The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “What a rough, grim country!” she said. “It is beautiful, though.”

  “She’s a knowin’ girl,” mused the rider, strangely pleased that she should like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been born here.

  “Don’t you think so, Willard?” added the girl.

  The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly:

  “I suppose it’s well enough—for the clodhoppers that live here.”

  The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. “I reckon I ain’t goin’ to like Willard a heap, Patches,” he said to the pony; “he’s runnin’ down our country.” He considered the girl and the driver gravely, and again spoke to the pony. “Do you reckon he’s her brother, Patches? I expect it ain’t possible—they’re so different.”

  “Do you think it is quite safe?” The girl’s voice reached him again; she was looking at the water of the crossing.

  “Vickers said it was,” the driver replied. “He ought to know.” His tone was irritable.

  “He’s her brother, I reckon,” reflected the man on the mesa; “no lover would talk that way to his girl.” There was relief in his voice, for he had been hoping that the man was a brother.

  “Vickers said to swing sharply to the left after passing the middle,” declared the driver sonorously, “but I don’t see any wagon tracks—that miserable rain last night must have obliterated them.”

  “I reckon the rain has obliterated them,” grinned the rider, laboring with the word, “if that means wipin’ them out. Leastways, they ain’t there any more.”

  “I feel quite sure that Mr. Vickers said to turn to the right after passing the middle, Willard,” came the girl’s voice.

  “I certainly ought to be able to remember that, Ruth!” said the driver, gruffly. “I heard him distinctly!”

  “Well,” returned the girl with a nervous little laugh, “perhaps I was mistaken, after all.” She placed a hand lightly on the driver’s arm. And the words she spoke then were not audible to the rider, so softly were they uttered. And the driver laughed with satisfaction. “You’ve said it!” he declared. “I’m certainly able to pilot this ship to safety!” He pulled on the reins and spoke sharply to the blacks. They responded with a jerk that threw the occupants of the buckboard against the backs of the seats.

  The rider’s eyes gleamed. “Hush!” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Calamity’s goin’ to claim another victim!” He raised one hand to his lips, making a funnel of it. He was about to shout at the driver, but thought better of the idea and let the hand drop. “Shucks,” he said, “I reckon there ain’t any real danger. But I expect the boss gasser of the outfit will be gettin’ his’n pretty quick now.” He leaned forward and watched the buckboard, his lean under jaw thrown forward, a grim smile on his lips. He noted with satisfaction that the elderly couple in the rear seat, and the girl in the front one, were holding on tightly, and that the driver, busy with the reins, was swaying from one side to the other as the wagon bumped over the impeding stones of the river bed.

  The blacks reached the middle of the stream safely and were crowding of their own accord to the right, when the driver threw his weight on the left rein and swung them sharply in that direction. For a few feet they traveled evenly enough but when they were still some distance from the bank, the horse on the left sank quickly to his shoulders, lunged, stood on his hind legs and pawed the air impotently, and then settled back, snorting and trembling.

  Too late the driver saw his error. As the left horse sank he threw his weight on the right rein as though to remedy the accident. This movement threw him off his balance, and he slipped off the seat, clawing and scrambling; at the instant the front of the buckboard dipped and sank, disappearing with a splash into the muddy water. It had gone down awry, the girl’s side high out of the water, the girl herself clinging to the edge of the seat, out of the water’s reach, the elderly couple in the rear also safe and dry, but plainly frightened.

  The girl did not scream; the rider on the mesa noted this with satisfaction. She was talking, though, to the driver, who at first had disappeared, only to reappear an instant later, blowing and cursing, his head and shoulders out of the water, his ridiculous hat floating serenely down stream, the reins still in his hands.

  “I reckon he’s discovered that Vickers told him to swing to the right,” grinned the rider from his elevation. He watched the driver until he gained the bank and stood there, dripping, gesticulating, impotent rage consuming him. The buckboard could not be moved without endangering the comfort of the remaining occupants, and without assistance they must inevitably stay where they were. And so the rider on the mesa wheeled his pony and sent it toward the edge of the mesa where a gentle slope swept downward to the plains.

  “I reckon I’ve sure got to rescue her,” he said, grinning with some embarrassment, “though I’m mighty sorry that Willard had to get his new clothes wet.”

  He spoke coaxingly to the pony; it stepped gingerly over the edge of the mesa and began the descent, sending stones and sand helter-skelter before it, the rider sitting tall and loose in the saddle, the reins hanging, he trusting entirely to the pony’s wisdom.

  CHAPTER II

  THE SYMPATHETIC RESCUER

  Halfway down the slope, the rider turned and saw that Willard and the occupants of the buckboard were watching him. The color in his cheeks grew deeper and his embarrassment increased, for he noted that the girl had faced squarely around toward him, had forgotten her precarious position; her hands were clasped as though she were praying for his safety. The aunt and uncle, too, were twisted in their seat, leaning toward him in rigid attitudes, and Willard, safe on his bank, was standing with clenched hands.

  “Do you reckon we’re goin’ to break our necks, you piebald outlaw,” the rider said to the pony. “Well,” as the animal whinnied gently at the sound of his voice, “there’s some people that do, an’ if you’ve got any respect for them you’ll be mighty careful.”

  The descent was accomplished in a brief time, and then Patches and his rider went forward toward the mired buckboard and its occupants, the pony unconcernedly, its rider, having conquered his embarrassment, serene, steady of eye, inwardly amused.

  When he reached the water’s edge he halted Patches. Sitting motionless in the saddle, he quietly contemplated the occupants of the buckboard. He had come to help them, but he was not going to proffer his services until he was sure they would be welcomed. He had heard stories of the snobbishness and independence of some Easterners.

  And so he sat there long, for the occupants of the buckboard, knowing nothing of his intentions, were in their turn awaiting some word from him.

  No word came. He looked down, interestedly watching Patches drink. Then, when the pony had finished, he looked up, straight at the girl. She was sitting very erect—as erect as she could in the circumstances, trying hard to repress her anger over his inaction. She could see that he was deliberately delaying. And she met his gaze coldly.

  He looked from the girl to Willard. The Easterner was examining a small pistol that he had drawn from a yellow holster at his waist, so high on his waist that he had been compelled to bend his elbow in an acute angle to get it out. His hands were trembling, whether from the wetting he had received or from doubt as to the rider’s intentions, was a question that the rider did not bother with. He looked again at the girl. Doubt had come into her eyes; she was looking half fearfully at him, and he saw that she half suspected him of being a desperado, intent on doing harm. He grinned, moved to mirth.

  She was reassured; that smile had done it. She returned it, a little ruefully. And she felt that, in view of the circumstances, she might dispense with formalities and get right down to business. For her seat was uncomfortable, and Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson were anxious, to say nothing of Willard, who had placed his pistol behind him, determined, if the man turned out to be a highwayman, to defend his party to the last.

  But still the ri
der did not move. There was no hurry; only Willard seemed to be really suffering, for the winter’s chill had not yet gone out of the air. But then, Willard had earned his ducking.

  The girl cleared her throat. “We have had an accident,” she informed the rider, her voice a little husky.

  At this word he swept his hat from his head and bowed to her. “Why, I reckon you have, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t you have no driver?”

  “Why, yes,” returned the girl hesitatingly, for she thought she detected sarcasm in his voice, and she had to look twice at him to make sure—and then she couldn’t have told. “The gentleman on the bank, there, is our driver.”

  “The gentleman on the bank, eh?” drawled the rider. And now for the first time he seemed to become aware of Willard’s presence, for he looked narrowly at him. “Why, he’s all wet!” he exclaimed. “I expect he come pretty near drownin’, didn’t he, ma’am?” He looked again at the girl, astonishment in his eyes. “An’ so he drove you into that suck-hole, an’ he got throwed out! Wasn’t there no one to tell him that Calamity ain’t to be trusted?”

  “Mr. Vickers told us to keep to the right after reaching the middle,” said the girl.

  “I distinctly understood him to say the left, Ruth,” growled Willard.

  The rider watched the girl’s face, saw the color come into it, and his lips twitched with some inward emotion. “I reckon your brother’s right, ma’am. Vickers wanted to drownd you-all.”

  “Mr. Masten isn’t my brother,” denied the girl. The color in her face heightened.

  “Well, now,” said the rider. He bent his head and patted the pony’s mane to hide his disappointment. Again, so it seemed to the girl, he was deliberately delaying, and she bit her lips with vexation.

  Willard also seemed to have the same thought, for he shouted angrily: “While you are talking there, my man, I am freezing. Isn’t there some way for you to get my party and the wagon out of there?”

  “Why, I expect there’s a way,” drawled the rider, fixing Masten with a steady eye; “I’ve been wonderin’ why you didn’t mention it before.”

  “Oh Lord!” said Masten to the girl, his disgust making his voice husky, “can you imagine such stupidity?”

  But the girl did not answer; she had seen a glint in the rider’s eyes while he had been looking at Masten which had made her draw a deep breath. She had seen guile in his eyes, and subtlety, and much humor. Stupidity! She wondered how Masten could be so dense!

  Then she became aware that the rider was splashing toward her, and the next instant she was looking straight at him, with not more than five feet of space between them. His gaze was on her with frank curiosity, his lean, strong face glowing with the bloom of health; his mouth was firm, his eyes serene, virility and confidence in every movement of his body. And then he was speaking to her, his voice low, gentle, respectful, even deferential. He seemed not to have taken offense at Willard, seemed to have forgotten him.

  “I reckon you-all will have to ride out of here on my horse, ma’am,” he said, “if you reckon you’d care to. Why, yes, I expect that’s right; I’d ought to take the old lady an’ gentleman first, ma’am,” as the girl indicated them.

  He backed his pony and smiled at Aunt Martha, who was small, gray, and sweet of face. He grinned at her—the grin of a grown boy at his grandmother.

  “I reckon you’ll go first, Aunty,” he said to her. “I’ll have you high an’ dry in a jiffy. You couldn’t ride there, you know,” he added, as Aunt Martha essayed to climb on behind him. “This Patches of mine is considerable cantankerous an’ ain’t been educated to it. It’s likely he’d dump us both, an’ then we’d be freezin’ too.” And he glanced sidelong at Willard.

  Aunt Martha was directed to step on the edge of the buckboard. Trembling a little, though smiling, she was lifted bodily and placed sidewise on the saddle in front of him, and in this manner was carried to the bank, far up on the slope out of the deep mud that spread over the level near the water’s edge, and set down gently, voicing her thanks.

  Then the rescuer returned for Uncle Jepson. On his way to join Aunt Martha, Uncle Jepson, who had watched the rider narrowly during his talk with Willard, found time to whisper:

  “I had a mule once that wasn’t any stubborner than Willard Masten.”

  “You don’t recollect how you cured him of it?”

  “Yes sir, I do. I thumped it out of him!” And Uncle Jepson’s eyes glowed vindictively.

  “I reckon you’ve got a heap of man in you, sir,” said the rider. He set Uncle Jepson down beside Aunt Martha and turned his pony back toward the river to get his remaining passenger. Masten waved authoritatively to him.

  “If it’s just the same to you, my man, I’ll assist Miss Ruth to land. Just ride over here!”

  The rider halted the pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gravely contemplating the driver across the sea of mud that separated them.

  “Why, you ain’t froze yet, are you!” he said in pretended astonishment. “Your mouth is still able to work considerable smooth! An’ so you want to ride my horse!” He sat, regarding the Easterner in deep, feigned amazement. “Why, Willard,” he said when it seemed he had quite recovered, “Patches would sure go to sun-fishin’ an’ dump you off into that little ol’ suck-hole ag’in!” He urged the pony on through the water to the buckboard and drew up beside the girl.

  Her face was crimson, for she had not failed to hear Masten, and it was plain to the rider that she had divined that jealously had impelled Masten to insist on the change of riders. Feminine perverseness, or something stronger, was in her eyes when the rider caught a glimpse of them as he brought his pony to a halt beside her. He might now have made the mistake of referring to Masten and thus have brought from her a quick refusal to accompany him, for he had made his excuse to Masten and to have permitted her to know the real reason would have been to attack her loyalty. He strongly suspected that she was determined to make Masten suffer for his obstinacy, and he rejoiced in her spirit.

  “We’re ready for you now, ma’am.”

  “Are you positively certain that Patches won’t go to ‘sunfishing’ with me?” she demanded, as she poised herself on the edge of the buckboard. He flashed a pleased grin at her, noting with a quickening pulse the deep, rich color in her cheeks, the soft white skin, her dancing eyes—all framed in the hood of the rain cloak she wore.

  He reached out his hands to her, clasped her around the waist and swung her to the place on the saddle formerly occupied by Aunt Martha. If he held her to him a little more tightly than he had held Aunt Martha the wind might have been to blame, for it was blowing some stray wisps of her hair into his face and he felt a strange intoxication that he could scarcely control.

  And now, when she was safe on his horse and there was no further danger that she would refuse to ride with him, he gave her the answer to her question:

  “Patches wouldn’t be unpolite to a lady, ma’am,” he said quietly, into her hair; “he wouldn’t throw you.”

  He could not see her face—it was too close to him and his chin was higher than the top of her head. But he could not fail to catch the mirth in her voice:

  “Then you lied to Willard!”

  “Why, yes, ma’am; I reckon I did. You see, I didn’t want to let Patches get all muddied up, ridin’ over to Willard.”

  “But you are riding him into the mud now!” she declared in a strangely muffled voice.

  “Why, so I am, ma’am,” he said gleefully; “I reckon I’m sure a box-head!”

  He handed her down a minute later, beside Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha, and he lingered another moment near her, for his proximity to her had set his blood tingling, and there was an unnamable yearning in his breast to be near her. He had passed hours in looking upon her picture, dreaming of this minute, or another like it, and now that his dream had come true he realized that fulfilment was sweeter than anticipation. He was hugely pleased with her.

  “She’s a lot better looki
n’ than her picture,” he told himself as he watched her. She had her back to him, talking with her relatives, but she did not need to face him to arouse his worship. “Didn’t I know she was little,” he charged himself, estimating her height, “she won’t come anywhere near reachin’ my shoulder.”

  He had not forgotten Masten. And a humorous devil sported in his eye as he wheeled his pony and fixed his gaze on that gentleman.

  “Speciments travel around most anywheres,” he reflected. “This here’s a swell head with a grouch. I reckon he ain’t a serious friend of hers, or she wouldn’t have stood for me rescuin’ her when he offered himself that generous.” The recollection convulsed him, and he bowed his head over the pony’s neck to hide the laugh. When he looked up, it was to see Masten standing rigid, watching him, wrath on his face.

  “I suppose I’m to stand here and freeze while you sit over there and laugh your fool head off!” shouted the Easterner. “I’ve got some dry clothing in my trunk on the wagon, which I might put on, if I could induce you to hurry a little.”

  “Why, shucks. I come mighty near forgettin’ you, Willard,” said the rider. “An’ so you’ve got other clothes! Only they’re in your trunk on the buckboard, an’ you can’t get ’em. An’ you’re freezin’ an’ I’m laughin’ at you. You’ve got a heap of trouble, ain’t you, Willard. An’ all because you was dead set on goin’ to the left when you ought to have gone to the right.”

  “Do hurry! Wont you, please?” said the girl’s voice, close to his stirrup.

  He looked guiltily at her, for he had been about to say some vitriolic things to Masten, having almost lost patience with him. But at her words his slow good nature returned.

  “I’m sure goin’ to hurry, ma’am.”