LITMIR.BIZ

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“You must be cramped from sitting still so long. I'll get lunch ready.”

      Madeline got down, glad to stretch her limbs, and began to stroll about. She heard Stillwell throw the harness on the ground and slap his horses. “Roll, you sons-of-guns!” he said. Both horses bent their fore legs, heaved down on their sides, and tried to roll over. One horse succeeded on the fourth try, and then heaved up with a satisfied snort and shook off the dust and gravel. The other one failed to roll over, and gave it up, half rose to his feet, and then lay down on the other side.

      “He's sure going to feel the ground,” said Florence, smiling at Madeline. “Miss Hammond, I suppose that prize horse of yours—White Stockings—would spoil his coat if he were heah to roll in this greasewood and cactus.”

      During lunch-time Madeline observed that she was an object of manifestly great interest to the three cowboys. She returned the compliment, and was amused to see that a glance their way caused them painful embarrassment. They were grown men—one of whom had white hair—yet they acted like boys caught in the act of stealing a forbidden look at a pretty girl.

      “Cowboys are sure all flirts,” said Florence, as if stating an uninteresting fact. But Madeline detected a merry twinkle in her clear eyes. The cowboys heard, and the effect upon them was magical. They fell to shamed confusion and to hurried useless tasks. Madeline found it difficult to see where they had been bold, though evidently they were stricken with conscious guilt. She recalled appraising looks of critical English eyes, impudent French stares, burning Spanish glances—gantlets which any American girl had to run abroad. Compared with foreign eyes the eyes of these cowboys were those of smiling, eager babies.

      “Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Florence, you jest hit the nail on the haid. Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I was wonderin' why them boys nooned hyar. This ain't no place to noon. Ain't no grazin' or wood wuth burnin' or nuthin'. Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs, an' waited fer us. It ain't so surprisin' fer Booly an' Ned—they're young an' coltish—but Nels there, why, he's old enough to be the paw of both you girls. It sure is amazin' strange.”

      A silence ensued. The white-haired cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over the camp-fire, and then straightened up with a very red face.

      “Bill, you're a dog-gone liar,” he said. “I reckon I won't stand to be classed with Booly an' Ned. There ain't no cowboy on this range thet's more appreciatin' of the ladies than me, but I shore ain't ridin' out of my way. I reckon I hev enough ridin' to do. Now, Bill, if you've sich dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin' on the way out?”

      “Nels, I hevn't seen nothin',” he replied, bluntly. His levity disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed round his searching eyes.

      “Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks,” said Nels, and he drew Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large hoofprints in the dust. “I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?”

      “Gene Stewart's roan, or I'm a son-of-a-gun!” exclaimed Stillwell, and he dropped heavily to his knees and began to scrutinize the tracks. “My eyes are sure pore; but, Nels, they ain't fresh.”

      “I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday mornin'.”

      “Wal, what if they was?” Stillwell looked at his cowboy. “It's sure as thet red nose of yourn Gene wasn't ridin' the roan.”

      “Who's sayin' he was? Bill, its more 'n your eyes thet's gettin' old. Jest foller them tracks. Come on.”

      Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering to himself. Some thirty paces or more from the camp-fire he stopped short and again flopped to his knees. Then he crawled about, evidently examining horse tracks.

      “Nels, whoever was straddlin' Stewart's hoss met somebody. An' they hauled up a bit, but didn't git down.”

      “Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin',” replied the cowboy.

      Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for some rods, halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced his steps. He looked at the imperturbable cowboy.

      “Nels, I don't like this a little,” he growled. “Them tracks make straight fer the Peloncillo trail.”

      “Shore,” replied Nels.

      “Wal?” went on Stillwell, impatiently.

      “I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?”

      “I'm thinkin' hard, but I ain't sure.”

      “It was Danny Mains's bronc.”

      “How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply. “Bill, the left front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked. Any of the boys can tell you. I'd know thet track if I was blind.”

      Stillwell's ruddy face clouded and he kicked at a cactus plant.

      “Was Danny comin' or goin'?” he asked.

      “I reckon he was hittin' across country fer the Peloncillo trail. But I ain't shore of thet without back-trailin' him a ways. I was jest waitin' fer you to come up.”

      “Nels, you don't think the boy's sloped with thet little hussy, Bonita?”

      “Bill, he shore was sweet on Bonita, same as Gene was, an' Ed Linton before he got engaged, an' all the boys. She's shore chain-lightnin', that little black-eyed devil. Danny might hev sloped with her all right. Danny was held up on the way to town, an' then in the shame of it he got drunk. But he'll shew up soon.”

      “Wal, mebbe you an' the boys are right. I believe you are. Nels, there ain't no doubt on earth about who was ridin' Stewart's hoss?”

      “Thet's as plain as the hoss's tracks.”

      “Wal, it's all amazin' strange. It beats me. I wish the boys would ease up on drinkin'. I was pretty fond of Danny an' Gene. I'm afraid Gene's done fer, sure. If he crosses the border where he can fight it won't take long fer him to get plugged. I guess I'm gettin' old. I don't stand things like I used to.”

      “Bill, I reckon I'd better hit the Peloncillo trail. Mebbe I can find Danny.”

      “I reckon you had, Nels,” replied Stillwell. “But don't take more 'n a couple of days. We can't do much on the round-up without you. I'm short of boys.”

      That ended the conversation. Stillwell immediately began to hitch up his team, and the cowboys went out to fetch their strayed horses. Madeline had been curiously interested, and she saw that Florence knew it.

      “Things happen, Miss Hammond,” she said, soberly, almost sadly.

      Madeline thought. And then straightway Florence began brightly to hum a tune and to busy herself repacking what was left of the lunch. Madeline conceived a strong liking and respect for this Western girl. She admired the consideration or delicacy or wisdom—what-ever it was—which kept Florence from asking her what she knew or thought or felt about the events that had taken place.

      Soon they were once more bowling along the road down a gradual incline, and then they began to climb a long ridge that had for hours hidden what lay beyond. That climb was rather tiresome, owing to the sun and the dust and the restricted view.

      When they reached the summit Madeline gave a little gasp of pleasure. A deep, gray, smooth valley opened below and sloped up on the other side in little ridges like waves, and these led to the foothills, dotted with clumps of brush or trees, and beyond rose dark mountains, pine-fringed and crag-spired.

      “Wal, Miss Majesty, now we're gettin' somewhere,” said Stillwell, cracking his whip. “Ten miles across this valley an' we'll be in the foothills where the Apaches used to run.”

      “Ten miles!” exclaimed Madeline. “It looks no more than half a mile to me.”

      “Wal, young woman, before you go to ridin' off alone you want to get your eyes corrected to Western distance. Now, what'd you call them black things off there on

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