The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “We’ll have to take it in,” I said promptly. “I’m anxious to see a Montana dance, myself.”

  “We aren’t in their set,” gloomed Frosty, with diplomatic caution. “I won’t swear they’re sending out engraved invitations, but, all the same, we won’t be expected.”

  “We’ll go, anyhow,” I answered boldly. “If they want to see cow-punchers, it seems to me the Ragged H can enter a bunch that will take first prize.”

  Frosty looked at me, and permitted himself to smile. “Uh course, if you’re bound to go, Ellis, I guess there’s no stopping yuh—and some of us will naturally have to go along to see yuh through. King’s minions would sure do things to yuh if yuh went without a bodyguard.” He shook his head, and cupped his hands around a match-blaze and a cigarette, so that no one could tell much about his expression.

  “I’m bound to go,” I declared, taking the cue. “And I think I do need some of you to back me up. I think,” I added judicially, “I shall need the whole bunch.”

  The “bunch” looked at one another gravely and sighed. “We’ll have t’ go, I reckon,” they said, just as though they weren’t dying to play the unexpected guest. So that was decided, and there was much whispering among groups when they thought the wagon-boss was near, and much unobtrusive preparation.

  It happened that the wagons pulled in close to the ranch the day before the Fourth, intending to lay over for a day or so. We were mighty glad of it, and hurried through our work. I don’t know why the rest were so anxious to attend that dance, but for me, I’m willing to own that I wanted to see Beryl King. I knew she’d be there—and if I didn’t manage, by fair means or foul, to make her dance with me, I should be very much surprised and disappointed. I couldn’t remember ever giving so much thought to a girl; but I suppose it was because she was so frankly antagonistic that there was nothing tame about our intercourse. I can’t like girls who invariably say just what you expect them to say.

  When we came to get ready, there was a dress-discussion that a lot of women would find it hard to beat. Some of the boys wanted to play up to, the aristocrats’ expectations, and wear their gaudiest neckerchiefs, their chaps, spurs, and all the guns they could get their hands on; but I had an idea I thought beat theirs, and proselyted for all I was worth. Rankin had packed a lot of dress suits in one of my trunks—evidently he thought Montana was some sort of house-party—and I wanted to build a surprise for the good people at King’s. I wanted the boys to use those suits to the best advantage.

  At first they hung back. They didn’t much like the idea of wearing borrowed clothes—which attitude I respected, but felt bound to overrule. I told them it was no worse than borrowing guns, which a lot of them were doing. In the end my oratory was rewarded as it deserved; it was decided that, as even my capacious trunks couldn’t be expected to hold thirty dress suits, part of the crowd should ride in full regalia. I might “tog up” as many as possible, and said “togged” men must lend their guns to the others; for every man of the “reals” insisted on wearing a gun dangling over each hip.

  So I went down into my trunks, and disinterred four dress suits and three Tuxedos, together with all the appurtenances thereto. Oh, Rankin was certainly a wonder! There was a gay-colored smoking-jacket and cap that one of the boys took a fancy to and insisted on wearing, but I drew the line at that. We nearly had a fight over it, right there.

  When we were dressed—and I had to valet the whole lot of them, except Frosty, who seemed wise to polite apparel—we were certainly a bunch of winners. Modesty forbids explaining just how I appear in a dress suit. I will only say that my tailor knew his business—but the others were fearful and wonderful to look upon. To begin with, not all of them stand six-feet-one in their stocking-feet, or tip the scales at a hundred and eighty odd; likewise their shoulders lacked the breadth that goes with the other measurements. Hence my tailor would doubtless have wept at the sight; shoulders drooping spiritlessly, and sleeves turned up, and trousers likewise. Frosty Miller, though, was like a man with his mask off; he stood there looking the gentleman born, and I couldn’t help staring at him.

  “You’ve been broken to society harness, old man, and are bridle-wise,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. He whirled on me savagely, and his face was paler than I’d ever seen it.

  “And if I have—what the hell is it to you?” he asked unpleasantly, and I stammered out some kind of apology. Far be it from me to pry into a man’s past.

  I straightened Sandy Johnson’s tie, turned up his sleeves another inch, and we started out. And I will say we were a quaint-looking outfit. Perhaps my meaning will be clearer when I say that every one of us wore the soft, white “Stetson” of the range-land, and a silk handkerchief knotted loosely around the throat, and spurs and riding-gloves. I’ve often wondered if the range has ever seen just that wedding of the East and the West before in man’s apparel.

  We’d scarcely got started when the wind caught Frosty’s coat-tails and slapped them down along the flanks of his horse—an incident that the horse met with stern disapproval. He went straight up into the air, and then bucked as long as his wind held out, the while Frosty’s quirt kept time with the tails of his coat.

  When the two had calmed down a bit, the other boys profited by Frosty’s experience, and tucked the coat-tails snugly under them—and those who wore the Tuxedos congratulated themselves on their foresight. We were a merry party, and we were willing to publish the fact.

  When we had overtaken the others we were still merrier, for the spectacular contingent plumed themselves like peacocks on their fearsomeness, and guyed us conventionally garbed fellows unmercifully.

  When the thirty of us filed into the long, barn-like hall where they were having the dance, I believe I can truthfully say that we created a sensation. That “ripple of excitement” which we read about so often in connection with belles and balls went round the room. Frosty and I led the way, and the rest of the “biscuit-shooter brigade,” as the others called us, followed two by two. Then came the real Wild West show, with their hats tilted far back on their heads and brazen faces which it pained me to contemplate. We arrived during that humming hash which comes just after a number, and every one stared impolitely, and some of them not overcordially. I began to wonder if we hadn’t done a rather ill-bred thing, to hurl ourselves so unceremoniously into the merrymakings of the enemy; but I comforted myself with the thought that the dance was given as a public affair, so that we were acting within our technical rights—though I own that, as I looked around upon our crowd, ranged solemnly along the wall, it struck me that we were a bit spectacular.

  She was there, chatting with some other women, at the far end of the hall, and if she saw me enter the room she did not show any disquietude; from where I stood, she seemed perfectly at ease, and unconscious of anything unusual having occurred. Old King I could not see.

  A waltz was announced—rather, bellowed—and the boys drifted away from me. It was evident that they did not intend to become wall flowers. For myself, it occurred to me that, except my somewhat debatable acquaintance with Miss King, I did not know a woman in the room. I called up all my courage and fortitude, and started toward her. I was determined to ask her to dance, and I got some chilly comfort out of the reflection that she couldn’t do any worse than refuse; still, that would be quite bad enough, and I will not say that I crossed that room, with three or four hundred eyes upon me, in any oh-be-joyful frame of mind. I rather suspect that my face resembled that plebeian and oft-mentioned vegetable, the beet. I was within ten feet of her, and I was thinking that she couldn’t possibly hold that cool, unconscious look much longer, when a hand feminine was extended from the row of silent watchers and caught at my sleeve.

  “Ellie Carleton, it’s never you!” chirped a familiar voice.

  I turned, a bit dazed with the unexpected interruption, and saw that it was Edith Loroman, whom I had last seen in the East the summer before, when I was gyrating through Newport and all those place
s, with Barney MacTague for chaperon, and whom I had known for long. Edith had chosen to be very friendly always, and I liked her—only, I suspected her of being a bit too worldly to suit me.

  “And why isn’t it I? I can’t see that my identity is more surprising than yours,” I retorted, pulling myself together. It did certainly give me a start to see her there, and looking so exactly as she had always looked. I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so, as the music had started, I asked her if she had any dances saved for me. I couldn’t decently leave her and carry out my original plan, you see.

  She laughed at my ignorance, and told me that this was a “frontier” dance, and there were no programs.

  “You just promise one or two dances ahead,” she explained. “As many as you can remember. Beryl told me all about how they do here; Beryl King is my cousin, you know.”

  I didn’t know, but I was content to take her word for it, and asked her for that dance and got it, and she chattered on about everything under the sun, and told all about how they happened to be in Montana, and how long they were going to stay, and that Mr. Weaver had brought his auto, and another fellow—I forget his name—had intended to bring his, but didn’t, and that they were going to tour through to Helena, on their way home, and it would be such fun, and that if I didn’t come over right away to call upon her, she would never forgive me.

  “There’s a drawback,” I told her. “I’m not on your cousin’s visiting-list; I’ve never even been introduced to her.”

  “That,” said Miss Edith complacently, “is easily remedied. You know mama well enough, I should think. Aunt Lodema—funny name, isn’t it?—is stopping here all summer, with Beryl. Beryl has the strangest tastes. She will spend every summer out here with her father, and if any of us poor mortals want a glimpse of her between seasons, we must come where she is. She’s a dear, and you must know her, even if you do hold yourself superior to us women. She’s almost as much a crank on athletics as you are; you ought to see her on the links, once! That’s why I can’t understand her running away off here every summer. And, by the way, Ellie, what are you doing here—a stranger?”

  “I’m earning my bread by the sweat of my brow,” I told her plainly. “I’m a cowboy—a would-be, I suppose I should say.”

  She looked up at me horrified. “Have you—lost—your millions?” she wanted to know. Edith Loroman was always a straightforward questioner, at any rate.

  “The millions,” I told her, laughing, “are all right, I believe. Dad has a cattle-ranch in this part of the world, and he sent me out here to reform me. He meant it as a punishment, but at present I’m getting rather the best of the deal, I think.”

  “And where’s Barney?” she asked. “One reason I came near not recognizing you was because you hadn’t your shadow along.”

  “Barney is luxuriating in idleness somewhere,” I answered lightly. “One couldn’t expect him to turn savage, just because I did. I can’t imagine Barney working for his daily bread.”

  “I can,” retorted Miss Edith, “every bit as easily as I can imagine you! And, if you’ll pardon me, I don’t believe a word of it, either.”

  On the whole, I could hardly blame her. As she had always known me, I must have appeared to her somewhat like Solomon’s lilies. But I did not try to convince her; there were other things more important.

  I went and made my bow to Mrs. Loroman, and answered sundry questions—more conventional, I may say, than were those of her daughter. Mrs. Loroman was one of the best type of society dames, and I will own that I was a bit surprised to find that she was Beryl King’s aunt. In spite of that indefinable little air of breeding that I had felt in my two meetings with Miss King, I had thought of her as distinctly a daughter of the range-land.

  “I’ll introduce you to my cousin and aunt now, if you like,” Edith offered generously, in an undertone—for the two were not ten feet from us, although Miss King had not yet seen fit to know that I was in the room. How a woman can act so deuced innocent, beats me.

  Miss King lowered her chin as much as half an inch, and looked at me as if I were an exceeding commonplace, inanimate object that could not possibly interest her. Her aunt, Lodema King, was almost as bad, I think; I didn’t notice particularly. But Miss King’s I-do-not-know-you-sir air could not save her; I hadn’t schemed like a villain for a week, and ridden twenty-five miles at a good fast clip after a stiff day’s work, just to be presented and walk away. I asked her for the next waltz.

  “The next waltz is promised to Mr. Weaver,” she told me freezingly.

  I asked for the next two-step.

  “The next two-step is also promised—to Mr. Weaver.”

  I began to have unfriendly feelings toward Mr. Weaver. “Will you be good enough to inform what dance is not promised?” I almost finished “to Mr. Weaver,” but I’m not quite a cad, I hope.

  “Really, we haven’t programs here tonight,” she parried.

  I played a reckless lead. “I wonder,” I said, looking straight down into those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn’t suspect the prickles chasing over me at the very look of them—“I wonder if it’s because you’re afraid to dance with me?”

  “Are you so—fearsome?” she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly:

  “It would almost seem so.”

  I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I should like to say something about those teeth—only it would sound like the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls once or twice.)

  “You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton; I am not at all afraid to dance with you,” she said—and, oh, the tone of her!

  “I shall expect you to prove that instantly,” I retorted, still looking straight into her face.

  A quadrille—the old-fashioned kind—was called, and she looked up at me and put out her hand. Only an idiot would wonder whether I took it.

  “This isn’t a fair test,” I told her, after leading her out in position. “You won’t be dancing with me a quarter of the time, you know. Only the closest observer may tell, after we once get going, whom you are dancing with.”

  “That,” she retorted, with a gleam in her eyes I couldn’t—being no lady’s man—interpret—“that is a mere quibble, and would not hold in court.”

  “It’s going to hold in this court,” I answered boldly, and wished I had not so systematically wasted my opportunities in the past—that I had spent more time drinking tea and studying the “infernal feminine.”

  She gave me a quick, puzzling glance, and as we were commanded at that instant to salute our partners, she swept me a half-curtsy that made me grit my teeth, though I tried to make my own bow quite as elaborate and mocking. I couldn’t make her out at all during that dance. Whenever we came together there was that little air of mockery in every move she made, and yet something in her eyes seemed to invite and to challenge. The first time we were privileged, by the old-fashioned “caller,” to “swing our partners,” milady would have given me her finger-tips—only I wouldn’t have it that way. I held her as close as I dared, and—I don’t know but I’m a fool—she didn’t seem in any great rage over it. Lord, how I did wish I was wise to the ways of women!

  The next waltz I couldn’t have, because she was to dance it with Mr. Weaver. So I had the fun of sitting there watching them fly around the room, and getting a good-sized dislike of the fellow over it. I don’t pretend to be one of those large-minded men who are always painfully unprejudiced. Weaver looked like a pretty good sort, and under other circumstances I should probably have liked him, but as it was I emphatically did not.

  However, I got a waltz, after a heart-breaking delay, and it was worth waiting for. I had felt all along that we could hit it off pretty well together, and we did. We didn’t say much—we just floated off into another world—or I did—and there was nothing I wanted to say that I dared say. I call that a good excuse for silence.

  Afterward I asked her for another, and she looked
at me curiously.

  “You’re a very hard man to convince, Mr. Carleton,” she told me, with that same queer look in her eyes. I was beginning to get drunk—intoxicated, if you like the word better—on those same eyes; they always affected me, somehow, as if I’d never seen them before; always that same little tingle of surprise went over me when she lifted those heavy fringes of lashes. I’m not psychologist enough to explain this, and I’m strictly no good at introspection; it was that way with me, and that will have to do.

  I told her she probably would never meet another who required so much convincing, and, after wrangling over the matter politely for a minute, got her to promise me another waltz, said promise to be redeemed after supper.

  I tried to talk to “Aunt Lodema,” but she would have none of me, and she seemed to think I had more than my share of effrontery to attempt such a thing. Mrs. Loroman was better, and I filled in fifteen minutes or so very pleasantly with her. After that I went over to Edith and got her to sit out a dance with me.

  The first thing she asked me was about Frosty. Who was he? and why was he here? and how long had he been here? I told her all I knew about him, and then turned frank and asked her why she wanted to know.

  “Mama hasn’t recognized him—yet,” she said confidentially, “but I was sure he was the same. He has shaved his mustache, and he’s much browner and heavier, but he’s Fred Miller—and why doesn’t he come and speak to me?”

  Out of much words, I gathered that she and Frosty were, to put it mildly, old friends. She didn’t just say there was an engagement between them, but she hinted it; his father had “had trouble”—the vagueness of women!—and Edith’s mama had turned Frosty down, to put it bluntly. Frosty had, ostensibly, gone to South Africa, and that was the last of him. Miss Edith seemed quite disturbed over seeing him there in Kenmore. I told her that if Frosty wanted to stay in the background, that was his privilege and my gain, and she smiled at me vaguely and said of course it didn’t really matter.