On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and read it over gravely. “Well, boys,” he observed, grinning cheerfully as he tucked it away in his shaps, “my luck always did run in bunches –– I’m rich!”
He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and, riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck.
“Well –– I’ll –– be –– dam’d!” he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but Kitty waited patiently until he looked up.
“Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede,” she cried, smiling radiantly. “I got a new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work.”
The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope’s end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle.
“That’s good,” he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “How’s tricks?” There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it by.
“Fine and dandy,” she answered. “How are you coming?”
“Oh, pretty good,” he conceded, rising up and surveying the battlefield, “and I reckon I ain’t forgot nothin’,” he added meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. “Sorry I ain’t goin’ to see more of you,” he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his shaps, “but –– ”
“What, you aren’t going?” cried Kitty, aghast. “Why, I came all the way down here to see you –– I’m writing a play, and you’re the hero!”
“Ye-es!” jeered Creede, laughing crudely. “I’m Mary’s little lamb that got snatched baldheaded to make the baby laugh.”
“You’re nothing of the kind,” retorted Kitty stoutly. “You’re the hero in my play that’s going to be acted some day on the stage. You kill a Mexican, and win a beautiful girl in the last act!”
“That’s good,” commented Creede, smiling grimly, “but say, that Mex. will keep, won’t he –– because I’m due back in St. Louie.”
“Oh!” cried Kitty, clasping her hands in despair. “St. Louis! And won’t I ever see you any more?”
“Well, you might,” conceded the cowboy magnanimously, “if you wait around long enough.”
“But I can’t wait! I’ve got to finish my last act, and I came clear down here, just to hear you talk. You can’t imagine how interesting you are, after living up there in the city,” she added naively.
“No,” grumbled Creede, picking up his bridle lash, “but say, I’ve got to be goin’!” He hooked a boot negligently into the stirrup and looked back over his shoulder. “Anything else I can do for you?” he inquired politely.
“Oh, you dear Jeff!” cried Kitty ecstatically, “yes! Do come back here and let me tell you!” He kicked his foot reluctantly out of the stirrup and stalked back, huge and commanding as ever, but with a puzzled look in his eye.
“Bend your head down, so I can whisper it,” she coaxed, and brute-like he bowed at her bidding. She whispered a moment eagerly, added a word, and pushed his head away. For a minute he stood there, thinking ponderously; then very deliberately he pulled his six-shooter out of his shaps and handed it over to her.
“All right,” he said, “but say” –– he beckoned her with an inexorable jerk of the head –– “what do I git, now?” He looked down upon her as he had on the morning they had parted, out behind the corral, and the hot blood leaped into Kitty Bonnair’s cheeks at the memory of that kiss. For a moment she hesitated, twisting her trim boot into the ground, then she drew the coveted pistol from her belt and handed it back.
“Well, since you insist,” he said, and very sternly he thrust the redeemed weapon back into his shaps. A change came over him as he regarded her; there was an austere tightening of his lips and his eyes glowed with a light that Kitty had never seen before.
“That was a rough deal you gave me, girl,” he said, his voice vibrant with anger, “and I ain’t forgotten it. You dropped your rope over my horns and gave me a little run and then you took your turns and busted me like a wild steer! And then maybe you laughed a little,” he suggested, with a searching glance. “No? Well, it’s all right, as far as I’m concerned –– my hide’s whole, and I’m rope-wise –– but I’ll tell you, Miss Kitty, if you’d jest keep this gun of mine and shoot some feller once in a while we’d all enjoy it more.” He paused, and as Kitty stood downcast before this sudden censure he smiled to himself, and a twinkle of mischief crept into his masterful eyes.
“But don’t mind a little thing like that, girl,” he said, throwing out his hands largely. “You don’t lose no friends by tryin’ to educate us a little –– ump-umm! Of course I’m kinder sore over that letter, but you look good to me yet, Kitty!”
“Why –– Mr. Creede!” faltered Kitty, looking up.
“That’s right,” asserted Creede, lowering his voice confidentially, “they was something about you that caught my eye the first time I saw you.” He laughed, showing all his white teeth, and at the same time his eyes were very grave.
“Come over here,” he said, “and I’ll tell you what it was. No –– I won’t kiss you –– come on up close.” Wondering at her own acquiescence, Kitty Bonnair obeyed, and with a mysterious smile he stooped down until his lips were close to her ear.
“You remind me of my girl,” he whispered, “back in St. Louie!” And then with a great laugh he broke away and leapt triumphantly into the saddle.
“Whoop-eee!” he yelled. “Watch me fly!” And spreading his arms like a bird he thundered away down the western trail.
There was a strange stillness about the old ranch house when Kitty came back to it and she wondered vaguely where Lucy and Rufus were, but as she stepped inside the dirt ramada the quiet seemed to lay its spell upon her and she halted by the doorway, waiting for a last glimpse of Jeff as he went up over the western rim. The bawling of cattle and the shrill yells of the cowboys no longer tempted her to the parada ground –– she was lonely, and there was no one who cared for her. Yet, somewhere within, she could hear the murmur of voices, and at last when she could endure it no longer she turned and entered quickly. The big living-room where they had so often sat together was vacant now, but Hardy’s door was open, and as she looked in she saw them standing together –– Lucy with downcast eyes, and Rufus, holding both her hands. It was all very innocent and lover-like, but when their lips met she turned and fled to her room.
Half an hour later Kitty emerged from her hiding, robed like a woman; there was a new grace about her as she stood before them, a new dignity, and she wore fresh flowers in her hair, forget-me-nots, picked from among the rocks as she rode toward Hidden Water.
“Bless you, my children,” she said, smiling and holding out her hands, “I shall die an old maid.” And then she kissed them both.
The Texican