CHAPTER XVI“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”—St. Matt. XXV, 35The long, bright May day had drawn to a close, and darkness was setting in, through which a few faint stars had begun to twinkle. Ah, here was a light at last; and a welcome sight it was to the tired girl, leading an equally tired, fat, old gray horse as, topping a rise in the trail, she beheld the visible signs of a habitation gleaming in the distance.“Come on, Sam,” she coaxed cheerily, with a slightly impatient tug at the reins and quickening her pace. “We’ll soon be there, now, old boy, and you’ll get a good long drink and a feed!”Plodding wearily on, they stumbled over the ruts of a well-worn trail diverging at right angles from the one they were traversing, and which the girl instinctively took, guessing that it led to the dwelling whose beacon shone brighter and brighter with every nearing step.Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull in the brisk night breeze—like an Æolian harp—there came to her astonished ears the unmistakable sounds of a piano. A fresh gust of wind carried it away next minute, though, and she moved forward again. Soon the shadowy outlines of a building became visible amid the surrounding gloom, and the music became distinct and real. Dropping the horse’s reins, the girl stepped slowly and carefully towards the light, thrusting out her hands with experienced caution as she did so, fearful of encountering the customary strands of a barbed-wire fence. Meeting with no such obstacle, she drew nearer to the open window, absently humming a bar of “The Bridal Chorus” from “Lohengrin,” which air the invisible pianist had, with masterly improvisations, just drawn to a close.Then she halted, paralyzed for the moment with astonishment—all her own musical instincts fully aroused—as a man’s deep, rich baritone voice floated forth on the night air, singing a well-remembered song, but asshehad never heard it sung before. And, though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, she found it impossible to listen to the beautiful words on this occasion unmoved:If I were hanged on the highest hill,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!I know whose love would follow me still,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!Entranced, she stood motionless. Whoever could this unknown vocalist with the magnificent voice be, singing “Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine” in the wilderness? The slow, deep, ineffable pathos of its last verse thrilled and touched her strangely:If I were damned of body and soul,I know whose prayers would make me whole,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment’s silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man’s form in the gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a pleasant—unmistakably, a gentleman’s voice—with a slightly imperious ring in it said:“Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?”“I’m—I’m afraid I’ve lost my way,” she answered. “I’m trying to get back to Mr. Trainor’s ranch. I’ve not been in this district very long and I’m—I suppose I’m what you call ‘a bit green’ as yet at finding my way about on the prairie,” she added merrily.He laughed at her last words. “So,” he said. “Seems a bit like it. Dave Trainor’s lies about seven miles nor’east of here. You’re riding, of course?”“Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. “But all thedecenthorses are away on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and he’ssofat and lazy and slow. It’s too much like ‘working your passage’ with him. That’s the principal reason I’m out so late. I’d been to see Mrs. Goddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I could make it alone all right. Consequence is—here I am, ‘lost on the bald-headed,’ as they say. Poor old Sam’s pretty nearly played out for a drink and a feed—an’—an’ so am I,” she continued frankly. “I’ve walked an awful long way to ease him, for I’m not exactly what you’d call a feather-weight.”Her humor was irresistible and infectious. “All right,” he said gaily. “You’ll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I’m afraid, though. It’s the Mounted Police detachment, and I’m the Sergeant in charge. But—we’ll do what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I’ll fix up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards.”Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for the first time in the light.He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed, scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely censured by her aunt.Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small, superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick masses of silky, shining, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face—which, though pleasing, healthy, and happy—could scarcely be called beautiful at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth, with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected the constant lively and changeful play of their owner’s irrepressible emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain, white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her splendid columnar throat. Her feet—absurdly small for a woman of her generous build—were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl’s Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coarse though her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded outlines of her abnormally tall, classical, magnificent figure.“Well, well,” said the Sergeant. “This sure is a pleasure. Why, I might have known you again if only from your voice.”She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous chuckle, like a boy whose voice is breaking.“Same here,” she said, with emphasis. “Though I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing yours in song before. Why, you must be the Mounted Policeman I often hear Mr. Trainer speaking of? I never thought to connect you with the same man on the black horse that time last year.”“Sure,” he answered, grinning. “Only I hope Dave doesn’t libel me as badly as some of ’em do, for I’m very sensitive. My name’s Benton—Sergeant Benton.”Her dark eyes flashed roguishly and, drawing off a gauntlet, she held out her hand with a frank, impulsive camaraderie and grasped his with a warm, strong clasp.“My Good Samaritan,” she said simply. “I’m very glad to know you and, since introductions are going, suffice it to saymyname’s O’Malley—Mary O’Malley—and I originally hail from New York. At present I’m companion to Mrs. Trainer, governess to her children—what you will.”He nodded. “Well,” he said, “since you’ve been kind enough to confer the title of ‘Good Samaritan’ on me, I must make good on the best this poor house can offer you.”And he bustled through into the kitchen. “No, no,” he protested laughingly, as she arose with an offer of help and made as if to follow him. “You be good, now, and stay right where you are. You may run things at Dave Trainer’s, but I won’t have you butting aroundmykitchen. Oh, I’m quite a competent cook, I can assure you.”She gave a little comical grimace of despair. “Oh, very well, then,” she said. “I’ll just stay here and sulk instead.”And she began to wander around the room, examining all his military accouterments, pictures, and curios, with a lively, almost childlike, interest, calling out from time to time “What this was for?” and “What that was?” etc. Then, suddenly seating herself at the piano, she lifted up a great, rollicking voice and, in an amusing, exaggerated Hibernian brogue, commenced to sing “Th’ Waking of Pat Malone”:Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he continued his cooking operations.Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning in the doorway, regarded him with serious, appraising eyes.“Man,” she said solemnly, “’tis th’ grand voice that ye have—singin’ away all on your lonesome.”And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense amusement and surprise, a well-worn verse from “Omar Khayyám.”“So,” said Ellis, with a delighted chuckle, as the daring and utter absurdity of the quotation, under the circumstances, struck him, “it’s kind of you to suggest it. All the ingredients are at hand, too, except the ‘Flask of Wine,’ ‘Wilderness enow,’ particularly.... Sorry about the Wine, though, after that compliment. Unfortunately, we’re strictly ‘on the tack,’ as we call it, just now. Oh, ‘Barkis is willin’,’ all right.”He cleared the books and papers off the table in the living-room and, spreading out the simple repast that he had prepared for her, drew up a chair.“Grub pi-i-ile!” she shrilled, in droll imitation of a camp cookee; and, seating herself, she attacked the frugal meal with a healthy appetite that fully demonstrated her previous admission that she was hungry.“Sorry I forgot to ask whether you’d have tea or coffee,” he said apologetically. “I’ve made you coffee.”“Oh, that’s all right,” she said carelessly. “I much prefer coffee. Thanks. My! but I’m hungry!”He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite and, leaning his head back against the leopard skin, watched her with a lively and all-absorbing interest. Her complete self-possession and confidence, and the unconventional manner in which she proceeded to make herself entirely at home in the detachment, amused and astounded him. He remembered the impulsive, winning way that she had come over and spoken to him on the occasion of their first meeting. She was a new type to him and he realized that she was quite out of the ordinary.She was not “mannish,” but there seemed to be a good deal of the irresponsible boy, as it were, left in her. She couldn’t be a strolling ex-actress, he reflected. The utter absence of coquetry, the fresh, healthy, open-air look of her, and the mention that she had made of the position she occupied at the Trainors’ immediately dispelled that idea. And besides, Dave Trainor’s wife was a lady-like, nice woman and—particular. He was a frequent and welcome caller at their ranch—knew them intimately.No, she was all right. Just a big, simple, jolly girl, well bred and educated; brought up, perhaps, amongst a host of brothers and their friends so, therefore, accustomed to masculine society, and most likely preferring it to her own sex. Mixing with them in their out-door sports—clean minded, healthy specimens like herself—daring, high spirited and impulsive, without being brazen and bold—funny, without being vulgar. Her manner, and clear, frank, honest eyes showed him that. Used to being teased and welcomed everywhere—clever, mirth loving, independent, self-reliant, kind and brave.It was thus that he mentally diagnosed the character of his fair guest. He was no vain, smirking Lothario, but he instinctively guessed how that strong mouth of hers could set, and those hazel eyes blaze and scintillate with dangerous anger at times; and that the man who was ill-advised and—ignorant enough—to ever make the foolish break of misconstruing her careless geniality for anything elsebutthat, was only inviting disaster of the most ignominious and humiliating kind.Her gaze flitted around the room continually as she appeased her appetite, and he was subjected to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.“And do they supply your detachments with pianos, too?” she inquired ingenuously. “Now, you needn’t laugh. I believe you’ve only been telling me a lot of nonsense. ‘I was a stranger, so you took me in.’ It’s too bad of you.”“Honor bright, I haven’t,” he protested, with a grin. “I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pianos! Oh, my long-suffering Force. No, we get a pretty good outfit, but the Government don’t extend their generosity quitethatfar. This musical box belongs to the Honorable Percy Lake. He’s a rich Englishman who plays at ‘rawnching’ here—a ‘jolly boy,’ as we call ’em. His place is about five miles due west from here; it’s fitted up like a Fifth Avenue mansion. Oh, he’s no end of a swell. But it’s caddish of me to make fun of him, for he’s an awfully decent chap at heart, in spite of his lazy, fastidious ways, and a man—every bit of him. He’s away in California just now. He and his wife always flit South with the geese before the winter sets in, but they should be back any old time now. He was scared the punchers would ruin this piano if it was left to their tender mercies. It’s a pretty good one, I believe—a Broadwood. Had it shipped out from the Old Country and, as he knows I’m fond of music, he insisted on carting it over here. Kind enough, but whatever I’d do with it if I was transferred suddenly anywhere else, I don’t know. It’ll be a relief, in a way, when he redeems it.”He got up and poured her some more coffee, remarking a little anxiously:“I suppose the Trainors will be having a search party out for you, thinking something’s happened. Shouldn’t wonder but what Dave’s on his way down here right now to notify me.”“Oh, no; don’t you worry,” she said reassuringly. “I told them Imightstay at the Goddard’s place for the night. I would have done so, only I found little Willy Goddard was sickening for measles and I didn’t want to take chances in my capacity of governess of probably passing it on to the Trainors’ children—Bert and Gwyn. Not that I’m scared for myself—I’ve had it, years and years ago. Oh, the Trainors know I’m jolly well able to take care of my little self,” she added, with a slight suggestion of defiant challenge in her tones and look which stirred the fiery Benton blood in his veins strangely.“Yes, you just bet you are!” he ejaculated admiringly, as he appraised her strong, splendid figure. “You’re away taller than I am, and I shouldn’t wonder if you don’tweighheavier, too. Riding keeps my weight down, though. I don’t suppose I go more’n a hundred and seventy-five; but that’s plenty heavy enough for a horse.”She nodded carelessly. “Went one hundred and seventy-eight last week when I weighed myself on the grain scales—and I’m five feet ten and a half. Oh, Finnegan, that’s me!“I had quite an adventure coming along,” she continued, with reflective gravity. “After I’d left the Goddards’ I came through a place away back on the trail there—I think it’s called ‘Fish Creek.’ I was passing by a bit of an old homestead—you couldn’t dignify it with the title of ‘ranch.’ There was a tumble-down old shack there, anyway, and as I came round the front of it—the trail bends there—I saw a funny little old man standing, or rather, leaning, in the doorway. He’d got a bottle in his hand and, oh! hewasso tipsy—singing away like anything.“Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his bottle and shouted ‘’Urroo!’ I didn’t know what he was rejoicing about, but of course I shouted ’Urroo! back. And then I suppose he intended to come over and speak to me, but the steps of his shack were broken and, oh, dear! he came such an awful tumble off his perch and smashed the bottle all to pieces.”Ellis gave a shout of laughter. “Why, that must be old Bob Tucker,” he said. “He’s always getting ‘lit up.’ Did he scare you?”The great, smiling girl arose and, dusting some crumbs off her lap, drew herself up to her full regal height and looked down upon him with pitying toleration.“Huh!” she ejaculated. But words cannot express the world of scornful amusement, derision, and incredulity that she put into the exclamation. “Scare nothing! the poor little, dirty old tipsy thing. I got off Sam and picked him up, and then I saw he’d cut one of his hands on the broken bottle. It was bleeding ever so badly, and a piece of the glass was still sticking in the cut. When he saw he’d lost all his whiskey he started to swear something awful—leastways Ithinkit was swearing.... It sounded like it, but it was in a funny language I couldn’t understand. And then he began to cry. Oh, Iwasso sorry for him. I helped him up the steps into the shack, and got some water and washed his cut hand—then I tied it up with my handkerchief. All the time he kept whimpering: ‘Oh, gorblimey, it ’urts! it ’urts!’ And he kept calling me ‘intombi.’ What’s that mean?”“It’s Zulu,” said Ellis. “It means ‘young woman.’ I guess he was swearing in Kaffir or theTaal. He’s an old Cockney, but he’s lived the best part of his life in South Africa.”“Well,” she continued, “after I’d fixed up his hand he stopped crying and commenced to shout: ‘’Urroo! ’Urroo!’ again. And then he pulled a dirty old letter out of his pocket and began to tell me it was from ‘Jack ’Arper,’ who, he explained, was a friend of his son’s, somewhere down in Eastern Ontario. ‘’E tells me my b’y ’Arry’svrouw’s doed!—gorn to ’eving!’ he says, in a screech you could pretty nearly hear to Sabbano. And it was awful the way he chuckled and grinned over it. Just as if it was some great joke. ‘An’ Jack, ’e says as ’ow ‘Arry’s bindronkever since, but wevver it’s becos ’e’s sorry, or becos ’e’s glad, w’y ’e don’t know.... An’ ’e says as ’ow ’Arry wants me to come back Heast an’ live wiv ’im on th’ farm. An’ I’m a-goin’, too!’ he says. ‘I’ve sold aht this old plice—an’ me stock—to Walter ’Umphries, an’ I’m a-goin’ totreknext week. ’Urroo! ’Urroo! ’ere goes nuthin’!’”Ellis, at this point, was convulsed with mirth; for her exact mimicry of old Tucker’s Cockney speech was startlingly natural and funny in the extreme.The girl laughed with him, continuing: “He was stumbling about and waving his arms all the while he was telling me this joyful news, and he wanted to get me some supper but, ugh!... I simply couldn’t. The place and everything was so dirty—like a pigstye. I was glad to get away, and I left him standing on the broken steps waving his bandaged hand to me. The poor old thing! does he live there all alone?”Ellis nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get him to sell out and go and live with his son down East for a long time now. I’m glad to hear he’s going at last. He’s too old to live alone like that. His daughter-in-law was the obstacle. The reason I asked you if you were scared was because he’s got a playful way of flourishing a loaded rifle around sometimes when he gets on these toots. He put the fear into me properly one time, I remember.”A photograph, slightly yellow with age, in a splendid silver frame on the piano attracted her attention and, with an “Excuse me,” she crossed over and scrutinized it long and earnestly. It was the sweet, proud, regally beautiful face of a woman attired in an evening dress of the style worn in the early ’seventies. Ah! no need to tell her whothatwas! For, in spite of his mutilated ear and scarred, bronzed face, she recognized in the portrait the same regular, clean-cut features and steady eyes of the man who sat there silently watching her, with his head thrown out into strong relief against the leopard-skin kaross.She glanced at him in mute inquiry, and back to the photograph again, instinctively guessingnowwhence the inspiration of that moving song had come which had been the means of arousing in her a greater interest in her host than she would perhaps have cared to admit.“It’s my mother,” he said simply, interpreting her look. “She died when I was just a kid at school. A little over a year before I came out to the States.”There was silence for awhile and presently he sprang up briskly.“Well, now, I don’t want to hurry you, Miss O’Malley,” he said, “but we’ve got seven miles to go and it’s a quarter to eleven now. They’ll all have gone to roost at the Trainors’ long ago, I expect. I’m going to give you agoodhorse to ride ... the black fellow you liked so much.” (She gave a little exclamation of delight.) “The work began to pile up—there’s some awful long patrols to do here. It was too much for one horse, so I kicked for another and got it. I ride ’em turn about. There’s a good pasture at the back, with water, so when I go away for a few days I can always turn the spare one out. I’ll shove your saddle onto Johnny—he’s quiet—and I’ll ride Billy and trail old Sam alongside.”She thanked him prettily and gratefully for the hospitable entertainment accorded her and his kind offer of guidance.“Oh, not at all; not at all,” he replied cheerily. “It’s the other way about, I’m thinking. You’ve quite livened things up around here. I’m a kind of a lonely beggar. You can’t think how I’ve enjoyed your company. Well, I’ll go and get those horses and we’ll hit the trail.”To the lonely man that night ride to the Trainors’ ranch with such an interesting companion seemed all too short, and but for the late hour and the fact of her being by now very tired, he could have wished the distance longer.Everything was dark and still as they neared the ranch, until two huge coyote hounds hearing their approach ran out barking, and overwhelmed them with a boisterous welcome when they dismounted. Hitching the horses to the fence, Ellis swung open the hanging gate of the square, railed-in enclosure within which the ranch dwelling stood, and they walked slowly up the path. Aroused by the dogs, Trainor himself came out to meet them with a lighted lantern in his hand.“Hello, people!” was his hearty greeting. “What’s abroad? That you, Mary? Why, Sergeant, it’s you, eh? What’s this young lady been up to now? Is she under arrest?”“Sure thing,” said Ellis, laughing. “I’m thinking of charging her with ‘vagrancy’—found her wandering around the prairie ‘riding the grub line.’”Explanations followed, and Trainor led the way into the house. It was a comfortable, home-like, roomy dwelling, simply, but well and substantially furnished, with many splendid bear, deer, and other skins scattered around the painted hardwood floor in lieu of carpets, for Trainor had traveled considerably, and been a mighty hunter in former years. The well-stocked book shelves, the piano, and a few, but good, oil paintings and engravings that adorned the walls, seemed to imply that the owners were people of substance and refinement. Trainor was a tall, strongly-built man of fifty or thereabouts, with a heavy, fair mustache and a humorous, weather-beaten face. His speech, although slightly nasal, was that of an educated American, and his genial, kind-hearted personality created an instinctive liking with all who met him.He was roughly dressed in a waistcoat, gray-flannel shirt, with blue overalls tucked into high riding-boots; for, apart from the fact that he was well-to-do, and one of the largest stock owners in the district, he was a worker himself, and liked to superintend the running of his ranch personally.“The wife’s gone to bed long ago,” he said. “I was sitting up, reading, when I heard the dogs start in to yap. Why, Mary, my girl! I thought you said you were going to stay the night at the Goddards’? They’ve got the measles there, eh? Well, all’s well that ends well, thanks to Sergeant Benton, here. Trust you not to get left, anyway. You look pretty well played out, though. You’d better go to roost or you’ll be losing your good looks. Won’t she?”“Impossible!” exclaimed the sergeant, with such fervent emphasis that a faint blush arose on the girl’s rather tired face, as she thanked him again and bid him “Good-night.”He chatted awhile with Trainor, who had hospitably produced a bottle of whiskey, and presently got up and prepared to depart, refusing the latter’s invitation for him to stay the night.“Can’t chance it tonight, Dave,” he said. “I’m anticipating the arrival of one of our officers—Inspector Purvis. He’s about due here, visiting detachments, and I don’t want to be away when he comes. Thanks, all the same! No, you needn’t come out. I’ll off-saddle and fix up old Sam. So long.”
CHAPTER XVI“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”—St. Matt. XXV, 35The long, bright May day had drawn to a close, and darkness was setting in, through which a few faint stars had begun to twinkle. Ah, here was a light at last; and a welcome sight it was to the tired girl, leading an equally tired, fat, old gray horse as, topping a rise in the trail, she beheld the visible signs of a habitation gleaming in the distance.“Come on, Sam,” she coaxed cheerily, with a slightly impatient tug at the reins and quickening her pace. “We’ll soon be there, now, old boy, and you’ll get a good long drink and a feed!”Plodding wearily on, they stumbled over the ruts of a well-worn trail diverging at right angles from the one they were traversing, and which the girl instinctively took, guessing that it led to the dwelling whose beacon shone brighter and brighter with every nearing step.Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull in the brisk night breeze—like an Æolian harp—there came to her astonished ears the unmistakable sounds of a piano. A fresh gust of wind carried it away next minute, though, and she moved forward again. Soon the shadowy outlines of a building became visible amid the surrounding gloom, and the music became distinct and real. Dropping the horse’s reins, the girl stepped slowly and carefully towards the light, thrusting out her hands with experienced caution as she did so, fearful of encountering the customary strands of a barbed-wire fence. Meeting with no such obstacle, she drew nearer to the open window, absently humming a bar of “The Bridal Chorus” from “Lohengrin,” which air the invisible pianist had, with masterly improvisations, just drawn to a close.Then she halted, paralyzed for the moment with astonishment—all her own musical instincts fully aroused—as a man’s deep, rich baritone voice floated forth on the night air, singing a well-remembered song, but asshehad never heard it sung before. And, though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, she found it impossible to listen to the beautiful words on this occasion unmoved:If I were hanged on the highest hill,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!I know whose love would follow me still,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!Entranced, she stood motionless. Whoever could this unknown vocalist with the magnificent voice be, singing “Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine” in the wilderness? The slow, deep, ineffable pathos of its last verse thrilled and touched her strangely:If I were damned of body and soul,I know whose prayers would make me whole,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment’s silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man’s form in the gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a pleasant—unmistakably, a gentleman’s voice—with a slightly imperious ring in it said:“Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?”“I’m—I’m afraid I’ve lost my way,” she answered. “I’m trying to get back to Mr. Trainor’s ranch. I’ve not been in this district very long and I’m—I suppose I’m what you call ‘a bit green’ as yet at finding my way about on the prairie,” she added merrily.He laughed at her last words. “So,” he said. “Seems a bit like it. Dave Trainor’s lies about seven miles nor’east of here. You’re riding, of course?”“Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. “But all thedecenthorses are away on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and he’ssofat and lazy and slow. It’s too much like ‘working your passage’ with him. That’s the principal reason I’m out so late. I’d been to see Mrs. Goddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I could make it alone all right. Consequence is—here I am, ‘lost on the bald-headed,’ as they say. Poor old Sam’s pretty nearly played out for a drink and a feed—an’—an’ so am I,” she continued frankly. “I’ve walked an awful long way to ease him, for I’m not exactly what you’d call a feather-weight.”Her humor was irresistible and infectious. “All right,” he said gaily. “You’ll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I’m afraid, though. It’s the Mounted Police detachment, and I’m the Sergeant in charge. But—we’ll do what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I’ll fix up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards.”Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for the first time in the light.He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed, scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely censured by her aunt.Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small, superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick masses of silky, shining, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face—which, though pleasing, healthy, and happy—could scarcely be called beautiful at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth, with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected the constant lively and changeful play of their owner’s irrepressible emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain, white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her splendid columnar throat. Her feet—absurdly small for a woman of her generous build—were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl’s Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coarse though her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded outlines of her abnormally tall, classical, magnificent figure.“Well, well,” said the Sergeant. “This sure is a pleasure. Why, I might have known you again if only from your voice.”She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous chuckle, like a boy whose voice is breaking.“Same here,” she said, with emphasis. “Though I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing yours in song before. Why, you must be the Mounted Policeman I often hear Mr. Trainer speaking of? I never thought to connect you with the same man on the black horse that time last year.”“Sure,” he answered, grinning. “Only I hope Dave doesn’t libel me as badly as some of ’em do, for I’m very sensitive. My name’s Benton—Sergeant Benton.”Her dark eyes flashed roguishly and, drawing off a gauntlet, she held out her hand with a frank, impulsive camaraderie and grasped his with a warm, strong clasp.“My Good Samaritan,” she said simply. “I’m very glad to know you and, since introductions are going, suffice it to saymyname’s O’Malley—Mary O’Malley—and I originally hail from New York. At present I’m companion to Mrs. Trainer, governess to her children—what you will.”He nodded. “Well,” he said, “since you’ve been kind enough to confer the title of ‘Good Samaritan’ on me, I must make good on the best this poor house can offer you.”And he bustled through into the kitchen. “No, no,” he protested laughingly, as she arose with an offer of help and made as if to follow him. “You be good, now, and stay right where you are. You may run things at Dave Trainer’s, but I won’t have you butting aroundmykitchen. Oh, I’m quite a competent cook, I can assure you.”She gave a little comical grimace of despair. “Oh, very well, then,” she said. “I’ll just stay here and sulk instead.”And she began to wander around the room, examining all his military accouterments, pictures, and curios, with a lively, almost childlike, interest, calling out from time to time “What this was for?” and “What that was?” etc. Then, suddenly seating herself at the piano, she lifted up a great, rollicking voice and, in an amusing, exaggerated Hibernian brogue, commenced to sing “Th’ Waking of Pat Malone”:Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he continued his cooking operations.Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning in the doorway, regarded him with serious, appraising eyes.“Man,” she said solemnly, “’tis th’ grand voice that ye have—singin’ away all on your lonesome.”And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense amusement and surprise, a well-worn verse from “Omar Khayyám.”“So,” said Ellis, with a delighted chuckle, as the daring and utter absurdity of the quotation, under the circumstances, struck him, “it’s kind of you to suggest it. All the ingredients are at hand, too, except the ‘Flask of Wine,’ ‘Wilderness enow,’ particularly.... Sorry about the Wine, though, after that compliment. Unfortunately, we’re strictly ‘on the tack,’ as we call it, just now. Oh, ‘Barkis is willin’,’ all right.”He cleared the books and papers off the table in the living-room and, spreading out the simple repast that he had prepared for her, drew up a chair.“Grub pi-i-ile!” she shrilled, in droll imitation of a camp cookee; and, seating herself, she attacked the frugal meal with a healthy appetite that fully demonstrated her previous admission that she was hungry.“Sorry I forgot to ask whether you’d have tea or coffee,” he said apologetically. “I’ve made you coffee.”“Oh, that’s all right,” she said carelessly. “I much prefer coffee. Thanks. My! but I’m hungry!”He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite and, leaning his head back against the leopard skin, watched her with a lively and all-absorbing interest. Her complete self-possession and confidence, and the unconventional manner in which she proceeded to make herself entirely at home in the detachment, amused and astounded him. He remembered the impulsive, winning way that she had come over and spoken to him on the occasion of their first meeting. She was a new type to him and he realized that she was quite out of the ordinary.She was not “mannish,” but there seemed to be a good deal of the irresponsible boy, as it were, left in her. She couldn’t be a strolling ex-actress, he reflected. The utter absence of coquetry, the fresh, healthy, open-air look of her, and the mention that she had made of the position she occupied at the Trainors’ immediately dispelled that idea. And besides, Dave Trainor’s wife was a lady-like, nice woman and—particular. He was a frequent and welcome caller at their ranch—knew them intimately.No, she was all right. Just a big, simple, jolly girl, well bred and educated; brought up, perhaps, amongst a host of brothers and their friends so, therefore, accustomed to masculine society, and most likely preferring it to her own sex. Mixing with them in their out-door sports—clean minded, healthy specimens like herself—daring, high spirited and impulsive, without being brazen and bold—funny, without being vulgar. Her manner, and clear, frank, honest eyes showed him that. Used to being teased and welcomed everywhere—clever, mirth loving, independent, self-reliant, kind and brave.It was thus that he mentally diagnosed the character of his fair guest. He was no vain, smirking Lothario, but he instinctively guessed how that strong mouth of hers could set, and those hazel eyes blaze and scintillate with dangerous anger at times; and that the man who was ill-advised and—ignorant enough—to ever make the foolish break of misconstruing her careless geniality for anything elsebutthat, was only inviting disaster of the most ignominious and humiliating kind.Her gaze flitted around the room continually as she appeased her appetite, and he was subjected to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.“And do they supply your detachments with pianos, too?” she inquired ingenuously. “Now, you needn’t laugh. I believe you’ve only been telling me a lot of nonsense. ‘I was a stranger, so you took me in.’ It’s too bad of you.”“Honor bright, I haven’t,” he protested, with a grin. “I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pianos! Oh, my long-suffering Force. No, we get a pretty good outfit, but the Government don’t extend their generosity quitethatfar. This musical box belongs to the Honorable Percy Lake. He’s a rich Englishman who plays at ‘rawnching’ here—a ‘jolly boy,’ as we call ’em. His place is about five miles due west from here; it’s fitted up like a Fifth Avenue mansion. Oh, he’s no end of a swell. But it’s caddish of me to make fun of him, for he’s an awfully decent chap at heart, in spite of his lazy, fastidious ways, and a man—every bit of him. He’s away in California just now. He and his wife always flit South with the geese before the winter sets in, but they should be back any old time now. He was scared the punchers would ruin this piano if it was left to their tender mercies. It’s a pretty good one, I believe—a Broadwood. Had it shipped out from the Old Country and, as he knows I’m fond of music, he insisted on carting it over here. Kind enough, but whatever I’d do with it if I was transferred suddenly anywhere else, I don’t know. It’ll be a relief, in a way, when he redeems it.”He got up and poured her some more coffee, remarking a little anxiously:“I suppose the Trainors will be having a search party out for you, thinking something’s happened. Shouldn’t wonder but what Dave’s on his way down here right now to notify me.”“Oh, no; don’t you worry,” she said reassuringly. “I told them Imightstay at the Goddard’s place for the night. I would have done so, only I found little Willy Goddard was sickening for measles and I didn’t want to take chances in my capacity of governess of probably passing it on to the Trainors’ children—Bert and Gwyn. Not that I’m scared for myself—I’ve had it, years and years ago. Oh, the Trainors know I’m jolly well able to take care of my little self,” she added, with a slight suggestion of defiant challenge in her tones and look which stirred the fiery Benton blood in his veins strangely.“Yes, you just bet you are!” he ejaculated admiringly, as he appraised her strong, splendid figure. “You’re away taller than I am, and I shouldn’t wonder if you don’tweighheavier, too. Riding keeps my weight down, though. I don’t suppose I go more’n a hundred and seventy-five; but that’s plenty heavy enough for a horse.”She nodded carelessly. “Went one hundred and seventy-eight last week when I weighed myself on the grain scales—and I’m five feet ten and a half. Oh, Finnegan, that’s me!“I had quite an adventure coming along,” she continued, with reflective gravity. “After I’d left the Goddards’ I came through a place away back on the trail there—I think it’s called ‘Fish Creek.’ I was passing by a bit of an old homestead—you couldn’t dignify it with the title of ‘ranch.’ There was a tumble-down old shack there, anyway, and as I came round the front of it—the trail bends there—I saw a funny little old man standing, or rather, leaning, in the doorway. He’d got a bottle in his hand and, oh! hewasso tipsy—singing away like anything.“Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his bottle and shouted ‘’Urroo!’ I didn’t know what he was rejoicing about, but of course I shouted ’Urroo! back. And then I suppose he intended to come over and speak to me, but the steps of his shack were broken and, oh, dear! he came such an awful tumble off his perch and smashed the bottle all to pieces.”Ellis gave a shout of laughter. “Why, that must be old Bob Tucker,” he said. “He’s always getting ‘lit up.’ Did he scare you?”The great, smiling girl arose and, dusting some crumbs off her lap, drew herself up to her full regal height and looked down upon him with pitying toleration.“Huh!” she ejaculated. But words cannot express the world of scornful amusement, derision, and incredulity that she put into the exclamation. “Scare nothing! the poor little, dirty old tipsy thing. I got off Sam and picked him up, and then I saw he’d cut one of his hands on the broken bottle. It was bleeding ever so badly, and a piece of the glass was still sticking in the cut. When he saw he’d lost all his whiskey he started to swear something awful—leastways Ithinkit was swearing.... It sounded like it, but it was in a funny language I couldn’t understand. And then he began to cry. Oh, Iwasso sorry for him. I helped him up the steps into the shack, and got some water and washed his cut hand—then I tied it up with my handkerchief. All the time he kept whimpering: ‘Oh, gorblimey, it ’urts! it ’urts!’ And he kept calling me ‘intombi.’ What’s that mean?”“It’s Zulu,” said Ellis. “It means ‘young woman.’ I guess he was swearing in Kaffir or theTaal. He’s an old Cockney, but he’s lived the best part of his life in South Africa.”“Well,” she continued, “after I’d fixed up his hand he stopped crying and commenced to shout: ‘’Urroo! ’Urroo!’ again. And then he pulled a dirty old letter out of his pocket and began to tell me it was from ‘Jack ’Arper,’ who, he explained, was a friend of his son’s, somewhere down in Eastern Ontario. ‘’E tells me my b’y ’Arry’svrouw’s doed!—gorn to ’eving!’ he says, in a screech you could pretty nearly hear to Sabbano. And it was awful the way he chuckled and grinned over it. Just as if it was some great joke. ‘An’ Jack, ’e says as ’ow ‘Arry’s bindronkever since, but wevver it’s becos ’e’s sorry, or becos ’e’s glad, w’y ’e don’t know.... An’ ’e says as ’ow ’Arry wants me to come back Heast an’ live wiv ’im on th’ farm. An’ I’m a-goin’, too!’ he says. ‘I’ve sold aht this old plice—an’ me stock—to Walter ’Umphries, an’ I’m a-goin’ totreknext week. ’Urroo! ’Urroo! ’ere goes nuthin’!’”Ellis, at this point, was convulsed with mirth; for her exact mimicry of old Tucker’s Cockney speech was startlingly natural and funny in the extreme.The girl laughed with him, continuing: “He was stumbling about and waving his arms all the while he was telling me this joyful news, and he wanted to get me some supper but, ugh!... I simply couldn’t. The place and everything was so dirty—like a pigstye. I was glad to get away, and I left him standing on the broken steps waving his bandaged hand to me. The poor old thing! does he live there all alone?”Ellis nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get him to sell out and go and live with his son down East for a long time now. I’m glad to hear he’s going at last. He’s too old to live alone like that. His daughter-in-law was the obstacle. The reason I asked you if you were scared was because he’s got a playful way of flourishing a loaded rifle around sometimes when he gets on these toots. He put the fear into me properly one time, I remember.”A photograph, slightly yellow with age, in a splendid silver frame on the piano attracted her attention and, with an “Excuse me,” she crossed over and scrutinized it long and earnestly. It was the sweet, proud, regally beautiful face of a woman attired in an evening dress of the style worn in the early ’seventies. Ah! no need to tell her whothatwas! For, in spite of his mutilated ear and scarred, bronzed face, she recognized in the portrait the same regular, clean-cut features and steady eyes of the man who sat there silently watching her, with his head thrown out into strong relief against the leopard-skin kaross.She glanced at him in mute inquiry, and back to the photograph again, instinctively guessingnowwhence the inspiration of that moving song had come which had been the means of arousing in her a greater interest in her host than she would perhaps have cared to admit.“It’s my mother,” he said simply, interpreting her look. “She died when I was just a kid at school. A little over a year before I came out to the States.”There was silence for awhile and presently he sprang up briskly.“Well, now, I don’t want to hurry you, Miss O’Malley,” he said, “but we’ve got seven miles to go and it’s a quarter to eleven now. They’ll all have gone to roost at the Trainors’ long ago, I expect. I’m going to give you agoodhorse to ride ... the black fellow you liked so much.” (She gave a little exclamation of delight.) “The work began to pile up—there’s some awful long patrols to do here. It was too much for one horse, so I kicked for another and got it. I ride ’em turn about. There’s a good pasture at the back, with water, so when I go away for a few days I can always turn the spare one out. I’ll shove your saddle onto Johnny—he’s quiet—and I’ll ride Billy and trail old Sam alongside.”She thanked him prettily and gratefully for the hospitable entertainment accorded her and his kind offer of guidance.“Oh, not at all; not at all,” he replied cheerily. “It’s the other way about, I’m thinking. You’ve quite livened things up around here. I’m a kind of a lonely beggar. You can’t think how I’ve enjoyed your company. Well, I’ll go and get those horses and we’ll hit the trail.”To the lonely man that night ride to the Trainors’ ranch with such an interesting companion seemed all too short, and but for the late hour and the fact of her being by now very tired, he could have wished the distance longer.Everything was dark and still as they neared the ranch, until two huge coyote hounds hearing their approach ran out barking, and overwhelmed them with a boisterous welcome when they dismounted. Hitching the horses to the fence, Ellis swung open the hanging gate of the square, railed-in enclosure within which the ranch dwelling stood, and they walked slowly up the path. Aroused by the dogs, Trainor himself came out to meet them with a lighted lantern in his hand.“Hello, people!” was his hearty greeting. “What’s abroad? That you, Mary? Why, Sergeant, it’s you, eh? What’s this young lady been up to now? Is she under arrest?”“Sure thing,” said Ellis, laughing. “I’m thinking of charging her with ‘vagrancy’—found her wandering around the prairie ‘riding the grub line.’”Explanations followed, and Trainor led the way into the house. It was a comfortable, home-like, roomy dwelling, simply, but well and substantially furnished, with many splendid bear, deer, and other skins scattered around the painted hardwood floor in lieu of carpets, for Trainor had traveled considerably, and been a mighty hunter in former years. The well-stocked book shelves, the piano, and a few, but good, oil paintings and engravings that adorned the walls, seemed to imply that the owners were people of substance and refinement. Trainor was a tall, strongly-built man of fifty or thereabouts, with a heavy, fair mustache and a humorous, weather-beaten face. His speech, although slightly nasal, was that of an educated American, and his genial, kind-hearted personality created an instinctive liking with all who met him.He was roughly dressed in a waistcoat, gray-flannel shirt, with blue overalls tucked into high riding-boots; for, apart from the fact that he was well-to-do, and one of the largest stock owners in the district, he was a worker himself, and liked to superintend the running of his ranch personally.“The wife’s gone to bed long ago,” he said. “I was sitting up, reading, when I heard the dogs start in to yap. Why, Mary, my girl! I thought you said you were going to stay the night at the Goddards’? They’ve got the measles there, eh? Well, all’s well that ends well, thanks to Sergeant Benton, here. Trust you not to get left, anyway. You look pretty well played out, though. You’d better go to roost or you’ll be losing your good looks. Won’t she?”“Impossible!” exclaimed the sergeant, with such fervent emphasis that a faint blush arose on the girl’s rather tired face, as she thanked him again and bid him “Good-night.”He chatted awhile with Trainor, who had hospitably produced a bottle of whiskey, and presently got up and prepared to depart, refusing the latter’s invitation for him to stay the night.“Can’t chance it tonight, Dave,” he said. “I’m anticipating the arrival of one of our officers—Inspector Purvis. He’s about due here, visiting detachments, and I don’t want to be away when he comes. Thanks, all the same! No, you needn’t come out. I’ll off-saddle and fix up old Sam. So long.”
“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”—St. Matt. XXV, 35
“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”—St. Matt. XXV, 35
“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”
—St. Matt. XXV, 35
The long, bright May day had drawn to a close, and darkness was setting in, through which a few faint stars had begun to twinkle. Ah, here was a light at last; and a welcome sight it was to the tired girl, leading an equally tired, fat, old gray horse as, topping a rise in the trail, she beheld the visible signs of a habitation gleaming in the distance.
“Come on, Sam,” she coaxed cheerily, with a slightly impatient tug at the reins and quickening her pace. “We’ll soon be there, now, old boy, and you’ll get a good long drink and a feed!”
Plodding wearily on, they stumbled over the ruts of a well-worn trail diverging at right angles from the one they were traversing, and which the girl instinctively took, guessing that it led to the dwelling whose beacon shone brighter and brighter with every nearing step.
Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull in the brisk night breeze—like an Æolian harp—there came to her astonished ears the unmistakable sounds of a piano. A fresh gust of wind carried it away next minute, though, and she moved forward again. Soon the shadowy outlines of a building became visible amid the surrounding gloom, and the music became distinct and real. Dropping the horse’s reins, the girl stepped slowly and carefully towards the light, thrusting out her hands with experienced caution as she did so, fearful of encountering the customary strands of a barbed-wire fence. Meeting with no such obstacle, she drew nearer to the open window, absently humming a bar of “The Bridal Chorus” from “Lohengrin,” which air the invisible pianist had, with masterly improvisations, just drawn to a close.
Then she halted, paralyzed for the moment with astonishment—all her own musical instincts fully aroused—as a man’s deep, rich baritone voice floated forth on the night air, singing a well-remembered song, but asshehad never heard it sung before. And, though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, she found it impossible to listen to the beautiful words on this occasion unmoved:
If I were hanged on the highest hill,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!I know whose love would follow me still,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were hanged on the highest hill,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!I know whose love would follow me still,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
Entranced, she stood motionless. Whoever could this unknown vocalist with the magnificent voice be, singing “Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine” in the wilderness? The slow, deep, ineffable pathos of its last verse thrilled and touched her strangely:
If I were damned of body and soul,I know whose prayers would make me whole,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,I know whose prayers would make me whole,Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment’s silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man’s form in the gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a pleasant—unmistakably, a gentleman’s voice—with a slightly imperious ring in it said:
“Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?”
“I’m—I’m afraid I’ve lost my way,” she answered. “I’m trying to get back to Mr. Trainor’s ranch. I’ve not been in this district very long and I’m—I suppose I’m what you call ‘a bit green’ as yet at finding my way about on the prairie,” she added merrily.
He laughed at her last words. “So,” he said. “Seems a bit like it. Dave Trainor’s lies about seven miles nor’east of here. You’re riding, of course?”
“Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. “But all thedecenthorses are away on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and he’ssofat and lazy and slow. It’s too much like ‘working your passage’ with him. That’s the principal reason I’m out so late. I’d been to see Mrs. Goddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I could make it alone all right. Consequence is—here I am, ‘lost on the bald-headed,’ as they say. Poor old Sam’s pretty nearly played out for a drink and a feed—an’—an’ so am I,” she continued frankly. “I’ve walked an awful long way to ease him, for I’m not exactly what you’d call a feather-weight.”
Her humor was irresistible and infectious. “All right,” he said gaily. “You’ll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I’m afraid, though. It’s the Mounted Police detachment, and I’m the Sergeant in charge. But—we’ll do what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I’ll fix up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards.”
Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for the first time in the light.
He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed, scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely censured by her aunt.
Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small, superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick masses of silky, shining, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face—which, though pleasing, healthy, and happy—could scarcely be called beautiful at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth, with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected the constant lively and changeful play of their owner’s irrepressible emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.
She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain, white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her splendid columnar throat. Her feet—absurdly small for a woman of her generous build—were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl’s Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coarse though her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded outlines of her abnormally tall, classical, magnificent figure.
“Well, well,” said the Sergeant. “This sure is a pleasure. Why, I might have known you again if only from your voice.”
She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous chuckle, like a boy whose voice is breaking.
“Same here,” she said, with emphasis. “Though I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing yours in song before. Why, you must be the Mounted Policeman I often hear Mr. Trainer speaking of? I never thought to connect you with the same man on the black horse that time last year.”
“Sure,” he answered, grinning. “Only I hope Dave doesn’t libel me as badly as some of ’em do, for I’m very sensitive. My name’s Benton—Sergeant Benton.”
Her dark eyes flashed roguishly and, drawing off a gauntlet, she held out her hand with a frank, impulsive camaraderie and grasped his with a warm, strong clasp.
“My Good Samaritan,” she said simply. “I’m very glad to know you and, since introductions are going, suffice it to saymyname’s O’Malley—Mary O’Malley—and I originally hail from New York. At present I’m companion to Mrs. Trainer, governess to her children—what you will.”
He nodded. “Well,” he said, “since you’ve been kind enough to confer the title of ‘Good Samaritan’ on me, I must make good on the best this poor house can offer you.”
And he bustled through into the kitchen. “No, no,” he protested laughingly, as she arose with an offer of help and made as if to follow him. “You be good, now, and stay right where you are. You may run things at Dave Trainer’s, but I won’t have you butting aroundmykitchen. Oh, I’m quite a competent cook, I can assure you.”
She gave a little comical grimace of despair. “Oh, very well, then,” she said. “I’ll just stay here and sulk instead.”
And she began to wander around the room, examining all his military accouterments, pictures, and curios, with a lively, almost childlike, interest, calling out from time to time “What this was for?” and “What that was?” etc. Then, suddenly seating herself at the piano, she lifted up a great, rollicking voice and, in an amusing, exaggerated Hibernian brogue, commenced to sing “Th’ Waking of Pat Malone”:
Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;
Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;
Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—
He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;
Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he continued his cooking operations.
Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning in the doorway, regarded him with serious, appraising eyes.
“Man,” she said solemnly, “’tis th’ grand voice that ye have—singin’ away all on your lonesome.”
And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense amusement and surprise, a well-worn verse from “Omar Khayyám.”
“So,” said Ellis, with a delighted chuckle, as the daring and utter absurdity of the quotation, under the circumstances, struck him, “it’s kind of you to suggest it. All the ingredients are at hand, too, except the ‘Flask of Wine,’ ‘Wilderness enow,’ particularly.... Sorry about the Wine, though, after that compliment. Unfortunately, we’re strictly ‘on the tack,’ as we call it, just now. Oh, ‘Barkis is willin’,’ all right.”
He cleared the books and papers off the table in the living-room and, spreading out the simple repast that he had prepared for her, drew up a chair.
“Grub pi-i-ile!” she shrilled, in droll imitation of a camp cookee; and, seating herself, she attacked the frugal meal with a healthy appetite that fully demonstrated her previous admission that she was hungry.
“Sorry I forgot to ask whether you’d have tea or coffee,” he said apologetically. “I’ve made you coffee.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said carelessly. “I much prefer coffee. Thanks. My! but I’m hungry!”
He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite and, leaning his head back against the leopard skin, watched her with a lively and all-absorbing interest. Her complete self-possession and confidence, and the unconventional manner in which she proceeded to make herself entirely at home in the detachment, amused and astounded him. He remembered the impulsive, winning way that she had come over and spoken to him on the occasion of their first meeting. She was a new type to him and he realized that she was quite out of the ordinary.
She was not “mannish,” but there seemed to be a good deal of the irresponsible boy, as it were, left in her. She couldn’t be a strolling ex-actress, he reflected. The utter absence of coquetry, the fresh, healthy, open-air look of her, and the mention that she had made of the position she occupied at the Trainors’ immediately dispelled that idea. And besides, Dave Trainor’s wife was a lady-like, nice woman and—particular. He was a frequent and welcome caller at their ranch—knew them intimately.
No, she was all right. Just a big, simple, jolly girl, well bred and educated; brought up, perhaps, amongst a host of brothers and their friends so, therefore, accustomed to masculine society, and most likely preferring it to her own sex. Mixing with them in their out-door sports—clean minded, healthy specimens like herself—daring, high spirited and impulsive, without being brazen and bold—funny, without being vulgar. Her manner, and clear, frank, honest eyes showed him that. Used to being teased and welcomed everywhere—clever, mirth loving, independent, self-reliant, kind and brave.
It was thus that he mentally diagnosed the character of his fair guest. He was no vain, smirking Lothario, but he instinctively guessed how that strong mouth of hers could set, and those hazel eyes blaze and scintillate with dangerous anger at times; and that the man who was ill-advised and—ignorant enough—to ever make the foolish break of misconstruing her careless geniality for anything elsebutthat, was only inviting disaster of the most ignominious and humiliating kind.
Her gaze flitted around the room continually as she appeased her appetite, and he was subjected to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.
“And do they supply your detachments with pianos, too?” she inquired ingenuously. “Now, you needn’t laugh. I believe you’ve only been telling me a lot of nonsense. ‘I was a stranger, so you took me in.’ It’s too bad of you.”
“Honor bright, I haven’t,” he protested, with a grin. “I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pianos! Oh, my long-suffering Force. No, we get a pretty good outfit, but the Government don’t extend their generosity quitethatfar. This musical box belongs to the Honorable Percy Lake. He’s a rich Englishman who plays at ‘rawnching’ here—a ‘jolly boy,’ as we call ’em. His place is about five miles due west from here; it’s fitted up like a Fifth Avenue mansion. Oh, he’s no end of a swell. But it’s caddish of me to make fun of him, for he’s an awfully decent chap at heart, in spite of his lazy, fastidious ways, and a man—every bit of him. He’s away in California just now. He and his wife always flit South with the geese before the winter sets in, but they should be back any old time now. He was scared the punchers would ruin this piano if it was left to their tender mercies. It’s a pretty good one, I believe—a Broadwood. Had it shipped out from the Old Country and, as he knows I’m fond of music, he insisted on carting it over here. Kind enough, but whatever I’d do with it if I was transferred suddenly anywhere else, I don’t know. It’ll be a relief, in a way, when he redeems it.”
He got up and poured her some more coffee, remarking a little anxiously:
“I suppose the Trainors will be having a search party out for you, thinking something’s happened. Shouldn’t wonder but what Dave’s on his way down here right now to notify me.”
“Oh, no; don’t you worry,” she said reassuringly. “I told them Imightstay at the Goddard’s place for the night. I would have done so, only I found little Willy Goddard was sickening for measles and I didn’t want to take chances in my capacity of governess of probably passing it on to the Trainors’ children—Bert and Gwyn. Not that I’m scared for myself—I’ve had it, years and years ago. Oh, the Trainors know I’m jolly well able to take care of my little self,” she added, with a slight suggestion of defiant challenge in her tones and look which stirred the fiery Benton blood in his veins strangely.
“Yes, you just bet you are!” he ejaculated admiringly, as he appraised her strong, splendid figure. “You’re away taller than I am, and I shouldn’t wonder if you don’tweighheavier, too. Riding keeps my weight down, though. I don’t suppose I go more’n a hundred and seventy-five; but that’s plenty heavy enough for a horse.”
She nodded carelessly. “Went one hundred and seventy-eight last week when I weighed myself on the grain scales—and I’m five feet ten and a half. Oh, Finnegan, that’s me!
“I had quite an adventure coming along,” she continued, with reflective gravity. “After I’d left the Goddards’ I came through a place away back on the trail there—I think it’s called ‘Fish Creek.’ I was passing by a bit of an old homestead—you couldn’t dignify it with the title of ‘ranch.’ There was a tumble-down old shack there, anyway, and as I came round the front of it—the trail bends there—I saw a funny little old man standing, or rather, leaning, in the doorway. He’d got a bottle in his hand and, oh! hewasso tipsy—singing away like anything.
“Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his bottle and shouted ‘’Urroo!’ I didn’t know what he was rejoicing about, but of course I shouted ’Urroo! back. And then I suppose he intended to come over and speak to me, but the steps of his shack were broken and, oh, dear! he came such an awful tumble off his perch and smashed the bottle all to pieces.”
Ellis gave a shout of laughter. “Why, that must be old Bob Tucker,” he said. “He’s always getting ‘lit up.’ Did he scare you?”
The great, smiling girl arose and, dusting some crumbs off her lap, drew herself up to her full regal height and looked down upon him with pitying toleration.
“Huh!” she ejaculated. But words cannot express the world of scornful amusement, derision, and incredulity that she put into the exclamation. “Scare nothing! the poor little, dirty old tipsy thing. I got off Sam and picked him up, and then I saw he’d cut one of his hands on the broken bottle. It was bleeding ever so badly, and a piece of the glass was still sticking in the cut. When he saw he’d lost all his whiskey he started to swear something awful—leastways Ithinkit was swearing.... It sounded like it, but it was in a funny language I couldn’t understand. And then he began to cry. Oh, Iwasso sorry for him. I helped him up the steps into the shack, and got some water and washed his cut hand—then I tied it up with my handkerchief. All the time he kept whimpering: ‘Oh, gorblimey, it ’urts! it ’urts!’ And he kept calling me ‘intombi.’ What’s that mean?”
“It’s Zulu,” said Ellis. “It means ‘young woman.’ I guess he was swearing in Kaffir or theTaal. He’s an old Cockney, but he’s lived the best part of his life in South Africa.”
“Well,” she continued, “after I’d fixed up his hand he stopped crying and commenced to shout: ‘’Urroo! ’Urroo!’ again. And then he pulled a dirty old letter out of his pocket and began to tell me it was from ‘Jack ’Arper,’ who, he explained, was a friend of his son’s, somewhere down in Eastern Ontario. ‘’E tells me my b’y ’Arry’svrouw’s doed!—gorn to ’eving!’ he says, in a screech you could pretty nearly hear to Sabbano. And it was awful the way he chuckled and grinned over it. Just as if it was some great joke. ‘An’ Jack, ’e says as ’ow ‘Arry’s bindronkever since, but wevver it’s becos ’e’s sorry, or becos ’e’s glad, w’y ’e don’t know.... An’ ’e says as ’ow ’Arry wants me to come back Heast an’ live wiv ’im on th’ farm. An’ I’m a-goin’, too!’ he says. ‘I’ve sold aht this old plice—an’ me stock—to Walter ’Umphries, an’ I’m a-goin’ totreknext week. ’Urroo! ’Urroo! ’ere goes nuthin’!’”
Ellis, at this point, was convulsed with mirth; for her exact mimicry of old Tucker’s Cockney speech was startlingly natural and funny in the extreme.
The girl laughed with him, continuing: “He was stumbling about and waving his arms all the while he was telling me this joyful news, and he wanted to get me some supper but, ugh!... I simply couldn’t. The place and everything was so dirty—like a pigstye. I was glad to get away, and I left him standing on the broken steps waving his bandaged hand to me. The poor old thing! does he live there all alone?”
Ellis nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get him to sell out and go and live with his son down East for a long time now. I’m glad to hear he’s going at last. He’s too old to live alone like that. His daughter-in-law was the obstacle. The reason I asked you if you were scared was because he’s got a playful way of flourishing a loaded rifle around sometimes when he gets on these toots. He put the fear into me properly one time, I remember.”
A photograph, slightly yellow with age, in a splendid silver frame on the piano attracted her attention and, with an “Excuse me,” she crossed over and scrutinized it long and earnestly. It was the sweet, proud, regally beautiful face of a woman attired in an evening dress of the style worn in the early ’seventies. Ah! no need to tell her whothatwas! For, in spite of his mutilated ear and scarred, bronzed face, she recognized in the portrait the same regular, clean-cut features and steady eyes of the man who sat there silently watching her, with his head thrown out into strong relief against the leopard-skin kaross.
She glanced at him in mute inquiry, and back to the photograph again, instinctively guessingnowwhence the inspiration of that moving song had come which had been the means of arousing in her a greater interest in her host than she would perhaps have cared to admit.
“It’s my mother,” he said simply, interpreting her look. “She died when I was just a kid at school. A little over a year before I came out to the States.”
There was silence for awhile and presently he sprang up briskly.
“Well, now, I don’t want to hurry you, Miss O’Malley,” he said, “but we’ve got seven miles to go and it’s a quarter to eleven now. They’ll all have gone to roost at the Trainors’ long ago, I expect. I’m going to give you agoodhorse to ride ... the black fellow you liked so much.” (She gave a little exclamation of delight.) “The work began to pile up—there’s some awful long patrols to do here. It was too much for one horse, so I kicked for another and got it. I ride ’em turn about. There’s a good pasture at the back, with water, so when I go away for a few days I can always turn the spare one out. I’ll shove your saddle onto Johnny—he’s quiet—and I’ll ride Billy and trail old Sam alongside.”
She thanked him prettily and gratefully for the hospitable entertainment accorded her and his kind offer of guidance.
“Oh, not at all; not at all,” he replied cheerily. “It’s the other way about, I’m thinking. You’ve quite livened things up around here. I’m a kind of a lonely beggar. You can’t think how I’ve enjoyed your company. Well, I’ll go and get those horses and we’ll hit the trail.”
To the lonely man that night ride to the Trainors’ ranch with such an interesting companion seemed all too short, and but for the late hour and the fact of her being by now very tired, he could have wished the distance longer.
Everything was dark and still as they neared the ranch, until two huge coyote hounds hearing their approach ran out barking, and overwhelmed them with a boisterous welcome when they dismounted. Hitching the horses to the fence, Ellis swung open the hanging gate of the square, railed-in enclosure within which the ranch dwelling stood, and they walked slowly up the path. Aroused by the dogs, Trainor himself came out to meet them with a lighted lantern in his hand.
“Hello, people!” was his hearty greeting. “What’s abroad? That you, Mary? Why, Sergeant, it’s you, eh? What’s this young lady been up to now? Is she under arrest?”
“Sure thing,” said Ellis, laughing. “I’m thinking of charging her with ‘vagrancy’—found her wandering around the prairie ‘riding the grub line.’”
Explanations followed, and Trainor led the way into the house. It was a comfortable, home-like, roomy dwelling, simply, but well and substantially furnished, with many splendid bear, deer, and other skins scattered around the painted hardwood floor in lieu of carpets, for Trainor had traveled considerably, and been a mighty hunter in former years. The well-stocked book shelves, the piano, and a few, but good, oil paintings and engravings that adorned the walls, seemed to imply that the owners were people of substance and refinement. Trainor was a tall, strongly-built man of fifty or thereabouts, with a heavy, fair mustache and a humorous, weather-beaten face. His speech, although slightly nasal, was that of an educated American, and his genial, kind-hearted personality created an instinctive liking with all who met him.
He was roughly dressed in a waistcoat, gray-flannel shirt, with blue overalls tucked into high riding-boots; for, apart from the fact that he was well-to-do, and one of the largest stock owners in the district, he was a worker himself, and liked to superintend the running of his ranch personally.
“The wife’s gone to bed long ago,” he said. “I was sitting up, reading, when I heard the dogs start in to yap. Why, Mary, my girl! I thought you said you were going to stay the night at the Goddards’? They’ve got the measles there, eh? Well, all’s well that ends well, thanks to Sergeant Benton, here. Trust you not to get left, anyway. You look pretty well played out, though. You’d better go to roost or you’ll be losing your good looks. Won’t she?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the sergeant, with such fervent emphasis that a faint blush arose on the girl’s rather tired face, as she thanked him again and bid him “Good-night.”
He chatted awhile with Trainor, who had hospitably produced a bottle of whiskey, and presently got up and prepared to depart, refusing the latter’s invitation for him to stay the night.
“Can’t chance it tonight, Dave,” he said. “I’m anticipating the arrival of one of our officers—Inspector Purvis. He’s about due here, visiting detachments, and I don’t want to be away when he comes. Thanks, all the same! No, you needn’t come out. I’ll off-saddle and fix up old Sam. So long.”