Her Prairie Knight Page 8

  "Dick," she called, in an anxious little voice, "Rex has run away from me. What shall I do?"

  Dick straightened stiffly, his hands upon his aching loins, and peered through the smoke at her.

  "I guess the only thing to do, then, is to get into the wagon over there. You can drive, Trix, if you want to, and that will give us another man here. I was just going to have some one take you home; now—the Lord only knows!—you're liable to have to stay till morning. Rex will go home, all right; you needn't worry about him."

  He bent to the work again, and she could hear the wet sack thud, thud upon the ground. Other sacks and blankets went thud, thud, and down here at close range the fire was not so beautiful as it had been from the hilltop. Down here the glamour was gone. She climbed up to the high wagon seat and took the reins from the man, who immediately seized upon a sack and went off to the fight. She felt that she was out of touch. She was out on the prairie at night, miles away from any house, driving a water-wagon for the men to put out a prairie fire. She had driven a coaching-party once on a wager; but she had never driven a lumber-wagon with barrels of water before. She could not think of any girl she knew who had.

  It was a new experience, certainly, but she found no pleasure in it; she was tired and sleepy, and her eyes and throat smarted cruelly with the smoke. She looked back to the hill she had just left, and it seemed a long, long time since she sat upon a rock up there and watched the little, new fire grow and grow, and the strange shadows spring up from nowhere and beat it vindictively till it died.

  Again she wondered vaguely who had done it; not Keith Cameron, surely, for Sir Redmond had all but accused him openly of setting the range afire. Would he stamp out a blaze that was just reaching a size to do mischief, if left a little longer? No one would have seen it for hours, probably. He would undoubtedly have let it run, unless—But who else could have set the fire? Who else would want to see the Pine Ridge country black and barren? Dick said Keith Cameron would not sit down and take his medicine—perhaps Dick knew he would do this thing.

  As the fighters moved on across the coulee she drove the wagon to keep pace with them. Often a man would run up to the wagon, climb upon a wheel and dip a frayed gunny sack into a barrel, lift it out and run with it, all dripping, to the nearest point of the fire. Her part was to keep the wagon at the most convenient place. She began to feel the importance of her position, and to take pride in being always at the right spot. From the calm appreciation of the picturesque side, she drifted to the keen interest of the one who battles against heavy odds. The wind had veered again, and the flames rushed up the long coulee like an express train. But the path it left was growing narrower every moment. Keith Cameron was doing grand work with his crew upon the other side, and the space between them was shortening perceptibly.

  Beatrice found herself watching the work of the Cross men. If they were doing it for effect, they certainly were acting well their part. She wondered what would happen when the two crews met, and the danger was over. Would Sir Redmond call Keith Cameron to account for what he had done? If he did, what would Keith say? And which side would Dick take? Very likely, she thought, he would defend Keith Cameron, and shield him if he could.

  Beatrice found herself crying quietly, and shivering, though the air was sultry with the fire. For the life of her, she could not tell why she cried, but she tried to believe it was the smoke in her eyes. Perhaps it was.

  The sky was growing gray when the two crews met. The orange lights were gone, and Dick, with a spiteful flop of the black rag which had been a good, new sack, stamped out the last tiny red tongue of the fire. The men stood about in awkward silence, panting with heat and weariness. Sir Redmond was ostentatiously filling his pipe. Beatrice knew him by his straight, soldierly pose. In the drab half-light they were all mere black outlines of men, and, for the most part, she could not distinguish one from another. Keith Cameron she knew; instinctively by his slim height, and by the way he carried his head. Unconsciously, she leaned down from the high seat and listened for what would come next.

  Keith seemed to be making a cigarette. A match flared and lighted his face for an instant, then was pinched out, and he was again only a black shape in the half-darkness.

  "Well, I'm waiting for what you've got to say, Sir Redmond." His voice cut sharply through the silence. If he had known Beatrice was out there in the wagon he would have spoken lower, perhaps.

  "I fancy I said all that is necessary just now," Sir Redmond answered calmly. "You know what I think. From now on I shall act."

  "And what are you going to do, then?" Keith's voice was clear and unperturbed, as though he asked for the sake of being polite.

  "That," retorted Sir Redmond, "is my own affair. However, since the matter concerns you rather closely, I will say that when I have the evidence I am confident I shall find, I shall seek the proper channels for retribution. There are laws in this country, aimed to protect a man's property, I take it. I warn you that I shall not spare—the guilty."

  "Dick, it's up to you next. I want to know where you stand."

  "At your back, Keith, right up to the finish. I know you; you fight fair."

  "All right, then. I didn't think you'd go back on a fellow. And I tell you straight up, Sir Redmond Hayes, I'm not out touching matches to range land—not if it belonged to the devil himself. I've got some feeling for the dumb brutes that would have to suffer. You can get right to work hunting evidence, and be damned! You're dead welcome to all you can find; and in this part of the country you won't be able to buy much! You know very well you deserve to get your rope crossed, or you wouldn't be on the lookout for trouble. Come, boys; let's hit the trail. So long, Dick!"

  Beatrice watched them troop off to their horses, heard them mount and go tearing off across the burned coulee bottom toward home. Dick came slowly over to her.

  "I expect you're good and tired, sis. You've made a hand, all right, and helped us a whole lot, I can tell you. I'll drive now, and we'll hit the high places."

  Beatrice smiled wanly. Not one of her Eastern acquaintances would have recognized Beatrice Lansell, the society beauty, in this remarkable-looking young woman, attired in a most haphazard fashion, with a face grimed like a chimney sweep, red eyelids drooping over tired, smarting eyes, and disheveled, ash-filled hair topped by a man's gray felt hat. When she smiled her teeth shone dead white, like a negro's.

  Dick regarded her critically, one foot on the wheel hub. "Where did you get hold of Keith Cameron's hat?" he inquired.

  Beatrice snatched the hat from her head with childish petulance, and looked as if she were going to throw it viciously upon the ground. If her face had been clean Dick might have seen how the blood had rushed into her cheeks; as it was, she was safe behind a mask of soot. She placed the hat back upon her head, feeling, privately, a bit foolish.

  "I supposed it was yours. I took it off the halltree." The dignity of her tone was superb, but, unfortunately, it did not match her appearance of rakish vagabondage.

  Dick grinned through a deep layer of soot "Well, it happens to be Keith's. He lost it in the wind the other day, and I found it and took it home. It's too bad you've worn his hat all night and didn't know it. You ought to see yourself. Your own mother won't know you, Trix."

  "I can't look any worse than you do. A negro would be white by comparison. Do get in, so we can start! I'm tired to death, and half-starved." After these unamiable remarks, she refused to open her lips.

  They drove silently in the gray of early morning, and the empty barrels danced monotonously their fantastic jig in the back of the wagon. Sootyfaced cowboys galloped wearily over the prairie before them, and Sir Redmond rode moodily alongside.

  Of a truth, the glamour was gone.

  CHAPTER 11. Sir Redmond Waits His Answer.

  Beatrice felt distinctly out of sorts the next day, and chose an hour for her ride when she felt reasonably secure from unwelcome company. But when she went out into the sunshine there was Sir Redmond waiting
with Rex and his big gray. Beatrice was not exactly elated at the sight, but she saw nothing to do but smile and make the best of it. She wanted to be alone, so that she could dream along through the hills she had learned to love, and think out some things which troubled her, and decide just how she had best go about winning Rex for herself; it had become quite necessary to her peace of mind that she should teach Dick and Keith Cameron a much-needed lesson.

  "It has been so long since we rode together," he apologized. "I hope you don't mind my coming along."

  "Oh, no! Why should I mind?" Beatrice smiled upon him in friendly fashion. She liked Sir Redmond very much—only she hoped he was not going to make love. Somehow, she did not feel in the mood for love-making just then.

  "I don't know why, I'm sure. But you seem rather fond of riding about these hills by yourself. One should never ask why women do things, I fancy. It seems always to invite disaster."

  "Does it?" Beatrice was not half-listening. They were passing, just then, the suburbs of a "dog town," and she was never tired of watching the prairie-dogs stand upon their burrows, chip-chip defiance until fear overtook their impertinence, and then dive headlong deep into the earth. "I do think a prairie-dog is the most impudent creature alive and the most shrewish. I never pass but I am scolded by these little scoundrels till my ears burn. What do you think they say?"

  "They're probably inviting you to stop with them and be their queen, and are scolding because your heart is hard and you only laugh and ride on."

  "Queen of a prairie-dog town! Dear me! Why this plaintive mood?"

  "Am I plaintive? I do not mean to be, I'm sure."

  "You don't appear exactly hilarious," she told him. "I can't see what is getting the matter with us all. Mama and your sister are poor company, even for each other, and Dick is like a bear. One can't get a civil word out of him. I'm not exactly amiable, myself, either; but I relied upon you to keep the mental temperature up to normal, Sir Redmond."

  "Perhaps it's a good thing we shall not stop here much longer. I must confess I don't fancy the country—and Mary is downright homesick. She wants to get back to her parish affairs; she's afraid some rheumatic old woman needs coddling with jelly and wine, and that sort of thing. I've promised to hurry through the business here, and take her home. But I mean to see that Pine Ridge fence in place before I go; or, at least, see it well under way."

  "I'm sure Dick will attend to it properly," Beatrice remarked, with pink cheeks. If she remembered what she had threatened to tell Sir Redmond, she certainly could not have asked for a better opportunity. She was reminding herself at that moment that she always detested a tale bearer.

  "Your brother Dick is a fine fellow, and I have every confidence in him; but you must see yourself that he is swayed, more or less, by his friendship for—his neighbors. It is only a kindness to take the responsibility off his shoulders till the thing is done. I'm sure he will feel better to have it so."

  "Yes," she agreed; "I think you're right. Dick always was very soft-hearted, and, right or wrong, he clings to his friends." Then, rather hastily, as though anxious to change the trend of the conversation: "Of course, your sister will insist on keeping Dorman with her. I shall miss that little scamp dreadfully, I'm afraid." The next minute she saw that she had only opened a subject she dreaded even more.

  "It is something to know that there is even one of us that you will miss," Sir Redmond observed. Something in his tone hurt.

  "I shall miss you all," she said hastily. "It has been a delightful summer."

  "I wish I might know just what element made it delightful. I wish—"

  "I scarcely think it has been any particular element," she broke in, trying desperately to stave off what she felt in his tone. "I love the wild, where I can ride, and ride, and never meet a human being—where I can dream and dally and feast my eyes on a landscape man has not touched. I have lived most of my life in New York, and I love nature so well that I'm inclined to be jealous of her. I want her left free to work out all her whims in her own way. She has a keen sense of humor, I think. The way she modeled some of these hills proves that she loves her little jokes. I have seen where she cut deep, fearsome gashes, with sides precipitous, as though she had some priceless treasure hidden away in the deep, where man cannot despoil it. And if you plot and plan, and try very hard, you may reach the bottom at last and find the treasure—nothing. Or, perhaps, a tiny little stream, as jealously guarded as though each drop were priceless."

  Sir Richmond rode for a few minutes in silence. When he spoke, it was abruptly.

  "And is that all? Is there nothing to this delightful summer, after all, but your hills?"

  "Oh, of course, I—it has all been delightful. I shall hate to go back home, I think." Beatrice was a bit startled to find just how much she would hate to go back and wrap herself once more in the conventions of society life. For the first time since she could remember, she wanted her world to stand still.

  Sir Redmond went doggedly to the point he had in mind and heart.

  "I hoped, Beatrice, you would count me, too. I've tried to be patient. You know, don't you, that I love you?"

  "You've certainly told me often enough," she retorted, in a miserable attempt at her old manner.

  "And you've put me off, and laughed at me, and did everything under heaven but answer me fairly. And I've acted the fool, no doubt. I know it. I've no courage before a woman. A curl of your lip, and I was ready to cut and run. But I can't go on this way forever—I've got to know. I wish I could talk as easy as I can fight; I'd have settled the thing long ago. Where other men can plead their cause, I can say just the one thing—I love you, Beatrice. When I saw you first, in the carriage I loved you then. You had some fur—brown fur—snuggled under your chin, and the pink of your cheeks, and your dear, brown eyes shining and smiling above—Good God! I've always loved you! From the beginning of the world, I think! I'd be good to you, Beatrice, and I believe I could make you happy—if you give me the chance."

  Something in Beatrice's throat ached cruelly. It was the truth, and she knew it. He did love her, and the love of a brave man is not a thing to be thrust lightly aside. But it demanded such a lot in return! More, perhaps, than she could give. A love like that—a love that gives everything—demands everything in return. Anything less insults it.

  She stole a glance at him. Sir Redmond was looking straight before him, with the fixed gaze that sees nothing. There was the white line around his mouth which Beatrice had seen once before. Again that griping ache was in her throat, till she could have cried out with the pain of it. She wanted to speak, to say something—anything—which would drive that look from his face.

  While her mind groped among the jumble of words that danced upon her tongue, and that seemed, all of them, so pitifully weak and inadequate, she heard the galloping hoofs of a horse pounding close behind. A choking cloud of dust swept down upon them, and Keith, riding in the midst, reined out to pass. He lifted his hat. His eyes challenged Beatrice, swept coldly the face of her companion, and turned again to the trail. He swung his heels backward, and Redcloud broke again into the tireless lope that carried him far ahead, until there was only a brown dot speeding over the prairie.

  Sir Redmond waited until Keith was far beyond hearing, then he filled his lungs deeply and looked at Beatrice. "Don't you feel you could trust me—and love me a little?"

  Beatrice was deadly afraid she was going to cry, and she hated weeping women above all things. "A little wouldn't do," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I should want to love you as much—quite as much as you deserve, Sir Redmond, or not at all. I'm afraid I can't. I wish I could, though. I—I think I should like to love you; but perhaps I haven't much heart. I like you very much—better than I ever liked any one before; but oh, I wish you wouldn't insist on an answer! I don't know, myself, how I feel. I wish you had not asked me—yet. I tried not to let you."

  "A man can keep his heart still for a certain time, Beatrice, but not for al
ways. Some time he will say what his heart commands, if the chance is given him; the woman can't hold him back. I did wait and wait, because I thought you weren't ready for me to speak. And—you don't care for anybody else?"

  "Of course I don't. But I hate to give up my freedom to any one, Sir Redmond. I want to be free—free as the wind that blows here always, and changes and changes, and blows from any point that suits its whim, without being bound to any rule."

  "Do you think I'm an ogre, that will lock you in a dungeon, Beatrice? Can't you see that I am not threatening your freedom? I only want the right to love you, and make you happy. I should not ask you to go or stay where you did not please, and I'd be good to you, Beatrice!"

  "I don't think it would matter," cried Beatrice, "if you weren't. I should love you because I couldn't help myself. I hate doing things by rule, I tell you. I couldn't care for you because you were good to me, and I ought to care; it must be because I can't help myself. And I—" She stopped and shut her teeth hard together; she felt sure she should cry in another minute if this went on.

  "I believe you do love me, Beatrice, and your rebellious young American nature dreads surrender." He tried to look into her eyes and smile, but she kept her eyes looking straight ahead. Then Sir Redmond made the biggest blunder of his life, out of the goodness of his heart, and because he hated to tease her into promising anything.

  "I won't ask you to tell me now, Beatrice," he said gently. "I want you to be sure; I never could forgive myself if you ever felt you had made a mistake. A week from to-night I shall ask you once more—and it will be for the last time. After that—But I won't think—I daren't think what it would be like if you say no. Will you tell me then, Beatrice?"

  The heart of Beatrice jumped into her throat. At that minute she was very near to saying yes, and having done with it. She was quite sure she knew, then, what her answer would be in a week. The smile she gave him started Sir Redmond's blood to racing exultantly. Her lips parted a little, as if a word were there, ready to be spoken; but she caught herself back from the decision. Sir Redmond had voluntarily given her a week; well, then, she would take it, to the last minute.