On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ have kissed her –– if he had not been afraid.

      “Rufus,” she said at last, “you are a poet.” And then she dried her eyes and smiled.

      “Let me read some more,” she pleaded; but Hardy held the bundle resolutely away.

      “No,” he said gently, “it is enough to have pleased you once. You know poetry is like music; it is an expression of thoughts which are more than thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soul like the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound of breakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent their fragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush of waters. And when one has caught the music of another’s song then it is best to stop before –– before some discord comes. Lucy,” he began, as his soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what, “Lucy –– ”

      He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words.

      “Yes?” she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a great longing –– that he knew –– a great desire, unsensed because unknown –– but deep, deep.

      “Yes –– Rufus?” she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone out of his eyes and he gazed at her strangely.

      “It is nothing,” he murmured, “nothing. I –– I have forgotten what I was going to say.” He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. “The thoughts of a would-be poet,” he mused, cynically. “How valuable they are –– how the world must long for them –– when he even forgets them himself! I guess I’d better keep still and let you talk a while,” he ended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence.

      “Isn’t it time we returned?” she asked, after a while. “You know I have a great deal to do.”

      “Oh, that’s all right,” said Hardy, easily, “I’ll help you. What do you want to do –– clean house?”

      Lucy could have cried at her hero’s sudden lapse –– from Parnassus to the scullery, from love to the commonplaces of living; but she had schooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman’s part. Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and, furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of a penitent.

      “Is my garden such a poor place,” he inquired gravely, “that you must leave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen Chupa Rosa.”

      “Well, show me Chupa Rosa –– and then we will go.”

      She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardy knew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard he could not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried awkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yet crossed a river or healed a breach.

      “Here is her nest,” he said, “almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it is made out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round the twig. Don’t you want to see the eggs? Look!” He bent the limb until the dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, were revealed –– but still she did not smile.

      “Oh, stop, Rufus!” she cried, “what will the mother-bird think? She might be frightened at us and leave her nest. Come, let’s hurry away before she sees us!”

      She turned and walked quickly down the valley, never pausing to look back, even when Rufus stopped to pluck a flower from among the rocks.

      “Here,” he said, after he had helped her down the Indian stairway; and when she held up her hand, passively, he dropped a forget-me-not into it.

      “Oh!” she cried, carried away for a moment, “do they grow down here?”

      “Yes,” he said, soberly, “even here. And they –– sometimes you find them where you wouldn’t expect –– in rough places, you know, and among the stones. I –– I hope you will keep it,” he said, simply. And Lucy divined what was in his heart, better perhaps than he himself; but when at last she was alone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a long time the house was very still.

      CHAPTER XIII

       A SNOW-SCENE

       Table of Contents

      There was a big fire out under the mesquite that night and a band of cowboys, in all the bravery of spurs, shaps, and pistols, romped around it in a stage-struck exuberance of spirits. The night was hardly cold enough to call for fringed leather chaparejos, and their guns should have been left in their blankets; nor are long-shanked Texas spurs quite the proper thing about camp, having a dirty way of catching and tripping their wearers; but the rodéo outfit felt that it was on dress parade and was trying its best to look the cowboy part. Bill Lightfoot even had a red silk handkerchief draped about his neck, with the slack in front, like a German napkin; and his cartridge belt was slung so low that it threatened every moment to drop his huge Colt’s revolver into the dirt –– but who could say a word?

      The news of Judge Ware’s visit had passed through the Four Peaks country like the rumor of an Indian uprising and every man rode into Hidden Water with an eye out for calico, some with a foolish grin, some downcast and reserved, some swaggering in the natural pride of the lady’s man. But a becoming modesty had kept Lucy Ware indoors, and Kitty had limited herself to a furtive survey of the scene from behind what was left of Sallie Winship’s lace curtains. With the subtle wisdom of a rodéo boss Jefferson Creede had excused himself to the ladies at the first sound of jangling horse-bells, and now he kept resolutely away from the house, busying himself with the manifold duties of his position. To the leading questions of Bill Lightfoot and the “fly bunch” which followed his lead he turned a deaf ear or replied in unsatisfying monosyllables; and at last, as the fire lit up the trees and flickered upon their guns and silver-mounted trappings and no fair maids sallied forth to admire them, the overwrought emotions of the cowboys sought expression in song.

      “Oh my little girl she lives in the town,”

      chanted Lightfoot, and the fly bunch, catching the contagion, joined promptly in on the refrain:

      “A toodle link, a toodle link, a too –– oo-dle a day!”

      At this sudden and suggestive outbreak Jeff Creede surveyed Bill Lightfoot coldly and puffed on his cigarette. Bill was always trying to make trouble.

      “And every time I see ’er, she asts me f’r a gown,”

      carolled the leading cowboy; and the bunch, not to seem faint-hearted, chimed in again:

      “Reladin to reladin, and reladin to relate!”

      Now they were verging toward the sensational part of the ballad, the place where a real gentleman would quit, but Lightfoot only tossed his head defiantly.

      “O-Oh –– ” he began, and then he stopped with his mouth open. The rodéo boss had suddenly risen to an upright position and fixed him with his eye.

      “I like to see you boys enjoyin’ yourselves,” he observed, quietly, “but please don’t discuss politics or religion while them ladies is over at the house. You better switch off onto ‘My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean,’ Bill.” And Bill СКАЧАТЬ