Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation. Bennet Robert Ames
danger of that with this old nag. He’s tough as a mule,” Ashton assured her, though he followed her example by pulling his mount in to a walk.
“A mule knows enough to balk when he’s got enough,” she informed him.
He did not reply. With the lessening of his excitement habit sent his hand to his open packet of cigarettes. He had not smoked since before shooting the calf. As they came down into the shallow valley between the foot of the mesa and a parallel line of low rocky hills he could wait no longer. His lighter was already half raised to the gilt-tipped cigarette when it was checked by etiquette. He bowed to the girl as a matter of form.
“Ah, pardon me–if you have no objections,” he said.
“I have,” was her unexpected reply.
“Er–what?” he asked, his finger on the spring of the lighter.
“You inquired if I have any objections,” she answered. “I told you the truth. I dislike cigarettes most intensely.”
“But–but–” he stammered, completely taken aback, “don’t your cowboys all smoke?”
“Not cigarettes–where I ever see them,” she said.
“And cigars or pipes?” he queried.
“One has to concede something to masculine weakness,” she sighed.
“Unfortunately I have no cigars with me, not even at my camp, and a pipe is so slow,” he complained.
“Oh, pray, do not deprive yourself on my account,” she said. “You’ll find the cut between those two hills about as short a way to your camp as this one, if you prefer your cigarettes to my company.”
“Crool maid!” he reproached, not altogether jestingly. He even looked across at the gap through the hills to which she was pointing. Then he saw the disdain in her blue eyes. He took the cigarette from his lips, eyed it regretfully, and flung it away with a petulant fillip.
“There!” he said. Meeting her amused smile, he added in the injured tone of a spoiled child. “You don’t realize what a compliment that is.”
“What?–abstaining for a half hour or so? If I asked you to break off entirely, and you did it, I would consider that a real compliment.”
“I should say so!”
“But I am by no means sure that I would care to ask you,” she bantered.
“You’re not? Why, may I inquire?”
“I do not like to make useless requests.”
“Useless!” he exclaimed, his self-esteem stung by her raillery. “Do you think I cannot quit smoking them?”
“I think you do not care to try.”
Impulsively he snatched out a package of his expensive cigarettes and tossed it over his shoulder. Another and another and still others followed in rapid succession, until he had exhausted his supply.
“How’s that?” he demanded her approval.
“Well, it’s not so bad for a start-off,” she answered with an absence of enthusiasm that dashed him from his pose of self-abnegation.
“You don’t realize what that means,” he complained.
“It means, jilt Miss Nicotine in haste, and repent at leisure.”
“You’re ragging me! You ought to be particularly nice to me. I did it for you.”
“Thanks awfully. But I didn’t ask you to do it, you know.”
“Oh, now, that’s hardly–when I did it because of what you said.”
“Well, then, I promise to be nice to you until events do us part. That will be in about five minutes. Over there is Dry Fork Gulch. The waterhole is just down around this hill.”
Ashton took his ardent gaze off the girl’s face long enough to glance to his left. He recognized the tremendous gorge in the face of the mountain side that he had tried to ascend the previous day. It ran in with a moderately inclined bottom for nearly a mile, and then scaled up to the top of High Mesa in steep slopes and sheer ledges.
His eyes followed the dry gravelly creek bed around to the right, and he nodded: “Yes, my camp is just over the corner of those crags. But surely, Miss Knowles, you will not end our acquaintance there.”
She met his appealing look with a level glance. “Seriously, Mr. Ashton, don’t you think you had better move camp to another section? It seems to me you have done quite enough unseasonable deer hunting.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she urged her horse into a lope. His own mount was too jaded for a quick start. When he overtook the girl she had rounded the craggy hill on their right and was in sight of a scattered grove of boxelders below a dike of dark colored trap rock that outcropped across the bed of the creek.
Above the natural dam made by this dike the valley was bedded up with sand and large gravel washed down by the torrential rush of spring freshets. Below it the same wild floods, leaping down in a twenty-foot fall, had gouged out a pothole so wide and deep that it was never empty of water even in the driest seasons.
CHAPTER V
INTO THE DEPTHS
At the top of the bank made by the dike the girl pointed with her quirt down to the rock-rimmed pool edge where a pair of riders were just swinging out of their saddles.
“Hello, Daddy! We’re coming, Kid,” she called, and she turned to explain to Ashton. “They came around the other end of the hills; a longer way but better going. How’s this? Thought you said you were camped here.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t you see the tent? It’s right there among the–Why, what–where is it?” cried Ashton, gaping in blank amazement.
“We’ll soon see,” replied the girl.
Their horses were scrambling down the short steep slope to the pool, where the other horses were drinking their fill of the cool water. The two men watched Ashton’s approach, Knowles with an impassive gaze, Gowan with cold suspicion in his narrowed eyes.
“Well, honey,” asked the cowman, “did you have him pulling leather?”
“No, and I didn’t lose him, either,” she replied, with a mischievous glance at Gowan. “I took that jump-off where the white-cheeked steer broke its neck. He took it after me without pulling leather.”
“Huh!” grunted the puncher. “Mr. Tenderfoot shore is some rider. We’re waiting for him now to ride around and find that camp where we were to deliver his veal.”
Ashton stared with a puzzled, half-dazed expression from the tentless trees beside him to the fore and hind quarters of veal wrapped in slicker raincoats and fastened on back of the men’s saddles.
“Well?” demanded Knowles. “Thought you said you were camped here.”
“I am–that is, I–My tent was right there between those two trees,” said Ashton. “You see, there are the twigs and leaves I had my valet collect for my bed.”
“Shore–valleys are great on collecting beds of leaves and sand and bowlders,” observed Gowan.
“There’s his fireplace,” said the girl, wheeling her horse through a clump of wild rosebushes. “Yes, and he’s right about the tent, too. It is a bed. Here’s a dozen cigarette boxes and–What’s this, Mr. Ashton! Looks as if someone had left a note for you.”
“A note?” he muttered, slipping to the ground.
He ran over to the spot to which she was pointing. On a little pile of stones, in front of where his tent had been pitched, a piece of coarse wrapping paper covered with writing was fluttering in the light breeze. He snatched it up and read the note with fast-growing bewilderment.
“What is it?” sympathetically questioned the girl, quick to see that he was in real trouble.
He