The Heart of Thunder Mountain. Edfrid A. Bingham
to the door of the stable, reined up a moment there, and was off again,–this time down the valley on a white road that was visible to Marion until it curved behind the distant point of the ridge on which she sat.
“Now where’s he going?” she murmured, wrinkling her forehead as she saw him once more vanish from her sight.
She did not know that road, but guessed that it joined the main highway somewhere far down the Brightwater. No matter! Here was her opportunity; for she saw, with quick appreciation, that she would now be able to place herself between him and the ranch buildings without showing herself to the men at the corrals. And then? She could not “hold him up” like a highwayman; and if she did not stop him he would raise his hat (perhaps), and ride past her without a word. And how was she to stop him? She had come there with a very definite purpose, but with no clear plan, trusting to the inspiration of the moment. And now the moment had arrived; but where was the inspiration? She had risen impulsively to her feet, and stood staring between narrowed eyelids, and beneath a puckered brow, at the white road, now quite empty again. Then suddenly–
“Ah!” she gasped.
And thereupon she blushed, and looked furtively around her, as if she had been caught in some doubtful, if not discreditable, act. But there was no time for moral subtleties. She staggered–for her legs were stiff from inaction–to her pony, replaced her raincoat behind the saddle, mounted in hot haste, and rode down the steep hill toward the houses. At a little distance from them the road she traveled joined the other. There she turned abruptly, and followed the unfamiliar road until she was safely out of sight of any chance observer at the barn, and yet not so far from the trail she had just left but that she could return to it if, by any chance, he should come back that way.
Dismounting quickly at the chosen spot, she turned Tuesday until he stood squarely across the road. Then her nimble fingers flew at the cinches of the saddle.
“There now!” she exclaimed, hot with excitement and exertion.
She stepped back to view her handiwork, and laughed nervously. Next she drew a tiny mirror and a bit of chamois skin from her bosom, and swiftly removed some of the dust and moisture from her flushed face. Then her hair, always somewhat unruly, required a touch or two. That done, she smoothed down the gray coat over her slender hips, adjusted the gray silk tie at her throat, and waited.
He came, in his habitual cloud of dust; pulled up his pony within ten feet of the obstruction; saw the saddle hanging at a dangerous angle over Tuesday’s side; and accepted the obvious conclusion that Miss Marion Gaylord, looking very warm and embarrassed, but certainly very pretty in her confusion, had narrowly escaped a fall.
“I think I’d better help you with that, Miss Gaylord,” he said.
“Thank you!” she said, with an appealing reluctance. “I can do it–I often saddle my own horse, and–”
“I should judge that you had saddled him this time,” he interrupted her to say, without the slightest trace of irony in his tone.
She bit her lip, as she silently made way for him, and stood at Tuesday’s head, stroking his neck with one small, gloved hand while Haig adjusted the blanket, fitted the saddle firmly, and tightened the double cinch. He was dressed in the nondescript costume he had worn at their first meeting. That same hat, uniquely insolent, soiled and limp and disreputable, was stuck on the back of his head, revealing a full, clean-moulded brow, over which, at one side, his thick black hair fell carelessly. His eyes were calm gray rather than stormy black to-day, but a gray that was singularly dark and deep and luminous. His manner was in the strangest contrast with the two different moods in which she had already seen him–as if the fires were out, as if all emotion and interest had been dissolved in listlessness. And she divined at once that her chance of success was small.
“That will hold, I think,” he said gravely; and started toward his horse.
“It wasn’t Tuesday’s fault,” she said eagerly.
Haig paused, on one foot as it were, and looked over his shoulder.
“It was fortunate for you that he’s been well gentled,” he said. “You should look to your cinches rather often when you ride these hills.”
(“You should keep your feet dry, and come in when it rains,” he might as well have said, she thought angrily.)
“Yes, it was careless of me,” she answered, trying to say it brightly, but really wanting to shriek.
“It happens to everybody once in a while,” he said.
On that, he stepped to his pony, put a foot in the stirrup, and one hand on the saddle horn, and paused.
She could easily have flopped down in the road, and wept. Once he had raged at her, once he had thrilled her with a look, and now he was simply dismissing her,–leaving her, as her father would have put it, “to stew in her own juice.” She saw all her elaborate strategy, her long vigil on the hill, her struggle with the saddle, her appealing’ glances–all, all about to go for nothing.
“He might at least help me on my horse!” she thought, in bitter resentment.
Perhaps tears blinded her. At any rate–and this was without pretence, and no part of her scheme–she did not see clearly what she was doing. It was nothing new to mount her pony from the level; she had done it a hundred times without mishap. But now, in her agitation, she stood somewhat too far away from Tuesday’s shoulder; and the pony, as ponies will sometimes do, started forward the instant he felt the weight in the stirrup.
“Look out!” cried Haig.
It was too late. She missed the saddle; her right foot struck Tuesday’s back, and slipped off; and she fell sprawling on the ground, with her left foot fast in the stirrup.
“Whoa, Tuesday!” she cried shrilly as she fell.
Luckily the horse did not take alarm and run, as a less reliable animal might have done, dragging the girl under his heels. He stopped in his tracks, and stood obediently, even turning his head as if to see what damage had been done. It was enough. Marion was uninjured, but badly frightened; and her humiliation was complete. She lay on her back, struggling vainly to extricate her foot from the stirrup. Her coat skirts had fallen back, and–Thank Heaven for the riding breeches, and not what she had worn under divided skirts!
“Lie still!” yelled Haig, remembering what he had seen happen to men in such circumstances.
In three leaps he was at her side. With a swift movement (and none too gentle), he wrenched her foot loose from the stirrup, and helped her to sit up, dazed and trembling and very white.
“Your ankle–is it hurt?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know,” she said.
And then the expected “inspiration of the moment” came.
“A little,” she added.
And so it was done. Her foot had indeed been twisted slightly; she had truly, truly felt a twinge of pain. At another time she would have thought no more about it, but now–The color rushed back into her cheeks; she fetched a smile that was half a grimace; and the game was on again.
Haig reached a hand to her. She took it, and let him draw her to her feet.
“Try the ankle–just a step!” he commanded.
She rested her weight on her left foot.
“Oh!” she cried out, and looked helplessly at Haig.
A shadow, unmistakably of annoyance, passed over his face.
“You’re not going to faint, are you?” he asked, looking keenly at her.
Her color always came and went easily, and now, a little frightened by her bold deception, she was pale again.
“No–I think not,” she said. (“At any rate not here,” she might have added.)
“Can you ride to the corrals?” was his next question.
The look of annoyance was now fixed on his face, but it did not discourage her.
“Yes,