The Heart of Thunder Mountain. Edfrid A. Bingham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      There were more buildings than at Huntington’s, but she saw no beds of flowers, no wide veranda screened with potted plants; a certain bareness and air of inhospitality, she thought. No tea and angel cake for visitors! Behind the ranch house were two cottages of unpainted pine, scorched to a yellow-brown by many a summer sun. One of them, doubtless, was the hermit’s lodge. The barn, larger than Seth’s, had a red roof, newly painted. And in one of the corrals–yes–the flash of a golden hide.

      “Sunnysides!” murmured Marion.

      Then her heart stood still. She had descried the figure of a man seated with his back against the bars of this corral. But it was not Philip Haig; Sunnysides’ guard, no doubt, for he never left his post until relieved by another an hour or so later, when the dinner bell had been rung at the door of the ranch house.

      She had scarcely time to feel her disappointment before a man emerged from the stable leading a saddle horse. Another immediately followed, and this time there was no mistake. The second man was Philip Haig. He mounted quickly, and started off; then stopped to address a word or two, apparently, to the man at the stable door; and finally galloped past the ranch house and the cottages, and up the slope behind them toward the pines, across the valley from where she sat.

      “Oh!” cried Marion, in a tone of vexation and reproach.

      She watched him until he had disappeared among the trees; and tears started in her eyes. Would he always be riding away from her, behind the hills, the woods, a turn of the road? She sat a while in deep dejection; but not for long. Her spirit was too resilient for futile moping, and her purpose too firmly held to be abandoned on one reverse. She reflected that if he had gone he must as certainly return; and so, with a toss of her head, she presently arose, and fetched her raincoat and her luncheon from the saddle. The coat she spread out on the ground, seated herself on it with her back against the rock, and settled down to eat, and watch, and wait.

      Morning mounted hot and humming into noon, and noon dropped languidly into afternoon. The blazing sun centered his rays upon her; insects found and pestered her; discomfort cramped her limbs, and weariness weighted down her eyelids. Twice she dozed, and wakened with a start of fear lest she had slept her chance away. But each time she was reassured by a hurried survey of the group of buildings, where no one stirred, and there was no sign of Philip Haig. So the hours dragged their slow length along.

      It was late in the afternoon before her vigil was rewarded. Not from just the direction in which he had galloped away, but from farther up the valley, Haig reappeared. He rode as rapidly as before, straight to the door of the stable, reined up a moment there, and was off again,–this time down the valley on a white road that was visible to Marion until it curved behind the distant point of the ridge on which she sat.

      “Now where’s he going?” she murmured, wrinkling her forehead as she saw him once more vanish from her sight.

      She did not know that road, but guessed that it joined the main highway somewhere far down the Brightwater. No matter! Here was her opportunity; for she saw, with quick appreciation, that she would now be able to place herself between him and the ranch buildings without showing herself to the men at the corrals. And then? She could not “hold him up” like a highwayman; and if she did not stop him he would raise his hat (perhaps), and ride past her without a word. And how was she to stop him? She had come there with a very definite purpose, but with no clear plan, trusting to the inspiration of the moment. And now the moment had arrived; but where was the inspiration? She had risen impulsively to her feet, and stood staring between narrowed eyelids, and beneath a puckered brow, at the white road, now quite empty again. Then suddenly–

      “Ah!” she gasped.

      And thereupon she blushed, and looked furtively around her, as if she had been caught in some doubtful, if not discreditable, act. But there was no time for moral subtleties. She staggered–for her legs were stiff from inaction–to her pony, replaced her raincoat behind the saddle, mounted in hot haste, and rode down the steep hill toward the houses. At a little distance from them the road she traveled joined the other. There she turned abruptly, and followed the unfamiliar road until she was safely out of sight of any chance observer at the barn, and yet not so far from the trail she had just left but that she could return to it if, by any chance, he should come back that way.

      Dismounting quickly at the chosen spot, she turned Tuesday until he stood squarely across the road. Then her nimble fingers flew at the cinches of the saddle.

      “There now!” she exclaimed, hot with excitement and exertion.

      She stepped back to view her handiwork, and laughed nervously. Next she drew a tiny mirror and a bit of chamois skin from her bosom, and swiftly removed some of the dust and moisture from her flushed face. Then her hair, always somewhat unruly, required a touch or two. That done, she smoothed down the gray coat over her slender hips, adjusted the gray silk tie at her throat, and waited.

      He came, in his habitual cloud of dust; pulled up his pony within ten feet of the obstruction; saw the saddle hanging at a dangerous angle over Tuesday’s side; and accepted the obvious conclusion that Miss Marion Gaylord, looking very warm and embarrassed, but certainly very pretty in her confusion, had narrowly escaped a fall.

      “I think I’d better help you with that, Miss Gaylord,” he said.

      “Thank you!” she said, with an appealing reluctance. “I can do it–I often saddle my own horse, and–”

      “I should judge that you had saddled him this time,” he interrupted her to say, without the slightest trace of irony in his tone.

      She bit her lip, as she silently made way for him, and stood at Tuesday’s head, stroking his neck with one small, gloved hand while Haig adjusted the blanket, fitted the saddle firmly, and tightened the double cinch. He was dressed in the nondescript costume he had worn at their first meeting. That same hat, uniquely insolent, soiled and limp and disreputable, was stuck on the back of his head, revealing a full, clean-moulded brow, over which, at one side, his thick black hair fell carelessly. His eyes were calm gray rather than stormy black to-day, but a gray that was singularly dark and deep and luminous. His manner was in the strangest contrast with the two different moods in which she had already seen him–as if the fires were out, as if all emotion and interest had been dissolved in listlessness. And she divined at once that her chance of success was small.

      “That will hold, I think,” he said gravely; and started toward his horse.

      “It wasn’t Tuesday’s fault,” she said eagerly.

      Haig paused, on one foot as it were, and looked over his shoulder.

      “It was fortunate for you that he’s been well gentled,” he said. “You should look to your cinches rather often when you ride these hills.”

      (“You should keep your feet dry, and come in when it rains,” he might as well have said, she thought angrily.)

      “Yes, it was careless of me,” she answered, trying to say it brightly, but really wanting to shriek.

      “It happens to everybody once in a while,” he said.

      On that, he stepped to his pony, put a foot in the stirrup, and one hand on the saddle horn, and paused.

      She could easily have flopped down in the road, and wept. Once he had raged at her, once he had thrilled her with a look, and now he was simply dismissing her,–leaving her, as her father would have put it, “to stew in her own juice.” She saw all her elaborate strategy, her long vigil on the hill, her struggle with the saddle, her appealing’ glances–all, all about to go for nothing.

      “He СКАЧАТЬ