by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER VI
The Problem of Getting Somewhere
Dawn came tardily after a long, cheerless night, during which the windwhined over the prairie and the stars showed dimly through a shiftingveil of low-sweeping clouds. Ford had not slept much, for hunger andcold make poor bedfellows, and all the brush he could glean on thatbarren hillside, with the added warmth of his saddle-blanket wrappedabout him, could no more make him comfortable than could cigarettesstill the gnawing of his hunger.
When he could see across the coulee, he rose from where he had beensitting with his back to the ledge and his feet to the meager fire,brooding over all the unpleasant elements in his life thus far,particularly the feminine element. He folded the saddle-blanket alongits original creases and went over to where Rambler stood dispiritedlywith his back humped to the cold, creeping wind and his tail whippingbetween his legs when a sudden gust played with it. Ford shivered, andbeat his gloved hands about his body, and looked up at the sky to seewhether the sun would presently shine and send a little warmth to thisbleak land where he wandered. He blamed the girl for all of thisdiscomfort, and he told himself that the next time a woman appearedwithin his range of vision he would ride way around her. They invariablybrought trouble; of various sorts and degrees, it is true, but troublealways. It was perfectly safe, he decided, to bank on that. And hewished, more than ever, that he had not improvidently given that pint ofwhisky to a disconsolate-looking sheep-herder he had met the day beforeon his way out from town; or that he had put two flasks in his pocketinstead of one. In his opinion a good, big jolt right now would make anew man of him.
Rambler, as he had half expected, was obliged to do his walking withthree legs only; which is awkward for a horse accustomed to fourexceedingly limber ones, and does not make for speed, however greatone's hurry. Ford walked around him twice, scooped water in his hands,and once more bathed the shoulder--not that he had any great faith incold water as a liniment, but because there was nothing else that hecould do, and his anxiety and his pity impelled service of some sort. Herubbed until his fingers were numb and his arm aching, tried him again,and gave up all hope of leading the horse to a ranch. A mile he mightmanage, if he had to but ten! He rubbed Rambler's nose commiseratingly,straightened his forelock, told him over and over that it was a darnedshame, anyway, and finally turned to pick up his saddle. He could notleave that lying on the prairie for inquisitive kit-foxes to chew intoshoestrings, however much he might dread the forty-pound burden of it onhis shoulders. He was stooping to pick it up when he saw a bit of papertwisted and tied to the saddle-horn with a red ribbon.
"Lordy me!" he ejaculated ironically. "The lady left a note on mypillow--and I never received it in time! Now, ain't that a darnedshame?" He plucked the knot loose, and held up the ribbon and the note,and laughed.
"'When this reaches you, I shall be far away, though it breaks my heartto go and this missive is mussed up scandalous with my bitter tears.Forgive me if you can, and forget me if you have to. It is better thus,for it couldn't otherwise was,'" he improvised mockingly, while hischilled fingers fumbled to release the paper, which was evidently a leaftorn from a man's memorandum book. "Lordy me, a letter from a lady!Ain't that sweet!"
When he read it, however, the smile vanished with a click of the teethwhich betrayed his returning anger. One cold, curt sentence bidding himwait until help came--that was all. His eye measured accusingly the widemargin left blank under the words; she had not omitted apology orexplanation for lack of space, at any rate. His face grew cynicallyamused again.
"Oh, certainly! I'd roost on this side-hill for a month, if a lady toldme to," he sneered, speaking aloud as he frequently did in the solitudeof the range land. He glanced from ribbon to note, ended his indecisionby stuffing the note carelessly into his coat pocket and letting theribbon drop to the ground, and with a curl of the lips which betrayedhis mental attitude toward all women and particularly toward that woman,picked up his saddle.
"I can't seem to recollect asking that lady for help, anyway," he summedup before he dismissed the subject from his mind altogether. "I wastrying to help her; it sure takes a woman to twist things around so theypoint backwards!"
He turned and glanced pityingly at Rambler, watching him with earsperked forward inquiringly. "And I crippled a damned good horse tryingto help a blamed poor specimen of a woman!" he gritted. "And didn't getso much as a pleasant word for it. I'll sure remember that!"
Rambler whinnied after him wistfully, and Ford set his teeth hardtogether and walked the faster, his shoulders slightly bent under theweight of the saddle. His own physical discomfort was nothing, besidethe hurt of leaving his horse out there practically helpless; for amoment his fingers rested upon the butt of his six-shooter, while heconsidered going back and putting an end to life and misery forRambler. But for all the hardness men had found in Ford Campbell, he waswoman-weak where his horse was concerned. With cold reason urging him,he laid the saddle on the ground and went back, his hand clutchinggrimly the gun at his hip. Rambler's nicker of welcome stopped himhalf-way and held him there, hot with guilt.
"Oh, damn it, I can't!" he muttered savagely, and retraced his steps towhere the saddle lay. After that he almost trotted down the coulee, andhe would not look back again until it struck him as odd that thenickerings of the horse did not grow perceptibly fainter. With a queergripping of the muscles in his throat he did turn, then, and sawRambler's head over the little ridge he had just crossed. The horse wasmaking shift to follow him rather than be left alone in that strangecountry. Ford waited, his lashes glistening in the first rays of thenew-risen sun, until the horse came hobbling stiffly up to him.
"You old devil!" he murmured then, his contrite tone contrasting oddlywith the words he used. "You contrary, ornery, old devil, you!" herepeated softly, rubbing the speckled nose with more affection than hehad ever shown a woman. "You'd tag along, if--if you didn't have but oneleg to carry you! And I was going to--" He could not bring himself toconfess his meditated deed of mercy; it seemed black-hearted treachery,now, and he stood ashamed and humbled before the dumb brute that nuzzledhim with such implicit faith.
It was slow journeying, after that. Ford carried the saddle on his ownback rather than burden the horse with it, and hungry as he was, hestopped often and long, and massaged the sprained shoulder faithfullywhile Rambler rested it, with all his weight on his other legs and hisnose rooting gently at Ford's bowed head.
A stray rider assured him that he was on the right trail, but it waspast noon when he thankfully reached the Double Cross, threw his saddledown beside the stable door, and gave Rambler a chance at the hay in thecorral.