we haven't time for foolishness! Generally, in fact always," accenting the last word, "horses—and men—go in the direction I want them to go! Why, you're as stubborn—as—as the Ramblin' Kid!" she finished with another laugh as Old Blue, with a snort of fear, yet not daring to resist further the firm hand and firmer will of his rider, stepped into the water.
"Gee, when you do start you go in a hurry, don't you?" Carolyn June said as the broncho went rapidly forward as if eager to negotiate the crossing, seeming to know that safety lay in the quickness and lightness of his tread. As he lunged ahead the girl had the sensation that the saddle was sinking from under her. Reaching the firmer footing of the gravel bar in the center of the stream Old Blue tried again to turn about.
"Go on!" Carolyn June cried impatiently yet with a feeling somehow of impending danger she could not wholly define, "—you've got to do it, so you had as well quit your nonsense and go ahead!" at the same time raking the horse's sides sharply again with the spurs.
Crossing the shallow branch of the river the broncho reached the smooth, firm appearing beach of sand.
With his head down, his muzzle almost touching the ground, as if scenting, feeling, his way, he went forward stepping rapidly, easily, as possible. At each step his foot slipped lower into the yielding, quivering mass. Carolyn June felt him tremble and the sensation that the horse was being pulled from under her grew more and more pronounced. She noticed how he sank into the sand and observed also the sweat beginning to darken the hair on the neck of her mount.
"Pretty soft, isn't it?" she said, speaking to the broncho kindly as though to encourage him and perhaps at the same time to allay a bit the queer sense of uneasiness she felt, for even yet she did not realize the danger into which she had unknowingly ridden.
Half-way to the firm black soil of the southern bank of the stream Old Blue's front feet seemed suddenly to give way beneath him. He began to plunge desperately. Then it was the truth came to Carolyn June. Her cheeks grew white.
; "The quicksand!" she exclaimed aloud, at the same time trying to help the horse with a lift of the reins. It was too late to turn back. Her only salvation lay in reaching the solid ground such a few yards ahead—and yet so fearfully far away. Old Blue struggled madly to go forward, gaining a little but at each effort sinking deeper into the sand. Carolyn June tried to encourage him with words:
"Come on, come on! Good Little Horse—you can make it! Keep trying—that's it—now!—you're doing it! Brave Old Blue—don't give up—don't give up, Boy!" she pleaded, pity for the horse causing her almost to forget her own terrible peril.
It was useless.
Twenty-five feet from safety Old Blue's front quarters went down until his breast was against the sand. The hind legs were buried to the stifles. He wallowed and floundered helplessly. His hoofs touched nothing solid on which to stand. He stretched his head forward, straining-to lift himself away from that horrible, clinging suction. His efforts only forced him down—down—always down!
Carolyn June's own feet were in the sand. She threw herself from the saddle—as far to one side and ahead of the horse as she could. With her weight removed perhaps Old Blue could get out. Anyway it was death to stay on the horse. Perhaps alone she could escape—she was lighter—the sand might hold her up—by moving rapidly surely she could go that short twenty-five feet to the firm ground ahead of her. At the first step she sank half-way to her thigh. She fell forward thinking to crawl on her hands and knees. Her arms went into the mass to the shoulder. Silently—without a word—but with horrible fear gripping her heart she fought the sand. She sank deeper—slowly—steadily—surely. The hellish stuff closed about her body to the waist. If she only had something—anything—solid to hold to! She took off her hat, grasped the edges of the brim, reached her arms out and tried to use the frail disk of felt for a buoy. It held a moment then gradually settled below the surface of the shifting, elusive substance. Again and again she lifted the hat free from the sand and sought to place it so it would bear a part at least of her weight. Her efforts were vain. The insidious mass crept higher and higher on her body. She remembered reading that one caught in the quicksand by his struggles only hastened his own destruction. She tried to be perfectly still. In spite of all she was sinking—sinking—the sand was engulfing her.
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