CHAPTER IVBEN'S NEW HOME
Supper was over at the Box R Ranch. From the tiny lean-to the muffled rattle of heavy table-ware proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham was putting things in readiness for breakfast. Beside the sheet-iron heater in the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled in a big checked apron with the strings tied in a bow under his left ear, was busily engaged in dressing the half-dozen prairie chickens he had trapped that day. As fast as he removed the feathers he thrust them into the stove, and the pungent odor mingled with the suggestive tang of the bacon that had been the foundation of the past supper, and with the odor of cigarettes with which the other four men were permeating the place.
Graham critically held up to the light the bird upon which he had just been operating, removed a few scattered feathers, and, with practised hand, attacked its successor.
"If I were doing this job for myself," he commented, "I'd skin the beasts. Life is too blamed short to waste it in pulling out feathers!"
Grannis, the new-comer from no one knew where, smiled.
"It would look to me that you were doing it," he remarked. "I'd like to ask for information, who is if you ain't?"
The clatter of dishes suddenly ceased, and Graham's labor stopped in sympathy.
"My boy," he asked in reply, "were you ever married?"
Beneath its coat of tan, Grannis's face flushed; but he did not answer.
A second passed; then the plucking of feathers was continued.
"I reckon you've never been, though," Graham went on, "else you'd never ask that question."
During the remainder of the evening, Grannis sought no further information; and to Ma Graham's narrow life a new interest was added.
Ordinarily the cowboys went to their bunks in an adjoining shed almost directly after supper, but this evening, without giving a reason, they lingered. The housekeeper finished her work, and, coming into the main room, took a chair and sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The grouse dressed, Graham ranged them in a row upon the lean-to table, removed the apron, and lit his pipe in silence. The cowboys rolled fresh cigarettes and puffed at them steadily, the four stumps close together glowing in the dimness of the room. As everywhere upon the prairie, the quiet was almost a thing to feel.
At last, when the silence had become oppressive, the foreman took the pipe from his mouth and blew a short puff of smoke.
"Seems like the boss ought to've got back before this," he said with a sidelong glance at his wife.
Ma Graham nodded corroboration.
"Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess."She refolded her hands, and once more relapsed into silence.
It was the breaking of the ice, however.
"Where d'ye suppose the trouble could have been, Graham?" It was another late-comer, Bud Buck, young and narrow of hips, who spoke.
"At Blair's," was the answer. "The Big B is the closest."
"Blair?" The questioner puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. "Guess I never heard of him."
"Must be a stranger in these parts, then," said Marcom. "Most everybody knows Tom Blair." He paused to give an all-including glance. "At least well enough to get a slice of his dough," he finished with a sarcastic laugh.
"Does he handle the pasteboards?" asked Buck, with interest.
"Tries to," contemptuously.
The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly aroused.
"What kind of a fellow is he, anyway?" he went on. "Does he go it alone up at his ranch?"
At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, shifted his eyes in the direction of the foreman, and, following them, Bud surprised a covert glance between Graham and his wife. It was the latter who finally answered.
"Notexactly."
Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer ground.
"Got much of a herd, has he?"
Marcom rolled a fresh cigarette skilfully, and drew the string of the tobacco pouch taut with his teeth.
"He did have, one time, but I don't believe he's got many left now. There's been a bunch lost there every storm I can remember. He don't keep any punchers to look after 'em, and he's never on hand himself. The woman and the kid," with a peculiar glance at the stout housekeeper, "saved 'em part of the time, but mostly they just drifted." The speaker blew a great cloud of smoke, and the veins at his temples swelled. "It's a shame, the way he neglects his stock and lets 'em starve and freeze!"
The blood coursed hot in the veins of Bud Buck.
"Why don't somebody step in?"
There was a meaning silence, broken at last by Graham.
"We would've—with a rope—if it hadn't been for the boss. He tried to help the fellow; went over there lots of times himself—weather colder than the devil, too, and with the wind and sleet so bad you couldn't see the team ahead of you—until one time last Winter Blair came home full, and caught him there." The narrative paused, and the black pipe puffed reminiscently. "The boss never said much, but I guess they must have had quite a session. Anyway, Rankin never went again, and from the way he looked when he got back here, half froze, and the mustangs beat out, I reckon Blair never knew how close he come to a necktie party that day."
Again silence fell, and remained unbroken until Graham suddenly sprang to his feet, and with "That's him now!I could tell that old buckboard if I was in my grave!" hurried on coat and hat and disappeared into the night. A minute more and the door through which he had passed opened slowly, and the figure of a small boy, wrapped like an Indian in a big blanket, stepped timidly inside and stood blinking in the light.
In anticipation of a very different arrival the housekeeper had risen to her feet, and now in surprise, arms akimbo, she stood looking curiously at the stranger. In this land at this time the young of every other animal native thereto was common, but a child, a white child, was a novelty indeed. Many a cow-puncher, bachelor among bachelors, could testify that it had been years since he had seen the like. But Ma Graham was not a bachelor, and in her the maternal instinct, though repressed, was strong. It was barely an instant before she was at the little lad's side, unwinding the blanket with deft hands.
"Who be you, anyway, and where'd you come from?" she exclaimed.
The child observed her gravely.
"Benjamin Blair's my name. I came with the man."
The husk was off the lad ere this, and the woman was rubbing his small hands vigorously.
"Cold, ain't you? Come right over to the fire!" herself leading the way. "And hungry—I'll bet you're hungrier than a wolf!"
The lad nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
The woman straightened up and looked down at her charge.
"Of course you are. All little boys are hungry." Shecast a challenging glance around the group of interested spectators.
"Fix the fire, one of you, while I get something hot for the kid," she said, and ambled toward the lean-to.
If the men thought to have their curiosity concerning the youngster satisfied by word of mouth, however, they were doomed to be disappointed; for when Rankin himself entered it was as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He hung up his coat methodically, and, with the boy by his side, partook of the hastily prepared meal impassively, as was his wont. It could not have escaped him that the small Benjamin ate and ate until it seemed marvellous that one stomach could accommodate so much food; but he made no comment, and when at last the boy succumbed to a final plateful, he tilted back against the wall for his last smoke for the day. This was the usual signal of dismissal, and the hands put on their hats and filed silently out.
Without more words the foreman and his wife prepared for the night. The dishes were cleared away and piled in the lean-to. From either end of the room bunks, broad as beds, were let down from the wall, and the blankets that formed their linings were carefully smoothed out. Along the pole extending across the middle of the room, another set was drawn, dividing the room in two. Then the two disappeared with a simple "Good-night."
Rankin and the boy sat alone looking at each other. From across the blanket partition there came the muffled sound of movement, the impact of Graham's heavy boots, as they dropped to the floor, and then silence.
"Better go to bed, Ben," suggested Rankin, with a nod toward the bunk.
The boy at once went through the process of disrobing, and, crawling in between the blankets, pulled them up about his chin. But the blue eyes did not close. Instead, they rested steadily upon the man's face. Rankin returned the look, and then the stubby pipe left his mouth.
"What is it, Ben?"
The boy hesitated. "Am I to—to stay with you?" he asked at last.
"Yes."
For an instant the questioner seemed satisfied; then the peculiar inquiring look returned.
"Anything else, son?"
The lad hesitated longer than before. Beneath the coverings his body moved restlessly.
"Yes, sir, I want to know why nobody would come to help my mamma if she'd sent for them. She said they wouldn't."
The pipe left Rankin's mouth, his great jaws closing with an audible click.
"You wish to know—what did you say, Ben?"
The boy repeated the question.
For a minute, and then another, Rankin said nothing; then he knocked the ashes from the bowl of his brier and laid it upon the table.
"Never mind now why they wouldn't, son." He arose heavily and drew off his coat. "You'll find out for yourself quickly enough—too quickly, my boy. Now go to sleep."
CHAPTER VTHE EXOTICS
Some men acquire involuntary prominence by being democratic amid aristocratic surroundings. Others, on the contrary, but with the same result, continue to live the life to which they were born, even when placed amid surroundings that make their actions all but grotesque. An example of this latter class was Scotty Baker, whose ranch, as the wild goose flies, was thirteen miles west of the Box R.
Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn love of fine horse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years before he had fallen into the hands of a promoter, and had bartered a goodly proportion of his worldly belongings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possession of immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up from his home in Sussex when the fact was made known. Neighbors were fluent in denunciation, relatives insistent in expostulation; his wife, and in sympathy their baby daughter, copious in the argument of tears; but the die was irrevocably cast. Go he would,—not from voluntary stubbornness, but because he must.
The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the sailing of Columbus. Probably not one of the friendswho saw them off for their new home expected ever to see the family again. Indians they were confident were rampant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracle escape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, running amuck, here and there, could not fail to trample the survivors into the dust of the prairie. By comparison, war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingled until the sound was as the wailing of winds.
Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encouraging even in the face of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, until, with the few remnants of civilization they had brought with them, the family arrived at the wind-beaten terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired property. Then for the first time he wilted.
"I've been an ass," he admitted bitterly, as he glanced in impotent contempt at the handful of weather-stained buildings which on the map bore the name of a town; "an ass, an egregious, abominable, blethering ass!"
But, notwithstanding his lack of the practical, Scotty was made of good stuff. It was not an alternative but a necessity that faced him now, and he arose right manfully to the occasion. Despite his wife's assertion that she "never, never would go any farther into this God-forsaken country," he succeeded in getting her into a lumber-wagon and headed for what he genially termed "the interior." At last he even succeeded in making her smile at his efforts to make the disreputable mule pack-team he had secured move faster than a walk.
Once in possession of his own, however, he returned to his customary easy manner of life. It took him a veryshort time to discover that he had purchased a gold brick. Horses, especially fine horses, were in no demand there; but this fact did not alter his course in the least. A horse-ranch he had bought, a horse-ranch he would run, though every man west of the Mississippi should smile. He enlarged his tiny shack to a cottage of three rooms; put in floor and ceiling, and papered the walls. Out of poles and prairie sod he fashioned a serviceable barn, and built an admirable horse paddock. Last of all he planted in his dooryard, in artistic irregularity, a wagon-load of small imported trees. The fact that within six months they all died caused him slight misgiving. He at least had done what he could to beautify the earth; that he failed was nature's fault, not his.
Once settled, he began to make acquaintances. Methodically, to the members of one ranch at a time, he sent invitations to dinner, and upon the appointed date he confronted his guests with a spectacle which made them all but doubt their identity, the like of which most of them had never even seen before. Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel and leather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete evening dress, ushered into a room which contained a carpet and a piano, and had lace curtains at the windows; seated later at a table covered with pure linen and set with real china and cut-glass. The experience was like a dream to the visitor. Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening would pass without conscious volition upon the latter's part; and not until later, when he was at home, would the full significance of the experience assert itself, and his wonder and admiration find vent in words. Then indeedwould the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daughter, be heard in the land.
Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the impassive Rankin. He fairly bombarded the big rancher with courtesies and invitations. No holiday (and Scotty was an assiduous observer of holidays) was complete unless Rankin was present to help celebrate. No improvement about the ranch was definitely undertaken until Rankin had expressed a favorable opinion concerning the project. Gradually, so gradually that the big man himself did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty's influence, and more and more frequently he was to be found headed toward the cosey Baker cottage. Now, for a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passed without one or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse the thirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few hours in each other's company.
It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the second morning following Ben Blair's adoption into the Box R Ranch—a Sunday—the Englishman hitched a team of his best blooded trotters to the antiquated phaeton, which was the only vehicle he possessed, and started across country at a lively clip. Thus it came to pass that about two hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started for the ranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path upon the sunny south doorstep an object that made him pause and blink his near-sighted eyes. Under the concentration of his vision, the object resolved itself into a small boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked across his shins, his chin upon his knees. For an instantthe Englishman hesitated. Courtesy was instinctive with him.
"Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home?" he asked.
The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up.
"You mean the big man, sir?"
Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette. He stared.
"Certainly," he replied at last.
Ben Blair stepped out of the way.
"Yes, sir, he is."
Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair.
"Tell me, Rankin," he began, "who is the new-comer, and where did you get him?" A long leg swung comfortably over its mate. "And, by the way, while you're about it, is he six or sixty? By Jove, I couldn't tell!"
The host looked at his visitor quizzically.
"Ben, I suppose you mean?"
"Ben, orTom, I don't know. I mean the gentleman on the front steps, the one who didn't know your name," and the Englishman related the recent conversation.
The corners of Rankin's eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as he listened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drew upward in sympathy.
"I'm not surprised, Baker," he admitted, "that you're in doubt about Ben's age. He's eight; but I'd be uncertain myself if I didn't absolutely know. As to his not knowing my name—it's just struck me that I've never introduced myself to the little fellow."
"But how did you come to get him? This isn't a country where one sees many children roaming around."
"No," the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; "that's a fact. He didn't just drop in. I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, I asked him to come and live with me, and he accepted." The speaker turned to his companion directly. "You knew Jennie Blair, did you?"
Scotty looked interested.
"Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an acquaintance. I always—"
"Well," interrupted Rankin impassively, "Ben's her son. She died awhile ago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up. He wouldn't stay here any longer, and didn't want to take the kid with him, so I took the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement will stick."
For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his host shrewdly, almost sceptically.
"That's all of the story, is it?" he asked at last.
"All, as far as I know."
Scotty continued his observation a moment longer.
"But not all the kid knows, I judge."
The host made no comment, and in a distinctively absent manner the Englishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail of his Sunday frock-coat.
"By the way,"—Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung the bows over his ears with a snap,—"what day was it that Blair left? Did it happen to be Friday?"
"Yes, Friday."
"And he doesn't intend ever to return?"
"I believe not."
The visitor's eyes flashed swiftly around the room. The two men were alone.
"I think, then, I see through it." The voice was lower than before. "One of my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven't been able to get trace of a hoof or hair since."
"What?" Rankin was interested at last.
Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minute steadily.
"And you just—tell of it?" he said at last.
The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat.
"Yes." Forgetting that he had just polished his glasses, he took them off and went through the process again.
"Yes, I may as well be honest, I've seen a bit of these Westerners about here, and I don't really agree with their scheme of justice. They're apt to put two and two together and make eight where you know it's only four." For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. "And when they find out their beastly mistake—why—oh—it's too late then, perhaps, for some poor devil!"
For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he reached over and grasped the other man by the hand.
"Baker," he said, "you ain't very practical, but you're dead square." And he shook the hand again.
Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher's eyes and he tore himself loose with an effort.
"By the way," he said, "I'd like to ask a question forfuture guidance. What would you have done if you'd been in my place?"
Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red surged beneath the tan of his cheeks; then, as suddenly as his companion had done, he smiled outright.
"I reckon I'd have done just what you did," he admitted; and the two men laughed together.
"Seriously, though," said Scotty, after a moment, "and as long as I've told you anyway, what ought I to do under the circumstances? Should I let Blair off, do you think?"
For a moment Rankin did not answer; then he faced his questioner directly, and Scotty knew why the big man's word was so nearly law in the community.
"Under the circumstances," he repeated, "I'd let him go; for several reasons. First of all, he's got such a start of you now that you couldn't catch him, anyway. Then he's a coward by nature, and it'll be a mighty long time before he ever shows up here again. And last of all," the speaker hesitated, "last of all," he repeated slowly, "though I don't know, I believe you were right when you said the boy could tell more about it than the rest of us; and if what we suspect is true, I think by the time he comes back, if he ever does come, Ben will be old enough to take care of him." Again the speaker paused, and his great jowl settled down into his shirt-front. "If he doesn't, I can't read signs when I see 'em."
For a moment the room was silent; then Scotty sprang to his feet as if a load had been taken off his mind.
"All right," said he, "we'll forget it. And, speaking of forgetting, I've nearly got myself into trouble already. I have an invitation from Mrs. Baker for you to take dinner with us to-day. In fact, I was sent on purpose to bring you. Not a word, not a word!" he continued, at sight of objections gathering on the other's face; "a lady's invitations are sacred, you know. Get your coat!"
Rankin arose with an effort and stood facing his visitor.
"You know I'm always glad to visit you, Baker," he said. "I wasn't thinking of holding off on my own account, but I've got someone else to consider now, you know. Ben—"
"Certainly, certainly!" Scotty's voice was eloquent of comprehension. "Throw the kiddie in too. He can play with Flossie; they're about of an age, and she'll be tickled to death to have him."
Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly. "I know Ben's going would be all right with you, Baker," he explained at last, "but how about your wife? Considering—everything—she might object."
The smile left the Englishman's face, and a look of perplexity took its place.
"By Jove!" he said, "you're right! I never thought of that." He shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. "But, pshaw! What's the use of saying anything whatever about the boy's connections? He's nothing but a youngster,—and, besides, his mother's actions are no fault of his."
Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately.
"All right," he said. "I'll call Ben." At the door he paused, looking back, the peculiar expression again upon his face. "As you say, the faults of Ben's mother are not his faults, anyway."
CHAPTER VITHE SOIL AND THE SEED
Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sitting beside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a good meal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, and their smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling. Intermittently, with the unconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remote from our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals the family wants, had brought the day before.
Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy and a still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation of becoming acquainted. The little girl was decidedly taking the initiative.
"How's it come your name is Blair?" she asked, opening fire as soon as they were alone.
The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Why should he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself.
"I don't know," he admitted.
The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought.
"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and my name's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin—but you aren't." She stroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny," she repeated.
"Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not a part of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped.
"Let's play duck on the rock," suggested Florence.
The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets.
"I don't know how."
"That's nothing." The small brunette had the air of one to whom difficulties were unknown. "I'll show you. Papa and I play, and it's lots of fun—only he beats me." She looked about for available material.
"You get that little box up by the house," she directed, "and we'll have that for the rock."
Ben did as ordered.
"Now bring two tin cans. You'll find a pile back of the barn."
Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of "selects," each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of the ingredients of succotash.
"Now watch me," said Florence.
She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on the ground. "This is the rock," she explained. On the top of the box she perched one of the cans, open end up. "And this is the duck—my duck. Do you see?"
The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. "Yes, I see," he said.
Florence came back to the barn. "Now the game is for you to take this other can and knock my duck off. Then we both run, and if you get your can on the box ahead of me, I'mit, and I'll have to knock off your duck. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"All right." And the sport was on.
Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly.
"He, he!" tittered Florence. "You missed!"
He retrieved his duck without comment.
"Try again; you've got three chances."
More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can.
"Missed again!" exulted the little brunette. "You've only one more try." And the brown eyes flashed with mischief.
For the last time Ben stood at position.
"Be careful! you're out if you miss."
Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung his arm overhead clear from the shoulder, and threw with all his might. There was a flash of gaudy paper through the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood, and the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of danger.
For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a moment; then she stamped a tiny foot imperiously.
"Oh, you naughty boy!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, naughty boy!"
Once more Ben's hands were in his pockets. "Why?" he asked innocently.
"Because you don't play right!"
"You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!"
"But not that way." Florence's small chin was high in the air. "I'm going in the house."
Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye.
"Are you very sorry?" she asked.
Ben nodded his head gravely.
There was a moment of indecision. "All right," she said, with apparent reluctance; "but we won't play duck any more. We'll play drop the handkerchief."
The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.
"I don't know how," he admitted once more.
Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.
"Don't Mr. Rankin, or—or anyone—play with you?" she asked.
Ben shook his head.
"All right, then," she said obligingly, "I'll show you."
With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet in diameter.
"You can't cross that place in there," she said.
The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrier presented itself to his vision.
"Why not?" he asked.
Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't," she explained. Then, some further reason seemingnecessary, she added, "Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there. Anyway, you can't cross!"
Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a moment doubtfully.
"Now," she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you take the handkerchief." She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B" embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me before I notice you—you can kiss me. Do you see?"
Ben could see.
"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.
The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle—that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something—back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.
"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it."
"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"
Ben agreed to the statement.
An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught acurious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.
"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl. "Papa never does."
The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.
Again there was a lull.
"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.
Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was not well.
"You'reit, ain't you?" he hesitated at last.
This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire.
"Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"
Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face grew very white.
"What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily.
Defiant still, the girl held her ground.
"Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid cats always are!"
"But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of."
Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision.
"You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing," she ventured.
Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and the earth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate. At the north end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort of inclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up he lost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he said nothing. The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-pole without accident. Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raised himself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, and jumped.
That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. In a sort of vision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozen ground,—and all through her fault! She shut her eyes, and clasped her hands over her face.
A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further sound, and she slowly opened her fingers. Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing erect before her. There was a smear of dust upon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon his cheek,which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. From beneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers, deliberate and unsmiling.
As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition passed. In an indefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation of disappointment,—a feeling of being deprived of something which was her due. She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew. A moment so the children faced each other.
"Do you still think I'm afraid?" asked the boy at last.
Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin.
"Pooh!" said the girl, "thatwas nothing!" She tossed her head in derision. "Anyone could do that!"
Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee to shake off the dust, and put it back upon his head. The action took only a half minute, but when the girl looked at him again it hardly seemed he was the same boy with whom she had just played. His eyes were no longer blue, but gray. The chin, too, with an odd trick,—one she was destined to know better in future,—had protruded, had become the dominant feature of his face, aggressive, almost menacing. Except for the size, one looking could scarcely have believed Ben's visage was that of a child.
"What," the boy's hands went back into his pockets, "what wouldn't anyone do, then?" he asked directly.
At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad to occupy some other person's shoes. Obviously, the proper thing for her to do was to admit her fault and clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with her disposition, and she looked about for a suggestion. Onecame promptly, but at first she did not speak. Then the brown head tossed again.
"Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts out there!" She indicated the pasture near by. "Papa said the other day he'd rather not be the first to try."
The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that Scotty had just imported from an Eastern breeder. They were absolutely unbroken, but every ounce thoroughbreds, and full to the ear-tips of what the Englishman expressively termed "ginger."
To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea that her challenge would be accepted. Implicit trust in her father was one of her virtues, and the mere suggestion that another would attempt to do what he would not, was rankest heresy. But the boy Benjamin started for the barn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved toward the gate. Instinctively Florence took a step after him.
"Really, I didn't mean for you to try," she explained in swift penitence. "I don't think you're afraid!"
Ben opened and closed the gate silently.
"Please don't do it," pleaded the girl. "You'll be hurt!"
But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well have asked the sun to cease shining. Nothing could stop that gray-eyed boy. Without a show of haste he advanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats in the pan, and whistled enticingly. Full often in his short life he had seen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly.
Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest.At first the colt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of its appetite, it drew nearer, then ran frisking away, again drew near. Ben held out the pan, shook it at intervals, displaying its contents to the best advantage. Colt nature could not resist the appeal. The sleek thoroughbred cast aside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle deep into the grain.
Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding the pan near the ground to reach the straps over the ears; then, pausing, looked at the back far above his head. How he was to get up there would have perplexed an observer. For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an idea occurred to him. Once more holding the remnants of the oats near the ground, he waited until the hungry nose was deep amongst them, the head well lowered; then, improving his opportunity, he swung one leg over the sleek neck and awaited developments.
He was not long in suspense. The action was like touching flame to powder; the resulting explosion was all but simultaneous. With a snort, the head went high in air, tossing the grain about like seed, and down the inclined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Benjamin slid to the slippery back. Once there, an instinct told him to grip the rounding flank with his ankles, and clutch the heavy mane.
And he was none too quick. For a moment the colt paused in pure wonder at the audacity of the thing; then, with a neigh, half of anger and half of fear, it sprang away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashing in and out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity onits back meanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey. For a minute, then another, the youngster kept his seat, pulling upon the reins at intervals, gripping together his small knees until the muscles ached. Then suddenly the colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feet firmly into the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shot overhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which fairly drove the breath from his body. But even then, half unconscious as he was, he wouldn't let loose of the reins. Not until the now thoroughly aroused colt had dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the boy and the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap upon the earth.
Florence had watched the scene with breathless interest. While Ben was making his mount, she observed him doubtfully. While he retained his seat, she clapped her hands in glee. Then, with his downfall, a great lump came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to see the outcome, she ran sobbing to the house. A moment later she rushed into the little parlor where her father and Rankin, their cigars finished, were sitting and chatting.
"Papa," she pleaded, "papa, go quick! Ben's killed!"
"Great Cæsar's ghost!" exclaimed Scotty, springing up nervously, and holding the little girl at arm's length. "What's the matter?"
"Ben, Ben, I told you! He tried to ride one of the colts, and he's killed—I know he is!"
"Holy buckets!" Genuine apprehension was in the Englishman's voice. Without waiting for further explanation he shot out of the door, and ran full tilt to the paddock behind the barn. There he stopped, and Rankin coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side watching the approach of a small figure still some rods away. The boy's face and hands were marked with bloodstains from numerous scratches; one leg of his trousers was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when he walked he limped noticeably. All these things the two men observed at a distance. When he came closer, they were forgotten in the look upon his small face. The odd trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forward was now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the upper. In sympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely or cruelly, but with a fixed 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.