Tales of the Old West: B. M. Bower Collection - 45 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
“I didn’t set you afoot,” he said. “That was a bad break you made yourself. Why didn’t you do as I told you—hang to the bridle and fight Denver off with your whip? You had one.”
“Yes—and let him gnaw me!”
Chip gurgled again, and drew the tobacco sack shut with his teeth. “He wouldn’t ‘gnaw’ you—he wouldn’t have come near you. He’s whip trained. And I’d have been there myself in another minute.”
“I didn’t want you there! And I don’t pretend to be a horse-trainer, Mr. Bennett. There’s several things about your old ranch life that I don’t know—and don’t want to know! I’m going back to Ohio to-morrow, so there!”
“Yes?” He drew a match sharply along his stamped saddle-skirt and applied it to the cigarette, pinched out the blaze with extreme care, and tossed the match-end facetiously against Concho’s nose. He did not seem particularly alarmed at her threat—or, perhaps, he did not care. The Little Doctor prodded savagely at her shoe, too angry to see the thorn, and Chip drove another nail into his coffin with apparent relish, and watched her. After a little, he slid to the ground and limped over to her.
“Here, give me that shoe; you’ll have it all picked to pieces and not get the thorn, either. Where is it?”
“IT?” sniffed the Little Doctor, surrendering the shoe with hypocritical reluctance. “It? There’s a dozen, at the very least!”
Chip emptied his lungs of smoke, and turned the shoe in his hands.
“Oh, I guess not—there isn’t room in this little bit of leather for a dozen. Two would be crowded.”
“I detest flattery above all things!” But, being a woman, the brow of the Little Doctor cleared perceptibly.
“Yes? You’re just like me in that respect. I love the truth.”
Thinking of Dr. Cecil, the Little Doctor grew guiltily red. But she had never said Cecil was a man, she reflected, with what comfort she could. The boys, like Dunk, had simply made the mistake of taking too much for granted.
Chip opened the smallest blade of his knife deliberately, sat down upon a neighboring rock and finished his cigarette, still turning the shoe reflectively—and caressingly—in his hand.
“I’d smile to see the Countess try to put that shoe on,” he remarked, holding the cigarette in some mysterious manner on his lip. “I’ll bet she couldn’t get one toe in it.”
“I don’t see that it matters, whether she could or not,” snapped the Little Doctor. “For goodness sake, hurry!”
“You’re pretty mad, aren’t you?” inquired he, shoving his hat back off his forehead, and looking at her as though he enjoyed doing so.
“Do I look mad?” asked she, tartly.
“I’d tell a man you do!”
“Well—my appearance doesn’t half express the state of my mind!”
“Your mind must be in an awful state.”
“It is.”
Two minutes passed silently.
“Dr. Cecil’s bread is done—she gave me a slice as big as your hat, with butter and jelly on it. It was out of sight.”
The Little Doctor groaned, and rallied.
“Butter and jelly on my hat, did you say?”
“Not on your hat—on the bread. I ate it coming back down the coulee—and I sure had my hands full, leading Concho, too.”
The Little Doctor held back the question trembling on her hungry, parched lips as long as she could, but it would come.
“Was it good?”
“I’d tell a man!” said Chip, briefly and eloquently.
The Little Doctor sighed.
“Dr. Cecil Granthum’s a mighty good fellow—I’m stuck on him, myself—and if I haven’t got the symptoms sized up wrong, the Old Man’s GOING to be.”
“That’s all the good it will do him. Cecil and I are going somewhere and practice medicine together—and we aren’t either of us going to get married, ever!”
“Have you got the papers for that?” grinned Chip, utterly unmoved.
“I have my license,” said the Little Doctor, coldly.
“You’re ahead of me there, for I haven’t—yet. I can soon get one, though.”
“I wish to goodness you’d hurry up with that shoe! I’m half starved.”
“Well, show me a dimple and you can have it. My, you are cranky!”
The Little Doctor showed him two, and Chip laid the shoe in her lap—after he had surprised himself, and the doctor, by planting a daring little kiss upon the toe.
“The idea!” exclaimed she, with a feeble show of indignation, and slipped her foot hurriedly into its orthodox covering. Feeling his inscrutable, hazel eyes upon her, she blushed uncomfortably and fumbled the laces.
“You better let me lace that shoe—you won’t have it done in a thousand years, at that gait.”
“If you’re in a hurry,” said she, without looking at him, “you can ride on ahead. It would please me better if you did.”
“Yes? You’ve been pleased all summer—at my expense. I’m going to please myself, this time. It’s my deal, Little Doctor. Do you want to know what’s trumps?”
“No, I don’t!” Still without looking at him, she tied her shoelaces with an impatient twitch that came near breaking them, and walked haughtily to where Concho stood dutifully waiting. With an impulsive movement, she threw her arms around his neck, and hid her hot face against his scanty mane.
A pair of arms clad in pink-and-white striped sleeves went suddenly about her. Her clasp on Concho loosened and she threw back her head, startled—to be still more startled at the touch of lips that were curved and thin and masterful. The arms whirled her about and held her against a heart which her trained senses knew at once was beating very irregularly.
“You—you ought to be ashamed!” she asserted feebly, at last.
“I’m not, though.” The arms tightened their clasp a little.
“You—you don’t SEEM to be,” admitted the Little Doctor, meekly.
For answer he kissed her hungrily—not once, but many times.
“Aren’t you going to let me go?” she demanded, afterward, but very faintly.
“No,” said he, boldly. “I’m going to keep you—always.” There was conviction in the tone.
She stood silent a minute, listening to his heart and her own, and digesting this bit of news.
“Are you—quite sure about—that?” she asked at length.
“I’d tell a man! Unless”—he held her off and looked at her—“you don’t like me. But you do, don’t you?” His eyes were searching her face.
The Little Doctor struggled to release herself from the arms which held her unyieldingly and tenderly. Failing this, she raised her eyes to the white silk handkerchief knotted around his throat; to the chin; to the lips, wistful with their well defined curve; to the eyes, where they lingered shyly a moment, and then looked away to the horizon.
“Don’t you like me? Say!” He gave her a gentle shake.
“Ye—er-it doesn’t seem to matter, whether I do or not,” she retorted with growing spirit—witness the dimple dodging into her cheek.
“Yes, it does—it matters a whole heap.