Out of the Depths. Robert Ames Bennet
right now. Of course he must be! … You say he married an heiress?”
“She is worth three millions in her own right, and Leslie is as daft over him as she is. Leslie and my father are the ones who backed him on the Zariba Dam.”
“How interesting! And I suppose Mr. Blake is a Western man. So many of the best engineers come from the West.”
Ashton looked at her suspiciously. He could not make out her interest in Blake. She apparently had come to regard the engineer as a sort of hero. Yet why should she continue to inquire about him, now that she knew he was a married man?
“I’m sure I cannot tell you,” he replied, somewhat stiffly. “The fellow seems to have come from nowhere. Had it not been for an accident, he would never have got within speaking distance of Genevieve, but they happened to be shipwrecked together alone––on the coast of Africa.”
“Wrecked?––shipwrecked? How perfectly glorious!” 31
“I wouldn’t mind it myself––with you!” he flashed back.
“I might,” she bantered. “This Mr. Blake, I imagine, was hardly a tenderfoot.”
“No, he was a roughneck,” muttered Ashton.
“You do not like him,” she remarked the second time.
“Why should I, a low fellow like that? I’ve heard that he even brags that he started in the Chicago slums.”
The girl put her hand to her bosom. “In the––the Chicago slums!” she half whispered.
“No wonder you are surprised,” said Ashton. “Anyone would presume that he would keep such a disgrace to himself. It shows what he is––absolutely devoid of good taste.”
“Is he––What does he look like?” she eagerly inquired.
Ashton shrugged. “Pardon me. I prefer not to talk any more about the fellow.”
Miss Isobel checked her curiosity. “Very well, Mr. Ashton.” She looked around, and suddenly flourished her leathern quirt. “Look––there are Kid and Daddy trying to head us. Come on, if you want a race. I’m going to beat them down to Dry Fork.”
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CHAPTER IV
DOWNHILL AND UP
The lash of the quirt fell with a swish on the flank of the girl’s pony. He did not wait for a second hint, but started down the steep slope “on the jump.” Before Ashton realized what was happening, his own horse was following at the same breakneck pace.
Down plunged the two ponies––down, down, down the sharply pitched mountain side, leaping logs and stones, crashing through brush, scrambling or slithering stiff-legged down rock slides. It was a wild race, a race that would have been utterly foolhardy with any other horses than these mountain bred cow ponies. A single misstep would have sent horse and rider rolling for yards, unless sooner brought up against tree or rock.
Most of the color had left Ashton’s cheeks, but his full lips were set in resolute lines. His gaze alertly took in the ground before his horse and at the same time the girl’s graceful, swaying figure. Fortunately he knew enough to let his horse pick his own way. But such a way as it was! Had not the two animals 33 been as surefooted as goats and as quick as cats, both must have pitched head over heels, not once, but a score of times.
They had leaped down over numbers of rocks and logs and ledges, and the girl had not cast back a single glance to see if Ashton was following. But as they plunged down an open slope she suddenly twisted about and flung up a warning hand.
“Here’s a jump!” she cried––as though they had not been jumping every few yards since the beginning of that mad descent.
Hardly had she faced about again when her pony leaped and dropped with her clear out of sight. Ashton gasped and started to draw rein. He was too late. Three strides brought his horse to a ledge fully six feet high. The beast leaped over the edge without making the slightest effort to check himself.
Ashton uttered a startled cry, but poised himself for the shock with the cleverness of a skillful rider. His pony landed squarely, and at once started on again as if nothing unusual had happened.
The girl was already racing down the lower slope, which was more moderate, or rather, less immoderate than that above the ledge. She looked around and waved her hand gayly when she saw that Ashton had kept his seat.
The salute so fired him that he gave his pony the spur and dashed recklessly down to overtake her. At 34 last he raced alongside and a little past her. She looked at his overridden pony and drew rein.
“Hold on,” she said. “Better pull up a bit. You don’t want to blow your hawss. ’Tisn’t everyone can take that jump as neatly as he did.”
“But the others?” he panted––“they’ll beat us!”
“They cut down to the right. It’s nothing to worry about if they do head us. They’ve got the best hawsses. We’ll jog the rest of the way.”
“Of course,” he hastened to agree, “if you prefer.”
“I’d prefer to lope uphill and down, but––” she nodded towards his pony’s heaving flanks––“no use riding a willing hawss to death.”
“No 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. 35
“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 36