The Trail of the Axe: A Story of Red Sand Valley. Cullum Ridgwell
twisted wryly, and she pointed at the lintel of the door. "Please sit down there," she commanded. Then she laughed again. "I want to talk to you, and – and I have no desire to dislocate my neck."
He made her feel so absurdly small; she was never comfortable unless he was sitting down.
The man grinned humorously at her imperious tone, and sat down. They were great friends, these two. Betty looked upon him as a very dear, big, ugly brother to whom she could always carry all her little worries and troubles, and ever be sure of a sympathetic adviser. It never occurred to her that Dave could be anything dearer to anybody. He was just Dave – dear old Dave, an appellation which seemed to fit him exactly.
The thought of him as a lover was quite impossible. It never entered her head. Probably the only people in Malkern who ever considered the possibility of Dave as a lover were his own mother, and perhaps Mrs. Tom Chepstow. But then they were wiser than most of the women of the village. Besides, doubtless his mother was prejudiced, and Mrs. Tom, in her capacity as the wife of the Rev. Tom Chepstow, made it her business to study the members of her husband's parish more carefully than the other women did. But to the ordinary observer he certainly did not suggest the lover. He was so strong, so cumbersome, so unromantic. Then his ways were so deliberate, so machine-like. It almost seemed as though he had taken to himself something of the harsh precision of his own mills.
On the other hand, his regard for Betty was a matter of less certainty. Good comradeship was the note he always struck in their intercourse, but oftentimes there would creep into his gray eyes a look which spoke of a warmth of feeling only held under because his good sense warned him of the utter hopelessness of it. He was too painfully aware of the quality of Betty's regard for him to permit himself any false hopes.
Betty's brown eyes took on a smiling look of reproach as she held up a warning finger.
"Dave," she said, with mock severity, "I always have to remind you of our compact. I insist that you sit down when I am talking to you. I refuse to be made to feel – and look – small. Now light your pipe and listen to me."
"Go ahead," he grinned, striking a match. His plain features literally shone with delight at her presence there. Her small oval, sun-tanned face was so bright, so full of animation, so healthy looking. There was such a delightful frankness about her. Her figure, perfectly rounded, was slim and athletic, and her every movement suggested the open air and perfect health.
"Well, it's this way," she began, seating herself on the corner of a pile of timber: "I'm out on the war-path. I want scalps. My pocketbook is empty and needs filling, and when that's done I'll get back to my school children, on whose behalf I am out hunting."
"It's your picnic?" suggested Dave.
"Not mine. The kiddies'. So now, old boy, put up your hands! It's your money or your life." And she sat threatening him with her pocketbook, pointing it at him as though it were a pistol.
Dave removed his pipe.
"Guess you'd best have 'em both," he smiled.
But Betty shook her head with a joyous laugh.
"I only want your money," she said, extending an open hand toward him.
Dave thrust deep into his hip-pocket, and produced a roll of bills.
"It's mostly that way," he murmured, counting them out.
But his words had reached the girl, and her laugh died suddenly.
"Oh, Dave!" she said reproachfully.
And the man's contrition set him blundering.
"Say, Betty, I'm a fool man anyway. Don't take any sort of notice. I didn't mean a thing. Now here's fifty, and you can have any more you need."
He looked straight into her eyes, which at once responded to his anxious smile. But she did not attempt to take the money. She shook her head.
"Too much."
But he pushed the bills into her hand.
"You can't refuse," he said. "You see, it's for the kiddies. It isn't just for you."
When Dave insisted refusal was useless. Betty had long since learned that. Besides, as he said, it was for the "kiddies." She took the money, and he sat and watched her as she folded the bills into her pocketbook. The girl looked up at the sound of a short laugh.
"What's that for?" she demanded, her brown eyes seriously inquiring.
"Oh, just nothing. I was thinking."
The man glanced slowly about him. He looked up at the brilliant summer sun. Then his eyes rested upon the rough exterior of his unpretentious office.
"It meant something," asserted Betty. "I hate people to laugh – in that way."
"I was thinking of this shack of mine. I was just thinking, Betty, what a heap of difference an elegant coat of paint makes to things. You see, they're just the same underneath, but they – kind of look different with paint on 'em, kind of please the eye more."
"Just so," the girl nodded wisely. "And so you laughed – in that way."
Dave's eyes twinkled.
"You're too sharp," he said. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
"Now about this picnic. You're expecting all the grown folk?"
The girl's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Of course I do. Don't you always come? It's only once a year." The last was very like a reproach.
The man avoided her eyes. He was looking out across the sea of stacked timber at the great sheds beyond, where the saws were shrieking out their incessant song.
"I was thinking," he began awkwardly, "that I'm not much good at those things. Of course I guess I can hand pie round to the folks; any fellow can do that. But – "
"But what?" The girl had risen from her seat and was trying to compel his gaze.
"Well, you see, we're busy here – desperately busy. Dawson's always grumbling that we're short-handed – "
Betty came up close to him, and he suddenly felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder.
"You don't want to come," she said.
"'Tisn't that – not exactly."
He kept his eyes turned from her.
"You see," he went on, "you'll have such a heap of folk there. They mostly all get around – for you. Then there'll be Jim Truscott, and Jim's worth a dozen of me when it comes to picnics and 'sociables' and such-like."
The girl's hand suddenly dropped from his shoulder, and she turned away. A flush slowly mounted to her sun-tanned cheeks, and she was angry at it. She stood looking out at the mills beyond, but she wasn't thinking of them.
At last she turned back to her friend and her soft eyes searched his.
"If – if you don't come to the picnic to-morrow, I'll never forgive you, Dave – never!"
And she was gone before his slow tongue could frame a further excuse.
CHAPTER II
A PICNIC IN THE RED SAND VALLEY
Summer, at the foot of the Canadian Rockies, sets in suddenly. There are no dreary days of damp and cold when the east wind bites through to the bones and chills right down to the marrow. One moment all is black, dead; the lean branches and dead grass of last year make a waste of dreary decay. Watch. See the magic of the change. The black of the trees gives way to a warming brown; the grass, so sad in its depression, suddenly lightens with the palest hue of green. There is at once a warmth of tone which spreads itself over the world, and gladdens the heart and sets the pulses throbbing with renewed life and hope. Animal life stirs; the insect world rouses. At the sun's first smile the whole earth wakens; it yawns and stretches itself; it blinks and rubs its eyes, and presently it smiles back. The smile broadens into a laugh, and lo! it is summer, with all the world clad in festal raiment, gorgeous in its myriads of changing color-harmonies.
It was on such a day in the smiling valley of the Red Sand River that Betty Somers held her school