The Girl from Hollywood. Edgar Rice Burroughs

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СКАЧАТЬ is coming, too.”

      “Mother, you here, too?” cried the girl. “How nice and cool it is in here! It would save a lot of trouble if we brought our things, Mother.”

      “We are hoping that at least one of you will, very soon,” said Colonel Pennington, who had risen and now put an arm affectionately about the girl’s shoulders.

      “That’s what I’ve been telling her again this afternoon,” said Custer; “but instead she wants to —”

      The girl turned toward him with a little frown and shake of her head.

      “You’d better run down and tell Allen that we won’t use the horses until after dinner,” she said.

      He grimaced good-naturedly and turned away.

      “I’ll have him take Senator home,” he said. “I can drive you and your mother down in the car when you leave.”

      As he descended the steps that wound among the umbrella trees taking on their new foliage, he saw Allen examining the Apache’s shoes. As he neared them, the horse pulled away from the man, his suddenly lowered hoof striking Allen’s instep. With an oath, the fellow stepped back and swung a vicious kick to the animal’s belly. Almost simultaneously, a hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. He was jerked roughly back, whirled about, and sent spinning a dozen feet away where he stumbled and fell. As he scrambled to his feet, white with rage, he saw the younger Pennington before him.

      “Go to the office and get your time,” ordered Pennington.

      “I’ll get you first, you son of a —”

      A hard fist connecting suddenly with his chin put a painful period to his sentence before it was completed and stopped his mad rush.

      “I’d be more careful of my conversation, Allen, if I were you,” said Pennington quietly. “Just because you’ve been drinking is no excuse for that. Now go on up to the office as I told you to.”

      He had caught the odor of whisky as he jerked the man past him.

      “You goin’ to can me for drinkin’ — you!” demanded Allen.

      “You know what I’m canning you for. You know that’s the one thing that don’t go on Ganado. You ought to get what you gave the Apache, and you’d better beat it before I lose my temper and give it to you!”

      The man rose slowly to his feet. In his mind, he was revolving his chances of successfully renewing his attack; but, presently, his judgment got the better of his desire and his rage. He moved off slowly up the hill toward the house. A few yards, and he turned.

      “I ain’t a goin’ to ferget this, you — you —”

      “Be careful!” Pennington admonished.

      “Nor you ain’t goin’ to ferget it, neither, you fox-trottin’ dude!”

      Allen turned again to the ascent of the steps. Pennington walked to the Apache and stroked his muzzle.

      “Old boy,” he crooned, “there don’t anybody kick you and get away with it, does there?”

      Halfway up, Allen stopped and turned again.

      “You think you’re the whole cheese, you Penningtons, don’t you?” he called back. “With all your money an’ your fine friends! Fine friends, yah! I can put one of ‘em where he belongs any time I want — the darn bootlegger! That’s what he is. You wait — you’ll see!”

      “A-ah, beat it!” sighed Pennington wearily.

      Mounting the Apache, he led Grace’s horse along the foot of the hill toward the smaller ranch house of their neighbor some half mile away. Humming a little tune, he unsaddled Senator, turned him into his corral, saw that there was water in his trough, and emptied a measure of oats into his manger — for the horse had cooled off since the afternoon ride. As neither of the Evans ranch hands appeared, he found a piece of rag and wiped off the Senator’s bit, turned the saddle blankets wet side up to dry, and then, leaving the stable, crossed the yard to mount the Apache.

      A young man in riding clothes appeared simultaneously from the interior of the bungalow, which stood a hundred feet away. Crossing the wide porch, he called to Pennington.

      “Hello there, Penn! What you doing?” he demanded.

      “Just brought Senator in — Grace is up at the house. You’re coming up there, too, Guy.”

      “Sure, but come in here a second. I’ve got something to show you.”

      Pennington crossed the yard and entered the house behind Grace’s brother who conducted him to his bedroom. Here, young Evans unlocked a closet and, after rummaging behind some clothing, emerged with a bottle the shape and dimensions of which were once as familiar in the land of the free as the benign countenance of Lydia E. Pinkham.

      “It’s the genuine stuff, Penn, too!” he declared. Pennington smiled.

      “Thanks, old fellow, but I’ve quit,” he said.

      “Quit!” exclaimed Evans.

      “Yep.”

      “But think of it, man — aged eight years in the wood and bottled in bond before July 1, 1919. The real thing and as cheap as moonshine — only six beans a quart. Can you believe it?”

      “I cannot,” admitted Pennington. “Your conversation listens phony.”

      “But it’s the truth. You may have quit, but one little snifter of this won’t hurt you. Here’s this bottle already open — just try it”; and he proffered the bottle and a glass to the other.

      “Well, it’s pretty hard to resist anything that sounds as good as this does,” remarked Pennington. “I guess one won’t hurt me any.” He poured himself a drink and took it. “Wonderful!” he ejaculated.

      “Here,” said Evans, diving into the closet once more. “I got you a bottle, too, and we can get more.”

      Pennington took the bottle and examined it almost caressingly.

      “Eight years in the wood!” he murmured. “I’ve got to take it, Guy. Must have something to hand down to posterity.” He drew a bill fold from his pocket and counted out six dollars.

      “Thanks,” said Guy. “You’ll never regret it.”

      CHAPTER III

      AS THE TWO young men climbed the hill to the big house a few minutes later, they found the elder Pennington standing at the edge of the driveway that circled the hilltop looking out toward the wide cañon and the distant mountains. In the nearer foreground lay the stable and corrals of the saddle horses, the henhouse with its two long alfalfa runways, and the small dairy barn accommodating the little herd of Guernseys that supplied milk, cream, and butter for the ranch. A quarter of a mile beyond, among the trees, was the red-roofed “cabin” where the unmarried ranch hands ate and slept near the main corrals with their barns, outhouses, and sheds.

      In a hilly pasture СКАЧАТЬ