by B. M. Bower
It was a good old world and a pleasant, and Chip had no present quarrel with fate—or with anybody else. That was why he whistled.
Then voices reached him through the open door, and a laugh—her laugh. Chip smiled sympathetically, though he had not the faintest notion of the cause of her mirth. As the voices drew nearer, the soft, smooth, hated tones of Dunk Whitaker untangled from the Little Doctor’s laugh, and Chip stopped whistling. Dunk was making a good, long stay of it this time; usually he came one day and went the next, and no one grieved at his departure.
“You find them an entirely new species, of course. How do you get on with them?” said Dunk.
And the Little Doctor answered him frankly and distinctly: “Oh, very well, considering all things. They furnish me with some amusement, and I give them something quite new to talk about, so we are quits. They are a good-hearted lot, you know—but so ignorant! I don’t suppose—”
The words trailed into an indistinct murmur, punctuated by Dunk’s jarring cackle.
Chip did not resume his whistling, though he might have done so if he had heard a little more, or a little less. As a matter of fact, it was the Densons, and the Pilgreens, and the Beckmans that were under discussion, and not the Flying U cowboys, as Chip believed. He no longer smiled sympathetically.
“We furnish her with some amusement, do we? That’s good! We’re a good-hearted lot, but so ignorant! The devil we are!” He struck the rivet such a blow that he snapped one shank of his spur short off. This meant ten or twelve dollars for a new pair—though the cost of it troubled him little, just then. It was something tangible upon which to pour profanity, however, and the atmosphere grew sulphurous in the vicinity of the blacksmith shop and remained so for several minutes, after which a tall, irate cow-puncher with his hat pulled low over angry eyes left the shop and strode up the path to the deserted bunk house.
He did not emerge till the Old Man called to him to ride down to Benson’s after one of the Flying U horses which had broken out of the pasture.
Della was looking from the window when Chip rode up the hill upon the “coulee trail,” which passed close by the house. She was tired of the platitudes of Dunk, who, trying to be both original and polished, fell far short of being either and only succeeded in being extremely tiresome.
“Where’s Chip going, J. G. ?” she demanded, in a proprietary tone.
“Down t’ Benson’s after a horse.” J. G. spoke lazily, without taking his pipe from his mouth.
“Oh, I wish I could go—I wonder if he’d care.” The Little Doctor spoke impulsively as was her habit.
“’Course he wouldn’t. Hey, Chip! Hold on a minute!” The Old Man stood waving his pipe in the doorway.
Chip jerked his horse to a stand-still and half turned in the saddle.
“What?”
“Dell wants t’ go along. Will yuh saddle up Concho for ’er? There’s no hurry, anyhow, you’ve got plenty uh time. Dell’s afraid one uh the kids might fall downstairs ag’in, and she’d miss the case.”
“I’m not, either,” said the Little Doctor, coming to stand by her brother; “it’s too nice a day to stay inside, and my muscles ache for a gallop over the hills.”
Chip did not look up at her; he did not dare. He felt that, if he met her eyes—with the laugh in them—he should do one of two undesirable things: he should either smile back at her, weakly overlooking the hypocrisy of her friendliness, or sneer in answer to her smile, which would be very rude and ungentlemanly.
“If you had mentioned wanting a ride I should have been glad to accompany you,” remarked Dunk, reproachfully, when Chip had ridden, somewhat sullenly, back to the stable.
“I didn’t think of it before—thank you,” said the Little Doctor, lightly, and hurried away to put on her blue riding habit with its cunning little jockey cap which she found the only headgear that would stay upon her head in the teeth of Montana wind, and which made her look—well, kissable. She was standing on the porch drawing on her gauntlets when Chip returned, leading Concho by the bridle.
“Let me help you,” begged Dunk, at her elbow, hoping till the last that she would invite him to go with them.
The Little Doctor, not averse to hiding the bitter of her medicine under a coating of sugar, smiled sweetly upon him, to the delectation of Dunk and the added bitterness of Chip, who was rapidly nearing that state of mind which is locally described as being “strictly on the fight.”
“I expect she thinks I’ll amuse her some more!” he thought, savagely, as they galloped away through the quivering sunlight.
For the first two miles the road was level, and Chip set the pace—which was, as he intended it should be, too swift for much speech. After that the trail climbed abruptly out of Flying U coulee, and the horses were compelled to walk. Then it was that Chip’s native chivalry and self-mastery were put to test.
He was hungry for a solitary ride such as had, before now, drawn much of the lonely ache out of his heart and keyed him up to the life which he must live and which chafed his spirit more than even he realized. Instead of such slender comfort, he was forced to ride beside the girl who had hurt him—so close that his knee sometimes brushed her horse— and to listen to her friendly chatter and make answer, at times, with at least some show of civility.
She was talking reminiscently of the dance.
“J. G. showed splendid judgment in his choice of musicians, didn’t he?”
Chip looked straight ahead. This was touching a sore place in his memory. A vision of Dick Brown’s vapid smile and curled up mustache rose before him.
“I’d tell a man,” he said, with faint irony.
The Little Doctor gave him a quick, surprised look and went on.
“I liked their playing so much. Mr. Brown was especially good upon the guitar.”
“Y—e-s?”
“Yes, of course. You know yourself, he plays beautifully.”
“Cow-punchers aren’t expected to know all these things.” Chip hated himself for replying so, but the temptation mastered him.
“Aren’t they? I can’t see why not.”
Chip closed his lips tightly to keep in something impolite.
The Little Doctor, puzzled as well as piqued, went straight to the point.
“Why didn’t you like Mr. Brown’s playing?”
“Did I say I didn’t like it?”
“Well, you—not exactly, but you implied that you did not.”
“Y—e-s?”
The Little Doctor gave the reins an impatient twitch.
“Yes, yes—yes!”
No answer from Chip. He could think of nothing to say that was not more or less profane.
“I think he’s a very nice, amiable young man”—strong emphasis upon the second adjective. “I like amiable young men.”
Silence.
“He’s going to come down here hunting next fall. J. G. invited him.”
“Yes? What does he expect to find?”
“Why, whatever there is to hunt. Chickens and—er—deer—”
“Exactly.”
By this they reached the level and the horses broke, of their own accord, into a gallop which somewhat relieved the strain upon the mental atmosphere. At the next hill the Little Doctor looked her companion over critically.
“Mr. Bennett, you look positively bilious. Shall I prescribe for you?”
“I can’t see how that would add to your amusement.”
“I’m not trying to add to my amusement.”
“No?”
“If I were, there’s no material at hand. Bad-tempered young men are never amusing, to me. I like—”
“Amiable young men. Such as Dick Brown.”
“I think you need a change of air, Mr. Bennett.”
“Yes? I’ve felt, lately, that Eastern airs don’t agree with my constitution.”
Miss Whitmore grew red as to cheeks and bright as to eyes.
“I think a few small doses of Eastern manners would improve you very m
uch,” she said, pointedly.
“Y—e-s? They’d have to be small, because the supply is very limited.”
The Little Doctor grew white around the mouth. She held Concho’s rein so tight he almost stopped.
“If you didn’t want me to come, why in the world didn’t you have the courage to say so at the start? I must say I don’t admire people whose tempers—and manners—are so unstable. I’m sorry I forced my presence upon you, and I promise you it won’t occur again.” She hesitated, and then fired a parting shot which certainly was spiteful in the extreme. “There’s one good thing about it,” she smiled, tartly, “I shall have something interesting to write to Dr. Cecil.”
With that she turned astonished Concho short around in the trail—and as Chip gave Blazes a vicious jab with his spurs at the same instant, the distance between them widened rapidly.
As Chip raced away over the prairie, he discovered a new and puzzling kink in his temper. He had been angry with the Little Doctor for coming, but it was nothing to the rage he felt when she turned back! He did not own to himself that he wanted her beside him to taunt and to hurt with his rudeness, but it was a fact, for all that. And it was a very surly young man who rode into the Denson corral and threw a loop over the head of the runaway.
CHAPTER IX
Before the Round-up
“The Little Doctor wants us all to come up t’ the White House this evening and have some music,” announced Cal, bursting into the bunk house where the boys were sorting and packing their belongings ready to start with the round-up wagon in the morning.
Jack Bates hurriedly stuffed a miscellaneous collection of socks and handkerchiefs into his war bag and made for the wash basin.
“I’ll just call her bluff,” he said, determinedly.
“It ain’t any bluff; she wants us t’ come, er you bet she wouldn’t say so. I’ve learned that much about her. Say, you’d a died to seen old Dunk look down his nose! I’ll bet money she done it just t’ rasp his feelin’s—and she sure succeeded. I’d go anyway, now, just t’ watch him squirm.”
“I notice it grinds him consider’ble to see the Little Doctor treat us fellows like white folks. He’s workin’ for a stand-in there himself. I bet he gets throwed down good and hard,” commented Weary, cheerfully.
“It’s a cinch he don’t know about that pill-thrower back in Ohio,” added Cal. “Any of you fellows going to take her bid? I’ll go alone, in a minute.”
“I don’t think you’ll go alone,” asserted Jack Bates, grabbing his hat.
Slim made a few hasty passes at his hair and said he was ready. Shorty, who had just come in from riding, unbuckled his spurs and kicked them under his bed.
“It’ll be many a day b’fore we listen t’ the Little Doctor’s mandolin ag’in,” croaked Happy Jack.
“Aw, shut up!” admonished Cal.
“Come on, Chip,” sang out Weary. “You can spoil good paper when you can’t do anything else. Come and size up the look on Dunk’s face when we take possession of all the best chairs and get t’ pouring our incense and admiration on the Little Doctor.”
Chip took the cigarette from his lips and emptied his lungs of smoke. “You fellows go on. I’m not going.” He bent again to his eternal drawing.
“The dickens you ain’t!” Weary was too astounded to say more.
Chip said nothing. His gray hat-brim shielded his face from view, save for the thin, curved lips and firm chin. Weary studied chin and lips curiously, and whatever he read there, he refrained from further argument. He knew Chip so much better than did anyone else.
“Aw, what’s the matter with yuh, Splinter! Come on; don’t be a chump,” cried Cal, from the doorway.
“I guess you’ll let a fellow do as he likes about it, won’t you?” queried Chip, without looking up. He was very busy, just then, shading the shoulders of a high-pitching horse so that one might see the tense muscles.
“What’s the matter? You and the Little Doctor have a falling out?”
“Not very bad,” Chip’s tone was open to several interpretations. Cal interpreted it as a denial.
“Sick?” He asked next.
“Yes!” said Chip, shortly and falsely.
“We’ll call the doctor in, then,” volunteered Jack Bates.
“I don’t think you will. When I’m sick enough for that I’ll let you know. I’m going to bed.”
“Aw, come on and let him alone. Chip’s able t’ take care of himself, I guess,” said Weary, mercifully, holding open the door.
They trooped out, and the last heard of them was Cal, remarking:
“Gee whiz! I’d have t’ be ready t’ croak before I’d miss this chance uh dealing old Dunk misery.”
Chip sat where they had left him, staring unseeingly down at the uncompleted sketch. His cigarette went out, but he did not roll a fresh one and held the half-burned stub abstractedly between his lips, set in bitter lines.
Why should he care what a slip of a girl thought of him? He didn’t care; he only—that thought he did not follow to the end, but started immediately on a new one. He supposed he was ignorant, according to Eastern standards. Lined up alongside Dr. Cecil Granthum—damn him!— he would cut a sorry figure, no doubt. He had never seen the outside of a college, let alone imbibing learning within one. He had learned some of the wisdom which nature teaches those who can read her language, and he had read much, lying on his stomach under a summer sky, while the cattle grazed all around him and his horse cropped the sweet grasses within reach of his hand. He could repeat whole pages of Shakespeare, and of Scott, and Bobbie Burns—he’d like to try Dr. Cecil on some of them and see who came out ahead. Still, he was ignorant—and none realized it more keenly and bitterly than did Chip.
He rested his chin in his hand and brooded over his comfortless past and cheerless future. He could just remember his mother—and he preferred not to remember his father, who was less kind to him than were strangers. That was his past. And the future—always to be a cow-puncher? There was his knack for drawing; if he could study and practice, perhaps even the Little Doctor would not dare call him ignorant then. Not that he cared for what she might say or might not say, but a fellow can’t help hating to be reminded of something that he knows better than anyone else— and that is not pleasant, however you may try to cover up the unsightliness of it.
If Dr. Cecil Granthum—damn him!—had been kicked into the world and made to fight fate with tender, childish little fists but lately outgrown their baby dimples, as had been his lot, would he have amounted to anything, either? Maybe Dr. Cecil would have grown up just common and ignorant and fit for nothing better than to furnish amusement to girl doctors with dimples and big, gray eyes and a way of laughing. He’d like to show that little woman that she didn’t know all about him yet. It wasn’t too late—he was only twenty-four—he would study, and work, and climb to where she must look up, not down, to him—if she cared enough to look at all. It wasn’t too late. He would quit gambling and save his money, and by next winter he’d have enough to go somewhere and learn to make pictures that amounted to something. He’d show her!
After reiterating this resolve in several emphatic forms, Chip’s spirits grew perceptibly lighter—so much so that he rolled a fresh cigarette and finished the drawing in his hands, which demonstrated the manner in which a particularly snaky broncho had taken a fall out of Jack Bates in the corral that morning.
Next day, early in the afternoon, the round-up climbed the grade and started on its long trip over the range, and, after they had gone, the ranch seemed very quiet and very lonely to the Little Doctor, who revenged herself by snubbing Dunk so unmercifully that he announced his intention of taking the next train for Butte, where he lived in the luxury of rich bachelorhood. As the Little Doctor showed no symptoms of repenting, he rode sullenly away to Dry Lake, and she employed the rest of the afternoon writing a full and decidedly prejudiced account to Dr. Cecil of her quarrel with Chip, whom, she said, she quite hated.
CHAPTER X
What Whizzer Did
“I guess Happy lost some of his horses, las’ night,” said Slim at the breakfast table next morning. Slim had been kept at the ranch to look after the fences and the ditches, and was doing full justice to the expert cookery of the Countess.
“What makes yuh think that?” The Old Man poised a bit of tender, broiled steak upon the end of his fork.
“They’s a bunch hangin’ around the upper fence, an’ Whizzer’s among ’em. I’d know that long-legged snake ten miles away.”
The Little Doctor looked up quickly. She had never before heard of a “long-legged snake”—but then, she had not yet made the acquaintance of Whizzer.
“Well, maybe you better run ’em into the corral and hold ’em till Shorty sends some one after ’em,” suggested the Old Man.
“I never c’d run ’em in alone, not with Whizzer in the bunch,” objected Slim. “He’s the orneriest cayuse in Chouteau County.”
“Whizzer’ll make a rattlin’ good saddle horse some day, when he’s broke gentle,” argued the Old Man.
“Huh! I don’t envy Chip the job uh breakin’ him, though,” grunted Slim, as he went out of the door.
After breakfast the Little Doctor visited Silver and fed him his customary ration of lump sugar, helped the Countess tidy the house, and then found herself at a loss for something to do. She stood looking out into the hazy sunlight which lay warm on hill and coulee.
“I think I’ll go up above the grade and make a sketch of the ranch,” she said to the Countess, and hastily collected her materials.