Book: The Range Dwellers

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"No, you won't tell Edith," I flung after her, but I don't know if she
heard.

She rode away down the steep slope, the roan leaning back stiffly against
the incline, and I stood watching her like a fool. I didn't think it would
be good policy to follow her. I tried to roll a cigarette--in case she
might look back to see how I was taking her last shot. But she didn't, and
I threw the thing away half-made. It was a case where smoke wouldn't help
me.

If I hadn't made my chance any better, I knew I couldn't very well make it
worse; but there was mighty little comfort in that reflection. And what a
bluff I had put up! Carry her off and marry her? Lord knows I wanted to,
badly enough! But--




CHAPTER XIV.

Frosty Disappears.


On the way back to the ranch I overtook Frosty mooning along at a walk,
with his shoulders humped in the way a man has when he's thinking pretty
hard. I had left Frosty with the round-up, and I was pretty much surprised
to see him here. I didn't feel in the mood for conversation, even with
him; but, to be decent, I spurred up alongside and said hello, and where
had he come from? There was nothing in that for a man to get uppish about,
but he turned and actually glared at me.

"I might be an inquisitive son-of-a-gun and ask you the same thing," he
growled.

"Yes, you might," I agreed. "But, if you did, I'd be apt to tell you to
depart immediately for a place called Gehenna--which is polite for hell."

"Well, same here," he retorted laconically; and that ended our
conversation, though we rode stirrup to stirrup for eight miles.

I can't say that, after the first shock of surprise, I gave much time to
wondering what brought Frosty home. I took it he had had a row with the
wagon-boss. Frosty is an independent sort and won't stand a word from
anybody, and the wagon-boss is something of a bully. The gait they were
traveling, out there with the wagons, was fraying the nerves of the whole
bunch before I left. And that was all I thought about Frosty.

I had troubles of my own, about that time. I had put up my bluff, and
I kept wondering what I should do if Beryl King called me. There wasn't
much chance that she would, of course; but, still, she wasn't that kind
of girl who always does the conventional thing and the expected thing,
and I had seen a gleam in her eyes that, in a man's, I should call
deviltry, pure and simple. If I should meet her out somewhere, and she
even _looked_ a dare--I'll confess one thing: for a whole week I was
mighty shy of riding out where I would be apt to meet her; and you can
call me a coward if you like.

Still, I had schemes, plenty of them. I wanted her--Lord knows how
I wanted her!--and I got pretty desperate, sometimes. Once I saddled up
with the fixed determination of riding boldly--and melodramatically--into
King's Highway, facing old King, and saying: "Sir, I love your daughter.
Let bygones be bygones. Dad and I forgive you, and hope you will do the
same. Let us have peace, and let me have Beryl--" or something to that
effect.

He'd only have done one of two things; he'd have taken a shot at me, or
he'd have told me to go to the same old place where we consign unpleasant
people. But I didn't tempt him, though I did tempt fate. I went over to
the little butte, climbed it pensively, and sat on the flat rock and gazed
forlornly at the mouth of the pass.

I had the rock to myself, but I made a discovery that set the nerves of me
jumping like a man just getting over a--well, a season of dissipation. In
the sandy soil next the rock were many confused footprints--the prints of
little riding-boots; and they looked quite fresh. She had been there, all
right, and I had missed her! I swore, and wondered what she must think of
me. Then I had an inspiration. I rolled and half-smoked eight cigarettes,
and scattered the stubs with careful carelessness in the immediate
vicinity of the rock. I put my boots down in a clear spot of sand where
they left marks that fairly shouted of my presence. Then I walked off a
few steps and studied the effect with much satisfaction. When she came
again, she couldn't fail to see that I had been there; that I had waited a
long time--she could count the cigarette stubs and so form some estimate
of the time--and had gone away, presumably in deep disappointment. Maybe
it would make her feel a little less sure of herself, to know that I was
camping thus earnestly on her trail. I rode home, feeling a good deal
better in my mind.

That night it rained barrelsful. I laid and listened to it, and gritted my
teeth. Where was all my cunning now? Where were those blatant footprints
of mine that were to give their own eloquent message? I could imagine just
how the water was running in yellow streams off the peak of that butte.
Then it came to me that, at all events, some of the cigarette-stubs would
be left; so I turned over and went to sleep.

I wish to say, before I forget it, that I don't think I am deceitful by
nature. You see, it changes a fellow a lot to get all tangled up in his
feelings over a girl that doesn't seem to care a rap for you. He does
things that are positively idiotic At any rate, I did. And I could
sympathize some with Barney MacTague; only, his girl had a crooked nose
and no eyebrows to speak of, so he hadn't the excuse that I had. Take a
girl with eyes like Beryl--

A couple of days after that--days when I hadn't the nerve to go near the
little butte--Frosty drew six months' wages and disappeared without a word
to anybody. He didn't come back that night, and the next day Perry
Potter, who knows well the strange freaks cowboys will sometimes take when
they have been working steadily for a long time, suggested that I ride
over to Kenmore and see if Frosty was there, and try my powers of
persuasion on him--unless he was already broke; in which case, according
to Perry Potter, he would come back without any persuading. Perry Potter
added dryly that it wouldn't be out of my way any, and would only be a
little longer ride. I must say I looked at him with suspicion. The way
that little dried-up sinner found out everything was positively uncanny.

Frosty, as I soon discovered, was not in Kenmore. He had been, for
I learned by inquiring around that he had passed the night there at that
one little hotel. Also that he had, not more than two hours before--or
three, at most--hired a rig and driven on to Osage. A man told me that
he had taken a lady with him; but, knowing Frosty as I did, I couldn't
quite swallow that. It was queer, though, about his hiring a rig and
leaving his saddle-horse there in the stable. I couldn't understand it,
but I wasn't going to buy into Frosty's affairs unless I had to. I ate
my dinner dejectedly in the hotel--the dinner was enough to make any man
dejected--and started home again.




CHAPTER XV.

The Broken Motor-car.


Out where the trail from Kenmore intersects the one leading from Laurel to
and through King's Highway, I passed over a little hill and came suddenly
upon a big, dark-gray touring-car stalled in the road. In it Beryl King
sat looking intently down at her toes. I nearly fell off my horse at the
shock of it, and then my blood got to acting funny, so that my head felt
queer. Then I came to, and rode boldly up to her, mentally shaking hands
with myself over my good luck. For it was good luck just to see her,
whether anything came of it or not.

"Something wrong with the wheelbarrow?" I asked her, with a placid
superiority.

She looked up with a little start--she never did seem to feel my presence
until I spoke to her--and frowned prettily; but whether at me or at the
car, I didn't know.

"I guess something must be," she answered quite meekly, for her. "It keeps
making the funniest buzz when I start it--and it's Mr. Weaver's car, and
he doesn't know--I--I borrowed it without asking, and--"

"That car is all right," I bluffed from my saddle. "It's simply obeying
instructions. It comes under the jurisdiction of my private Providence,
you see. I ordered it that you should be here, and in distress, and
grateful for my helping hand." How was that for straight nerve?

"Well, then, let's have the helping hand and be done. I should be at home,
by now. They will wonder--I just went for a--a little spin, and when
I turned to go back, it started that funny noise. I--I'm afraid of it.
It--might blow up, or--or something."

She seemed in a strangely explanatory mood, that was, to say the least,
suspicious. Either she had come out purposely to torment me, or she was
afraid of what she knew was in my mind, and wanted to make me forget it.
But my mettle was up for good. I had no notion of forgetting, or of
letting her.

"I'll do what I can, and willingly," I told her coolly. "It looks like a
good car--an accommodating car. I hope you are prepared to pay the
penalty--"

"Penalty?" she interrupted, and opened her eyes at me innocently; a bit
_too_ innocently, I may say.

"Penalty; yes. The penalty of letting me find you outside of King's
Highway, _alone_," I explained brazenly.

She tried a lever hurriedly, and the car growled up at her so that she
quit. Then she pulled herself together and faced me nonchalantly.

"Oh-h. You mean about the black velvet mask? I'm afraid--I had forgotten
that funny little--joke." With all she could do, her face and her tone
were not convincing.

I gathered courage as she lost it. "I see that I must demonstrate to you
the fact that I am not altogether a joke," I said grimly, and got down
from my horse.

I don't, to this day, know what she imagined I was going to do. She sat
very still; the kind of stillness a rabbit adopts when he hopes to escape
the notice of an enemy. I could see that she hardly breathed, even.

But when I reached her, I only got a wrench out of the tool-box and yanked
open the hood to see what ailed the motor. I knew something of that make
of car; in fact, I had owned one before I got the _Yellow Peril_, and
I had a suspicion that there wasn't much wrong; a loosened nut will
sometimes sound a good deal more serious than it really is. Still, a
half-formed idea--a perfectly crazy idea--made me go over the whole
machine very carefully to make sure she was all right.

When I was through I stood up and found that she was regarding me
curiously, yet with some amusement. She seemed to feel herself mistress of
the situation, and to consider me as an interesting plaything. I didn't
approve that attitude.

"At all events," she said when she met my eyes, and speaking as if there
had been no break in our conversation, "you are rather a _good_ joke.
Thank you so much."

I put away the wrench, fastened the lid of the tool-box, and then I faced
her grimly. "I see mere words are wasted on you," I said. "I shall have to
carry you off--Beryl King; I _shall_ carry you off if you look at me that
way again!"

She did look that way, only more so. I wonder what she thought a man was
made of, to stand it. I set my teeth hard together.

"Have you got the--er--the black velvet mask?" she taunted, leaning just
the least bit toward me. Her eyes--I say it deliberately--were a direct
challenge that no man could refuse to accept and feel himself a man after.

"Mask or no mask--you'll see!" I turned away to where my horse was
standing eying the car with extreme disfavor, picked up the reins, and
glanced over my shoulder; I didn't know but she would give me the slip.
She was sitting very straight, with both hands on the wheel and her eyes
looking straight before her. She might have been posing for a photograph,
from the look of her. I tied the reins with a quick twist over the
saddle-horn and gave him a slap on the rump. I knew he would go straight
home. Then I went back and stepped into the car just as she reached down
and started the motor. If she had meant to run away from me she had been
just a second too late. She gave me a sidelong, measuring glance, and
gasped. The car slid easily along the trail as if it were listening for
what we were going to say.

"I shall drive," I announced quietly, taking her hands gently from the
wheel. She moved over to make room mechanically, as if she didn't in the
least understand this new move of mine. I know she never dreamed of what
was really in my heart to do.

"You will drive--where?" her voice was politely freezing.

"To find that preacher, of course," I answered, trying to sound surprised
that she should ask, I sent the speed up a notch.

"You--you never would _dare_!" she cried breathlessly, and a little
anxiously.

"The deuce I wouldn't!" I retorted, and laughed in the face of her. It was
queer, but my thoughts went back, for just a flash, to the time Barney had
dared me to drive the _Yellow Peril_ up past the Cliff House to Sutro
Baths. I had the same heady elation of daredeviltry. I wouldn't have
turned back, then, even if I hadn't cared so much for her.

She didn't say anything more, and I sent the car ahead at a pace that
almost matched the mood I was in, and that brought White Divide sprinting
up to meet us. The trail was good, and the car was a dandy. I was making
straight for King's Highway as the best and only chance of carrying out my
foolhardy design. I doubt if any bold, bad knight of old ever had the
effrontery to carry his lady-love straight past her own door in broad
daylight.

Yet it was the safest thing I could do. I meant to get to Osage, and the
only practicable route for a car lay through the pass. To be sure, there
was a preacher at Kenmore; but with the chance of old King being there
also and interrupting the ceremony--supposing I brought matters
successfully that far--with a shot or two, did not in the least appeal to
me. I had made sure that there was plenty of gasoline aboard, so I drove
her right along.

"I hope your father isn't home," I remarked truthfully when we were
slipping into the wide jaws of the pass.

"He is, though; and so is Mr. Weaver. I think you had better jump out here
and run home, or it is not a velvet mask you will need, but a mantle of
invisibility." I couldn't make much of her tone, but her words implied
that even yet she would not take me seriously.

"Well, I've neither mask nor mantle," I said, "But the way I can fade down
the pass will, I think, be a fair substitute for both."

She said nothing whatever to that, but she began to seem interested in the
affair--as she had need to be. She might have jumped out and escaped
while I was down opening the gate--but she didn't. She sat quite still,
as if we were only out on a commonplace little jaunt. I wondered if she
didn't have the spirit of adventure in her make-up, also. Girls do,
sometimes. When I had got in again, I turned to her, remembering
something.

"Gadzooks, madam! I command you not to scream," I quoted sternly.

At that, for the first time in our acquaintance, she laughed; such a
delicious, rollicky little laugh that I felt ready, at the sound, to face
a dozen fathers and they all old Kings.

As we came chugging up to the house, several faces appeared in the doorway
as if to welcome and scold the runaway. I saw old King with his pipe in
his mouth; and there were Aunt Lodema and Weaver. They were all smiling at
the escapade--Beryl's escapade, that is--and I don't think they realized
just at first who I was, or that I was in any sense a menace to their
peace of mind.

When we came opposite and showed no disposition to stop, or even to slow
up, I saw the smiles freeze to amazement, and then--but I hadn't the time
to look. Old King yelled something, but by that time we were skidding
around the first shed, where Shylock had been shot down on my last trip
through there. It was a new shed, I observed mechanically as we went by.
I heard much shouting as we disappeared, but by that time we were almost
through the gantlet. I made the last turn on two wheels, and scudded away
up the open trail of the pass.




CHAPTER XVI.

One More Race.


A faint toot-toot warned from behind.

"They've got out the other car," said Beryl, a bit tremulously; and added,
"it's a much bigger one than this."

I let her out all I dared for the road we were traveling; and then there
we were, at that blessed gate. I hadn't thought of it till we were almost
upon it, but it didn't take much thought; there was only one thing to do,
and I did it.

I caught Beryl by an arm and pulled her down to the floor of the car, not
taking my eyes from the trail, or speaking. Then I drove the car forward
like a cannon-ball. We hit that gate like a locomotive, and scarcely felt
the jar. I knew the make of that motor, and what it could do. The air was
raining splinters and bits of lamps, but we went right on as if nothing
had happened, and as fast as the winding trail would allow. I knew that
beyond the pass the road ran straight and level for many a mile, and that
we could make good time if we got the chance.

Beryl sat half-turned in the seat, glancing back; but for me, I was busy
watching the trail and taking the sharp turns in a way to lift the hair of
one not used to traveling by lightning. I will confess it was ticklish
going, at that pace, and there were places when I took longer chances than
I had any right to take. But, you see, I had Beryl--and I meant to keep
her.

That Weaver fellow must have had a bigger bump of caution than I, or else
he'd never raced. I could hear them coming, but they didn't seem to be
gaining; rather, they lost ground, if anything. Presently Beryl spoke
again, still looking back.

"Don't you think, Mr. Carleton, this joke has gone far enough? You have
demonstrated what you _could_ do, if--"

I risked both our lives to glance at her. "This joke," I said, "is going
to Osage. I want to marry you, and you know it. The Lord and this car
willing, I'm going to. Still, if you really have been deceived in my
intentions, and insist upon going back, I shall stop, of course, and give
you back to your father. But you must do it now, at once, or--marry me."

She gave me a queer, side glance, but she did not insist. Naturally
I didn't stop, either.

We shot out into the open, with the windings of the pass behind, and then
I turned the old car loose, and maybe we didn't go! She wasn't a bad
sort--but I would have given a good deal, just then, if she had been the
_Yellow Peril_ stripped for a race. I could hear the others coming up, and
we were doing all we could; I saw to that.

"I think they'll catch us," Beryl observed maliciously. "Their car is a
sixty h.p. Mercedes, and this--"

"Is about a forty," I cut in tartly, not liking the tone of her; "and just
plain American make. But don't you fret, my money's on Uncle Sam."

She said no more; indeed, it wasn't easy to talk, with the wind drawing
the breath right out of your lungs. She hung onto her hat, and to the
seat, and she had her hands full, let me tell you.

The purr of their motor grew louder, and I didn't like the sound of it a
bit. I turned my head enough to see them slithering along
close--abominably close. I glimpsed old King in the tonneau, and Weaver
humped over the wheel in an unpleasantly businesslike fashion.

I humped over my own wheel and tried to coax her up a bit, as if she had
been the _Yellow Peril_ at the wind-up of a close race. For a minute
I felt hopeful. Then I could tell by the sound that Weaver was crowding up.

"They're gaining, Mr. Carleton!" Beryl's voice had a new ring in it, and
I caught my breath.

"Can you get here and take the wheel and hold her straight without slowing
her?" I asked, looking straight ahead. The trail was level and not a bend
in it for half a mile or so, and I thought there was a chance for us.
"I've a notion that friend Weaver has nerves. I'm going to rattle him, if
I can; but whatever happens, don't loose your grip and spill us out.
I won't hurt them."

Her hands came over and touched mine on the wheel. "I've raced a bit
myself," she said simply. "I can drive her straight."

I wriggled out of the way and stood up, glancing down to make sure she was
all right. She certainly didn't look much like the girl who was afraid
because something "made a funny noise." I suspected that she knew a lot
about motors.

A bullet clipped close. Beryl set her teeth into her lips, but grittily
refrained from turning to look. I breathed freer.

"Now, don't get scared," I warned, balanced myself as well as I could in
the swaying car, and sent a shot back at them.

Weaver came up to my expectations. He ducked, and the car swerved out of
the trail and went wavering spitefully across the prairie. Old King sent
another rifle-bullet my way--I must have made a fine mark, standing up
there--and he was a good shot. I was mighty glad he was getting jolted
enough to spoil his aim.

Weaver came to himself a bit and grabbed frantically for brake and
throttle and steering-wheel all at once, it looked like. He was rattled,
all right; he must have given the wheel a twist the wrong way, for their
car hit a jutting rock and went up in the air like a pitching bronco, and
old King sailed in a beautiful curve out of the tonneau.

I was glad Beryl didn't see that. I watched, not breathing, till I saw
Weaver scramble into view, and Beryl's dad get slowly to his feet and
grope about for his rifle; so I knew there would be no funeral come of it.
I fancy his language was anything but mild, though by that time we were
too far away to hear anything but the faint churning of their motor as
their wheels pawed futilely in the air.

They were harmless for the present. Their car tilted ungracefully on its
side, and, though I hadn't any quarrel with Weaver, I hoped his big
Mercedes was out of business. I put away my gun, sat down, and looked at
Beryl.

She was very white around the mouth, and her hat was hanging by one pin,
I remember; but her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon the brown trail
stretching lazily across the green of the grass-land, and she was driving
that big car like an old hand.

"Well?" her voice was clear, and anxious, and impatient.

"It's all right," I said. I took the wheel from her, got into her place,
and brought the car down to a six-mile gait. "It's all right," I repeated
triumphantly. "They're out of the race--for awhile, at least, and not
hurt, that I could see. Just plain, old-fashioned mad. Don't look like
that, Beryl!" I slowed the car more. "You're glad, aren't you? And you
_will_ marry me, dear?"

She leaned back panting a little from the strain of the last half-hour,
and did things to her hat. I watched her furtively. Then she let her eyes
meet mine; those dear, wonderful eyes of hers! And her mouth was
half-smiling, and very tender.

"You _silly_!" That's every word she said, on my oath.


But I stopped that car dead still and gathered her into my arms, and--Oh,
well, I won't trail off into sentiment, you couldn't appreciate it if
I did.

It's a mercy Weaver's car _was_ done for, or they could have walked right
up and got their hands on us before we'd have known it.




CHAPTER XVII.

The Final Reckoning.


About four o'clock we reached the ferry, just behind a fagged-out team and
a light buggy that had in it two figures--one of whom, at least, looked
familiar to me.

"Frosty, by all that's holy!" I exclaimed when we came close enough to
recognize a man. "I clean forgot, but I was sent to Kenmore this morning
to find that very fellow."

"Don't you know the other?" Beryl laughed teasingly. "I was at their
wedding this morning, and wished them God-speed. I never dreamed I should
be God-speeded myself, directly! I drove Edith, over to Kenmore quite
early in the car, and--"

"Edith!"

"Certainly, Edith. Whom else? Did you think she would be left behind,
pining at your infidelity? Didn't you know they are old, old sweethearts
who had quarreled and parted quite like a story? She used to read your
letters so eagerly to see if you made any remark about him; you did, quite
often, you know. I drove her over to Kenmore, and afterward went off
toward Laurel just to put in the time and not arrive home too soon without
her--which might have been awkward, if father took a notion to go after
her. I'm so glad we came up with them." She stood up and waved her hand at
Edith.

I shouted reassurances to Frosty, who was looking apprehensively back at
us. But it was a facer. I had never once suspected them of such a thing.

"Well," I greeted, when we overtook them and could talk comfortably; "this
is luck. When we get across to Pochette's you can get in with us, Mr. and
Mrs. Miller, and add the desired touch of propriety to _our_ wedding."

They did some staring themselves, then, and Beryl blushed
delightfully--just as she did everything else. She was growing an
altogether bewitching bit of femininity, and I kept thanking my private
Providence that I had had the nerve to kidnap her first and take chances
on her being willing. Honest, I don't believe I'd ever have got her in any
other way.

When we stopped at Pochette's door the girls ran up and tangled their arms
around each other and wasted enough kisses to make Frosty and me swear.
And they whispered things, and then laughed about it, and whispered some
more, and all we could hear was a gurgle of "You dear!" and the like of
that. Frosty and I didn't do much; we just looked at each other and
grinned. And it's long odds we understood each other quite as well as the
girls did after they'd whispered and gurgled an hour.

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