Her Prairie Knight

by Bower, B M

  Just then Beatrice gave an unearthly screech, that made the horses' knees bend under them. When Keith whirled to see what it was, she was standing upon the rock, with her skirts held tightly around her, like the pictures of women when a mouse gets into the room.

  "Oh, Mr. Cameron! A sn-a-a-ke!"

  Came a metallic br-r-r, the unmistakable war cry of the rattler. Into Kelly's eyes came a look of fear, and he sidled gingerly. The buzz had sounded unpleasantly close to his heels. For one brief instant the cold eye of his rifle regarded harmlessly the hillside. During that instant a goodly piece of sandstone whinged under his jaw, and he went down, with Keith upon him like a mountain lion. The latter snatched the rifle and got up hurriedly, for he had not forgotten the rattler. Kelly lay looking up at him in a dazed way that might have been funny at any other time.

  "I wondered if you were good at grasping opportunities," said Beatrice. When he looked, there she was, sitting down on the rock, with her little, gloved hands folded in her lap, and that adorable demure look on her face; and a gleam in her eyes he knew was not scorn, though he could not rightly tell what it really did mean.

  Keith wondered at her vaguely, but a man can't have his mind on a dozen things at once. It was important that he keep a sharp watch on Kelly, and his eyes were searching for a gleaming, gray spotted coil which he felt to be near.

  "You needn't look, Mr. Cameron. There isn't any snake. It—it was I."

  "You!" Keith's jaw dropped.

  "Look out, Mr. Cameron. It wouldn't work a second time, I'm afraid."

  Keith turned back before Kelly had more than got to his elbow; plainly Kelly was not feeling well just then. He looked unhappy, and rather sick.

  "If you'll hand me the gun, Mr. Cameron, I think I can hold it steady while you fix the saddles. And then we'll go home. I—I don't think I really care to climb the hill."

  What Keith wanted to do was to take her in his arms and kiss her till he was tired. What he did do was back toward her, and let her take the rifle quickly and deftly from his hands. She rested the gun upon her knee, and brought it to bear upon Mr. Kelly with a composure not assuring to that gentleman, and she tried to look as if she really and truly would shoot a man—and managed to look only the more kissable.

  "Don't squirm, Mr. Kelly. I won't bite, if I do buzz sometimes."

  Kelly stared at her meditatively a minute, and said: "Well, I'll be damned!"

  Keith looked at her also, but he did not say anything.

  The way he slapped his saddle back upon Redcloud and cinched it, and saddled Rex, was a pretty exhibition of precision and speed, learned in roundup camps. Kelly watched him grimly.

  "I knowed you wasn't as swift as yuh knew how 't be, a while back," he commented. "I've got this t' say fur you two: You're a little the toughest proposition I ever run up ag'inst—and I've been up ag'inst it good and plenty."

  "Thanks," Keith said cheerfully. "You'd better take Rex now and go ahead, Miss Lansell. I'll take that gun and look after this fellow. Get up, Kelly."

  "What are you going to do with him?"

  Kelly got unsteadily upon his feet. Beatrice looked at him, and then at Keith. She asked a question.

  "March him home, and send him in to the nearest sheriff." Keith was businesslike, and his tone was crisp.

  Beatrice's eyes turned again to Kelly. He did not whine, or beg, or even curse. He stood looking straight before him, at something only his memory could see, and in his face was weariness, and a deep loneliness, and a certain, grim despair. There was an ugly bruise where the rock had struck, but the rest of his face was drawn and white.

  "If you do that," cried Beatrice, in a voice hardly more than a fierce whisper, "I shall hate you always. You are not a man-hunter. Let him stay here, and take his chance in the hills."

  Keith was not a hard man to persuade into being merciful. "It's easy enough to say yes, Miss Lansell. I always was chicken-hearted when a fellow seemed down on his luck. You can stay here, Kelly—I don't want you, anyway." He laughed boyishly and irresponsibly, for he felt that Kelly had done him a service that day.

  Beatrice flashed him a smile that went to his head and made him dizzy, and took up Rex's bridle rein. She hesitated, looked doubtfully at Kelly, who stood waiting stoically, and turned to her saddle. She untied a bundle and went quickly over to him.

  "You—I don't want my lunch, after all. I'm going home now. I—I want you to take it, please. There are some sandwiches—with veal loaf, that Looey Sam makes deliciously—and some cake. I—I wish it was more. I know you'll like the veal loaf."

  Kelly looked down at her, and God knows what thoughts were in his mind. He did not answer her with words; he just swallowed hard.

  "Poor devil!" was what Keith said to himself, and the gun he was holding threatened, for a minute, to wing a cloud.

  Beatrice laid the package in Kelly's unresisting hand, looked up into his averted face and said simply: "Good-by, Mr. Kelly."

  After that she hurried Rex up the steep ridge much faster than she had gone down it, endangering his bones and putting herself very empty lunged.

  At the top of the ridge Keith stopped and looked down.

  "Hi, Kelly!"

  Kelly showed that he heard.

  "Here's your gun, on this rock. You can come up and get it, if you want to. And—say! I've got a few broke horses ranging down here somewhere. VN brand, on left shoulder. I won't scour the hills, very bad, if I should happen to miss a cayuse. So long!"

  Kelly waved his hand for farewell.

  CHAPTER 13. Keith's Masterful Wooing.

  Keith faced toward home, with Redcloud following at his heels like a pet dog. For some reason, which he did not try to analyze, he was feeling light of heart—as though something very nice had happened to him. It might have been the unexpected clearing up of the mystery of the prairie-fire, though he was not dwelling particularly upon that. He was thinking a great deal more of Beatrice's blue-brown eyes, which had never been more baffling, so far as he knew. And his blood was still dancing with the smile she had given him; it hardly seemed possible that a girl could smile just like that and not mean anything.

  When he reached the level, where she was waiting for him, he saw that she had her arms around the neck of her horse, and that she was crying dismally, heart-brokenly, with an abandon that took no thought of his presence. Keith had never seen a girl cry like that before. He had seen them dab at their eyes with their handkerchief, and smile the next breath—but this was different. For a minute he didn't quite know what to do; he could hear the blood hammering against his temples while he stood dumbly watching her. He went hesitatingly up, and laid a gloved hand deprecatingly upon her shoulder.

  "Don't do that, Miss Lansell! The fellow isn't worth it. He's only living the life he chose for himself, and he doesn't mind, not half as much as you imagine. I know how you feel—I felt sorry for him myself—but he doesn't deserve it, you know." He stopped; not being able, just at the moment, to think of anything more to say about Kelly. Beatrice, who had not been thinking of Kelly at all, but remorsefully of a fellow she had persisted in misjudging, only cried the harder.

  "Don't—don't cry like that! I—Miss Lansell—Trix—darling!" Keith's self-control snapped suddenly, like a rope when the strain becomes too great. He caught her fiercely in his arms, and crushed her close against him.

  Beatrice stopped crying, and gasped.

  "Trixie, if you must cry, I wish you'd cry for me. I'm about as miserable a man—I want you so! God made you for me, and I'm starving for the feel of your lips on mine." Then Keith, who was nothing if not daring, once he was roused, bent and kissed her without waiting to see if he might—and not only once, but several times.

  Beatrice made a half-hearted attempt to get free of his arms, but Keith was not a fool—he held her closer, and laughed from pure, primitive joy.

  "Mr. Cameron!" It was Beatrice's voice, but it had never been like that before.

  "I think you might call me Keith,"
he cut in. "You've got to begin some time, and now is as good a time as any."

  "You—you're taking a good deal for granted," she said, wriggling unavailingly in his arms.

  "A man's got to, with a girl like you. You're so used to turning a fellow down I believe you'd do it just from habit."

  "Indeed?" She was trying to be sarcastic and got kissed for her pains.

  "Yes, 'indeed.'" He mimicked her tone. "I want you. I want you! I wanted you long before I ever saw you. And so I'm not taking any chances—I didn't dare, you see. I just had to take you first, and ask you afterward."

  Beatrice laughed a little, with tears very close to her lashes, and gave up. What was the use of trying to resist this masterful fellow, who would not even give her a chance to refuse him? She did not know quite how to say no to a man who did not ask her to say yes. But the queer part, to her, was the feeling that she would have hated to say no, anyway. It never occurred to her, till afterward, that she might have stood upon a pedestal of offended dignity and cried, "Unhand me, villain!"—and that, if she had, Keith would undoubtedly have complied instantly. As it was, she just laughed softly, and blushed a good deal.

  "I believe mama is right about you, after all," she said wickedly. "At heart, you're a bold highwayman."

  "Maybe. I know I'd not stand and see some other fellow walk off with my Heart's Desire, without putting up a fight. It did look pretty blue for me, though, and I was afraid—but it's all right now, isn't it? Possession is nine points in law, they say, and I've got you now! I'm going to keep you, too. When are you going to come over and take charge of the Cross ranch?"

  "Dear me!" said Beatrice, snuggling against his shoulder, and finding it the best place in the world to be. "I never said I was going to take charge at all!" Then the impulse of confession seized her. "Will you hate me, if I tell you something?"

  "I expect I will," Keith assented, his eyes positively idolatrous. "What is it, girlie?"

  "Well, I—it was Dick's fault; I never would have thought of such a thing if he hadn't goaded me into it—but—well, I was going to make you propose, on a wager—" The brown head of Beatrice went down out of sight, on his arm. "I was going to refuse you—and get Rex—"

  "I know." Keith held her closer than ever. "Dick rode over and told me that day. And I wasn't going to give you a chance, missy. If you hadn't started to cry, here— Oh! what's the use? You didn't refuse me—and you're not going to, either, are you, girlie?"

  Beatrice intimated that there was no immediate danger of such a thing happening.

  "You see, Dick and I felt that you belonged to me, by rights. I fell in love with a picture of you, that you sent him—that one taken in your graduation gown—and I told Dick I was going to take the next train East, and carry you off by force, if I couldn't get you any other way. But Dick thought I'd stand a better show to wait till he'd coaxed you out here. We had it all fixed, that you'd come and find a prairie knight that was ready to fight for you, and he'd make you like him, whether you wanted to or not; and then he'd keep you here, and we'd all be happy ever after. And Dick would pull out of the Northern Pool—and of course you would—and we'd have a company of our own. Oh! we had some great castles built out here on the prairie, let me tell you! And then, when you finally came here, you had milord tagging along—and you thinking you were in love with him! Maybe you think I wasn't shaky, girlie! The air castles got awfully wobbly, and it looked like they were going to cave in on us. But I was bound to stay in the game if I could, and Dick did all he could to get you to looking my way—and it's all right, isn't it, Trixie?" Keith kept recurring to the ecstatic realization that it was all right.

  Beatrice meditated for a minute.

  "I never dreamed—Dick never even mentioned you in any of his letters," she said, in a rather dazed tone. "And when I came he made me believe you were a horrible flirt, and I never can resist the temptation to measure lances."

  "And take a fall out of a male flirt," Keith supplemented. "Dick," he went on sententiously and slangily, "was dead onto his job." After that he helped her into the saddle, and they rode blissfully homeward.

  Near the ranch they met Dick, who pulled up and eyed them anxiously at first, and then with a broad smile.

  "Say, Trix," he queried slyly, "who does Rex belong to?"

  Keith came to the rescue promptly, just as a brave knight should. "You," he retorted. "But I tell you right now, he won't very long. You're going to do the decent thing and give him to Trixie—for a wedding present."

  Dick looked as though Trix was welcome to any thing he possessed.

  CHAPTER 14. Sir Redmond Gets His answer.

  "Before long, dear, we shall get on the great ship, and ride across the large, large ocean, and be at home. You will be delighted to see Peggy, and Rupert, and the dogs, won't you, dear?" Miss Hayes, her cheeks actually getting some color into them at the thought of going home, buttered a fluffy biscuit for her idol.

  Dorman took two bites while he considered. "Rupert'll want my little wheels, for my feet, what Mr. Cam'ron gave me—but he can't have 'em, dough. I 'spect he'll be mad. I wonder what'll Peggy say bout my two puppies. I've got to take my two puppies wis me. Will dey get sick riding on de water, auntie? Say, will dey?"

  "I—I think not, dear," ventured his auntie cautiously. His auntie was a conscientious woman, and she knew very little about puppies.

  "Be'trice will help me take care of dem if dey're sick," he remarked comfortably.

  Then something in his divinity's face startled his assurance. "You's going wis us, isn't you, Be'trice? I want you to help take care of my two puppies. Martha can't, 'cause she slaps dere ears. Is you going wis us, Be'trice?"

  This, at the dinner table, was, to say the least, embarrassing—especially on this especial evening, when Beatrice was trying to muster courage to give Sir Redmond the only answer it was possible to give him now. It was an open secret that, in case she had accepted him, the home-going of Miss Hayes would be delayed a bit, when they would all go together. Beatrice had overheard her mother and Miss Hayes discussing this possibility only the day before. She undertook the impossible, and attempted to head Dorman off.

  "Perhaps you'll see a whale, honey. The puppies never saw a whale, I'm sure. What do you suppose they'd think?"

  "Is you going?"

  "You'd have to hold them up high, you know, so they could see, and show them just where to look, and—"

  "Is you going, Be'trice?"

  Beatrice sent a quick, despairing glance around the table. Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest and anxiety. The fifth pair—Dick's—were trying to hide their unrighteous glee by glaring down at the chicken wing on his plate. Beatrice felt a strong impulse to throw something at him. She gulped and faced the inevitable. It must come some time, she thought, and it might as well be now—though it did seem a pity to spoil a good dinner for every one but Dick, who was eating his with relish.

  "No, honey"—her voice was clear and had the note of finality—"I'm not going—ever."

  Sir Redmond's teeth went together with a click, and he picked up the pepper shaker mechanically and peppered his salad until it was perfectly black, and Beatrice wondered how he ever expected to eat it. Mrs. Lansell dropped her fork on the floor, and had to have a clean one brought. Miss Hayes sent a frightened glance at her brother. Dick sat and ate fried chicken.

  "Why, Be'trice? I wants you to—and de puppies'll need you—and auntie, and—" Dorman gathered himself for the last, crushing argument—"and Uncle Redmon' wants you awf'lly!"

  Beatrice took a sip of ice water, for she needed it.

  "Why, Be'trice? Gran-mama'll let you go, guess. Can't she go, gran'mama?"

  It was Mrs. Lansell's turn to test the exquisite torture of that prickly chill along the spine. Like Beatrice, she dodged.

  "Little boys," she announced weakly, "should not speak until they're spoken to."

  Dick came near strangling on a shred of chicken.

&
nbsp; "Can't she go, gran'mama? Say, can't she? Tell Be'trice to go home wis us, gran'mama!"

  "Beatrice"—Mrs. Lansell swallowed—"is not a little child any longer, Dorman. She is a woman and can do as she likes. I"—she was speaking to the whole group—"I can only advise her."

  Dorman gave a squeal of triumph. "See? You can go, Be'trice! Gran'mama says you can go. You will go, won't you, Be'trice? Say yes!"

  "No!" said Beatrice, with desperate emphasis. "I won't."

  "I want—Be'trice—to go-o!" Dorman slid down upon his shoulder blades, gave a squeal which was not triumph, but temper, and kicked the table till every dish on it danced.

  "Dorman sit up!" commanded his auntie. "Dorman, stop, this instant! I'm ashamed of you; where is my good little man? Redmond."

  Sir Redmond seemed glad of the chance to do something besides sit quietly in his place and look calm. He got up deliberately, and in two minutes, or less, Dorman was in the woodshed with him, making sounds that frightened his puppies dreadfully and put the coyotes to shame.

  Beatrice left the table hurriedly to escape the angry eyes of her mother. The sounds in the woodshed had died to a subdued sniffling, and she retreated to the front porch, hoping to escape observation. There she nearly ran against Sir Redmond, who was staring off into the dusk to where the moon was peering redly over a black pinnacle of the Bear Paws.

  She would have slipped back into the house, but he did not give her the chance. He turned and faced her steadily, as he had more than once faced the Boers, when he knew that before him was nothing but defeat.

  "So you're not going to England ever?"

  Pride had squeezed every shade of emotion from his voice.

  "No." Beatrice gripped her fingers together tightly.

  "Are you sure you won't be sorry—afterward?"

  "Yes, I'm sure." Beatrice had never done anything she hated more.

  Sir Redmond, looking into her eyes, wondered why those much-vaunted sharpshooters, the Boers, had blundered and passed him by.

  "I don't suppose it matters much now—but will you tell me why? I believed you would decide differently." He was holding his voice down to a dead level, and it was not easy.