CHAPTER XII
THE STORY BEGINS
Miss Radford tied her pony to the trunk of a slender fir-balsam andclimbed to the summit of a small hill. There were some trees, quite abit of grass, some shrubbery, on the hill--and no snakes. She madesure of this before seating herself upon a little shelf of rock, near atall cedar.
Half a mile down the river she could see a corner of Ben's cabin, asection of the corral fence, and one of the small outbuildings.Opposite the cabin, across the river, rose the buttes that met her eyesalways when she came to the cabin door. This hill upon which she satwas one that she saw often, when in the evening, watching the settingsun, she followed its golden rays with her eyes. Many times, as thesun had gone slowly down into a rift of the mountains, she had seen thecrest of this hill shimmering in a saffron light; the only spot in theflat that rose above the somber, oncoming shadows of the dusk.
From here, it seemed, began the rose veil that followed the broadsaffron shaft that led straight to the mountains. Often, watching thebeauty of the hill during the long sunset, she had felt a deep awestirring her. Romance was here, and mystery; it was a spot favored bythe Sun-Gods, who surrounded it with a glorious halo, lingeringly,reluctantly withdrawing as the long shadows of the twilight crept overthe face of the world.
It was not her first visit to the hill. Many times she had come here,charmed with the beauty of the view, and during one of those visits shehad decided that seated on the shelf rock on the summit of the hill shewould write the first page of the book. It was for this purpose thatshe had now come.
After seating herself she opened a small handbag, producing therefrommany sheets of paper, a much-thumbed copy of Shakespeare, and a pencil.She was tempted to begin with a description of the particular bit ofcountry upon which she looked, for long ago she had decided upon BearFlat for the locale of the story. But she sat long nibbling at the endof the pencil, delaying the beginning for fear of being unable to dojustice to it.
She began at length, making several false starts and beginning anew.Finally came a paragraph that remained. Evidently this wassatisfactory, for another paragraph followed; and then another, andstill another. Presently a complete page. Then she looked up with along-drawn sigh of relief. The start had been made.
She had drawn a word picture of the flat; dwelling upon the solitude,the desolation, the vastness, the swimming sunlight, the absence oflife and movement. But as she looked, critically comparing what shehad written with the reality, there came a movement--a horseman hadridden into her picture. He had come down through a little gully thatled into the flat and was loping his pony through the deep saccatonegrass toward the cabin.
It couldn't be Ben. Ben had told her that he intended riding somethirty miles down the river and he couldn't be returning already. Sheleaned forward, watching intently, the story forgotten.
The rider kept steadily on for a quarter of an hour. Then he reachedthe clearing in which the cabin stood; she saw him ride through it anddisappear. Five minutes later he reappeared, hesitated at the edge ofthe clearing and then urged his pony toward the hill upon which shesat. As he rode out of the shadows of the trees within an eighth of amile of her the sunlight shone fairly upon the pony. She would haveknown Mustard among many other ponies.
She drew a sudden, deep breath and sat erect, tucking back some straywisps of hair from her forehead. Did the rider see her?
For a moment it seemed that the answer would be negative, for hedisappeared behind some dense shrubbery on the plain below and seemedto be on the point of passing the hill. But just at the edge of theshrubbery Mustard suddenly swerved and came directly toward her.Through the corners of her eyes she watched while Ferguson dismounted,tied Mustard close to her own animal, and stood a moment quietlyregarding her.
"You want to look at the country all by yourself?" he inquired.
She pretended a start, looking down at him in apparent surprise.
"Why," she prevaricated, "I thought there was no one within miles ofme!"
She saw his eyes flash in the sunlight. "Of course," he drawled,"there's such an awful darkness that no one could see a pony comin'across the flat. You think you'll be able to find your way home?"
She flushed guiltily and did not reply. She heard him clambering upover the loose stones, and presently he stood near her. She made apretense of writing.
"Did you stop at the cabin?" she asked without looking up.
He regarded her with amused eyes, standing loosely, his arms folded,the fingers of his right hand pulling at his chin. "Did I stop?" herepeated. "I couldn't rightly say. Seems to me as though I did. Yousee, I didn't intend to, but I was ridin' down that way an' I thoughtI'd stop in an' have a talk with Ben."
"Oh!" Sometimes even a monosyllable is pregnant with mockery.
"But he wasn't there. Nobody was there. I wasn't reckonin' oneverybody runnin' off."
She turned and looked straight at him. "Why," she said, "I shouldn'tthink our running away would surprise you. You see, you set us anexample in running away the other day."
He knew instantly that she referred to his precipitate retreat on thenight she had hinted that she intended putting him into her story. Sheshot another glance at him and saw his face redden with embarrassment,but he showed no intention of running now.
"I've been thinkin' of what you said," he returned. "You couldn't putme into no book. You don't know anything about me. You don't knowwhat I think. Then how could you do it?"
"Of course," she returned, turning squarely around to him and speakingseriously, "the story will be fiction, and the plot will have nofoundation in fact. But I shall be very careful to have my characterstalk and act naturally. To do this I shall have to study the peoplewhom I wish to characterize."
He was moved by an inward mirth. "You're still thinkin' of puttin' meinto the book?" he questioned.
She nodded, smiling.
"Then," he said, very gravely, "you hadn't ought to have told me. Youdidn't show so clever there. Ain't you afraid that I'll go to actin'swelled? If I do that, you'd not have the character you wanted."
"I had thought of that, too," she returned seriously. "If you werethat kind of a man I shouldn't want you in the book. How do you knowthat I haven't told you for the purpose of discovering if you would beaffected in that manner?"
He scratched his head, contemplating her gravely. "I reckon you'retravelin' too fast for me, ma'am," he said.
His expression of frank amusement was good to see. He stood beforeher, plainly ready to surrender. Absolutely boyish, he seemed toher--a grown-up boy to be sure, but with a boy's enthusiasms, impulses,and generosity. Yet in his eyes was something that told of maturity,of conscious power, of perfect trust in his ability to give a goodaccount of himself, even in this country where these qualitiesconstituted the chief rule of life.
A strange emotion stirred her, a sudden quickening of the pulse toldher that something new had come into her life. She drew a deep,startled breath and felt her cheeks crimsoning. She swiftly turned herhead and gazed out over the flat, leaving him standing there, scarcelycomprehending her embarrassment.
"I reckon you've been writin' some of that book, ma'am," he said,seeing the papers lying on the rock beside her. "I don't see why youshould want to write a Western story. Do folks in the East getinterested in knowin' what's goin' on out here?"
She suddenly thought of herself. Had she found it interesting? Shelooked swiftly at him, appraising him from a new viewpoint, feeling astrange, new interest in him.
"It would be strange if they didn't," she returned. "Why, it is theonly part of the country in which there still remains a touch ofromance. You must remember that this is a young country; that itshistory began at a comparatively late date. England can write of itsfeudal barons; France of its ancient aristocracy; but America can lookback only to the Colonial period--and the West."
"Mebbe you're right," he said, not convinced. "But I expect thereain't a h
eap of romance out here. Leastways, if there is it manages tokeep itself pretty well hid."
She smiled, thinking of the romance that surrounded him--of which,plainly, he was not conscious. To him, romance meant the lights, thecrowds, the amusements, the glitter and tinsel of the cities of theEast, word of which had come to him through various channels. To herthese things were no longer novel,--if they had ever been so--and sofor her romance must come from the new, the unusual, theunconventional. The West was all this, therefore romance dwelt here.
"Of course it all seems commonplace to you," she returned; "perhapseven monotonous. For you have lived here long."
He laughed. "I've traveled a heap," he said. "I've been inCalifornia, Dakota, Wyoming, Texas, an' Arizona. An' now I'm here.Savin' a man meets different people, this country is pretty much allthe same."
"You must have had a great deal of experience," she said. "And you arenot very old."
He gravely considered her. "I would say that I am about the averageage for this country. You see, folks don't live to get very old outhere--unless they're mighty careful."
"And you haven't been careful?"
He smiled gravely. "I expect you wouldn't call it careful. But I'mstill livin'."
His words were singularly free from boast.
"That means that you have escaped the dangers," she said. "I haveheard that a man's safety in this country depends largely upon hisability to shoot quickly and accurately. I suppose you are accounted agood shot?"
The question was too direct. His eyes narrowed craftily.
"I expect you're thinkin' of that book now ma'am," he said. "There's aheap of men c'n shoot. You might say they're all good shots. I'vetold you about the men who can't shoot good. They're either mightycareful, or they ain't here any more. It's always one or the other."
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, shuddering slightly. "In that case Isuppose the hero in my story will have to be a good shot." Shelaughed. "I shouldn't want him to get half way through the story andthen be killed because he was clumsy in handling his weapon. I ambeginning to believe that I shall have to make him a 'two-gun' man. Iunderstand they are supposed to be very good shots."
"I've seen them that wasn't," he returned gravely and shortly.
"How did you prove that?" she asked suddenly.
But he was not to be snared. "I didn't say I'd proved it," he stated."But I've seen it proved."
"How proved?"
"Why," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement, "they ain't here anymore, ma'am."
"Oh. Then it doesn't follow that because a man wears two guns he ismore likely to survive than is the man who wears only one?"
"I reckon not, ma'am."
"I see that you have the bottoms of your holsters tied down," she said,looking at them. "Why have you done that?"
"Well," he declared, drawling his words a little, "I've always foundthat there ain't any use of takin' chances on an accident. Youmightn't live to tell about it. An' havin' the bottoms of yourholsters tied down keeps your guns from snaggin'. I've seen men whoseguns got snagged when they wanted to use them. They wasn't so activeafter."
"Then I shall have to make my hero a 'two-gun' man," she said. "Thatis decided. Now, the next thing to do is to give some attention to hischaracter. I think he ought to be absolutely fearless and honest andincapable of committing a dishonorable deed. Don't you think so?"
While they had talked he had come closer to her and stood beside theshelf rock, one foot resting on it. At her question he suddenly lookeddown at the foot, shifting it nervously, while a flush started fromabove the blue scarf at his throat and slowly suffused his face.
"Don't you think so?" she repeated, her eyes meeting his for an instant.
"Why, of course, ma'am," he suddenly answered, the words comingsharply, as though he had only at that instant realized the import ofthe question.
"Why," said she, aware of his embarrassment, "don't you think there aresuch men?"
"I expect there are, ma'am," he returned; "but in this country there'sa heap of argument could be made about what would be dishonorable. Ifyour two-gun should happen to be a horse thief, or a rustler, I reckonwe could get at it right off."
"He shan't be either of those," she declared stoutly. "I don't thinkhe would stoop to such contemptible deeds. In the story he is employedby a ranch owner to kill a rustler whom the owner imagines has beenstealing his cattle."
His hands were suddenly behind him, the fingers clenched. His eyessearched her face with an alert, intense gaze. His embarrassment wasgone; his expression was saturnine, his eyes narrowed with a slightmockery. And his voice came, cold, deliberate, even.
"I reckon you've got your gun-man true to life, ma'am," he said.
She laughed lightly, amused over the sudden change that she saw andfelt in him. "Of course the gun-man doesn't really intend to kill therustler," she said. "I don't believe I shall have any one killed inthe story. The gun-man is merely attracted by the sum of moneypromised him by the ranch owner, and when he accepts it is only becausehe is in dire need of work. Don't you think that could be possible?"
"That could happen easy in this country, ma'am," he returned.
She laughed delightedly. "That vindicates my judgment," she declared.
He was regarding her with unwavering eyes. "Is that gun-man goin' tobe the hero in your story, ma'am?" he asked quietly.
"Why, of course."
"An' I'm to be him?"
She gave him a defiant glance, though she blushed immediately.
"Why do you ask?" she questioned in reply. "You need have no fear thatI will compel my hero to do anything dishonorable."
"I ain't fearin' anything," he returned. "But I'd like to know how youcome to think of that. Do writers make them things up out of their ownminds, or does someone tell them?"
"Those things generally have their origin in the mind of the writer,"she replied.
"Meanin' that you thought of that yourself?" he persisted.
"Of course."
He lifted his foot from the rock and stood looking gravely at her. "Inmost of the books I have read there's always a villain. I reckonyou're goin' to have one?"
"There will be a villain," she returned.
His eyes flashed queerly. "Would you mind tellin' me who you havepicked out for your villain?" he continued.
"I don't mind," she said. "It is Leviatt."
He suddenly grinned broadly and held out his right hand to her."Shake, ma'am," he said. "I reckon if I was writin' a book Leviattwould be the villain."
She rose from the rock and took his outstretched hand, her eyesdrooping as they met his. He felt her hand tremble a little, and helooked at it, marveling. She glanced up, saw him looking at her hand,swiftly withdrew it, and turned from him, looking down into the flat atthe base of the hill. She started, uttering the sharp command:
"Look!"
Perhaps a hundred yards distant, sitting on his pony in a loungingattitude, was a horseman. While they looked the horseman removed hisbroad brimmed hat, bowed mockingly, and urged his pony out into theflat. It was Leviatt.
On the slight breeze a laugh floated back to them, short, sharp,mocking.
For a time they stood silent, watching the departing rider. ThenFerguson's lips wreathed into a feline smile.
"Kind of dramatic, him ridin' up that-a-way," he said. "Don't youthink puttin' him in the book will spoil it, ma'am?"
The Two-Gun Man Page 12