by B. M. Bower
“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 except 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 tomorrow, 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.
“Kiss him, Redcloud,” he said softly; and then, when the horse’s nose was thrust in his face: “No, not me—kiss the kid.” He lifted the child up in his arms, and when Redcloud touched his soft nose to Dorman’s cheek and lifted his lip for a dainty, toothless nibble, Dorman was speechless with fright and rapture thrillingly combined.
“Now run home with your fish; it lacks only two hours and forty minutes to dinner time, and it will take at least twenty minutes for the fish to fry—so you see you’ll have to hike.”
Beatrice flushed and looked at him sharply, but Keith was getting into the saddle and did not appear to remember she was there. The fingers that were tying her hat-ribbons under her chin fumbled awkwardly and trembled. Beatrice would have given a good deal at that moment to know just what Keith Cameron was thinking; and she was in a blind rage with herself to think that it mattered to her what he thought.
When he lifted his hat she only nodded curtly. She mimicked every beast and bird she could think of on the way home, to wipe him and his horse from the memory of Dorman, whose capacity for telling things best left untold was simply marvelous.
It is saying much for Beatrice’s powers of entertainment that Dorman quite forgot to say anything about Mr. Cameron and his pony, and chattered to his auntie and grandmama about kitties up in a tree, and lost lambs and sleepy birds, until he was tucked into bed that night. It was not until then that Beatrice felt justified in drawing a long breath. Not that she cared whether any one knew of her meeting Keith Cameron, only that her mother would instantly take alarm and preach to her about the wickedness of flirting; and Beatrice was not in the mood for sermons.
CHAPTER 9
What It Meant to Keith
“Dick, I wish you’d tell me about this leasing business. There are points which I don’t understand.” Beatrice leaned over and smoothed Rex’s sleek shoulder with her hand.
“What do you want to understand it for? The thing is done now. We’ve got the fence-posts strung, and a crew hired to set them.”
“You needn’t snap your words like that, Dick. It doesn’t matter—only I was wondering why Mr. Cameron acted so queer yesterday when I told him about it.”
“You told Keith? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He just looked things.”
“Where did you see him?” Dick wanted to know.
“Well, dear me! I don’t see that it matters where I saw him. You’re getting as inquisitive as mama. If you think it concerns you, why, I met him accidentally when I was fishing with Dorman. He was coming to see you, but you were gone, so he stopped and talked for a few minutes. Was there anything so strange about that? And I told him you were leasing the Pine Ridge country, and he looked—well, peculiar. But he wouldn’t say anything.”
“Well, he had good reason for looking peculiar. But you needn’t have told him I did it, Trix. Lay that at milord’s door, where it belongs. I don’t want Keith to blame me.”
“But why should he blame anybody? It isn’t his land, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. But—you see, Trix, it’s this way: A man goes somewhere and buys a ranch—or locates on a claim—and starts into the cattle business. He may not own more than a few hundred acres of land, but if he has much stock he needs miles of prairie country, with water, for them to range on. It’s an absolute necessity, you see. He takes care to locate where there is plenty of public land that is free to anybody’s cattle.
“Take the Pool outfit, for instance. We don’t own land enough to feed one-third of our cattle. We depend on government land for range for them. The Cross outfit is the same, only Keith’s is on a smaller scale. He’s got to have range outside his own land, which is mostly hay land. This part of the State is getting pretty well settled up with small ranchers, and then the sheep men keep crowding in wherever they can get a show—and sheep will starve cattle to death; they leave a range as bare as a prairie-dog town. So there’s only one good bit of range left around here, and that’s the Pine Ridge country, as it’s called. That’s our main dependence for winter range; and now when this drought has struck us, and everything is drying up, we’ve had to turn all our cattle down there on account of water.
“Ever since I took charge of the Pool, Keith and I threw in together and used the same range, worked our crews together, and fought the sheepmen together. There was a time when they tried to gobble the Pine Ridge range, but it didn’t go. Keith and I made up
our minds that we needed it worse than they did—and we got it. Our punchers had every sheep herder bluffed out till there wasn’t a mutton-chewer could keep a bunch of sheep on that range over-night.
“Now, this lease law was made by stockmen, for stockmen. They can lease land from the government, fence it—and they’ve got a cinch on it as long as the lease lasts. A cow outfit can corral a heap of range that way. There’s the trick of leasing every other section or so, and then running a fence around the whole chunk; and that’s what the Pool has done to the Pine Ridge. But you mustn’t repeat that, Trix.
“Milord wasn’t long getting on to the leasing graft; in fact, it turns out the company got wind of it over in England, and sent him over here to see what could be done in that line. He’s done it, all right enough!
“And there’s the Cross outfit, frozen out completely. The Lord only knows what Keith will do with his cattle now, for we’ll have every drop of water under fence inside of a month. He’s in a hole, for sure. I expect he feels pretty sore with me, too, but I couldn’t help it. I explained how it was to milord, but—you can’t persuade an Englishman, any more than you can a—”
“I think,” put in Beatrice firmly, “Sir Redmond did quite right. It isn’t his fault that Mr. Cameron owns more cattle than he can feed. If he was sent over here to lease the land, it was his duty to do so. Still, I really am sorry for Mr. Cameron.”
“Keith won’t sit down and take his medicine if he can help it,” Dick said moodily. “He could sell out, but I don’t believe he will. He’s more apt to fight.”
“I can’t see how fighting will help him,” Beatrice returned spiritedly.
“Well, there’s one thing,” retorted Dick. “If milord wants that fence to stand he’d better stay and watch it. I’ll bet money he won’t more than strike Liverpool till about forty miles, more or less, of Pool fence will need repairs mighty bad—which it won’t get, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Do you mean that Keith Cameron would destroy our fencing?”
Dick grinned. “He’ll be a fool if he don’t, Trix. You can tell milord he’d better send for all his traps, and camp right here till that lease runs out. My punchers will have something to do beside ride fence.”
“I shall certainly tell Sir Redmond,” Beatrice threatened. “You and Mr. Cameron hate him just because he’s English. You won’t see what a splendid fellow he is. It’s your duty to stand by him in this business, instead of taking sides with Keith Cameron. Why didn’t he lease that land himself, if he wanted to?”
“Because he plays fair.”
“Meaning, I suppose, that Sir Redmond doesn’t. I didn’t think you would be so unjust. Sir Redmond is a perfect gentleman.”
“Well, you’ve got a chance to marry your ‘perfect gentleman,” Dick retorted, savagely. “It’s a wonder you don’t take him if you think so highly of him.”
“I probably shall. At any rate, he isn’t a male flirt.”
“You don’t seem to fancy a fellow that can give you as good as you send,” Dick rejoined. “I thought you wouldn’t find Keith such easy game, even if he does live on a cattle ranch. You can’t rope him into making a fool of himself for your amusement, and I’m glad of it.”
“Don’t do your shouting too soon. If you could overhear some of the things he says you wouldn’t be so sure—”
“I suppose you take them all for their face value,” grinned Dick ironically.
“No, I don’t! I’m not a simple country girl, let me remind you. Since you are so sure of him, I’ll have the pleasure of saying, ‘No, thank you, sir,’ to your Keith Cameron—just to convince you I can.”
“Oh, you will! Well, you just tell me when you do, Trix, and I’ll give you your pick of all the saddle horses on the ranch.”
“I’ll take Rex, and you may as well consider him mine. Oh, you men! A few smiles, judiciously dispensed, and—” Beatrice smiled most exasperatingly at her brother, and Dick went moody and was very poor company the rest of the way home.
CHAPTER 10
Pine Ridge Range Ablaze
At dusk that night a glow was in the southern sky, and the wind carried the pungent odor of burning grass. Dick went out on the porch after dinner, and sniffed the air uneasily.
“I don’t much like the look of it,” he admitted to Sir Redmond. “It smells pretty strong, to be across the river. I sent a couple of the boys out to look a while ago. If it’s this side of the river we’ll have to get a move on.”
“It will be the range land, I take it, if it’s on this side,” Sir Redmond remarked.
Just then a man thundered through the lane and up to the very steps of the porch, and when he stopped the horse he was riding leaned forward and his legs shook with exhaustion.
“The Pine Ridge Range is afire, Mr. Lansell,” the man announced quietly.
Dick took a long pull at his cigar and threw it away. “Have the boys throw some barrels and sacks into a wagon—and git!” He went inside and grabbed his hat, and when he turned Sir Redmond was at his elbow.
“I’m going, too, Dick,” cried Beatrice, who always seemed to hear anything that promised excitement. “I never saw a prairie-fire in my life.”
“It’s ten miles off,” said Dick shortly, taking the steps at a jump.
“I don’t care if it’s twenty—I’m going. Sir Redmond, wait for me!”
“Be-atrice!” cried her mother detainingly; but Beatrice was gone to get ready. A quick job she made of it; she threw a dark skirt over her thin, white one, slipped into the nearest jacket, snatched her riding-gauntlets off a chair where she had thrown them, and then couldn’t find her hat. That, however, did not trouble her. Down in the hall she appropriated one of Dick’s, off the hall tree, and announced herself ready. Sir Redmond laughed, caught her hand, and they raced together down to the stables before her mother had fully grasped the situation.
“Isn’t Rex saddled, Dick?”
Dick, his foot in the stirrup, stopped long enough to glance over his shoulder at her. “You ready so soon? Jim, saddle Rex for Miss Lansell.” He swung up into the saddle.
“Aren’t you going to wait, Dick?”
“Can’t. Milord can bring you.” And Dick was away on the run.
Men were hurrying here and there, every move counting something done. While she stood there a wagon rattled out from the shadow of a haystack, with empty water-barrels dancing a mad jig behind the high seat, where the driver perched with feet braced and a whip in his hand. After him dashed four or five riders, silent and businesslike. In a moment they were mere fantastic shadows galloping up the hill through the smothery gloom.
Then came Jim, leading Rex and a horse for himself; Sir Redmond had saddled his gray and was waiting. Beatrice sprang into the saddle and took the lead, with nerves a-tingle. The wind that rushed against her face was hot and reeking with smoke. Her nostrils drank greedily the tang it carried.
“You gipsy!” cried Sir Redmond, peering at her through the murky gloom.
“This—is living!” she laughed, and urged Rex faster.
So they raced recklessly over the hills, toward where the night was aglow. Before them the wagon pounded over untrailed prairie sod, with shadowy figures fleeing always before.
Here, wild cattle rushed off at either side, to stop and eye them curiously as they whirled past. There, a coyote, squatting unseen upon a distant pinnacle, howled, long-drawn and quavering, his weird protest against the solitudes in which he wandered.
The dusk deepened to dark, and they could no longer see the racing shadows. The rattle of the wagon came mysteriously back to them through the black.
Once Rex stumbled over a rock and came near falling, but Beatrice only laughed and urged him on, unheeding Sir Redmond’s call to ride slower.
They splashed through a shallow creek, and came upon the wagon, halted that the cowboys might fill the barrels with water. Then they passed by, and when they heard them following the wagon no longer rattled glibly along, but chuckled h
eavily under its load.
The dull, red glow brightened to orange. Then, breasting at last a long hill, they came to the top, and Beatrice caught her breath at what lay below.
A jagged line of leaping flame cut clean through the dark of the coulee. The smoke piled rosily above and before, and the sullen roar of it clutched the senses—challenging, sinister. Creeping stealthily, relentlessly, here a thin gash of yellow hugging close to the earth, there a bold, bright wall of fire, it swept the coulee from rim to rim.
“The wind is carrying it from us,” Sir Redmond was saying in her ear. “Are you afraid to stop here alone? I ought to go down and lend a hand.”
Beatrice drew a long gasp. “Oh, no, I’m not afraid. Go; there is Dick, down there.”
“You’re sure you won’t mind?” He hesitated, dreading to leave her.
“No, no! Go on—they need you.”
Sir Redmond turned and rode down the ridge toward the flames. His straight figure was silhouetted sharply against the glow.
Beatrice slipped off her horse and sat down upon a rock, dead to everything but the fiendish beauty of the scene spread out below her. Millions of sparks danced in and out among the smoke wreaths which curled upward—now black, now red, now a dainty rose. Off to the left a coyote yapped shrilly, ending with his mournful howl.
Beatrice shivered from sheer ecstasy. This was a world she had never before seen—a world of hot, smoke-sodden wind, of dead-black shadows and flame-bright light; of roar and hoarse bellowing and sharp crackles; of calm, star-sprinkled sky above—and in the distance the uncanny howling of a coyote.
Time had no reckoning there. She saw men running to and fro in the glare, disappearing in a downward swirl of smoke, coming to view again in the open beyond. Always their arms waved rhythmically downward, beating the ragged line of yellow with water-soaked sacks. The trail they left was a wavering, smoke-traced rim of sullen black, where before had been gay, dancing, orange light. In places the smolder fanned to new life behind them and licked greedily at the ripe grass like hungry, red tongues. One of these Beatrice watched curiously. It crept slyly into an unburned hollow, and the wind, veering suddenly, pushed it out of sight from the fighters and sent it racing merrily to the south. The main line of fire beat doggedly up against the wind that a minute before had been friendly, and fought bravely two foes instead of one. It dodged, ducked, and leaped high, and the men beat upon it mercilessly.