by Max Brand
CHAPTER XIX
PARTNERS
"Whether you want to or not, Jack, we'll go to this dance to-night."
Jacqueline's hand fell away from her eyes. She seemed suddenly gladagain.
"Do you want to take me, Pierre?"
He explained: "Of course. Besides, we have to keep an eye on Wilbur.This girl with the yellow hair--"
She had altered swiftly again. There was no understanding her orfollowing her moods this day. He decided to disregard them, as he hadoften done before.
"Black Gandil swears that I'm bringing bad luck to the boys at last.Patterson has disappeared; Wilbur has lost his head about a girl.We've got to save Dick."
He knew that she was fond of Wilbur, but she showed no enthusiasm now.
"Let him go his own way. He's big enough to take care of himself."
"But it's common talk, Jack, that the end of Wilbur will come through awoman. It was that that sent him on the long trail, you know. Andthis girl with the yellow hair--"
"Why do you harp on her?"
"Harp on her?"
"Every other word--nothing but yellow hair. I'm sick of it. I knowthe kind--faded corn color--dyed, probably. Pierre, you are all blind,and you most of all."
This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the consideration of itfrom his mind.
"And for clothes, Jack?"
They were both dumb. It had been years since she had worn the clothesof a woman. She had danced with the men of her father's gang many atime while some one whistled or played on a mouth-organ, and there wasthe time they rode into Beulah Ferry and held up the dance-hall, andJim Boone and Mansie lined up the crowd with their hands held highabove their heads while the sweating musicians played fast and furiousand Jack and Pierre danced down the center of the hall.
She had danced many a time, but never in the clothes of a woman; sothey stared, mutely puzzled.
A thought came first to Jacqueline. It obliterated even the memory ofthe yellow-haired girl and set her eyes dancing. She stepped close andmurmured her suggestion in the ear of Pierre. Whatever it was, it madehis jaw set hard and brought grave lines into his face.
She stepped back, asking: "Well?"
"We'll do it. What a little demon you are, Jack!"
"Then we'll have to start now. There's barely time."
They ran from the room together, and as they passed through the roombelow Wilbur called after them: "The dance?"
"Yes."
"Wait and go with me."
"We ride in a roundabout way."
They were through the door as Pierre called back, and a moment laterthe hoofs of their horses scattered the gravel down the hillside.Jacqueline rode a black stallion sired by her father's mighty Thunder,who had grown old but still could do the work of three ordinary horsesin carrying the great bulk of his master. The son of Thunder waslittle like his sire, but a slender-limbed racer, graceful, nervous,eager. A clumsy rider would have ruined the horse in a single day'shard work among the trails of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline,fairly reading the mind of the black, nursed his strength when it wasneeded and let him run free and swift when the ground before him waslevel.
Now she picked her course dexterously down the hillside with thecream-colored mare of Pierre following half a length behind.
After the first down-pitch of ground was covered they passed intodifficult terrain, and for half an hour went at a jog trot, winding inand out among the rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the hills.
Here the ground opened up again, and they roved on at a free gallop,the black always half a length in front. In all the length of themountain-desert there was no other picture which could compare withthese two in their youth and their pride and their fearlessness.
They rode alert, high-headed like their horses, and there was aboutthem a suggestion of the patience which carries a man endlessly afterone purpose, and a suggestion of the eagerness, too, which makes himstrike swift and hard and surely when the time for action comes.
Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch of a mile or more,Jack eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a suddenlengthening of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flatwhile he fairly flew over the ground.
Nothing could match that speed. The strong mare fell to the rear,fighting gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.
Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, laughing her triumph.Pierre smiled grimly in response and leaned forward, shifting hisweight more over the withers of Mary. He spoke to her, and one of herpricking ears fell back as if to listen to his voice. He spoke againand the other ear fell back, her neck straightened, she gave her wholeheart to her work.
First she held the stallion even, then she began to gain. That was themeaning of those round, strong hips, and the breadth of the chest. Sheneeded a half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and now theblack came back to her with every leap.
The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned the girl. One more glanceshe cast in apprehension over her shoulder, and then brought her spursinto play again and again. Still the rush of hoofs behind her grewlouder and louder, and now there was a panting at her side and the headof cream-colored Mary drew up and past.
She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger and slowed up hermount with a sharp pull on the reins. It needed only a word fromPierre and his mare drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head alittle toward the black as if she called for some recognition of hersuperiority.
"It's always this way," cried Jack, and jerked at the reins with achildish impotence of anger. "I beat you for the first quarter of amile and then this fool of a horse--I'm going to give him away."
"The black," said Pierre, assuming an air of quiet and superior knowingwhich always aggravated her most, "is a good second-rate cayuse whensome one who knows horses is in the saddle. I'd give you fifty for himon the strength of his looks and keep him for a decoration."
She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment. Then shechanged swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture ofsurrender.
"After all, what difference does it make? Your Mary can beat him in along run or a short one, but it's your horse, Pierre, and that takesthe sting away. If it were any one else's I'd--well, I'd shoot eitherthe horse or the rider. But my partner's horse is my horse, you know."
She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back from themountainside to the canon that dropped on their right:
"My partner's horse is my horse, bunky-- From his fetlock to the bucking-strap, From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap-- My partner's horse is my horse, bunky.
"My partner's gun is my gun, bunky-- From the chamber to the trigger-guard; And the butt like a friend's hand gripping hard-- My partner's gun is my gun, bunky.
"My partner's heart is my heart, bunky-- And like matched horses galloping well, They will beat together through heaven and hell-- My partner's heart is my heart, bunky."
He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a stronggrip.
"Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather walk with you, I'drather talk with you, I'd rather ride with you, I'd rather fight foryou. Jack, you're the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamestsport."
"Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I suppose that I am."
He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the canonand whistling the refrain of her song happily. A few moments laterthey swung out onto the very crest of the range.
On all sides the hills dropped away through the gloom of the evening,brown near by, but falling off through a faint blue haze and growingblue-black with the distance. A sharp wind, chill with the coming ofnight, cut at them. Not a hundred feet overhead shot a low-winginghawk back from his day's hunting and rising only high enough to clearthe range and then plunge down toward his nest.
Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into th
eprofound gloom of the valley below. They shaded their eyes and studiedit with a singular interest for long moments, patient, silent, quiet asthe hawk when he steadies himself in leisurely circles high in theheart of heaven and fixes his eyes surely on his prey far, farbelow--then folds his wings and shoots suddenly down, a veritable boltfrom the blue.
So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and thenpointed down. He followed the direction she indicated, and there,through the haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.
He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll have a devil of a ride toget there."
And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope. It wasprecipitous in many places, but Pierre kept almost at a gallop, makingthe mare take the slopes often crouched back on her haunches withforefeet braced forward, and sliding many yards at a time.
In between the boulders he darted, twisting here and there, and alwayserect and jaunty in the saddle, swaying easily with every movement ofMary. Not far behind him came the girl. Fine rider that she was, shecould not hope to compete with such matchless horsemanship where manand horse were only one piece of strong brawn and muscle, one daringspirit. Many a time the chances seemed too desperate to her, but shefollowed blindly where he led, setting her teeth at each succeedingventure, and coming out safe every time, until they swung out at lastthrough a screen of brush and onto the level floor of the valley.