CHAPTER XX
ALONG THE FOOTHILLS
Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to knowmore about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranchagain. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out herpreferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thoughtof always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world,appealed to her.
With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did notrealize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world wasto him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying himquite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the leastsuperior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this youngwoman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San AndreasValley.
True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and shehad evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there wassomething about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. Hehad known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, whichwas a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable.Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley washimself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her witheyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especiallyfeminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things whichthe genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate.
In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself fromconvention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thoughthe was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the lifehe had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyedtalking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley,just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley'segoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendshipcould become anything more than friendship. And it was upon thatunderstanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why thehurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for theLawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.
Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was atnoon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for notarriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch,superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlesslycleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon.Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he couldthink of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.
Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got bothhosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! Shepromised to be here right after dinner."
"Was Miss Dorry going with you?"
Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's onlya single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for agirl."
"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley.
"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don'tcome as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow."
But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leavingwithout her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, whileDorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally theyrode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be norabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantimethey would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. Thatis, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmyscouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returnedwith a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle.
It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southerndistances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from thedesert.
Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?"she queried, smiling.
"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--"Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.
"Then you know?"
"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."
"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," assertedDorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne willever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Ofcourse, if anything happens to Sears--"
Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle toaddress her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns islike to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on thetrail."
"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.
"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once."
"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothillsand get in the shade?"
"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."
It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley weremerely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possiblybecause he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse tothe left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedinglydevious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scoutwith intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least amonth old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped thereupon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his chargesthat all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest aspell."
The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained thatthere would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyondthem stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them thehills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to thelong slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timbershowed against the eastern sky.
"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward thedistant ridge. "I been up there."
"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was veryangry."
"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.
"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley.
"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to mesometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights.Fairy stories make me tired."
"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.
"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain'tgrowed up till they git married."
Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers.Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worthlistening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at differentobjects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loadedit. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to dowith Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress ofkeeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, butBartley's presence rather awed him.
Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was thesolace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew therewas no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. Hedebated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountainlion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for anopportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trustyrifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of thespring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbitsto elephants.
Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was noreply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and lookfor Jimmy.
Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard toranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quiteimpersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valleywere quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Ofcourse, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, wouldrevolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of SanAndreas had actually d
riven to Los Angeles and back in one of thoselittle machines!
Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcileautomobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have anautomobile snorting and snuffing through my story."
"Your story!"
"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag.I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it."
"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?"
"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very farwrong."
Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been soattentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her,mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, untilthat moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he wasa writer of stories.
"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroinein your story."
"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not havebeen yourself, if you had known. And our visits--"
"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley."
"You really mean it?"
Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she wassincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that hewas rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of hisfirst Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as acompliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers.
"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on AuntJane."
"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which Ireally appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine."
Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" shequeried.
"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--"
"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said'yes.'"
"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?"
Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "Ithink you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like."
"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story untilafter I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooneror later. I hope you will believe that."
"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, insteadof riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and yourheroine were within easy riding distance."
"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actuallyadore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknownquantity--"
"He seems to be, just now."
"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling.
Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--"
"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if youplease. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, untilthe other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears."
"Did he talk much about Sears?"
"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if hehappens to meet him again."
"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothyscornfully.
"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused.
Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her glovesand hat.
"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "Heliked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country hehas ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him."
"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going tostay in San Andreas for a while."
"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get himto settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--"
"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley.
"You might have tried, at least."
"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also findanother heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile.
"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said,finally.
"And that is--"
"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. Isuppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try andkeep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen tobe able to say the right word at the right time."
"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection withCheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ridesouth to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. Hetravels slowly."
"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"
"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."
Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on hisarm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about peopleamount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't justCheyenne. There's Little Jim--"
"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?"
Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo."His horse is there. I can't understand--"
"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us,somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."
"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catchhim. He knows me."
And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked towardthe horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside.
Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brushon the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired ofwaiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Onceclear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesabelow. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidentlythe young hunter was stalking game.
Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him atthat distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to theroad, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn andsee him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horsesand ride over to him," said Bartley.
He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quickhoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartleyturned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chapsflapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at everyjump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he setup his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until hespoke.
"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you."
"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?"
Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to seeif the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardlybraced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chinagain, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the liverybarn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute hedismounted that he meant business.
Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left,fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kickingwickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow inthe face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewedarms around him he knew that he was in for a licking.
Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting freefrom the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull gruntedand staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hulloff his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was upand coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that theonly thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beatinghim down slowly, but surely.
Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struckout, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop arunaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of ablow--then suddenly
he was on his back in the road--and he had no desireto get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he feltcomparatively comfortable.
"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger.
Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's allright, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'."
Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other,Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lipswould not obey his will.
"I'm all right," he mumbled.
"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash yourface at the spring. I fetched your horse."
"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it."
"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"
"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, afterdark."
"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feeldizzy?"
"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is downthere, stalking rabbits."
At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felttenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharpclick--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-tornfrom his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly.He got to his feet and faced Dorothy.
"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just nowI can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if youare alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a merescratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine morethan I did when you arrived."
Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? Imean--about your condition?"
"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and myhead feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on."
"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."