CHAPTER VII. THE ROPING OF CARRIGAN.“Carey and Gordon roped, tied, and branded,” said Carrigan. “But don’t forget that powder puff.”“Carrigan, let me talk. I’ve been passing such a line of fancy lingo that my throat is dusty. I’ve been rememberin’ everything that I ever read in love stories an’ if I can’t be myself for a minute I’ll choke for want of fresh air.”“Thought you were having a pretty fair sort of a time,” said Carrigan, absently.His eyes were traveling over her head. She caught a glimpse of bright-haired Dolly Maxwell as they whirled. He was drifting away from her—that was plain.“I’ve just been stringin’ ’em along,” said Jac. “But you’re different, Carrigan!”And here her eyes rose slowly to his. Far away she sensed the somber face of Ben Craig. She had not much time. Carrigan was looking down at her now.“Look here,” he said bluntly, “you can’t tie every steer in the corral to one rope, Miss Silvestre. Keep the brandin’ iron away from me. The fire ain’t hot enough to hurt me yet. The iron won’t make no mark.”Jac thought of Maude Merriam at the great moment when her husband tells her that he loves another woman. She caught her breath. She made her eyes grow wide. “Do you really think that I would—”“Damn it, Jac, ain’t Maurie and Carey enough for you? And there’s Ben Craig lookin’ at you like a wolf at a calf.”“Carrigan!”The timbre of her voice made him start. She knew that he would not forget her to look after Dolly Maxwell for some time.“Well?”“Do you think I’m a flirt?”“Jac, I’m warnin’ you now. Don’t feed me the spur no more. I’m the fairy godmother. I ain’t the prince in the story.”“Is it all a story?”He groaned.“I thought I would find one man who wasn’t just part of the fairy tale.”“There you go with your book English. Jac, you can’t rope me. I see the shadow of the noose flyin’ over my head an’ I’m goin’ to duck out from under.”She turned away with a far-off sorrow in her face.“There’s tears in your eyes!”A pathetic smile quivered an instant at the corners of her lips.“Honest, ain’t you jest throwin’ a rope, Jac?”“I thoughtyouwould understand me, Carrigan.”He was breathing hard. She remembered a caption which had been flashed on a Maude Merriam screen.“I thought you werebigenough to understand!”“My God!” whispered Carrigan.“What?”“The rope’s on me!”“Carrigan, why do you play with me like this?”“Meplay withyou?”“Yes. Is it fair?”The keen eyes searched her intently. She felt as the duellist felt when the rapier of a foe slithered up and down his steel. The violin started a run.“The Carrigan Cut!” she cried.He went through with it automatically. “No one can dance like you!” she whispered, as the hand of Ben Craig fell on Carrigan’s arm, and as she moved away with the solemn-faced cow-puncher, she saw Carrigan standing as Dave Carey had done, with the faraway look, like a man who says farewell to everything that matters in his life.Maurie Gordon and Dave Carey, their eyes fixed upon one object on the dancing-floor, came together at a corner of the hall. She drew closer. They started forward at the same time, then stopped and glared at each other with bitter understanding.“Maurie,” said Carey gently, “take my tip. Don’t bother Miss Silvestre no more to-night. It won’t bring you nothin’.”Maurie smiled from the deeps of his pity.“Jacqueline,” he said, with marked emphasis, “has found one man who understands her.”Carey shook his head slowly. He spoke carefully, as one would explain a difficult problem to a child. Jac was making the second circuit of the hall with Craig. She had reached the point: “But don’t westerners as a rule call each other by the given name, Mr. Craig?”“She’s had a sad life, Maurie,” said Carey, his eyes following the graceful vision in green. “You, with your bringin’ up, you couldn’t understand how to take to a swell girl like—”He stopped, stiffening, and changed of face.“I guess that’ll hold you, Maurie. Did you see her smile at me?”“Smile at you?” said Maurie with unutterable scorn. “Why, you poor sawed-off runt, that was all for me. She smiled at me like that before. They’ve tried to—to—bury her in the West, but she’s found—”“One real man!”“Me!” said Maurie.The music stopped.“Maurie, aside from bein’ a little thick in the head, you’re a pretty straight feller in most ways. I don’t want to see you make no fool out of yourself.”The smile of big Gordon came from an infinite distance, from a height of almost sacred compassion.“Jacqueline and me,” he said softly, “we understand. She’s led a sad—what the hell!”For as the dancers returned to their chairs, Harry During, lurching across the floor, stopped in front of Jacqueline. He had found it difficult to get dancing partners that evening and for consolation and excitement he had retreated to the bar and attended seriously and conscientiously to the matter of quenching his thirst. That thirst was deep-seated and it had taken him a long time to reach the seat of the dryness. Now, however, he had become convinced that he had done his duty by his parched insides, and he started toward the door to take horse and ride home. On the way a vision crossed his path—a vision in green, with a floating mist of dainty coloring over her shoulders. He paused to admire. He remained to stare.If he had been sober he would have resumed his course with a shrug of the shoulders. But he was not sober. There was a film across his eyes and a mighty music swelling within him. Reason was gone, and only instinct remained. But the eyes of instinct are far surer thar the eyes of reason. He moved closer with a shambling step. He leaned over his sister.“It’s Jac!”He burst into Homeric laughter. Ben Craig rose slowly, a dangerous man and a known man in the mountain-desert. Even through the mists of “red-eye,” Harry During sobered a little under the crushing pressure of the hand which fell on his shoulder. He pointed, grinning for sympathy.“Look!” he said. “Ain’t it funny? That’s my shister! That’s Jac!”Craig turned for an instant’s glance at Jac. She had not changed color. There was a grave but impersonal sympathy in her steady eyes.She said: “Please don’t hurt the poor fellow—Ben!”Craig turned back to Harry.“It’s a disgrace,” he said, “to let a drunk like you wander around insultin’ helpless girls. By God, it’s got to stop.”“My own shister—” protested Harry weakly.“On your way!” thundered Craig, for he was conscious that many eyes were upon him.Two formidable figures appeared on either side of him. They were Maurie Gordon, black of face with wrath, and Dave Carey, his lip lifted from his teeth like a wolf about to snarl. They were three formidable animals, facing the swaying figure of Harry. When men act under the eyes of a woman, the careful veil of civilization is lifted. The lovely Miss Silvestre was nearby. The three became ravening beasts.“Out with him!” said Dave Carey.“Move!” said Maurie.“Start!” said Ben Craig.But the same thing that made the hair of Jacqueline red made the blood of Harry hot.“I’ll see you damned first,” he said thickly.Instantly six iron hands gripped him. He was whirled, and, struggling vainly, borne across the floor toward the door. A universal clapping of hands came from the edges of the hall. It was understood that Harry had insulted the lovely stranger, and in the West, a woman, whether beautiful or ugly,maybe treated with familiar words butmustbe treated with reverent thought.At the very threshold of the door that led from the main hall into the little anteroom where guns and hats were piled, Harry managed to wriggle loose. The fury of his anger was sobering him a little and restoring the nerves to his muscular control. He broke loose with a curse and swung feebly, uncertainly, at the nearest of his prosecutors. Carey and Craig ducked to rush and grapple with Harry; but big Maurie, with the thought of Miss Silvestre and “real men” floating in his brain, drew back his sledge-hammer right fist and smashed it into the face of young During.Harry pitched back through the door as if a dozen hands had thrown him. The three turned and made straight for Jac like three little boys returning to their mother for praise due to a virtuous act after a day of naughtiness and spankings. The women around the hall were silent. They had heard the dull thud as that fist drove home. The men applauded the murmurs. It was the custom to applaud Maurie Gordon.But when the three reached Jac, she sat white of face and still of eye.“This don’t happen often,” began Carey.“I never see anything like it before,” added Craig.“Anyway,” said Maurie complacently, “I’ve taught him a lesson.”A hard voice sounded at his shoulder. He turned to stare into the furious eyes of Carrigan. There was nothing bulky about the latter, but now, with his lean, almost ugly face white with anger and his gleaming eye, he seemed strangely dangerous.
“Carey and Gordon roped, tied, and branded,” said Carrigan. “But don’t forget that powder puff.”
“Carrigan, let me talk. I’ve been passing such a line of fancy lingo that my throat is dusty. I’ve been rememberin’ everything that I ever read in love stories an’ if I can’t be myself for a minute I’ll choke for want of fresh air.”
“Thought you were having a pretty fair sort of a time,” said Carrigan, absently.
His eyes were traveling over her head. She caught a glimpse of bright-haired Dolly Maxwell as they whirled. He was drifting away from her—that was plain.
“I’ve just been stringin’ ’em along,” said Jac. “But you’re different, Carrigan!”
And here her eyes rose slowly to his. Far away she sensed the somber face of Ben Craig. She had not much time. Carrigan was looking down at her now.
“Look here,” he said bluntly, “you can’t tie every steer in the corral to one rope, Miss Silvestre. Keep the brandin’ iron away from me. The fire ain’t hot enough to hurt me yet. The iron won’t make no mark.”
Jac thought of Maude Merriam at the great moment when her husband tells her that he loves another woman. She caught her breath. She made her eyes grow wide. “Do you really think that I would—”
“Damn it, Jac, ain’t Maurie and Carey enough for you? And there’s Ben Craig lookin’ at you like a wolf at a calf.”
“Carrigan!”
The timbre of her voice made him start. She knew that he would not forget her to look after Dolly Maxwell for some time.
“Well?”
“Do you think I’m a flirt?”
“Jac, I’m warnin’ you now. Don’t feed me the spur no more. I’m the fairy godmother. I ain’t the prince in the story.”
“Is it all a story?”
He groaned.
“I thought I would find one man who wasn’t just part of the fairy tale.”
“There you go with your book English. Jac, you can’t rope me. I see the shadow of the noose flyin’ over my head an’ I’m goin’ to duck out from under.”
She turned away with a far-off sorrow in her face.
“There’s tears in your eyes!”
A pathetic smile quivered an instant at the corners of her lips.
“Honest, ain’t you jest throwin’ a rope, Jac?”
“I thoughtyouwould understand me, Carrigan.”
He was breathing hard. She remembered a caption which had been flashed on a Maude Merriam screen.
“I thought you werebigenough to understand!”
“My God!” whispered Carrigan.
“What?”
“The rope’s on me!”
“Carrigan, why do you play with me like this?”
“Meplay withyou?”
“Yes. Is it fair?”
The keen eyes searched her intently. She felt as the duellist felt when the rapier of a foe slithered up and down his steel. The violin started a run.
“The Carrigan Cut!” she cried.
He went through with it automatically. “No one can dance like you!” she whispered, as the hand of Ben Craig fell on Carrigan’s arm, and as she moved away with the solemn-faced cow-puncher, she saw Carrigan standing as Dave Carey had done, with the faraway look, like a man who says farewell to everything that matters in his life.
Maurie Gordon and Dave Carey, their eyes fixed upon one object on the dancing-floor, came together at a corner of the hall. She drew closer. They started forward at the same time, then stopped and glared at each other with bitter understanding.
“Maurie,” said Carey gently, “take my tip. Don’t bother Miss Silvestre no more to-night. It won’t bring you nothin’.”
Maurie smiled from the deeps of his pity.
“Jacqueline,” he said, with marked emphasis, “has found one man who understands her.”
Carey shook his head slowly. He spoke carefully, as one would explain a difficult problem to a child. Jac was making the second circuit of the hall with Craig. She had reached the point: “But don’t westerners as a rule call each other by the given name, Mr. Craig?”
“She’s had a sad life, Maurie,” said Carey, his eyes following the graceful vision in green. “You, with your bringin’ up, you couldn’t understand how to take to a swell girl like—”
He stopped, stiffening, and changed of face.
“I guess that’ll hold you, Maurie. Did you see her smile at me?”
“Smile at you?” said Maurie with unutterable scorn. “Why, you poor sawed-off runt, that was all for me. She smiled at me like that before. They’ve tried to—to—bury her in the West, but she’s found—”
“One real man!”
“Me!” said Maurie.
The music stopped.
“Maurie, aside from bein’ a little thick in the head, you’re a pretty straight feller in most ways. I don’t want to see you make no fool out of yourself.”
The smile of big Gordon came from an infinite distance, from a height of almost sacred compassion.
“Jacqueline and me,” he said softly, “we understand. She’s led a sad—what the hell!”
For as the dancers returned to their chairs, Harry During, lurching across the floor, stopped in front of Jacqueline. He had found it difficult to get dancing partners that evening and for consolation and excitement he had retreated to the bar and attended seriously and conscientiously to the matter of quenching his thirst. That thirst was deep-seated and it had taken him a long time to reach the seat of the dryness. Now, however, he had become convinced that he had done his duty by his parched insides, and he started toward the door to take horse and ride home. On the way a vision crossed his path—a vision in green, with a floating mist of dainty coloring over her shoulders. He paused to admire. He remained to stare.
If he had been sober he would have resumed his course with a shrug of the shoulders. But he was not sober. There was a film across his eyes and a mighty music swelling within him. Reason was gone, and only instinct remained. But the eyes of instinct are far surer thar the eyes of reason. He moved closer with a shambling step. He leaned over his sister.
“It’s Jac!”
He burst into Homeric laughter. Ben Craig rose slowly, a dangerous man and a known man in the mountain-desert. Even through the mists of “red-eye,” Harry During sobered a little under the crushing pressure of the hand which fell on his shoulder. He pointed, grinning for sympathy.
“Look!” he said. “Ain’t it funny? That’s my shister! That’s Jac!”
Craig turned for an instant’s glance at Jac. She had not changed color. There was a grave but impersonal sympathy in her steady eyes.
She said: “Please don’t hurt the poor fellow—Ben!”
Craig turned back to Harry.
“It’s a disgrace,” he said, “to let a drunk like you wander around insultin’ helpless girls. By God, it’s got to stop.”
“My own shister—” protested Harry weakly.
“On your way!” thundered Craig, for he was conscious that many eyes were upon him.
Two formidable figures appeared on either side of him. They were Maurie Gordon, black of face with wrath, and Dave Carey, his lip lifted from his teeth like a wolf about to snarl. They were three formidable animals, facing the swaying figure of Harry. When men act under the eyes of a woman, the careful veil of civilization is lifted. The lovely Miss Silvestre was nearby. The three became ravening beasts.
“Out with him!” said Dave Carey.
“Move!” said Maurie.
“Start!” said Ben Craig.
But the same thing that made the hair of Jacqueline red made the blood of Harry hot.
“I’ll see you damned first,” he said thickly.
Instantly six iron hands gripped him. He was whirled, and, struggling vainly, borne across the floor toward the door. A universal clapping of hands came from the edges of the hall. It was understood that Harry had insulted the lovely stranger, and in the West, a woman, whether beautiful or ugly,maybe treated with familiar words butmustbe treated with reverent thought.
At the very threshold of the door that led from the main hall into the little anteroom where guns and hats were piled, Harry managed to wriggle loose. The fury of his anger was sobering him a little and restoring the nerves to his muscular control. He broke loose with a curse and swung feebly, uncertainly, at the nearest of his prosecutors. Carey and Craig ducked to rush and grapple with Harry; but big Maurie, with the thought of Miss Silvestre and “real men” floating in his brain, drew back his sledge-hammer right fist and smashed it into the face of young During.
Harry pitched back through the door as if a dozen hands had thrown him. The three turned and made straight for Jac like three little boys returning to their mother for praise due to a virtuous act after a day of naughtiness and spankings. The women around the hall were silent. They had heard the dull thud as that fist drove home. The men applauded the murmurs. It was the custom to applaud Maurie Gordon.
But when the three reached Jac, she sat white of face and still of eye.
“This don’t happen often,” began Carey.
“I never see anything like it before,” added Craig.
“Anyway,” said Maurie complacently, “I’ve taught him a lesson.”
A hard voice sounded at his shoulder. He turned to stare into the furious eyes of Carrigan. There was nothing bulky about the latter, but now, with his lean, almost ugly face white with anger and his gleaming eye, he seemed strangely dangerous.