by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER 10. WHEREIN ANDY GREEN LIES TO A LADY
In the soft-creeping dusk came Andy Green, slouched in the saddle withthe weariness of riding since dawn; slouched to one side and singing,with his hat far back on his head and the last of a red sunset tintingdarkly the hills above him. Tip-toe on a pinnacle a great, yellow starpoised and winked at him knowingly. Andy's eyes twinkled answer as heglanced up that way. "We've got her going, old-timer," he announcedlazily to the star.
Six miles back toward the edge of the "breaks" which are really thebeginning of the Badlands that border the Missouri River all throughthat part of Montana, an even five hundred head of the Flying U's bestgrade cows and their calves were settling down for the night upon aknoll that had been the bed-ground of many a herd. At the Flying Uranch, in the care of the Old Man, were the mortgages that would makethe Happy Family nominal owners of those five hundred cows and theircalves. In the morning Andy would ride back and help bring the herd uponits spring grazing ground, which was the claims; in the meantime he wasleisurely obeying an impulse to ride into One Man coulee and spendthe night under his own roof. And, say what you will, there is asatisfaction not to be denied in sleeping sometimes under one's ownroof; and it doesn't matter in the least that the roof is made ofprairie dirt thrown upon cottonwood poles. So he sang while he rode, andhis voice boomed loud in the coulee and scared long stilled echoes intorepeating the song:
"We're here because we're here, because we're here, because we're here,
"We're here because we're here, because we're here, because we're here--"
That, if you please, is a song; there are a lot more verses exactlylike this one, which may be sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne with mucheffectiveness when one is in a certain mood. So Andy sang, while histired horse picked its way circumspectly among the scattered rocks ofthe trail up the coulee.
"It's time you're here, it's time you're here, It's time that you were here--"
mocked an echo not of the hills.
Andy swore in his astonishment and gave his horse a kick as a mild hintfor haste. He thought he knew every woman-voice in the neighborhood--orhad until the colony came--but this voice, high and sweet and with acompelling note that stirred him vaguely, was absolutely strange. Whilehe loped forward, silenced for the moment, he was conscious of a swift,keen thankfulness that Pink had at the last minute decided to stay incamp that night instead of accompanying Andy to One Man. He was inthat mood when a sentimental encounter appealed to him strongly; and awoman's voice, singing to him from One Man cabin, promised undeterminedadventure.
He did not sing again. There had been something in the voice that heldhim quiet, listening, expectant. But she also was silent after thatlast, high note--like a meadow lark startled in the middle of his song,thought Andy whimsically.
He came within sight of the cabin, squatting in the shadow of the groveat its back. He half expected to see a light, but the window wasdark, the door closed as he had left it. He felt a faint, unreasoningdisappointment that it was so. But he had heard her. That high note thatlingered upon the word "here" still tingled his senses. His eyes sentseeking glances here and there as he rode up.
Then a horse nickered welcomingly, and someone rode out from the deepershadow at the corner of the cabin, hesitated as though tempted toflight, and came on uncertainly. They met full before the cabin, and thewoman leaned and peered through the dusk at Andy.
"Is this--Mr. Mallory--Irish?" she asked nervously. "Oh dear! Have Igone and made a fool of myself again?"
"Not at all! Good evening, Miss Allen." Andy folded his hands upon thesaddle horn and regarded her with a little smile, Keen for what mightcome next.
"But you're not Irish Mallory. I thought I recognized the voice, or Iwouldn't have--" She urged her horse a step closer, and Andy observedfrom her manner that she was not accustomed to horses. She reined as ifshe were driving, so that the horse, bewildered, came sidling up to him."Who are you?" she asked him sharply.
"Me? Why, I'm a nice young man--a lot better singer than Irish. I guessyou never heard him, did you?" He kept his hands folded on the horn, hiswhole attitude passive--a restful, reassuring passivity that lulled heruneasiness more than words could have done.
"Oh, are you Andy Green? I seem to connect that name with yourvoice--and what little I can see of you."
"That's something, anyway." Andy's tone was one of gratitude. "It's twoper cent. better than having to tell you right out who I am. I met youthree different times, Miss Allen," he reproached.
"But always in a crowd," she defended, "and I never talked with you,particularly."
"Oh, well, that's easily fixed," he said. "It's a nice night," he added,looking up appreciatively at the brightening star-sprinkle. "Are youliving on your claim now? We can talk particularly on the way over."
Miss Allen laughed and groped for a few loose hairs, found them andtucked them carefully under her hatcrown. Andy remembered that gesture;it helped him to visualize her clearly in spite of the deepening night.
"How far have you ridden today, Mr. Green?" she asked irrelevantly.
"Since daylight, you mean? Not so very far counting miles--We weretrailing a herd, you see. But I've been in the saddle since sunrise,except when I was eating."
"Then you want a cup of coffee, before you ride any farther. If I getdown, will you let me make it or you? I'd love to. I'm crazy to seeinside your cabin, but I only rode up and tried to peek in the windowbefore you came. I have two brothers and a cousin, so I understand menpretty well and I know you can talk better when you aren't hungry."
"Are you living on your claim?" he asked again, without moving.
"Why, yes. We moved in last week."
"Well, we'll ride over, then, and you can make coffee there. I'm nothungry right now."
"Oh." She leaned again and peered at him, trying to read his face. "Youdon't WANT me to go in!"
"Yes, I do--but I don't. If you stayed and made coffee, tomorrow you'dbe kicking yourself for it, and you'd be blaming me." Which, consideringthe life he had lived, almost wholly among men, was rather astute ofAndy Green.
"Oh." Then she laughed. "You must have some sisters, Mr. Green." She wassilent for a minute, looking at him. "You're right," she said quietlythen. "I'm always making a fool of myself, just on the impulse of themoment. The girls will be worried about me, as it is. But I don't wantyou to ride any farther, Mr. Green. What I came to say need not takevery long, and I think I can find my way home alone, all right."
"I'll take you home when you're ready to go," said Andy quietly. All atonce he had wanted to shield her, to protect her from even so slight anunconventionality as making his coffee for him. He had felt averse toputting her at odds with her conventional self, of inviting unfavorablecriticism of himself; dimly, because instinct rather than cold analysisimpelled him. What he had told her was the sum total of his formulatedideas.
"Well, I'm ready to go now, since you insist on my being conventional.I did not come West with the expectation of being tied to a book ofetiquette, Mr. Green. But I find one can't get away from it after all.Still, living on one's own claim twelve miles from a town is something!"
"That's a whole lot, I should say," Andy assured her politely, andrefrained from asking her what she expected to do with that eightyacres of arid land. He turned his tired horse and rode alongside her,prudently waiting for her to give the key.
"I'm not supposed to be away over here, you know," she began when theywere near the foot of the bluff up which the trail wound seeking theeasiest slopes and avoiding boulders and deep cuts. "I'm supposed tobe just out riding, and the girls expected me back by sundown. But I'vebeen trying and trying to find some of you Flying U boys--as they callyou men who have taken so much land--on your claims. I don't know thatwhat I could tell you would do you a particle of good--or anyone else.But I wanted to tell you, anyway, just to clear my own mind."
"It does lots of good just to meet you," said Andy with stra
ightforwardgallantry. "Pleasures are few and far between, out here."
"You said that very nicely, I'm sure," she snubbed. "Well, I'm goingto tell you, anyway--just on the chance of doing some good." Then shestopped.
Andy rode a rod or two, glancing at her inquiringly, waiting for her togo on. She was guiding her horse awkwardly where it needed only to belet alone, and he wanted to give her a lesson in riding. But it seemedtoo early in their acquaintance for that, so he waited another minute.
"Miss Hallman is going to make you a lot of trouble," she beganabruptly. "I thought perhaps it might be better for you--all ofyou--if you knew it in advance, so there would be no sudden anger andexcitement. All the settlers are antagonistic, Mr. Green--all but me,and one or two of the girls. They are going to do everything they can toprevent your land-scheme from going through. You are going to be watchedand--and your land contested--"
"Well, we'll be right there, I guess, when the dust settles," he filledin her thought unmoved.
"I--almost hope so," she ventured. "For my part, I can see theside--your side. I can see where it is very hard for the cattle men togive up their range. It is like the big plantations down south, whenthe slaves were freed. It had to be done, and yet it was hard upon thoseplanters who depended on free labor. They resented it deeply; deeplyenough to shed blood--and that is one thing I dread here. I hope, Mr.Green, that you will not resort to violence. I want to urge you allto--to--"
"I understand," said Andy softly. "A-course, we're pretty bad when weget started, all right. We're liable to ride up on dark nights and shootour enemies through the window--I can't deny it, Miss Allen. And if itcomes right to a show-down, I may as well admit that some of us wouldthink nothing at all of taking a man out and hanging him to the firstthree we come to, that was big enough to hold him. But now that ladieshave come into the country, a-course we'll try and hold our tempersdown all we can. Miss Hallman, now--I don't suppose there's a man in thebunch that would shoot her, no matter what she done to us. We take pridein being polite to women. You've read that about us, haven't you, MissAllen? And you've seen us on the stage--well, it's a fact, all right.Bad as we are, and wild and tough, and savage when we're crossed, a ladycan just do anything with us, if she goes at it the right way."
"Thank you. I felt sure that you would not harm any of us. Will youpromise not to be violent--not to--to--"
Andy sat sidewise in the saddle, so that he faced her. Miss Allen couldjust make out his form distinctly; his face was quite hidden, exceptthat she could see the shine of his eyes.
"Now, Miss Allen," he protested with soft apology "You musta known whatto expect when you moved out amongst us rough characters. You know I canmake any promises about being mild with the men that try to get the bestof us. If you've got friends--brothers--anybody here that you think alot of Miss Allen, I advise you to send 'em outa the country, beforetrouble breaks loose; because when she starts she'll start a-popping.I know I can't answer for my self, what I'm liable to do if they botherme; and I'm about the mildest one in the bunch. What the rest of theboys would do--Irish Mallory for instance--I hate to think, Miss Allen.I--hate--to--think!"
Afterwards, when he thought it all over dispassionately, Andywondered why he had talked to Miss Allen like that. He had not doneit deliberately, just to frighten her--yet he had frightened her to acertain extent. He had roused her apprehension for the safety of herneighbors and the ultimate well-being of himself and his fellows. Shehad been so anxious over winning him to more peaceful ways that she hadforgotten to give him any details of the coming struggle. Andy was sorryfor that. He wished, on the way home, that he knew just what FlorenceGrace Hallman intended to do.
Not that it mattered greatly. Whatever she did, Andy felt that it wouldbe futile. The Happy Family were obeying the land laws implicitly,except as their real incentive had been an unselfish one. He could notfeel that it was wrong to try and save the Flying U; was not loyalty avirtue? And was not the taking of land for the preservation of a fine,fair dealing outfit that had made itself a power for prosperity andhappiness in that country, a perfectly laudable enterprise? Andybelieved so.
Even though they did, down in their deepest thoughts, think of theFlying U's interest, Andy did not believe that Florence Grace Hallman oranyone else could produce any evidence that would justify a contest fortheir land. Though they planned among themselves for the good ofthe Flying U, they were obeying the law and the dictates of theirrange-conscience and their personal ideas of right and justice andloyalty to their friends and to themselves. They were not conspiringagainst the general prosperity of the country in the hope of greatpersonal gain. When you came to that, they were saving fifty men frombitter disappointment--counting one settler to every eighty acres, asthe Syndicate apparently did.
Still, Andy wondered why he had represented himself and his friends tobe such bloodthirsty devils. He grinned wickedly over some of the thingshe had said, and over her womanly perturbation and pleading that theywould spare the lives of their enemies. Oh, well--if she repeated halfto Florence Grace Hallman, that lady would maybe think twice before shetackled the contract of boosting the Happy Family off their claims. Soat the last he managed to justify his lying to her. He liked Miss Allen.He was pleased to think that at least she would not forget him theminute he was out of her sight.
He went to sleep worrying, not over the trouble which Florence GraceHallman might be plotting to bring upon him, but about Miss Allen'sgiven name and her previous condition of servitude. He hoped that shewas not a stenographer, and he hoped her first name was not Mary; andif you know the history of Andy Green you will remember that he had areason for disliking both the name and the vocation.