Overland Red. Henry Herbert Knibbs
up on the broad arm of his chair, snuggling against him impetuously. "I know you do, uncle. I just love you! I'll stop teasing."
"I surrender. I'm a pretty fair soldier at long range, but this"—and his arm went round her affectionately—"this is utter defeat. I strike my colors. Then, you always give in so gracefully."
"To you, perhaps, Uncle Walter. But I haven't given in this time. I'm just as interested as ever."
"And you think they are the men we saw out on the Mojave by the water-tank?"
"Oh, I know it! They remembered the rose. They spoke of it right away, before I did."
"Yes, Louise. And you remember, too, that they were arrested at Barstow—for murder, the conductor said?"
"That's just it! The boy Collie says the tramp Overland Red didn't kill the man. He was trying to save him and gave him water. If you could only hear what the boy says about it—"
"I don't suppose it would do any harm," said the rancher. "I dislike to use my influence. You know, I practically control Dick Tenlow's place at the elections."
"That's just why he should be willing to let the boy go," said Louise quickly.
"No, sweetheart. That's just why I shouldn't ask Dick to do anything of the kind. But I see I'm in for it. You have already interested your Aunt Eleanor. She spoke to me about the boy last night."
"Aunty Eleanor is a dear. I didn't really ask her to speak to you."
"No," he said, laughing. "Of course not. You're too clever for that. You simply sow your poppy-seed and leave it alone. The poppies come up fast enough."
Louise laughed softly. "You're pretending to criticize and you're really flattering—deliberately—aren't you, Uncle Walter?"
"Flattering? And you?"
"Because Aunt Eleanor said you could be simply irresistible when you wanted to be. I think so, too. Especially when you are on a horse."
"Naturally. I always did feel more confident in the saddle. I could, if need arose, ride away like the chap in Bobby Burns's verse, you remember—
"He gave his bridle-rein a shake,
And turned him on the shore,
With, 'Farewell, forever more, my dear,
Farewell, forever more.'"
"But you didn't, uncle. Aunty said she used to be almost afraid that you'd ride away with her, like Lochinvar."
"Yes." And Walter Stone sighed deeply.
"Oh, Uncle Walter! That sounded full of regrets and things."
"It was. It is. I'm fifty."
"It isn't fifty. It's a lack of exercise. And you wouldn't be half so fine-looking if you were fat. I always sigh when I don't know what to do. Then I just saddle Boy and ride. And I'll never let myself get fat."
"A vow is a vow—at sixteen."
"Now I know you need exercise. You're getting reminiscent, and that's a sign of torpid liver."
Walter Stone laughed till the tears came. "Exercise!" he exclaimed. "Ah! I begin to divine a subtle method in your doctrine of health. Ah, ha! I look well on a horse! I need exercise! It's a very satisfactory ride from here to town and back. Incidentally, Louise, I smell a rat. I used to be able to hold my own."
"It isn't my fault if you don't now," said Louise, snuggling in his arm.
"That's unworthy of you!" he growled, his arm tightening round her slim young figure. "Tell me, sweetheart; how is it that you can be so thoroughly practical and so unfathomably romantic in the same breath? You have deliberately shattered me to bits that you might mould me nearer to your heart's desire. And your heart's desire, just now, is to help an unknown, a tramp, out of jail."
Louise pouted. "You say 'just now' as though my heart's desires weren't very serious matters as a rule. You know you wouldn't be half so happy if I didn't tease you for something at least once a week. I remember once I didn't ask you for anything for a whole week, and you went and asked Aunty Eleanor if I were ill. Besides, the boy needs help, whether he did anything wrong or not. Can't you understand?"
"That's utopian, Louise, but it isn't generally practicable."
"Then make it individually practicable, uncle—just this time. Pshaw! I don't believe you're half-trying to argue. Why, when Boyar bucked you off that time and ran into the barb-wire, then he didn't need doctoring for that awful cut on his shoulder, because he had done wrong."
"That is no parallel, Louise. Boyar didn't know any better. And this boy is not sick or injured."
"How do you know that? He's down in that terribly hot, smelly jail. If he did get sick, who would know it?"
"And Boyar isn't a human being. He can't reason."
"Oh, Uncle Walter! I thought you knew horses better than that. Boyar can reason much better than most people."
"The proof being that he prefers you to any one else?"
"No," replied Louise, smiling mischievously. "That isn't Boyar's reason; it's his affection. That's different."
"Yes, quite different," said Walter Stone. "Is this boy good-looking?" And the rancher fumbled in his pocket for a cigar.
Louise slipped from the arm of his chair and stood opposite him, her lips pouted teasingly, the young face glowing with mischief and fun. "Am I?" she asked, curtsying and twinkling. "'Cause if you're going to ride down to the valley to see the boy just because Beautiful asked you, Beautiful will go alone. But if you come because I want you,"—and Louise smiled bewitchingly—"why, Beautiful will come too, and sing for you—perhaps."
"My heart, my service, and my future are at your feet, Señorita Louisa, my mouse. Are your eyes gray or green this morning?"
"Both," replied Louise quickly. "Green for spunk and gray for love. That's what Aunty Eleanor says."
"Come a little nearer. Let me see. No, they are quite gray now."
"'Cause why?" she cooed, and stooping, kissed him with warm, careless affection. "You always ask me about my eyes when you want me to kiss you. Of course, when you want to kiss me, why, you just come and take 'em."
"My esteemed privilege, sweetheart. I am your caballero."
"Did Aunty Eleanor?" said Louise.
But Walter Stone rose and straightened his shoulders. "That will do, mouse. I can't have any jealousy between my sweethearts."
"Never! And, Uncle Walter, do you want to ride Major or Rally? Rally and Boyar get along better together. I'll saddle Boy in a jiffy."
To ride some ten miles in the blazing sun of midsummer requires a kind of anticipatory fortitude, at fifty, especially when one's own vine and fig tree is cool and fragrant, embowered in blue flowers and graced by, let us say, Louise. And a cigar is always at its best when half-smoked. But when Louise came blithely leading the two saddle-ponies, Black Boyar and the big pinto Rally, Walter Stone shook an odd twenty years from his broad shoulders and swung into the saddle briskly.
From the shade of the great sycamore warders of the wide gate, he waved a gauntleted salute to Aunt Eleanor, who stood on the porch, drawing a leaf of the graceful moon-vine through her slender fingers. She nodded a smiling farewell.
Louise and her uncle rode as two lovers, their ponies close together. The girl swayed to Boyar's quick, swinging walk. Walter Stone sat the strong, tireless Rally with solid ease.
The girl, laughing happily at her triumph, leaned toward her escort teasingly, singing fragments of old Spanish love-songs, or talking with eager lips and sparkling eyes. Of a sudden she would assume a demureness, utterly bewitching in its veiled and perfect mimicry. Quite seriously he would set about to overcome this delightful