CHAPTER IX
WOULD YOU BE A "CHARACTER"?
The sun was still a shimmering white blur in the great arc of sky whenFerguson rode around the corner of the cabin in Bear Flat, halted hispony, and sat quietly in the saddle before the door. His rapid eye hadalready swept the horse corral, the sheds, and the stable. If thehorseman that he had seen riding along the ridge had been Radford hewould not arrive for quite a little while. Meantime, he would learnfrom Miss Radford what direction the young man had taken on leaving thecabin.
Ferguson was beginning to take an interest in this game. At the outsethe had come prepared to carry out his contract. In his code of ethicsit was not a crime to shoot a rustler. Experience had taught him thatjustice was to be secured only through drastic action. In the criminalcategory of the West the rustler took a place beside the horse thiefand the man who shot from behind.
But before taking any action Ferguson must be convinced of the guilt ofthe man he was hunting, and nothing had yet occurred that would leadhim to suspect Radford. He did not speculate on what course he wouldtake should circumstances prove Radford to be the thief. Would thefact that he was Mary Radford's brother affect his decision? Hepreferred to answer that question when the time came--if it ever came.One thing was certain; he was not shooting anyone unless theprovocation was great.
His voice was purposely loud when he called "Whoa, Mustard!" to hispony, but his eyes were not purposely bright and expectant as theytried to penetrate the semi-darkness of the interior of the cabin for aglimpse of Miss Radford.
He heard a movement presently, and she was at the door looking at him,her hands folded in her apron, her eyes wide with unmistakable pleasure.
"Why, I never expected to see you again!" she exclaimed.
She came out and stood near the edge of the porch, making a determinedattempt to subdue the flutter of excitement that was revealed in a pairof very bright eyes and a tinge of deep color in her cheeks.
"Then I reckon you thought I had died, or stampeded out of thiscountry?" he answered, grinning. "I told you I'd be comin' back here."
But the first surprise was over, and she very properly retired to theshelter of a demurely polite reserve.
"So you did!" she made reply. "You told me you were comin' over to seemy brother. But he is not here now."
Had he been less wise he would have reminded her that it had been shewho had told him that he might come to see her brother. But to replythus would have discomfited her and perhaps have brought a sharp reply.He had no doubt that some of the other Two Diamond men had made similarmistakes, but not he. He smiled broadly. "Mebbe I did," he said;"sometimes I'm mighty careless in handlin' the truth. Mebbe I thoughtthen that I'd come over to see your brother. But we have differentthoughts at different times. You say your brother ain't here now?"
"He left early this morning to go down the river," she informed him."He said he would be back before sun-down."
His eyes narrowed perceptibly. "Down" the river meant that Radford'strail led in the general direction of the spot where he had seen thefleeing horseman and the dead Two Diamond cow with her orphaned calf.Yet this proved nothing. Radford might easily have been miles awaywhen the deed had been done. For the present there was nothing hecould do, except to wait until Radford returned, to form whateverconclusions he might from the young man's appearance when he shouldfind a Two Diamond man at the cabin. But anxiety to see the brotherwas not the only reason that would keep him waiting.
He removed his hat and sat regarding it with a speculative eye. MissRadford smiled knowingly.
"I expect I have been scarcely polite," she said. "Won't you get offyour horse?"
"Why, yes," he responded, obeying promptly; "I expect Mustard's beendoin' a lot of wonderin' why I didn't get off before."
If he had meant to imply that her invitation had been tardy he had hitthe mark fairly, for Miss Radford nibbled her lips with suppressedmirth. The underplay of meaning was not the only subtleness of thespeech, for the tone in which it had been uttered was rich ininterrogation, as though its author, while realizing the pony's dimnessof perception, half believed the animal had noticed Miss Radford'slapse of hospitality.
"I'm thinkin' you are laughin' at me again, ma'am," he said as he cameto the edge of the porch and stood looking up at her, grinning.
"Do you think I am laughing?" she questioned, again biting her lips tokeep them from twitching.
"No-o. I wouldn't say that you was laughin' with your lips--laughin'regular. But there's a heap of it inside of you--tryin' to get out."
"Don't you ever laugh inwardly?" she questioned.
He laughed frankly. "I expect there's times when I do."
"But you haven't lately?"
"Well, no, I reckon not."
"Not even when you thought your horse might have noticed that I hadneglected to invite you off?"
"Did I think that?" he questioned.
"Of course you did."
"Well, now," he drawled. "An' so you took that much interest in what Iwas thinkin'! I reckon people who write must know a lot."
Her face expressed absolute surprise. "Why, who told you that Iwrote?" she questioned.
"Nobody told me, ma'am. I just heard it. I heard a man tell anotherman that you had threatened to make him a character in a book you waswritin'."
Her face was suddenly convulsed. "I imagine I know whom you mean," shesaid. "A young cowboy from the Two Diamond used to annoy me quite alittle, until one day I discouraged him."
His smile grew broad at this answer. But he grew serious instantly.
"I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am," hesaid.
"You don't? Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!"
"I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write. I'veheard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' theyjust can't help writin'--any more'n I can help comin' over here to seeyour brother. You see, they like it a heap."
They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turnedthe conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight. But shedid purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so sheadroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply hissimilitude.
"Some of that is true," she returned, giving him a look on her ownaccount; "especially about a writer loving his work. But I don't thinkone needs to be a 'special' kind of person. One must be merely a keenobserver."
He shook his head doubtfully. "I see everything that goes on aroundme," he returned. "Most of the time I can tell pretty near what sort aman is by lookin' at his face and watching the way he moves. But Ireckon I'd never make a writer. Times when I look at this country--ata nice sunset, for instance, or think what a big place this countryis--I feel like sayin' somethin' about it; somethin' inside of me seemskind of breathless-like--kind of scarin' me. But I couldn't writeabout it."
She had felt it, too, and more than once had sat down with her pencilto transcribe her thoughts. She thought that it was not exactly fear,but an overpowering realization of her own atomity; a sort of cringingof the soul away from the utter vastness of the world; a growingconsciousness of the unlimited bigness of things; an insight of theinfinite power of God--the yearning of the soul for understanding ofthe mysteries of life and existence.
She could sympathize with him, for she knew exactly how he had felt.She turned and looked toward the distant mountains, behind which thesun was just then swimming--a great ball of shimmering gold, whichthrew off an effulgent expanse of yellow light that was slowly turninginto saffron and violet as it met the shadows below the hills.
"Whoever saw such colors?" she asked suddenly, her face transfixed withsheer delight.
"It's cert'nly pretty, ma'am."
She clapped her hands. "It is magnificent!" she declaredenthusiastically. She came closer to him and stretched an arm towardthe mountains. "Look at that saffron shade which is just now blendingwith th
e streak of pearl striking the cleft between those hills! Seethe violet tinge that has come into that sea of orange, and the purplehaze touching the snow-caps of the mountains. And now the flaming red,the deep yellow, the slate blue; and now that gauzy veil of lilac,rose, and amethyst, fading and dulling as the darker shadows rise fromthe valleys!"
Her flashing eyes sought Ferguson's. Twilight had suddenly come.
"It is the most beautiful country in the world!" she said positively.
He was regarding her with gravely humorous eyes. "It cert'nly ispretty, ma'am," he returned. "But you can't make a whole book out ofone sunset."
Her eyes flashed. "No," she returned. "Nor can I make a whole bookout of only one character. But I am going to try and draw a wordpicture of the West by writing of the things that I see. And I amgoing to try and have some real characters in it. I shall try to havethem talk and act naturally."
She smiled suddenly and looked at him with a significant expression."And the hero will not be an Easterner--to swagger through the pages ofthe book, scaring people into submission through the force of hiscompelling personality. He will be a cowboy who will do things afterthe manner of the country--a real, unaffected care-free puncher!"
"Have you got your eye on such a man?" he asked, assuring himself thathe knew of no man who would fill the requirements she had named.
"I don't mind telling you that I have," she returned, looking straightat him.
It suddenly burst upon him. His face crimsoned. He felt like bolting.But he managed to grin, though she could see that the grin was forced.
"It's gettin' late, ma'am," he said, as he turned toward his pony. "Ireckon I'll be gettin' back to the Two Diamond."
She laughed mockingly as he settled into the saddle. There was aclatter of hoofs from around the corner of the cabin.
"Wait!" she commanded. "Ben is coming!"
But there was a rush of wind that ruffled her apron, a clatter, and shecould hear Mustard's hoofs pounding over the matted mesquite thatcarpeted the clearing. Ferguson had fled.