by Bower, B M
To return to this particular day of sulking; Rex had cast a shoe, and lamed himself just enough to prevent her riding, and so Beatrice was having a dull day of it in the house. Besides, her mother had just finished talking to her for her good, which was enough to send an angel into the sulks—and Beatrice lacked a good deal of being an angel.
Dorman laid his baking-powder can confidingly in his divinity's lap. "Be'trice, I did get some grasshoppers; you said I couldn't. And you wouldn't go fishin', 'cause you didn't like to take Uncle Dick's make-m'lieve flies, so I got some really ones, Be'trice, that'll wiggle dere own self."
"Oh, dear me! It's too hot, Dorman."
"'Tisn't, Be'trice It's dest as cool—and by de brook it's awf-lly cold. Come, Be'trice!" He pulled at the smart little pink ruffles on her skirt.
"I'm too sleepy, hon."
"You can sleep by de brook, Be'trice. I'll let you," he promised generously, "'cept when I need anudder grasshopper; nen I'll wake you up."
"Wait till to-morrow. I don't believe the fish are hungry to-day. Don't tear my skirt to pieces, Dorman!"
Dorman began to whine. He had never found his divinity in so unlovely a mood. "I want to go now! Dey are too hungry, Be'trice! Looey Sam is goin' to fry my fishes for dinner, to s'prise auntie. Come, Be'trice!"
"Why don't you go with the child, Beatrice? You grow more selfish every day." Mrs. Lansell could not endure selfishness—in others. "You know he will not give us any peace until you do."
Dorman instantly proceeded to make good his grandmother's prophecy, and wept so that one could hear him a mile.
"Oh, dear me! Be still, Dorman—your auntie has a headache. Well, get your rod, if you know where it is—which I doubt." Beatrice flounced out of the hammock and got her hat, one of those floppy white things, fluffed with thin, white stuff, till they look like nothing so much as a wisp of cloud, with ribbons to moor it to her head and keep it from sailing off to join its brothers in the sky.
Down by the creek, where the willows nodded to their own reflections in the still places, it was cool and sweet scented, and Beatrice forgot her grievances, and was not sorry she had come.
(It was at about this time that a tall young fellow, two miles down the coulee, put away his field glass and went off to saddle his horse.)
"Don't run ahead so, Dorman," Beatrice cautioned. To her had been given the doubtful honor of carrying the baking-powder can of grasshoppers. Even divinities must make themselves useful to man.
"Why, Be'trice?" Dorman swished his rod in unpleasant proximity to his divinity's head.
"Because, honey"—Beatrice dodged—"you might step on a snake, a rattlesnake, that would bite you."
"How would it bite, Be'trice?"
"With its teeth, of course; long, wicked teeth, with poison on them."
"I saw one when I was ridin' on a horse wis Uncle Dick. It kept windin' up till it was round, and it growled wis its tail, Be'trice. And Uncle Dick chased it, and nen it unwinded itself and creeped under a big rock. It didn't bite once—and I didn't see any teeth to it."
"Carry your rod still, Dorman. Are you trying to knock my hat off my head? Rattlesnakes have teeth, hon, whether you saw them or not. I saw a great, long one that day we thought you were lost. Mr. Cameron killed it with his rope. I'm sure it had teeth."
"Did it growl, Be'trice? Tell me how it went."
"Like this, hon." Beatrice parted her lips ever so little, and a snake buzzed at Dorman's feet. He gave a yell of terror, and backed ingloriously.
"You see, honey, if that had been really a snake, it would have bitten you. Never mind, dear—it was only I."
Dorman was some time believing this astonishing statement. "How did you growl by my feet, Be'trice? Show me again."
Beatrice, who had learned some things at school which were not included in the curriculum, repeated the performance, while Dorman watched her with eyes and mouth at their widest. Like some older members of his sex, he was discovering new witcheries about his divinity every day.
"Well, Be'trice!" He gave a long gasp of ecstasy. "I don't see how can you do it? Can't I do it, Be'trice?"
"I'm afraid not, honey—you'd have to learn. There was a queer French girl at school, who could do the strangest things, Dorman—like fairy tales, almost. And she taught me to throw my voice different places, and mimic sounds, when we should have been at our lessons. Listen, hon. This is how a little lamb cries, when he is lost.... And this is what a hungry kittie says, when she is away up in a tree, and is afraid to come down."
Dorman danced all around his divinity, and forgot about the fish—until Beatrice found it in her heart to regret her rash revelation of hitherto undreamed-of powers of entertainment.
"Not another sound, Dorman," she declared at length, with the firmness of despair. "No, I will not be a lost lamb another once. No, nor a hungry kittie, either—nor a snake, or anything. If you are not going to fish, I shall go straight back to the house."
Dorman sighed heavily, and permitted his divinity to fasten a small grasshopper to his hook.
"We'll go a bit farther, dear, down under those great trees. And you must not speak a word, remember, or the fish will all run away."
When she had settled him in a likely place, and the rapt patience of the born angler had folded him close, she disposed herself comfortably in the thick grass, her back against a tree, and took up the shuttle of fancy to weave a wonderful daydream, as beautiful, intangible as the lacy, summer clouds over her head.
A man rode quietly over the grass and stopped two rods away, that he might fill his hungry eyes with the delicious loveliness of his Heart's Desire.
"Got a bite yet?"
Dorman turned and wrinkled his nose, by way of welcome, and shook his head vaguely, as though he might tell of several unimportant nibbles, if it were worth the effort.
Beatrice sat a bit straighter, and dexterously whisked some pink ruffles down over two distracting ankles, and hoped Keith had not taken notice of them. He had, though; trust a man for that!
Keith dismounted, dropped the reins to the ground, and came and laid himself down in the grass beside his Heart's Desire, and Beatrice noticed how tall he was, and slim and strong.
"How did you know we were here?" she wanted to know, with lifted eyebrows.
Keith wondered if there was a welcome behind that sweet, indifferent face. He never could be sure of anything in Beatrice's face, because it never was alike twice, it seemed to him—and if it spoke welcome for a second, the next there was only raillery, or something equally unsatisfying.
"I saw you from the trail," he answered promptly, evidently not thinking it wise to mention the fieldglass. And then: "Is Dick at home?" Not that he wanted Dick—but a fellow, even when he is in the last stages of love, feels need of an excuse sometimes.
"No—we women are alone to-day. There isn't a man on the place, except Looey Sam, and he doesn't count."
Dorman squirmed around till he could look at the two, and his eyebrows were tied in a knot. "I wish, Be'trice, you wouldn't talk, 'less you whisper. De fishes won't bite a bit."
"All right, honey—we won't."
Dorman turned back to his fishing with a long breath of relief. His divinity never broke a promise, if she could help it.
If Dorman Hayes had been Cupid himself, he could not have hit upon a more impish arrangement than that. To place a girl like Beatrice beside a fellow like Keith—a fellow who is tall, and browned, and extremely good-looking, and who has hazel eyes with a laugh in them always—a fellow, moreover, who is very much in love and very much in earnest about it—and condemn him to silence, or to whispers!
Keith took advantage of the edict, and moved closer, so that he could whisper in comfort—and be nearer his Heart's Desire. He lay with his head propped upon his hand, and his elbow digging into the sod and getting grass-stains on his shirt sleeve, for the day was too warm for a coat. Beatrice, looking down at him, observed that his forearm, between his glove and wrist-band, was as w
hite and smooth as her own. It is characteristic of a cowboy to have a face brown as an Indian, and hands girlishly white and soft.
"I haven't had a glimpse of you for a week—not since I met you down by the river. Where have you been?" he whispered.
"Here. Rex went lame, and Dick wouldn't let me ride any other horse, since that day Goldie bolted—and so the hills have called in vain. I've stayed at home and made quantities of Duchesse lace—I almost finished a love of a center piece—and mama thinks I have reformed. But Rex is better, and tomorrow I'm going somewhere."
"Better help me hunt some horses that have been running down Lost Canyon way. I'm going to look for them to-morrow," Keith suggested, as calmly as was compatible with his eagerness and his method of speech. I doubt if any man can whisper things to a girl he loves, and do it calmly. I know Keith's heart was pounding.
"I shall probably ride in the opposite direction," Beatrice told him wickedly. She wondered if he thought she would run at his beck.
"I never saw you in this dress before," Keith murmured, his eyes caressing.
"No? You may never again," she said. "I have so many things to wear out, you know."
"I like it," he declared, as emphatically as he could, and whisper. "It is just the color of your cheeks, after the wind has been kissing them a while."
"Fancy a cowboy saying pretty things like that!"
Beatrice's cheeks did not wait for the wind to kiss them pink.
"Ya-as, only fawncy, ye knaw." His eyes were daringly mocking.
"For shame, Mr. Cameron! Sir Redmond would not mimic your speech."
"Good reason why; he couldn't, not if he tried a thousand years."
Beatrice knew this was the truth, so she fell back upon dignity.
"We will not discuss that subject, I think."
"I don't want to, anyway. I know another subject a million times more interesting than Sir Redmond."
"Indeed!" Beatrice's eyebrows were at their highest. "And what is it, then?"
"You!" Keith caught her hand; his eyes compelled her.
"I think," said Beatrice, drawing her hand away, "we will not discuss that subject, either."
"Why?" Keith's eyes continued to woo.
"Because."
It occurred to Beatrice that an unsophisticated girl might easily think Keith in earnest, with that look in his eyes.
Dorman, scowling at them over his shoulder, unconsciously did his divinity a service. Beatrice pursed her lips in a way that drove Keith nearly wild, and took up the weapon of silence.
"You said you women are alone—where is milord?" Keith began again, after two minutes of lying there watching her.
"Sir Redmond is in Helena, on business. He's been making arrangements to lease a lot of land."
"Ah-h!" Keith snapped a twig off a dead willow.
"We look for him home to-day, and Dick drove in to meet the train."
"So the Pool has gone to leasing land?" The laugh had gone out of Keith's eyes; they were clear and keen.
"Yes—the plan is to lease the Pine Ridge country, and fence it. I suppose you know where that is."
"I ought to," Keith said quietly. "It's funny Dick never mentioned it."
"It isn't Dick's idea," Beatrice told him. "It was Sir Redmond's. Dick is rather angry, I think, and came near quarreling with Sir Redmond about it. But English capital controls the Pool, you know, and Sir Redmond controls the English capital, so he can adopt whatever policy he chooses. The way he explained the thing to me, it seems a splendid plan—don't you think so?"
"Yes." Keith's tone was not quite what he meant it to be; he did not intend it to be ironical, as it was. "It's a snap for the Pool, all right. It gives them a cinch on the best of the range, and all the water. I didn't give milord credit for such business sagacity."
Beatrice leaned over that she might read his eyes, but Keith turned his face away. In the shock of what he had just learned, he was, at the moment, not the lover; he was the small cattleman who is being forced out of the business by the octopus of combined capital. It was not less bitter that the woman he loved was one of the tentacles reaching out to crush him. And they could do it; they—the whole affair resolved itself into a very simple scheme, to Keith. The gauntlet had been thrown down—because of this girl beside him. It was not so much business acumen as it was the antagonism of a rival that had prompted the move. Keith squared his shoulders, and mentally took up the gauntlet. He might lose in the range fight, but he would win the girl, if it were in the power of love to do it.
"Why that tone? I hope it isn't—will it inconvenience you?"
"Oh, no. No, not at all. No—" Keith seemed to forget that a superabundance of negatives breeds suspicion of sincerity.
"I'm afraid that means that it will. And I'm sure Sir Redmond never meant—"
"I believe that kid has got a bite at last," Keith interrupted, getting up. "Let me take hold, there, Dorman; you'll be in the creek yourself in a second." He landed a four-inch fish, carefully rebaited the hook, cast the line into a promising eddy, gave the rod over to Dorman, and went back to Beatrice, who had been watching him with troubled eyes.
"Mr. Cameron, if I had known—" Beatrice was good-hearted, if she was fond of playing with a man's heart.
"I hope you're not letting that business worry you, Miss Lansell. You remind me of a painting I saw once in Boston. It was called June."
"But this is August, so I don't apply. Isn't there some way you—"
"Did you hear about that train-robbery up the line last week?" Keith settled himself luxuriously upon his back, with his hands clasped under his head, and his hat tipped down over his eyes—but not enough to prevent him from watching his Heart's Desire. And in his eyes laughter—and something sweeter—lurked. If Sir Redmond had wealth to fight with, Keith's weapon was far and away more dangerous, for it was the irresistible love of a masterful man—the love that sweeps obstacles away like straws.
"I am not interested in train-robberies," Beatrice told him, her eyes still clouded with trouble. "I want to talk about this lease."
"They got one fellow the next day, and another got rattled and gave himself up; but the leader of the gang, one of Montana's pet outlaws, is still ranging somewhere in the hills. You want to be careful about riding off alone; you ought to let some one—me, for instance—go along to look after you."
"Pshaw!" said his Heart's Desire, smiling reluctantly. "I'm not afraid. Do you suppose, if Sir Redmond had known—"
"Those fellows made quite a haul—almost enough to lease the whole country, if they wanted to. Something over fifty thousand dollars—and a strong box full of sand, that the messenger was going to fool them with. He did, all right; but they weren't so slow. They hustled around and got the money, and he lost his sand into the bargain."
"Was that meant for a pun?" Beatrice blinked her big eyes at him. "If you're quite through with the train-robbers, perhaps you will tell me how—"
"I'm glad old Mother Nature didn't give every woman an odd dimple beside the mouth," Keith observed, reaching for her hat, and running a ribbon caressingly through his fingers.
"Why?" Beatrice smoothed the dimple complacently with her finger-tips.
"Why? Oh, it would get kind of monotonous, wouldn't it?"
"This from a man known chiefly for his pretty speeches!" Beatrice's laugh had a faint tinge of chagrin.
"Wouldn't pretty speeches get monotonous, too?" Keith's eyes were laughing at her.
"Yours wouldn't," she retorted, spitefully, and immediately bit her lip and hoped he would not consider that a bid for more pretty speeches.
"Be'trice, dis hopper is awf-lly wilted!" came a sepulchral whisper from Dorman.
Keith sighed, and went and baited the hook again. When he returned to Beatrice, his mood had changed.
"I want you to promise—"
"I never make promises of any sort, Mr. Cameron." Beatrice had fallen back upon her airy tone, which was her strongest weapon of defense—unless one excep
t her liquid-air smile.
"I wasn't thinking of asking much," Keith went on coolly. "I only wanted to ask you not to worry about that leasing business."
"Are you worrying about it, Mr. Cameron?"
"That isn't the point. No, I can't say I expect to lose sleep over it. I hope you will dismiss anything I may have said from your mind."
"But I don't understand. I feel that you blame Sir Redmond, when I'm sure he—"
"I did not say I blamed anybody. I think we'll not discuss it."
"Yes, I think we shall. You'll tell me all about it, if I want to know." Beatrice adopted her coaxing tone, which never had failed her.
"Oh, no!" Keith laughed a little. "A girl can't always have her own way just because she wants it, even if she—"
"I've got a fish, Mr. Cam'ron!" Dorman squealed, and Keith was obliged to devote another five minutes to diplomacy.
"I think you have fished long enough, honey," Beatrice told Dorman decidedly. "It's nearly dinner time, and Looey Sam won't have time to fry your fish if you don't hurry home. Shall I tell Dick you wished to see him, Mr. Cameron?"
"It's nothing important, so I won't trouble you," Keith replied, in a tone that matched hers for cool courtesy. "I'll see him to-morrow, probably." He helped Dorman reel in his line, cut a willow-wand and strung the three fish upon it by the gills, washed his hands leisurely in the creek, and dried them on his handkerchief, just as if nothing bothered him in the slightest degree. Then he went over and smoothed Redcloud's mane and pulled a wisp of forelock from under the brow-band, and commanded him to shake hands, which the horse did promptly.
"I want to shake hands wis your pony, too," Dorman cried, and dropped pole and fish heedlessly into the grass.
"All right, kid."
Dorman went up gravely and clasped Redcloud's raised fetlock solemnly, while the tall cow-puncher smiled down at him.