"Red" Giddings had been on the ranch with Gilbert since the very beginning. He came from the North with the young man, willing to stake all on this one venture. Like young Jones, he was not afraid. He was an efficient, well-set-up young fellow, with three consuming passions: Arizona, his harmonica, and Angela Hardy. The first saw a lot of "Red"; the second touched his lips frequently; but as for Angela—well, perhaps the poor boy kissed his harmonica so often in order to forget her lips. But if his own music charmed "Red," it failed to have that effect upon others—particularly Uncle Henry, who went into a rage whenever he heard the detested instrument. "Red's" music had no charms to soothe the savage breast of Henry Smith.
But another did like it. Angela once told "Red" in the moonlight—and her father had never forgiven her for her foolishness—that his harmonica never wearied her. That was enough for "Red." Once every day he managed to find some excuse to get over to the Hardy ranch; and always his beloved instrument went along with him in his pocket, and he would approach his lady love's castle like the troubadours of old, his foot tapping on the path while his harmonica, in the place of a lute, made soft sounds. Instantly Angela would poke her pretty head from the window, and pretend that she was a princess in distress, and he her knight who had come to release her from her prison.
Moreover, the Hardys had a wonderful cook—a woman they had brought down from Phœnix. Instead of the firecracker stuff that Uncle Henry so bitterly complained of, she, being an Irish woman, could concoct a stew that would make one's hair curl; and her pastry was succulent and sweet, and literally melted in the mouth. Her coffee—ah! who could make better coffee? And as the meals at the Jones ranch were served sporadically, and "Red" was as healthy as a peasant and had never known the time when he couldn't tuck away some dainty from the kitchenhe ingratiated himself with Mrs. Quinn, quite won her heart, too, with his music, and was even known to desert his work for the boon of a bit of pie.
When she was suffering from the heat of the stove, and was ready to throw up her job and return to the bright lights of Phœnix, "Red" invariably came around to the door with music on his lips, his shock of hair blown by the soft wind, looking so boyish that she had to succumb to him, boil another pot of coffee, and lay a place for him at the corner of the table.
"Be off wid yez!" she always began by saying. But the insinuating harmonica was his only reply; and she ended by begging him to come in and play for her while she messed with the pots and pans, and maybe found some batter for a plate of griddle cakes.
On this particular morning, work being useless since things were going so badly for Jones, "Red" slipped up the road and reached the kitchen door just as Mrs. Quinn was washing up.
"Oh, so there ye be, me boy!" was her motherly greeting. "Come in, an' maybe—who knows?—I'll find a cup o' coffee fer ye, though I'm not thinkin' ye deserve it."
"Red" loved the odors from this fragrantkitchen. The stove always gleamed, and when Mrs. Quinn was in good humor she was like a great light moving here and there, dispensing warmth also. She was a monstrous woman; but like many large people, she got about easily and swiftly. Her capable hands were forever fluttering in the flour-barrel or over the dough-board, and her ruddy cheeks and honest gray eyes spoke of health and good nature. She adored Angela; and she really liked "Red" tremendously, and hoped in the end he would win the difficult and fickle girl. But, like Angela, she had moment when she could have shaken him. For "Red" didn't fight hard enough for what he wanted. He was naïve to the point of stupidity at times; and women like aggressive men—even men who are capable of flogging them into submission, deny it as they will. "Red" was gentle and mild, though thoroughly manly. Both Angela and Mrs. Quinn would have liked to see him live up to his fiery hair.
He beamed now at the genial cook's greeting, and took out his harmonica, running over the full scale as a suitable answer.
"Here, sit ye down, 'Red,'" Mrs. Quinn ordered. "But first see that yer feet is wiped off. I don't want to see no dirt along me clean floor."
She was busy with a place for him near the window, happy, as most women are, to serve a handsome young chap, and secretly wishing in her heart that she had him for a son.
The coffee was miraculously brought, and soon the griddle-cakes, gloriously brown, and deftly turned by Mrs. Quinn, were in front of him.
"Gee! you make a feller happy, Mrs. Quinn!" said the appreciative "Red," sitting down, and getting busy, "Won't you come to Bisbee with Angela an' me the next time we go to the movies?"
She gave him a half-scornful look. "An' what would yez want with an old woman like meself taggin' along with yez now?" Mrs. Quinn exclaimed, her arms akimbo. "Ain't ye happy enough with yer Angela, an' no fat funeral like me occupyin' too much room in the Ford? Go along, me lad, an' have a good time with yer colleen! She'd like it better alone with ye, too—be sure o' that!"
"Of course I would!"
They hadn't seen Angela come in. She stood in the doorway like a vision—a morning-glory from which the freshness of the early hours never seemed to depart.
"Oh!" poor "Red" gasped, and leaped to hisfeet. "Would you, Angela?" He looked at her, drank her beauty in, as though she were the only creature on this earth.
"Certainly!" said Angela, coming over to him. "You're a boob, 'Red,' and if you don't look out, there's a fellow over at Bisbee who—"
"Oh!" the anguished "Red" managed to get out. "Isthere, Angy?"
There was—of course there was—and there wasn't. Angela knew just how far to go. Her black eyes danced. "Red" sat down again, after she had shoved him back to his late breakfast. Mrs. Quinn, amused, was busy with some more cakes, though "Red" had scarcely had time to begin the first batch. But she knew his capacity, and she felt he would need sustaining food after Angela's last remark.
"You don't always wave to me like you did the other day when I went by," said "Red," his lips in Mrs. Quinn's golden coffee.
"Why should I?" said Angela. "You don't always have such swell-looking folks with you!"
"Oh, so that's why you waved!" disappointment in his tone.
"Maybe." She was teasing him, but he didn't know it. "Who were they?"
"A Mr. and Mrs. Pell, from New York. They're lookin' over property round here.... But I don't care, Angy. Even if I had to go to Bisbee four times a day and get some good-lookin' folks to bring down the road, I'd do it if you'd wave to me! Oh, why can't you always be nice to me?"
"If I was always nice to you, you wouldn't know how lucky you are!" she countered. "It's good for you to have your bad days—with me."
"Well, maybe you're right. You're 'most always right; but gosh! a feller does like a little encouragement once in a while. You can be so cruel, Angy!"
"Can I? If you think not waving to you is cruelty, you ought to see some of my other forms of torture."
"Ugh! I hope I never do!" He drank again from the cup.
"Say," Angela said, watching him, "you seem to like that coffee a lot more than you like me! That brunette in the cup is my rival!"
He looked at her in blank amazement. He hadn't much sense of humor. He was as literal-minded as a child. "You certainly are the funniest girl, Angy!" he said, "How could coffee be a girl's rival?"
"Easier than a fellow in Bisbee—maybe. Better look out, 'Red,' or I'll sue Mrs. Quinn for alienation of affections!"
"Oh, you wouldn't do that!" said the kindly, honest "Red."
"What a stupid you are, to be sure!" said Angela, and laughed. "There—eat these hot cakes—though how you can on this beastly warm morning is more than I can see—and then play me some tunes. I'm dying to hear some music. This afternoon Dad says he's going over to your ranch. I don't know what for, do you? I do wish people didn't have to lose their property. Why are mortgages, anyhow?"
"Blamed ifIknow, Angy! Thanks, Mrs. Quinn."
"Sure, an' you're welcome, me boy." Angela had gone out on the step. The old Irishwoman saw her chance. "For the love o' Mike, 'Red,' woo her, an' woo her hard! Thereisa feller in Bisbee. She's after lovin' ye, but you're too slow—slower'n the molasses I just poured on yer griddle-cakes fer ye!"
"I'll try," said the accommodating "Red." "You're a good friend, Mrs. Quinn. I won't forget you when I own this place!"
"Be off, now! Ye've got some travelin' to do before ye're able to win Angela. Then ye can think of buyin' a ranch."
She literally pushed him from her domain; and he found himself by Angela's side out of doors.
The bright sunlight touched her hair, and they went over to a pergola she had had built, covered with vines. A little fountain tinkled near it, and the heat of the day would not bother them here.
For three delirious hours, "Red" was alone with Angela. One moment she pouted, the next she let him touch her hand.
"You may be going away soon, 'Red.' Will you write to me if you do?"
"Will I?" he cried, "Every day—a postal-card at least. I ain't much at letters.... But I'm not so sure I'm goin', Angy. Something tells me that even if your father does hold the mortgage, it won't be foreclosed. Gil Jones has worked too hard...."
"Dad's awfully hard about holding to a bargain," Angela reminded him. "He's all business. He wasn't that way until after Ma died. I do wish he'd be more human. I've talked to him and talked to him, until I'm tired; but he's getting harder all the time. This is the last day, isn't it?"
"Yes. Jones is awful blue. That's one reason I ought to get back. Maybe he needs some cheerin' up. God knows his Uncle Henry don't give him much."
The sun was now high in the heavens. It was almost noon. "Red" said he would walk. No trouble at all; and what did he care how hot it was? He was used to it. But how he did hate to leave his Angela!
He played his harmonica most of the way home, and he was still running his lips along the instrument when he entered the adobe door, just as Uncle Henry wheeled out of it.
Poor "Red" couldn't have encountered the invalid at a less propitious moment; for he was almost knocked down by that crabbed gentleman.
"Certainly wheels a mean chair," he said good-naturedly to Gilbert, as he watched Uncle Henry steer himself out to the gate. "Got his cut-out open, too! Pesky to-day, ain't he? That's one reason I came back." He spread his legs apart, and fanned himself with his hat. He ran his fingers through his thick, violent crop of hair. "A mean Arizona day!" he said. "The walk made me hot."
"I should think it would," Jones replied.
"No grub yet?" "Red" ventured. He was hungry even yet. Twenty-two is always hungry.
"No," said his employer.
"Should have been ready two hours ago. What's the matter? Wish we had Mrs. Quinn over here."
"I don't know what's the matter. I haven't thought much about eating." He was engrossed again in his papers.
But "Red" didn't intend to let the matter drop. "You're too easy on that cook," he said. "Now, if you had a Mrs. Quinn—" He had pulled out a worn tobacco-bag, which was discouragingly flat. He had smoked a lot this morning.
Gilbert was swift to notice the empty pouch, and offered him his.
"Thanks; much obliged," "Red" said, filling his pipe. "But darn that cook, anyhow! If he wasn't leavin', I'd fire him! As if you didn't have enough troubles, without havin' to bother about late meals—an' guests in the house."
But a puff or two on his pipe soothed him, "Red's" bark was always worse than his bite. He was the best-natured chap in the world, and he idolized Gilbert Jones. There was a big packing-case in the middle of the room, and he sat on it, tailor-fashion, as happy as a husky, normal young man can be.
He looked longingly at the unset table; but histhoughts were more of Angela Hardy than of the good meal to come.
"'Red,'" said Gilbert after a brief silence, "I was hoping to be able to pay you off to-day."
"Pay me off?" That would have been heaven! He could have taken Angela to the movies at Bisbee.
"Yes."
"Oh, forget it! You don't owe me nothin'!"
"Only a mere trifle of six months' wages," Gilbert laughed.
"Red" had put his head in one hand, and leaned back on the case, at peace with the world. His left foot beat a little tattoo on the side of the box. Now he sat up straight and looked sharply at Jones.
"What's the use of talking about this?" he wanted to know. "You ain't got it, have you?"
Gilbert paused the fraction of a second. "No," he had to admit, "But that doesn't alter the fact that I owe you money." He went over and stood close to his foreman.
"You're wrong," the younger man said. "It was my own proposition that I come here with you and work, an' you know it. Now what you got to say?"
Gilbert put his arm around "Red's" big shoulder,and playfully pushed him off the box. "You're just a big kid, aren't you, 'Red'?"
"I don't know what I am. But I do know I was only too glad to take the gamble with you. An' I'll take another one right now if you've got one to suggest."
Gilbert pushed the case over on its side. It was empty. There were some Navajo blankets on a little stand by the window. These he now fetched over to the case, first placing them carefully on the floor, spread out in all their rainbow beauty. Their bright patterns glorified the room, as if a lamp had been lighted. He said nothing. "Red" wondered what he was doing with these splendid blankets. He had never seen anything like them on the ranch, though there were others on the walls.
"I'd like to remark," "Red" went on, "that if we ever gets into the cow business again, we ought to get us a nice ranch in Washington, D.C. It don't pay American citizens to go too fur away from home, these days."
Gilbert laughed. Then, "Oh!" he ejaculated, as though remembering something.
"What's the matter?" "Red" asked.
"Haven't you heard? Lopez has broken off the reservation again."
"Lopez!" exclaimed "Red," forgetting his pipe, his dinner, and even Angela for the moment. "The devil he has!"
"Uh—uh! Raided the Diamond Dot last night."
"He won't bother us," "Red" smiled, settling back again. "Nothin' to steal here except the mortgage." He paused, as though in deep thought; but Gilbert, had he known it, was thinking even harder. Lopez, the Mexican bandit, was a dim uncertainty; the mortgage was a stern reality.
"You'll want to be drivin' over to the station later?" "Red" went on, coming to the table, and taking off his spurs.
"Yes," Gilbert answered. He had folded all the blankets neatly, rose, and went over to the window-box to get some strong cord.
"In the gallopin' wash-boiler?" "Red" smiled, "Thatstill belongs to us—I mean, you." He clinked his spurs on the table.
"Us is right, 'Red.' You said you'd been a partner. You have. Some day I'm going to tell you how grateful I am." In his preoccupation, he forgot to tie up the blankets; and, one hand on "Red's" shoulder, he let the cord fall on the table.
"Aw, that's all right," "Red" said. He didn'tlike to be thanked, and he avoided even the shadow of sentimentality with Jones. After all, they were two young fellows, playing a big game together, taking big chances; and what was the use of talking about it? "What are you going to tell the Pells?" he suddenly asked, glad to get off the immediate subject.
"Pells?"
"Say, I'm goin' to poke that bird in the beak some day!" "Red" declared.
Jones smiled. "What's he done to you?"
"Nothin'. He'd better not. It's the way he treats his wife. She's so darn game, too. I wouldn't treat a horse the way he treats her. Well, what are you goin' to tell them?"
Gilbert stood perfectly still. He was in deep thought. Finally he spoke.
"I'm going to tell them I'm going away—important business."
"East?" "Red" asked. He had seated himself at the table, and picked up Gilbert's pen, and began making curious little scrawls with it on a piece of paper, as a business man sometimes does when he is telephoning.
"No. West," answered Jones. "They're going East."
"What are you going to do?" "Red" was amused rather than alarmed.
"Oh, I'll get a job somewhere. Punch cows—or maybe join the rangers. There's always something a fellow can do."
"An' what about your uncle?"
"I'll put him up in Bisbee till I get a chance to ship him back to Bangor. He likes Bangor, you know!" Gilbert smiled.
"He takes it sort o' hard, don't he?"
"Well, you can't blame the old boy. You see, I got him to sell out everything—everything, and invest in this ranch. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do; but I thought I was certain to succeed. I meant all for the best, 'Red.' You know that." Who could doubt those gray eyes of Gilbert Jones, that open, frank, boyish face?
"Of course I do." He got up, and walked over to the window. "Your uncle don't like jokin' much, does he? I asked him the other day why he didn't get a chauffeur. Gosh! he got mad!" "Red" laughed at the recollection.
"Uncle Henry's in no joking mood just now. You can't blame him much."
"Red" turned and looked at his employer. He didn't know whether he should ask the nextquestion or not; but he took his courage in his hands.
"He—he wants you to—to marry Angela Hardy, don't he?"
Gilbert looked surprised. "Hardy's daughter?"
"Red" nodded.
"How did you know?" Jones asked.
"Because he ain't talked of nothin' else for six months. You wasn't thinkin' of doin' it, was you?" He hung on Gilbert's answer.
"Hardly!" with a smile.
The relief of "Red"!
"I know, I know!" he cried. "But once she gets her mind set on a thing—"
"You mean you think she wants to marry me? Is that it?" Gilbert asked, not taking the matter very seriously. He was busy at the box again, pulling the top farther back.
"Well, I don't know as I'd say that," "Red" offered; "but I think she thinks she wants to." He was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging one leg. "She's prone to fancies, Angela is. Even I gotter admit that!"
"Evenyou?" Gilbert inquired, puzzled.
The question made "Red" a bit nervous. He jumped to the floor, and then sat down in the chairbeside the table, pretending to be very much at ease. "Like that traveling man from Saint Looey," he explained. "She thought she cared for him. I tried to tell her different. I had to run him out of town with a gun to prove it. But even then she didn't believe it until that New York surveyor come along."
Gilbert looked up, "And she thought she loved him?"
"Until she met up with that hoss doctor from Albuquerque! An' now there's a new feller in Bisbee!"
Jones was a trifle mystified, "Say, how do you happen to know so much about her affairs, 'Red'?"
How involved he had become! He blushed like a schoolboy; got up, took his pipe out of his mouth and emptied it in the fireplace. "Me?" he said. "Oh, I've knowed her a long time."
Jones was beginning to see the truth, to read the heart of this young rascal. So it was over at the Hardy's that he spent so many hours!
"Oh, so that's it, is it? What's the matter? Does her father object?"
"Oh, no!" "Red" was quick to deny. "I stand all right with him. He's knowed me a long time. It's her."
Gilbert laughed outright; and "Red," humanly embarrassed now that his secret was out, paced the room, his hands behind his back, digging his heel every now and then in the floor. "Aw—" he began.
"Listen, 'Red,'" said Jones, in sympathy with the lad, and hoping to cover up his confusion. "If Hardy comes, keep him out till I'm alone. I don't want any war talk before the Pells."
"I get yer," said "Red," visibly relieved.
"Any stronger cord on the place anywhere?" Gilbert looked around the room. Maybe one of the many Indian jugs contained a string. "Red" and he had a habit of putting any old thing in them.
"There's some down in the hay barn. Want me to get it for you?" "Red" offered.
"No; I'll get it, thanks. You see if you can't prod up the cook a little. I'm hungry now."
And "Red" ran into the kitchen. No sooner had he left the room, than there was a rumble, and Uncle Henry burst in on Gilbert, a smile of triumph on his face.
"I got it!" he all but yelled.
"Got what?" his nephew asked.
"An idea!... Mebbe he'd lend you some."
"Some what? And who?"
"Money, of course! That feller Pell, I mean. He's rich, an' if he knowed that you and his wife was old friends—I betcher he'd lend you some." He paused, breathless, for he had run his sentences into one. Gilbert glared at him, as if he thought he had gone stark mad. But Uncle Henry was not afraid. "You won't ask him?" he inquired.
"Certainly not. What are you raving about, anyhow? Cut out this sort of talk, Uncle. You're getting on my nerves."
The old man simply switched his chair about. He had heard Gilbert in an angry mood before, and he knew that nothing would follow his little burst of wrath. "Oh, you make me tired, you young people," he raged. "I'd ask him if it was me, you can bet I would!"
"Youwould," was all that Gilbert replied. Sarcasm was in his voice.
"First you won't marry Hardy's daughter and now you won't ask him for money," Uncle Henry pursued the subject.
Gilbert was genuinely angry now. "Oh, keep quiet! I'm sick of your plans."
"Yes, but if you ain't goin' to do nothing, I am!"
His nephew wouldn't trust himself to hear another word. He turned on his heel and left the old man.
Uncle Henry was shaking with excitement. He lifted his hand, smote the arm of his chair, and cried out after the vanishing figure of his nephew, "You make me sick, you gol darn fool!" He was almost in tears. "Gol darn the gol darn luck, anyhow!"
At that moment, Lucia Pell came down the little stairway. She had discarded her riding-habit, and now looked equally lovely in a simple frock of blue.
"What's the matter?" she inquired, seeing at once that something was troubling Uncle Henry.
"Whatain'tthe matter?" the old fellow screamed, but glad of someone to whom he could unburden his overflowing heart. "Gol darn it! By gollies! I got it again!" he cried, seized with another inspiration. He eyed the radiant Lucia, as a miser might appraise a new gold coin. "Mis' Pell," he said, twirling his chair so that he caught a better glimpse of her.
"Yes?" she said, half-way down.
"You and Gil's old friends, ain't you?" The question was as direct as anything could be.
"Yes," was the equally direct answer.
"Want to do him a good turn?" asked the scheming old man.
"Of course. What do you mean?" She was at his side now.
"He's got a chance to make a swell marriage," announced Uncle Henry.
"What?" There was a curious catch in Lucia's voice.
"A rich marriage," Uncle Henry went on, almost smacking his lips over the words.
Lucia went over to the window, so that she would not face the invalid.
"Not as rich as yourn, of course," Uncle Henry pursued; "but rich for him—and he won't do it." He waited for her to say something; but she did not speak. There was a pause. Lucia looked out at the baking valley, and off to the far mountains, and the ticking of the clock could be heard like steady rain in a cistern. Then she went over to the table near the alcove, where a few books were scattered about. She opened one, and pretended to read. All the time Uncle Henry's eyes never left her. And she knew he was searching her thoughts.
"He won't?" she finally said.
"No—the gol darn fool!" the old fellow screamed again.
"Does he—does he love her?" Lucia brought herself to ask.
Quick as a flash Uncle Henry came back: "Sure he does! It's the only thing for him to do. He ain't got no right to be livin' alone. All he don't get skinned out of he gives away. Never gets nothin' to eat. If ever a feller needed a nice, sensible wife to take care of him, it's Gil. I know. Ain't I his uncle?"
"You think she would—make him—a good wife?" Lucia Pell got the words out somehow, never lifting her eyes from the printed page.
"The finest in the world!" Uncle Henry affirmed. "Now, looky here, Mis' Pell: He won't listen to me—funny the way folks are about their relatives. But I was thinkin' that mebbe if you was to ask him—"
Lucia was startled. "I?" she said.
The wheel chair bobbed about. "Yes. You and him bein' old friends that way, mebbe he'd pay some attention to you. Make him see what a gol darn fool he is and give him h——. Give it to him good! It's a wonderful chance. He'll never get another. Darned if I see how he ever got this.But he has. And what we gotter do is to make him take it." He paused; but she said nothing. He waited a moment. Then,—"What do you say? Will you?"
"You—think he should?"
"I know darn well he should!"
Lucia closed the book and put it down. She looked straight at Uncle Henry. "I should think he would see it for himself."
Uncle Henry showed his disgust—not for her, but for his nephew. "Aw, he's always been like this. I remember five or six years ago, he told me then he wouldn't ask no woman to marry him until he got a lot of money. False pride, I call it. What'd the world come to if everybody felt like that?"
"You think it's only pride that's keeping him from it?" Her voice was very low.
"Well, what else could it be, I'd like to know."
"Maybe it's because he hasn't a lot of money. He may be honest in that."
"Well, mebbe you're right. That may be it. What do you say?"
"All right," Lucia Pell said. But she turned away.
Uncle Henry was delighted. "That's the idee!Hooray!" Had he been able to stand, he would have risen and given three rousing cheers. He hadn't been so happy in years. "We'll put it over yet, by heck!"
He hadn't seen his nephew come into the room, with a ball of stout twine in his hands.
"Put what over?" Gilbert asked.
Uncle Henry was taken aback, but he quickly covered his confusion.
"Oh, somethin'. It's a secret." He turned and addressed Lucia Pell. "Don't forget," he admonished, and swiftly wheeled himself out into the yard again.
Lucia's eyes were following Uncle Henry's heaving chair; for the yard was full of little stones, and the invalid bumped along, not always able to keep on a smooth track. She smiled as she watched him.
"What was he talking about?" Gilbert asked, kneeling on the floor, and folding one rug that had slipped away.
"Oh, nothing," Lucia Pell answered. "You know how old people babble on sometimes about nothing." She turned and looked at him. Still the same handsome Gilbert! "What are you doing?"
"Nothing. You know how young people go on doing nothing. I'm just rolling up these rugs and blankets. I'm going to send them away."
Lucia saw the beautiful pattern of one Navajo as Gilbert held it, unfolded, from the floor. She came over to him.
"You're sending them away—when they're so exquisite?" she asked. "This flaming one—" she picked it up and draped it around her. "Why, it's like the sunset. And you do have such beautiful sunsets here, Gil."
"I got them up especially, in honor of your visit," Jones said; and then he remembered how many times a remark like that must have been made, by many a lover, as if it were quite original, as if no one had ever thought of it before!
But Lucia took him seriously, dropped the wonderful blanket and went over to the door again. "I never grow tired of this view, Gil. It's almost as if God were an artist and had spilt the colors from His palette. And yet not that, quite. The colors are more like jewels. The morning's opals; the noon's pearls; the evening wears rubies in her hair. There's a sort of beauty that makes one ache. It seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't stand it—just the way the Grand Canyon got holdof me. Doesn't it affect you that way—you who have so much poetry in you?"
"Indeed it does, Lucia. I've often watched that sky until I've forgotten all about my cattle—both of them!" He laughed, and reached for the twine. He was always turning their serious moments into a jest. As long as she had been here with her husband, he kept at a distance.
Lucia saw his hand go out. "The string?" she said. "I'll get it." She left the door, and handed him the twine which he had put on the table.
"Thank you," said Gilbert. "Do you mind putting your finger—there? Never mind. I think I can do it, after all."
"Oh, do let me help you," she said. "I'd like to." And she leaned down, knelt beside him, and held her white forefinger on the cord.
How it happened, neither of them ever knew. But a sudden electric thrill ran through their veins. Something hammered in their brains. For a brief instant, their hearts beat as though the whole world must hear. He had touched her finger, and, before he was aware of it, he had dared to lean over and kiss it. Not a word was said—there was no time for words. They did not need speech to understand. It was the old, but ever new experienceof the ages: two who loved each other had found out in the twinkling of an eye—and she belonged to another. There was a moment of terrible silence. Then,
"I'm sorry," was all Gilbert could get out.
"But you touched my hand many a time, in the old days," Lucia said.
"That was different. You're married now. Oh, there is a vast change since then. I could not—Forgive me, my dear." He turned away his face. He did not want her to read what was in his eyes. "Shall I send them, or would you rather take them with you?" he asked, hiding behind that commonplace question the emotion he felt. His voice held a note of pain.
Lucia rose. "You mean you want to give these wonderful rugs and blankets to me?—these priceless things."
"More than that. I want you to have them—to remind you—sometimes of—" He broke off, like a frightened lad.
"As though I should ever need reminding! How dull you men can be! But I don't want to take them from you, Gil."
"I'm giving up this ranch," he told her, "I shan't want them any more. Please take them,for my sake." He made a gesture, as though they were the last of his poor possessions.
"I thought you loved it here?" she said.
"I do—in a way."
"Then why are you giving it up?" was the natural question.
He hesitated, not knowing what to answer. "I thought I'd try something else for awhile. I hate to have to tell you this, Lucia; but the fact is, I—I've got to leave to-day. I was going to tell you before, only I was hoping that something might turn up at the last minute, and—well, it hasn't. That's all."
There was nothing she could say; and they stood looking at each other in silence—a silence that was far more eloquent than speech. Gilbert went over and sat on the case, and Lucia finally said:
"Then we won't see each other again?"
He nodded, sorrowfully. Lucia Pell went over to the door and looked out once more. He watched her, covertly—her every gesture held a new meaning for him now. The silence continued. At length she turned back and faced him. He could not stand it, and bent quickly over the rugs and blankets.
"I don't know what to say, Gil." She moved closer to him. "I've had a wonderful time—you know that. I want to thank you for it. You've been awfully kind to us."
"Having you here is all the thanks I want," he answered. He had everything snugly packed now.
"I'm glad we happened to meet again. Though it does seem strange, doesn't it, that we should run across each other after all these years!"
He stood up straight. "All these years! You talk as if you were a hundred!" And he tried to smile.
"I am—nearly," she laughed. "I'm twenty-four, you know."
"Really? It doesn't seem possible!"
"I was eighteen when you went away. And that's nearly six years ago. Time flies, doesn't it?" She smiled at her bromidic remark, and sat down; but he did not reply, "Gil," she said at last. He looked up. "Why didn't you come to see me before I went away?"
"I don't know. I suppose—"
"You went away from Maine without my knowing—without even coming to say good-bye. Was that fair, was that the thing for a man like you to do?"
How he wished she had not brought up these burning memories!
"I was broke, and I—" he managed to explain.
Lucia knew what he must be feeling now. She got up and went over to his side; she did not dare place her hand in his. Never must there be again that electric current between them. "But you're all right now, aren't you, Gil?"
He seemed abstracted, suddenly lost in another world. "Huh?" he uttered. Then, as if coming to himself, "Oh, my, yes! I'm doing splendidly now, Lucia!"
"I'm so glad, Gil. But you haven't answered my question yet."
"About my not coming to say good-bye?"
She nodded.
"It was pride, I suppose," he went on.
"Very foolish pride. And life is so short. You hurt me a great deal."
"I'm sorry. What more can one say? If I—"
"I thought I had done something to offend you," she said, standing very still, and looking far beyond him now, as though viewing their whole unhappy past. "And it's worried me even until this very day. I didn't do anything to offend you, did I, Gil?"
"You? You, Lucia?" he cried. "You couldn't do anything to offend me. Surely you must know that." He said it as a man says such things to the one woman he loves.
"It was only pride?" she was anxious to know again. "Because you were poor! Gil! Did you think so little of me as that?" There was a half-sob in her voice.
"I hoped to pick a fortune off a tree somewhere, and come back and surprise you with it. I was going to buy an automobile—one of those low ones as long as a Pullman car—and fill it with roses, and come dashing up to your front door and take you for a ride through the hills. It was to be autumn. I had even that fixed," he laughed. "Oh, I had everything thought out! And you were going to be so proud of me!... But I couldn't find a fortune-tree anywhere...." He looked away, embarrassed. He hadn't meant to tell her this.
"Gil!" she cried.
"I guess they don't grow any more. At least, not in this part of the country." He rose, a bit wearily, and walked over to the mantel-piece.
"What did you do, Gil?" she asked, her eyes following him.
"Well, I was a time-keeper on a railroad andweigh-boss in a coal mine. After that I punched cows until I got uncle to come here. Then the war started, and—that's all."
Then she asked what a woman always asks.
"Why didn't you ever write to me, Gil?"
"I was waiting for some good news to tell you. I felt you would consider me a failure—a rank failure. I couldn't have stood that. Women don't know how proud men are about that."
"Maybe we don't—and maybe we do, Gil." She went closer to him. "Why don't you marry?" she dared to inquire.
He was startled. "Marry?" he repeated.
"Yes; you need someone to take care of you—someone to look after your daily needs—every man does."
"I guess there's no doubt about that. But it ought to be a guardian in my case; or maybe a keeper." She could see that he was stalling for time, and trying to laugh off a topic that was serious indeed to him.
"We're such old friends, Gil," she said, looking at his handsome face. "I don't like to go—to think of you always, like this—alone."
"I still have uncle," he reminded her.
"Oh, don't joke, Gil! You need a woman—a wife—someone to mother you."
"All those?"
Why couldn't he be serious for a moment? She asked him that.
"I don't dare to, Lucia." His voice was low.
She was a bit puzzled. "Why?"
"Because the minute you begin to take life seriously, it takesyouthat way, and then—"
"But don't you see what it would mean to you, dear Gil? To have someone always here; to kiss you when you go; to greet you when you come back; to laugh with you when you are glad; and comfort you when things go wrong. To give you the sympathy, the understanding that a man finds only in a woman's heart. Don't you see, Gil?"
"Yes, of course I see," he said, his head bowed a little.
"Then why don't you, Gil? She'd make you very happy—a woman like that. I want you to understand."
"Don't you suppose I do? Don't you suppose I've always understood, ever since—"
"Ever since when, Gil? Then you have known such a woman?"
He moved his head.
"You have!... And you cared for her?"
He nodded again.
"You loved her?" she hurried on.
His voice was hoarse. "Yes." The monosyllable got out somehow.
"You still love her. I know it, I can see it. Who is she, Gil? I want to know."
"Don't you know?" he asked, and looked her straight in the eyes.
Before she could answer, there were footsteps outside, and Pell could be heard whistling. He rushed in now, the bag still clutched in his hand. At once he sensed something strange in their attitude, and he eyed both of them shrewdly, covertly, briefly. Not a word was uttered. He threw the bag on the table, as though he had noticed nothing, and in the most matter-of-fact tone said,
"Say, how about dinner?"
"It isn't ready yet," Gilbert informed him. Lucia took advantage of her husband's question to move over toward the door.
"Why, good God, man, it's nearly three o'clock! We're not on a hunger strike, are we?" And he laughed at his own dull witticism.
"I'll see about it now," Jones promised.
"Haven't got a drink, have you, while we're waiting? Not that I need an appetizer! And it's damned hot, I know, to guzzle whiskey."
"There's nothing good in the place. But I think the cook has some tequila."
"Tequila? What's that, Jones?"
"It's a Mexican drink."
"Has it got a kick in it?" the other wanted to know.
"I never heard anybody complain," Gilbert smiled. "After two or three of 'em, I never saw anybody able to complain!"
He started toward the kitchen.
"What does it taste like?" said Pell, detaining him.
"Oh, sort of like gasoline with bichloride of mercury in it," Jones answered his eager questioner.
"No wood alcohol?" suspiciously. Pell was always looking out for himself.
"Oh, it's safe enough, I assure you. Would you like to try some of it?" Gilbert suggested.
Pell thought a moment—but only a moment. "I'll try anything once, and anything to drink more than once—if I'm alive the second time."
His host smiled. "I'll get you some if there's any left," and went to the kitchen to see. Hecouldn't help wondering why a man like Morgan Pell, with so many responsibilities, should wish to drink tequila.
Left alone, there was that strange silence between Lucia and her husband which so often occurred nowadays. A barrier was between them, none the less real because it was invisible. She knew his moods so well, and she dreaded the things he might say, all his inhibitions gone, if he drank any of this deadly Mexican stuff. She would have halted Gilbert had she dared; but she knew that any such action on her part would have aroused Pell the more, inflamed him to anger; and, like most women of fine breeding, she dreaded a scene more than anything in the world. All that she said now was merely,
"I wish you wouldn't do that."
"Do what?" Pell asked, jerking out the two words in a high staccato. He hated to be questioned, particularly by his wife. His hands reached for the satchel he had brought in.
"Order a man around in his own house."
"And why not, I'd like to know?" Pell inquired. "Who's he, anyhow, and what difference does it make?"
Lucia remained perfectly calm. "Well, if you can't see, of course—"
"There's no use your trying to tell me. Is that what you were going to say?" His face showed his rage.
She did not answer. That infuriated him all the more.
"I see what you mean! But I don't agree," Pell pursued. "This Jones person is nothing in my life. And why I should be deprived of my liquor and forced to eat burnt beans three times a day, I can't see." He emitted a sound that might have been designated a laugh.
"But—while we—" Lucia started to argue, and then thought better of it.
"Why doesn't he set his liquor out and see that the meals are right, himself? Then there wouldn't be any need of my saying anything." His tone was brutally frank. He really disliked Jones, and would be glad when they could get back to New York. There was nothing here worth his consideration. Sturgis had been stupid to think so.
"But when we are enjoying his hospitality—"
"Enjoying? Ha! Suffering, I guess you mean!" And Pell's head went back and he gave out a guffaw.
Lucia waited for his false mirth to vanish. Then, "But you seemed very anxious to come here."
"Yes; because I thought he lived in a house, not a—"
The sentence was not completed; for Gilbert came back with a bottle of the deadly tequila in his hand.
"I'm terribly sorry," he apologized, "to have to tell you that dinner will be late."
"You mean later, don't you?" Pell edited the remark.
Gilbert handed him the bottle. "Maybe this will atone for the postponed banquet," he smiled. He got the water-bottle hanging on the peg by the fireplace, and brought that to Pell also. He tried to be as gracious as he could to anyone under his roof.
Pell took a swig out of the bottle—a long one. "Good God!" he exclaimed, his face almost purple, his brow puckered like a dwarf's.
"What's the matter?" Gilbert said. And he handed him the water-bottle.
"It's poison!" Pell cried. And as if he really believed it, and as though water were an antidote, he grabbed the water-bottle and drank from it swiftly and loudly. It was horrible the way heguzzled the liquid down. An animal would have done better.
"The Mexicans like their liquor strong," young Jones explained. "That's what's the matter with the cook."
Lucia was puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Simply that he's been imbibing again. That's why dinner is so late. But we're getting used to it. There is nothing to do but stand it."
"Drunk?" Pell asked.
"Quite," answered Gilbert.
"Well, I don't know as you can blame him," Pell excused. "I'd be drunk too if I had to live here. What are you going to do about it?" He hung the water-bottle in its place on the peg.
"Red's trying to sober him up," Gilbert said.
They had had enough of the cook, Pell decided within himself. Dinner was inevitably late, and that was all there was about it. So he changed the subject abruptly.
"This ranch belongs to you, doesn't it?" he put the question direct to Jones.
"What's that?"
"I asked you," went on Pell, a little disconcertedat having to repeat his question, "if you own this ranch."
"I—er—yes. Why?" Gilbert said.
Pell was quick to notice the other's discomfiture. "I have a friend who thinks he wants to go into the cattle business. He asked me to look him up a place. It's his own money, of course."
"Then I'd advise him not to buy here," said Gilbert, much to Pell's amazement.
"Why?"
"It's too near the border," Jones answered. "The bandits come over and steal all your cattle. It's a rotten situation. I'm sorry I ever came down here."
"That makes it all the better," Pell was shrewd enough to say. "Then he'd lose his money quick, and be satisfied." And he laughed at what he thought a witticism.
Uncle Henry's wheel chair crossed the sill at that moment. His face was full of news. "Hardy's coming!" he informed those in the room.
"A man to see me on a matter of business," Gilbert remembered. "Will you excuse me?" He turned to Pell.
"But I want to talk to you myself," the latter reminded him.
But young Jones had gone to the door. "I'm sorry. This is imperative, and I must see him." He turned definitely as if to go.
"But I was here first," Morgan Pell argued. He hated to be beaten by this stripling.
"I regret that I must insist," Gilbert said. And there was a duel of eyes, as well as of wits, before Jones turned away, easily the victor. After all, it was his own house, his own ranch. His visitor was wise enough to realize that. He walked over to the table and took the tequila bottle up again. "I'll have another drink, if you don't mind," he said, to Gilbert's back.
"Drink?" yelled Uncle Henry from his chair, frantic at the thought of any more of their precious liquor being consumed. It was hard enough to get, even when one had plenty of money.
"Help yourself," said Gilbert, not a little ashamed of the protest in Uncle Henry's voice.
"While I'm waiting," Pell laughed; and, taking the bottle, he went out.
Uncle Henry could scarcely control himself. He switched his chair in his nephew's direction. "Say," he wanted to know, "have you been holding out on me?"
"It's only tequila," Gilbert tried to pacify him.
"I don't care if it's only varnish!" cried Uncle Henry, his voice rising high and shrill. "And you let him go and take the whole bottle!" He pounded the arm of his chair, always his last resort.
Gilbert paid no attention to him. He went over to the table, as though he hadn't said a word, and began looking for a letter in one of the drawers. Almost immediately he laid his hand on it, and, turning to Lucia, said:
"If you'll excuse me?"
"Certainly. I must go and pack anyway." And she started toward the steps that led upstairs.
Gilbert went through the alcove; and no sooner had his broad shoulders disappeared than Uncle Henry turned to Lucia Pell and cried:
"Hey! Wait a minute."
Lucia was astonished. She had one foot on the step, and she turned about to see if Uncle Henry was actually addressing her. There was, obviously, no one else to address; but she thought the cook must have come in when her back was turned. She glared at the invalid, and said nothing.
"Did you ask him?" Uncle Henry went on, paying not the slightest heed to her surprised glance.
"Ask who what?" Lucia asked. She was not a little interested now. She came back into the room.
"Ask him about marryin'—you know. I gotter find out because Hardy's comin'." No speech could have been plainer and balder. "Did you?"
Lucia was nonplussed at the old man's crude directness. "Yes—I mean no. I don't remember."
"Don't remember!" Uncle Henry yelled. "But that's what I left you here for! We had it all framed up! Why didn't you?"
Lucia's head drooped a bit. "We were talking about something else."
The crabbed man was inflamed by this reply. "What was you talkin' about that was so gol darned important that you forgot the only important thing there was to talk about?... Well?" he cried, when she said nothing. "By gollies! I remember now! You was the gal he wouldn't ask to marry him because he didn't have no money!" He did not notice that his nephew had come back from the other room just in time to hear this last remark. He went on relentlessly to Lucia: "And me like a poor boob forgettin' all about it until now!" He suddenly saw Gilbert, and, not a whit abashed, turned on him. "So that's why youwon't marry Hardy's daughter! I see it all now! I've been as blind as a hoot-owl!"
There came the sound of a Ford stopping outside, and footsteps approached up the path that led to the adobe.
"It's all right, Lucia," Gilbert said, and she went upstairs, almost weeping. Then he whirled about and glared at his uncle. "It's a good thing—no, I don't know what I'm saying. You're an invalid, or I'd strike you, despite your years, Uncle Henry. For heaven's sake, can't you learn to mind your own business?"
"I ain't got any. You robbed me of it!" the old man flamed back. "Now I'll mind yours for a change. Make a monkey out o' me, will you, gol darn you!"
As he was starting for the door, he bumped directly into Jasper Hardy and his daughter Angela and the ubiquitous "Red." The trio had come over in the Ford.
Hardy, tall and thin, wore a funereal black coat, despite the heat, and a somber dark Stetson hat. He must have been fifty or more. His skin looked bloodless, and his eyes still had that hard, pale look. It was difficult to trust eyes like those. He ambled, rather than walked, and his lean, lankylegs would have made him a fortune on the stage. It was difficult to believe, as everyone always said, that the lovely little Angela, with her bright black eyes and her rose-red cheeks, was the daughter of this sinister man. She was as attractive as a rose;—a typical frontier maiden, romantic, emotional, peppery when occasion demanded—just the kind to take the fancy of an honest soul like "Red." His eyes followed her wherever she went, as ever. She could not sit down or stand up or open her delicate lips but that he stared at her, hoping he could be of some service to her. Sometimes he prayed that some slight accident would befall her in order that he might prove his devotion. If she would only be sent to jail, that he could bring her soup and pass it through the bars of her cell! He dreamed this once, and awakened in a cold perspiration; for Angela (in the dream) realized his worth then; and the Governor pardoned her, and they were married at once and lived happily ever afterward. A Freudian lapse, maybe, and a dream a little too sane, according to the psychologists, to mean anything much; but rich in hidden meanings for poor "Red." Oh, that it would come true! She had been so kind and sweet to him this morning.
Hardy ambled into the room, and looked around in the most casual way. His eye lit upon Uncle Henry first of all, naturally; for he had all but bumped into him.
"How are you, Smith?" he said. "Evenin'."
And Angela piped up, to both uncle and nephew: "Good evening."
Gilbert bowed. "How do you do? Won't you sit down?" And he pulled out a chair for Angela.
"No, thanks," Hardy said; but
"Yes, thanks!" his daughter decided, and popped into a seat. "Red" loved her for it.
Hardy turned to young Jones. "Well?" was all he said. He referred to his state of health—not that he cared how Gilbert felt.
"Anything but," the latter answered.
Jasper Hardy always went right to the point. He disliked equivocation; so he rasped out immediately:
"Have you got the money?"
"No."
Angela, who was tender-hearted, tried to intercede.
"Now, father!" she pleaded. She hated this business.
But Hardy paid not the slightest heed to her.He was a man of action, and women shouldn't interfere—particularly young and pretty girls.
"Then I reckon I'll have to foreclose," he went on relentlessly. "There's nothing else to do." His hands closed tightly, and his hard eyes looked even harder.
"I'm afraid you're right," Gilbert said. "I was afraid it would be inevitable. I couldn't have hoped for anything else."
"I'm sorry," Jasper Hardy announced; but did not mean it.
Gilbert told him so. "Moreover, I know how you got your money," the young man was not afraid to say.
"I know how he got mine, gol darn it!" Uncle Henry cried. Hardy glared at him, seemed to smite him with his eyes.
"I'm not in business for my health," he said coldly.
"Nor for anybody else's," Uncle Henry, unabashed, told him.
Angela feared there was going to be trouble. "Now, daddy, you mustn't—you really mustn't—I feel—"
But her father did not hear her.
"The time's up at eight o'clock," was all hesaid, and looked sternly at Gilbert, much as a judge who is pronouncing sentence looks at the prisoner at the bar.
"I know it," said Gilbert.
"Now, daddy—" Angela began again.
Hardy was angry at her repeated solicitation. "Will you let me alone? This is my business," he said to her in a firm voice, "Remember that, and don't attempt to put your finger in the pie. This is my business, I tell you."
"Yes, I know daddy; but you needn't be so mean about it."
"I'm a plain man, and I don't believe in beating about the bush. Get that through your head—every one of you, I mean."
"But you might at least be—" his daughter began once more.
"Won't you please keep still?" His rage was mounting; and his brow darkened.
"I only want you to be nice about it, daddy," Angela persisted, sweetly.
"How can anybody be nice about a thing like this?" said the man of iron.
"I know I could be," Angela informed him.
Her father looked at her. "Well, what would you do?"
"Give him his ranch back, of course!"
Jasper Hardy couldn't believe what he had heard, and from his own child. "Well, for the love of heaven!" he cried, and almost burst out laughing.
"We've more ranches now than we know what to do with. Everybody is aware of that."
Here was Uncle Henry's chance. "That's the idea!" he cried. "What do you want it for, anyhow?" But no one paid any attention to him.
"Oh, will you, daddy—for my sake?" Angela pleaded.
Hardy was adamant. "Certainly not! What a stupid request. How did such ideas come into your head?"
"But I don't see why—" the unremitting Angela started to say.
Her father was furious now, and tired of her prattle. He turned to "Red." "Take her out doors, will you?" as though she were a child.
"Red's" face gleamed as if a lantern had been lighted behind it. He turned eagerly to Angela. "WillI!" he cried.
But Angela was scornful. How foolish of "Red" to think her father could dismiss her in this way! She proceeded as though no such suggestion hadbeen made, and addressed her father once more, not in the least perturbed:
"Of course, if you're going to be nasty about it—" Then, sweetly, to Gilbert she continued: "Please don't think too badly of us, Mr. Jones. Father doesn't really mean any harm."
"No more'n a rattlesnake," Uncle Henry leaned out of his chair to whisper in a voice that could be heard by everyone.
"It's just that he doesn't know any better," Angela went on to Gilbert. "He's really very neighborly when he wants to be."
She rose, and "Red" offered her his arm; but she haughtily rejected it, and went out the door, unaware that the devoted and humble "Red" followed her.
Jasper Hardy was glad she had gone. He could speak freely now. He addressed Jones.
"Packed up yet?" he inquired, sarcastically, as though he meant to intimate that his coming journey would be a pleasant one.
Gilbert could have struck him; but he replied quietly: "I'll just put on my hat and I'll be ready."
But the literal-minded Hardy remarked:
"Them crockery, and the rugs?" pointing to the articles significantly.
"The rugs I'm presenting to a friend of mine. The crockery goes to the cook. He has a family, you know." His irony was lost on the imperturbable Hardy, who merely asked:
"And you ain't got anything more to say, Jones?" He watched him closely.
"Nothing of general interest."
But Uncle Henry wasn't going to let matters end here.
"I've got something to say," he announced like an oracle. "Your daughter wants to marry him!" He imagined this would prove a thunderbolt; but Hardy calmly asked:
"How do you know that?"
"Because she told me, that's how! And if only the gol darn fool would do it like I want him to—" He addressed himself suddenly to his nephew, who now stood on the other side of the table: "Aw, come on. Be a good feller, won't you?"
Again this outlandish interfering on the part of Uncle Henry! Was the old fellow losing his reason? There was no privacy in their affairs—everything was an open book to anyone who came to the adobe. It was getting to be unbearable. Gilbert had controlled himself long enough in the presenceof others. He was sick and tired of the old man's meddling.
"Keep still!" he warned him, and shook his finger in his face, "Keep still, I say!" His cheeks were scarlet with rage. The blood pounded in his veins.
The invalid never lost his courage. "You won't marry her?" was what he said.
"How can I, you—you—" Gilbert could scarcely stand it any longer.
"Gol darn, the gol darn—" cried Uncle Henry; and then he swerved on Jasper Hardy: "Maybe you can persuade him," he suggested.
"Persuade him to what?"
"To marry her," Smith brazenly said.
"I don't want him to marry her," the father was honest enough to say.
This had never occurred to Uncle Henry. "What's the matter with him?" he asked, his eyes opening wide in amazement.
"It would take too long to tell you." Hardy considered the argument closed; but Uncle Henry came right back again:
"But he's my nevyer!"
"That's one of my main reasons," Hardy cruelly announced; and the only come-back poor UncleHenry had was an exasperated, "Oh, is that so!" drawled out peevishly, weakly.
"I want his ranch, not him," Hardy went on. He might have been discussing someone not in the room.
"But he's a fine young feller, if I do say so!" Uncle Henry came to Gilbert's rescue, after the manner of all relatives when an outsider steps in with criticism.
"Only a minute ago I heard you call him a gol darn fool!" Hardy triumphantly reminded him.
"There you are," said Gilbert, addressing his uncle. "That's what you get—"
"Do you think I want my darter to marry a gol darn fool?" Hardy fired back at the old man.
Uncle Henry was flabbergasted, completely done for, for the moment. "Well, what the—" But he could get no farther.
Jasper Hardy looked at Gilbert, "Well, now that's settled."
Uncle Henry butted in once more. "You won't let her?"
"Let her what?" A pair of steely eyes were fixed on the questioner.
"Marry him. Won't you?"
"Of course not. What are you talking about, you old fool?"
Uncle Henry was not to be outdone. He whisked around, facing the door, and called at the top of his voice:
"Angely! Angely!"
From the yard came back, "Yes, I'm coming!" and Hardy's daughter ran in, with "Red" at her heels.
"Did you call me?" she wanted to know, looking at all three.
"Yes; I did," said Uncle Henry. "I wanted to tell you that it ain't no use. They won't neither of 'em do nothin'."
"Who won't?" asked Angela, mystified. She hadn't an idea what the old man was talking about.
"The poor stiffs!" said Uncle Henry.
"Do what?" Angela pursued.
"I asked 'em!" the invalid whined.
The girl grew impatient. "For goodness' sake, asked them what?"
"To marry you, of course!"
Angela thought she must be dreaming.
"You—asked him—to marry me?" She looked about her, bewildered.
"Yes; and he turned you down!"
Surely now this must be a dream! "Red," too, was in a daze, suffering vicariously for his adored one.
"Oh!" cried Angela, when a full realization of what Uncle Henry meant came over her.
Uncle Henry went on: "Like your own payrent—the stony-hearted old reptile!"
"Oh, Gil—" began Angela in tears.
"Go on—you ask 'em!" suggested Uncle Henry.
"Gil—" the girl got out the first syllable of his name, and no more; for her little handkerchief was at her pretty nose.
"I'm sorry," said Gilbert, gallantly, going to her. "Please don't feel badly about it."
"Don't—don't speak to me!" Angela sniffed, and stamped her dainty foot. "Don't look at me! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you all!" Blinded with rage and tears, she crossed the room, and stumbled directly into Uncle Henry's chair, and all but tipped him over. "Red" followed her, solicitously.
"Now, Angela—" he said, and tried to grasp her arm. "Remember, I'm here!"
But all the thanks he got was a wild, "Get out of my way!" and he found himself pushed aside, into a corner. Another of her unsuspected tantrums!
"My God!" ejaculated Uncle Henry, furious at Angela's accident, which so directly concerned himself, "but everybody's unreasonable to-day!" He turned harshly on his nephew. "You make me sick, you! Here am I doing my gol darndest to save the mess you've made, and you won't even—" He broke off, unable, in his wrath, to continue. His eye lit on Hardy. "Look here," he cried, in desperation, "ain't there no way out of this thing? It was my money that bought this ranch, you know. And everybody knows it! The last ten thousand dollars I had in the world!" There was a sob in his voice on the last words.