Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge
determination which was all but uncanny. Scotty shifted a bit uncomfortably.
"By Jove!" he remarked, with his usual unconscious expletive, "I'd rather have a tiger-cat on my trail than that youngster, if he was to look that way. What do you suppose he's got in his cranium now?"
Rankin shook his head. "I don't know. He's beyond me."
Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned. He had another bridle in his hand and a fresh pan of oats. As before, he started to pass without a word, but Rankin halted him. "What's the matter with your clothes, Ben?" he queried.
The lad looked at his questioner. "Horse threw me, sir."
"And what are you going to do now?"
"Going to try to ride him again, sir."
Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more severe.
"Ben," he said at last, "did Mr. Baker hire you to break his horses? If I were you I'd put those things away and ask his pardon."
The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly. Obviously, this phase of the matter had not occurred to him. Obviously, too, the point of view must be correct, for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as the grave. The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke volumes; then he turned to Baker.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said.
Scotty caught his cue. "Granted—this time," he answered.
A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully washed, the rents in his trousers temporarily repaired, were ready to go home. Not until the very last moment did Florence appear; then, her face a bit flushed, she came out to the buckboard.
"Good-bye," she said simply. There was a moment's pause; then, with a deepening color, she turned to Ben Blair. "Come again soon," she added in a low tone.
Chapter VII.
The Sanity of the Wild
Summer, tan-colored, musical with note of katydid and cicada, and the constant purr of the south wind, was upon the prairie country. Under the eternal law of necessity,—the necessity of sunburnt, stunted grass,—the boundaries of the range extended far in every direction. The herds bearing the Box R brand no longer fed in one body, but scattered far and wide. Often for a week at a time the men did not sleep under cover. Morning and night, when a semblance of dew was upon the blighted grass, the cattle grazed. The life was primitive and natural almost beyond belief in a world of artificial civilization; but it was independent, care-free, and healthy.
The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost as bare as the palm of a hand. Only one object relieved the impression of desolation, and that was a tree. It stood carefully fenced about in the drain from the big artesian well,—a vivid blot of green against the dun background. The first year after he came, Rankin had imported it,—a goodly sized soft maple; and in the pathway of constantly trickling water, it had grown and prospered. It was the only tree for miles and miles about, except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and wild plums that flanked the infrequent creeks,—creeks which in Summer, save in deepest holes, reverted to mere dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed a rough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when her housework was finished, dozed and sewed and dozed again, apparently as forgetful as the cowboys upon the prairies that beyond her vision were great cities where countless thousands of human beings sweltered and struggled in desperate competition for daily bread.
So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a coolness like a benediction took the place of heat. The south wind gradually died down with the descending sun, until immediately following the setting it was absolutely still; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the break of day.
Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker stretched out like boys upon a pile of hay in the latter's yard. The big man had just arrived; the old buckboard, with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood just as he had driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that he had come for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. Rankin slowly filled and lit his pipe, drew thereon until the glow from the bowl was reflected upon his face, and blew a great cloud of smoke out into the gathering dusk.
"Baker," he asked at last, "what are we going to do for the education of these youngsters of ours? We can't let them grow up here like savages."
Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head comfortably in his hand.
"I've thought of that," he answered, "and there seems to me only one of two things to do—either move into civilization, or import a pedagogue." A pause, and a whimsical inflection came into his voice. "Unfortunately, however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time."
Rankin smoked a minute in silence. "How would it do to move into civilization six months of the year—the Winter six?" he suggested.
Scotty considered for a moment. "Do you mean that seriously?" he asked.
"Yes."
By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a cigarette skilfully. "How about the stock here while we're gone," he said hesitatingly. "Do you suppose we'd find anything left when we came back in the Spring?"
Rankin crowded the half-burned tobacco down into the pipe-bowl with his little finger. "I don't think you got the idea," he explained. "My plan was for you to go East in the Fall and put the kids in school. I'd stay here and see that everything ran smoothly while you were gone. Mrs. Baker has said a dozen times that she wanted a change—for a time, anyway."
Scotty threw one long leg over the other. "As usual you're right, Rankin," he said slowly. "The Lord knows Mollie gets restless enough at times. People were like ants in a hill where she was raised, and that life was a part of her." He took a last puff at the cigarette, and with a toss sent the smoking stump spinning like a firefly into the darkness. "And Flossie can't grow up wild—I know that. I'll talk your suggestion over with Mollie first, but I think I'd be safe in saying right now that we'll accept."
For a moment Rankin did not speak; then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe upon his heel.
"Excuse me if I keep going back to something unpleasant, Baker," he said slowly, "but in considering the matter there's one thing I don't want you to forget." Then, after a meaning pause, he went on: "It's the same reason I had for not introducing Ben in the first place."
Scotty drew out his book of rice-paper again almost involuntarily.
"I'd thought of that this time," he said; then paused to finger a gauzy sheet absently. "I don't see why I should consider it now, though—seeing I didn't before."
Rankin said nothing, and conversation lapsed. Irresistibly, but so gradually as to be all but unconscious, the spirit of the prairie night—a sensation, a conception of infinite vastness, of unassailable serenity—stole over and took possession of the men. The ambitious and manifold artificial needs for which men barter their happiness, their sense of humanity, even life itself, seemed beyond belief out there alone with the stars, with the prairie night-wind singing in the ears; seemed so puny that they elicited only a smile. The lust of show, of extravagance, follies, wisdoms, man's loves and hates—how their true proportions stand revealed against the eternal background of immeasurable distance, in nature's vast scheme!
Scotty cleared his throat. "I used to think, when I first came here, that I'd been a fool; but now, somehow, at times like this, I wonder if I didn't blunder into the wisest act of my life." The prairie spirit had taken hold of him. "And the longer I stay the more it grows upon me that such a life as this, where one's success is not the measure of another's failure, is the only one to live. It is the only life," he added after a pause.
Rankin said nothing.
Scotty was silent for a moment, but the mood was too strong for him to remain so, and he went on.
"I know the ordinary person would laugh if I said it, but really,