The school teaching went on just the same, and the cowboys thawed out and Springer returned somewhat to his kindliness, but Jane missed something from her work and in them. At heart she grieved. Would it ever be the same again?
There came a day when Jane rode off alone towards the hills. She forgot the risk and the admonitions of the cowboys. She wanted to be alone to think. Her happiness had sustained a subtle change. Her work, the children, the friends she had made, even the horse she loved, were no longer all-sufficient. Something had come over her. It was late fall, but the sun was warm that afternoon. Before her lay the valley range, and beyond it the foothills rose, and above them loomed the dark beckoning mountains.
She rode fast until her horse was hot and she was out of breath. Then she slowed down and for the first time she looked back toward the ranch. It was a long way off—ten miles—a mere green spot in the gray. And there was a horseman coming. As usual, some one of the cowboys had observed her, let her think she had slipped away, and was now following her. Today it angered Jane. She wanted to be alone. She could take care of herself. And as was unusual with her, she used her quirt on the horse. He broke into a gallop. She did not look back again for a long time. When she did it was to discover that the horseman had not only gained, but was now quite close to her. Jane looked hard, but she could not recognize the rider. Once she imagined it was Tex and again Andy.
Jane looked hard, but she could not recognize the rider. Once she imagined it was Tex and again Andy. It did not make any difference.
Jane looked hard, but she could not recognize the rider. Once she imagined it was Tex and again Andy. It did not make any difference.
Jane rode the longest and fastest race she had ever ridden. She reached the low foothills and, without heeding the fact that she would at once become lost, she entered the cedars and began to climb. At times her horse had to walk and then she heard her pursuer breaking through the cedars. He had to trail her by her horse’s tracks, and so she was able to keep in the lead. It was not long until Jane realized she was lost, but she did not care. She rode up and down and around for an hour, until she was thoroughly tired out, and then up on top of a foothill she reined in her horse and waited to give this pursuer a piece of her mind.
What was her amaze, when she heard a thud of hoofs and cracking of branches in the opposite direction from which she expected her pursuer, to see a rider emerge from the cedars and trot his horse toward her. Jane needed only a second glance to recognize Beady Jones. Suddenly she knew that he was not the pursuer she had been so angrily aware of. Jones’ horse was white. That checked her mounting anger.
Jones rode straight at her, and as he came close Jane saw his bold, dark face and gleaming eyes. “Howdy, sweetheart,” sang out Jones, in his cool devil-may-care way. “Reckon it took you a long time to meet me as you promised.”
“I didn’t ride out to meet you, Mr. Jones,” replied Jane, spiritedly. “I know I agreed to something or other, but even then I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, I had a hunch you was playin’ with me,” he returned, darkly.
He reached out a long gloved hand and grasped her arm. “What do you mean, sir?” demanded Jane, trying to wrench free.
“Sure I mean a lot,” he said, grimly. “You stood for the love-makin’ of that Springer outfit. Now you’re goin’ to get a taste of somethin’ not so mushy.”
“Let go of me—you—you ruffian!” cried Jane, struggling fiercely. She was both furious and terrified.
“Shucks! Your fightin’ will only make it interestin’. Come here, you deceitful little cat.” And he lifted her out of her saddle over in front of him. Jones’ horse, that had been frightened and plunging, ran away into the cedars. Then Jones proceeded to embrace Jane. She managed to keep her mouth from contact with his, but he kissed her face and neck, kisses that seemed to pollute her.
“Jane, I’m ridin’ out of this country for good,” he said. “An’ I’ve just been waitin’ for this chance. You bet you’ll remember Beady Jones.”
Jane realized that Jones would stop at nothing. Frantically she fought to get away from him, and to pitch herself to the ground. She screamed. She beat and tore at him. She scratched his face till the blood flowed. And as her struggles increased with her fright, she gradually slipped down between him and the pommel of his saddle, with head hanging down on one side and her feet on the other. This was awkward and painful, but infinitely preferable to being crushed in his arms. He was riding off with her as if she had been an empty sack. Suddenly Jane’s hands, while trying to hold on to something to lessen the severe jolt of her position, came in contact with Jones’ gun. Dare she draw it and shoot him? Then all at once her ears filled with the tearing gallop of another horse. Inverted as she was, she was able to see and recognize Springer ride right at Jones and yell piercingly. Next she felt Jones’ hard jerk at his gun. But, Jane had hold of it, and suddenly she had her little hands like steel. The fierce energy with which Jones wrestled to draw his gun threw Jane from the saddle. And when she dropped clear of the horse the gun came with her.
“Hands up, Beady!” she heard Springer call out, as she lay momentarily face down in the dust. Then she struggled to her knees, and crawled to get away from proximity to the horses. She still clung to the heavy gun. And when, breathless and almost collapsing, she fell back on the ground she saw Jones with his hands above his head and Springer on foot with levelled gun.
“Sit tight, cowboy,” ordered the rancher, in a hard tone. “It’ll take mighty little to make me bore you.”
Then, while still covering Jones, evidently ready for any sudden move, Springer spoke again. “Jane, did you come out to meet this cowboy?” he asked.
“Oh, no! How can you ask that?” cried Jane, almost sobbing.
“She’s a liar, boss,” spoke up Jones, coolly. “She let me make love to her. An’ she agreed to ride out an’ meet me. Wal, it sure took her a spell, an’ when she did come she was shy on the love-makin’. I was packin’ her off to scare some sense into her when you rode in.”
“Beady, I know your way with women. You can save your breath, for I’ve a hunch you’re goin’ to need it.”
“Mr. Springer,” faltered Jane, getting to her knees. “I—I was foolishly taken with this cowboy—at first. Then—that Sunday after the dance when he called on me at the ranch—I saw through him then. I heartily despised him. To get rid of him I did say I’d meet him. But I never meant to. Then I forgot it. Today I rode for the first time. I saw some one following me and thought it must be Tex or one of the boys. Finally I waited and presently Jones rode up to me ... And Mr. Springer he—he grabbed me off my horse—and handled me most brutally—shamefully. I fought him with all my might, but what could I do?”
Springer’s face changed markedly during Jane’s long explanation. Then he threw his gun on the ground in front of Jane. “Jones, I’m goin’ to beat you half to death,” he said grimly, and, leaping at the cowboy, he jerked him out of the saddle sprawling on the ground. Next Springer threw aside his sombrero, his vest, his spurs. But he kept on his gloves. The cowboy rose to one knee, and he measured the distance between him and Springer, and then the gun on the ground. Suddenly he sprang toward it. But Springer intercepted him with a powerful kick that tripped Jones and laid him flat.
“Jones, you’re sure about as low-down as they come,” he said, in dark scorn. “I’ve got to be satisfied with beatin’ you when I ought to kill you.”
“Ahuh! Wal, boss, it ain’t any safe bet thet you can beat me,” returned Jones, sullenly, as he got up. As they rushed together Jane had wit enough to pick up the gun, and then with it and Jones’, to get back to a safe distance. She wanted to run away out of sight. But she could neither do that nor keep her fascinated gaze from the combatants. Even in her distraught condition she could see that the cowboy, fierce and active and strong as he was, could not hold his own with Springer. They fought over all the open space, and crashed into the cedars and out again. The time came when Jones was on the ground as much as he was erect. Bloody, dishevelled, beaten, he kept on trying to stem the onslaught of blows.
Suddenly he broke off a dead branch of cedar, and brandishing it rushed at the rancher. Jane uttered a cry, closed her eyes and sank down. She heard fierce imprecations and sodden blows. When at length she opened her eyes in terror, fearing something dreadful, she saw Springer erect, wiping his face, and Jones lying prone on the ground.
Then Jane saw him go to his horse, untie a canteen from the saddle, remove his bloody gloves and wash his face with a wet scarf. Next he poured some water on Jones’ face. “Come on, Jane,” he called. “Reckon it’s all over.”
He tied the bridle of Jones’ horse to a cedar, and leading his own animal turned to meet Jane. “I want to compliment you on gettin’ that cowboy’s gun,” he said, warmly. “But for that they’d sure have been somethin’ bad. I’d have had to kill him, Jane.... Here, give me the guns.... You poor little tenderfoot from Missouri. No, not tenderfoot any longer. You became a westerner today.”
His face was bruised and cut, his dress dirty and bloody, but he did not appear the worse for that fight. Jane found her legs scarcely able to support her, and she had apparently lost her voice. “Let me put you on my saddle till we find your horse,” he said, and lifted her lightly as a feather to a seat crosswise. Then he walked with a hand on the bridle.
Jane saw him examining the ground, evidently searching for horse tracks. “Ha! here we are.” And he led off in another direction through the cedars. Soon Jane espied her horse, calmly nibbling at the bleached grass. In a few moments she was back in her own saddle, beginning to recover somewhat from her distress. But she divined that as fast as she recovered from one set of emotions she was going to be tormented by another. “There’s a good cold spring down here in the rocks,” remarked Springer. “I think you need a drink, an’ so do I.”
They rode down the sunny cedar slopes, into a shady ravine, and up to some mossy cliffs from which a spring gushed.
Jane was now in the throes of thrilling, bewildering conjectures and fears. Why had Springer followed her? Why had he not sent one of the cowboys? Why did she feel so afraid and foolish? He had always been courteous and kind and thoughtful, at least until she had offended so egregiously. And here he was now. He had fought for her. Would she ever forget? Her heart began to pound. And when he dismounted to take her off her horse she knew it was to see a scarlet and tell-tale face, “Mr. Springer, I—I thought you were Tex—or somebody,” she said.
He laughed as he took off his sombrero. His face was warm, and the cuts were still bleeeding a little. “You sure can ride,” he replied. “And that’s a good little pony.”
He loosened the cinches on the horses. “Won’t you walk around a little? It’ll rest you. We are fifteen miles from home.”
“So far?” Then presently he lifted her up and stood beside her with a hand on her horse. He looked up frankly into her face. The keen eyes were softer than usual. He seemed so fine and strong and splendid. She was afraid of her eyes and looked away. “When the boys found you were gone they all saddled up to find you,” he said. “But I asked them if they didn’t think the boss ought to have one chance. So they let me come.”
Something terrible happened to Jane’s heart just then. She was overwhelmed by a strange happiness that she must hide, but could not. It seemed there was a long silence. She felt Springer there, but she could not look at him. “Do you like it out here in the west?” he asked, presently.
“Oh, I love it! I’ll never want to leave it,” she replied, impulsively.
“I reckon I’m glad to hear that.” Then there fell another silence. He pressed closer to her and seemed now to be leaning on the horse. She wondered if he heard the weird knocking of her heart against her side.
“Will you be my wife an’ stay here always?” he asked, simply. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been lonely since my mother died.... You’ll sure have to marry some one of us. Because, as Tex says, if you don’t, ranchin’ can’t go on much longer. These boys don’t seem to get anywhere with you. Have I any chance—Jane—?”
He possessed himself of her gloved hand and gave her a gentle pull. Jane knew it was gentle because she scarcely felt it. Yet it had irresistible power. She was swayed by that gentle pull. She was slipping sidewise in her saddle. She was sliding into his arms. A little later he smiled up at her and said: “Jane, they call me Bill for short. Same as they call me Boss. But my two front names are Frank Owens.”
“Oh!” cried Jane, startled. “Then you—you—”
“Yes, I’m the guilty one,” he replied happily. “It happened this way. My bedroom, you know, is next to my office. I often heard the boys poundin’ the typewriter. I had a hunch they were up to some trick. So I spied upon them—heard about Frank Owens an’ the letters to the little schoolmarm. At Beacon I got the postmistress to give me your address. An’ of course I intercepted some of your letters. It sure has turned out great.”
“I—I don’t know about you or those terrible cowboys,” replied Jane, dubiously. “How didtheyhappen on the name Frank Owens?”
“Sure that’s a stumper. I reckon they put a job up on me.”
“Frank—tell me—didyouwrite the—the love letters?” she asked, appealingly. “There were two kinds of letters. That’s what I could never understand.”
“Jane, I reckon I did,” he confessed. “Somethin’ about your little notes just won me. Does that make it all right?”
“Yes, Frank, I reckon it does,” she returned, leaning down to kiss him.
“Let’s ride back home an’ tell the boys,” said Springer, gayly. “The joke’s sure on them. I’ve corralled the little schoolmarm from Missouri.”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1926 issue ofMcCallsmagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1926 issue ofMcCallsmagazine.