Book: The Range Dwellers

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I passed through the gate and up to the house, Shylock pacing easily along
as though we both felt assured of a welcome. Old King met me at his door
as I was going by; I pulled up and gave him my very cheeriest good
morning. He looked at me from under shaggy, gray eyebrows.

"You've got your gall, young man, to come this way twice in twenty-four
hours," he said grimly.

"You can turn around and go back the way you came in."

"You asked me to call," I reminded him mildly. "You were not at home
yesterday, so I came again."

He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, and drew the door shut between
himself and whoever was within. "You damn' cur," he growled, "yuh know yuh
ain't no friend uh the Kings."

"I know you're all mighty unneighborly," I said, making me a cigarette in
the way that cowboys do. "I asked a young lady--your daughter,
I suppose--for a drink of water. She told me to go to the creek."

He laughed at that; evidently he approved of his daughter's attitude.
"Beryl knows how to deal with the likes uh you," he muttered relishfully.
"And she hates the Carletons bad as I do. Get off my place, young man, and
do it quick!"

"Sure!" I assented cheerfully, and jabbed the spurs into Shylock--taking
good care that he was beaded north instead of south. And it's a fact that,
ticklish as was the situation, my first thought was: "So her name's
Beryl, is it? Mighty pretty name, and fits her, too."

King wasn't thinking anything so sentimental, I'll wager. He yelled to two
or three fellows, as I shot by them near the first corral: "Round up that
thus-and-how"--I hate to say the words right out--"and bring him back
here!" Then he sent a bullet zipping past my ear, and from the house came
a high, nasal squawk which, I gathered, came from the old party I had seen
the day before.

I went clippety-clip around those sheds and corrals, till I like to have
snapped my head off; I knew Shylock could take first money over any
ordinary cayuse, and I let him out; but, for all that, I heard them
coming, and it sounded as if they were about to ride all over me, they
were so close.

Past the last shed I went streaking it, and my heart remembered what it
was made for, and went to work. I don't feel that, under the
circumstances, it's any disgrace to own that I was scared. I didn't hear
any more little singing birds fly past, so I straightened up enough to
look around and see what was doing in the way of pursuit.

One glance convinced me that my pursuers weren't going to sleep in their
saddles. One of them, on a little buckskin that was running with his ears
laid so flat it looked as if he hadn't any, was widening the loop in his
rope, and yelling unfriendly things as he spurred after me; the others
were a length behind, and I mentally put them out of the race. The
gentleman with the businesslike air was all I wanted to see, and I laid
low as I could and slapped Shylock along the neck, and told him to bestir
himself.

He did. We skimmed up that trail like a winner on the home--stretch, and
before I had time to think of what lay ahead, I saw that fence with the
high, board gate that was padlocked. Right there I swore abominably--but
it didn't loosen the gate. I looked back and decided that this was no
occasion for pulling wires loose and leading my horse over them. It was no
occasion for anything that required more than a second; my friend of the
rope was not more than five long jumps behind, and he was swinging that
loop suggestively over his head.

I reined Shylock sharply out of the trail, saw a place where the fence
looked a bit lower than the average, and put him straight at it with quirt
and spurs. He would have swung off, but I've ridden to hounds, and I had
seen hunters go over worse places; I held him to it without mercy. He laid
back his ears, then, and went over--and his hind feet caught the top wire
and snapped it like thread. I heard it hum through the air, and I heard
those behind me shout as though something unlooked-for had happened.
I turned, saw them gathered on the other side looking after me blankly, and
I waved my hat airily in farewell and went on about my business.

[Illustration: "His hind feet caught the top wire and snapped it like
thread."]

I felt that they would scarcely chase me the whole twelve or fifteen miles
of the pass, and I was right; after I turned the first bend I saw them no
more.

At camp I was received with much astonishment, particularly when Ballard
saw that I had brought an answer to his note.

"Yuh must 'a' rode King's Highway," he said, looking at me much as Perry
Potter had done the night before.

I told him I did, and the boys gathered round and wanted to know how I did
it. I told them about jumping the fence, and my conceit got a hard blow
there; with one accord they made it plain that I had done a very foolish
thing. Range horses, they assured me, are not much at jumping, as a rule;
and wire-fences are their special abhorrence. Frosty Miller told me, in
confidence, that he didn't know which was the bigger fool, Shylock or me,
and he hoped I'd never be guilty of another trick like that.

That rather took the bloom off my adventure, and I decided, after much
thought, that I agreed with Frosty: King's Highway was bad medicine.
I amended that a bit, and excepted Beryl King; I did not think she was "bad
medicine," however acid might be her flavor.




CHAPTER VI.

I ask Beryl King to Dance.


If I were just yarning for the fun there is in it, I should say that I was
back in King's Highway, helping Beryl King gather posies and brush up her
repartee, the very next morning--or the second, at the very latest. As a
matter of fact, though, I steered clear of that pass, and behaved myself
and stuck to work for six long weeks; that isn't saying I never thought
about her, though.

On the very last day of June, as nearly as I could estimate, Frosty rode
into Kenmore for something, and came back with that in his eyes that boded
mischief; his words, however, were innocent enough for the most
straight-laced.

"There's things doing in Kenmore," he remarked to a lot of us. "Old King
has a party of aristocrats out from New York, visiting--Terence Weaver,
half-owner in the mines, and some women; they're fixing to celebrate the
Fourth with a dance. The women, it seems, are crazy to see a real Montana
dance, and watch the cowboys _chasse_ around the room in their chaps and
spurs and big hats, and with two or three six-guns festooned around their
middles, the way you see them in pictures. They think, as near as I could
find out, that cowboys always go to dances in full war-paint like
that--and they'll be disappointed if said cowboys don't punctuate the
performance by shooting out the lights, every so often." He looked across
at me, and then is when I observed the mischief brewing in his eyes.

"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 body-guard." 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 places, 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 to-night," 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.

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