At sundown, when Parker and the cowboys rode in from the northern hills, the Quarter Circle KT lay under a mantle of sullen, torturing heat. Not a breath of air fanned the poplars, straight and motionless, in front of the house. The sun buried itself in a solid wall of black that rose above the Costejo peaks, hidden now in the shadow of the coming storm. The horses were dripping with sweat—their coats as glossy and wet as if they had swum the river. At the corral the animals wearily tossed their heads, low hung with exhaustion, seeking to shift the sticky clutch of head-stall or hackamore, while their riders dismounted and quickly removed saddle and riding gear. Freed from their burdens the bronchos dragged tired heels through the dust as they whirled and trotted unsteadily away to the pasture, eager to roll and relax their aching muscles.
"Holy cats, but it's hot!" Bert Lilly exclaimed as he slipped off his chaps and started toward the house, leaving saddle and outfit lying beside the gate of the corral.
"Better put them things in the shed," Parker advised, "looks like a whale of a storm is coming."
"Reckon that's right," Bert answered, turning back and carrying his riding gear into the shelter where the other cowboys already had taken theirs.
"Wonder if them women come?" Chuck Slithers queried as they moved toward the gate.
"More than likely—Bet Skinny and Old Heck have had a hell of a time making love to 'em," Charley Saunders remarked.
"You want to be careful about cussin'," Parker warned. "It ain't polite when women are around!"
"Listen at him!" Bert said with a laugh, "practising already—Parker is getting polite—to-morrow is his day to be affectionate to the widow, Ophelia—"
"Which is she, Parker," Charley asked soberly, "a grass or natural?"
"Shut up, you blamed fools, they're liable to hear you," Parker growled angrily. "Anyhow, it ain't my fault they come!"
"Parker oughtn't to kick," Chuck chimed in, "look at poor oldSkinny—he's got a steady job lovin' the other one!"
"Darned if I wouldn't rather love both of them at once," Charley observed, "than to take another ride like that was to-day. I'm kind of anxious to see what they look like," he continued.
"Well, don't go and get excited at the supper table and eat your pie with a spoon!" Chuck laughed.
"Aw, hell," Charley retorted, "I guess I know how to act—"
"Old Heck's going to buy some finger-bowls for you to wash your hands in," Bert said scornfully, "him and Parker—"
"Shut up, I told you, you darned idiots," Parker snapped. "They're out on the front porch and can hear you!"
"Be careful about your cussin'—" Bert mimicked with a snicker.
Notwithstanding their raillery every man in the group, including Pedro, gave unusual care to scrubbing his face and smoothing his hair preparatory to entering the kitchen for supper and where they would meet, for the first time, Ophelia and Carolyn June.
Sing Pete glided out of the kitchen door and hammered the triangle announcing the evening meal.
At the instant Parker and the cowboys filed into the kitchen from the rear, Ophelia and Carolyn June, followed by Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins, both looking sheepish and somewhat ashamed, stepped into the room from the front.
All stood waiting and Old Heck, ill at ease and in a voice that trembled, gave the party formal introduction:
"Missus Ophelia Cobb and Miss Carolyn June Dixon," motioning first at the widow and then the girl, "Mister Parker, Mister Bert Lilly, Mister Charley Saunders, Mister Chuck Slithers, Mister Pedro Valencia—" indicating each in turn with his hand as he called the names, "—I reckon you're already acquainted with Skinny!"
The cowboys mumbled greetings which Carolyn June and Ophelia graciously acknowledged.
Sing Pete had laid two extra covers.
"You boys can take your regular places—all except you, Parker," Old Heck said, "—you set at that side on this end," pointing to the seat at the left next to the head of the table. "Carolyn June, you can set at that end and Ophelia at this end—I'll set here," taking the seat at the widow's right and directly across from Parker.
This placed Old Heck, Bert Lilly, Pedro and Skinny Rawlins on the right of the table in the order named, Skinny sitting at the end on Carolyn's left. On the opposite side sat Parker, Chuck Slithers and Charley. Next to Charley, at the right of Carolyn June, and opposite Skinny, was a vacant chair.
"Who is this for?" Carolyn June inquired, indicating the unoccupied seat.
"That's th' Ramblin' Kid's place," Old Heck replied; "he may come in and again he mayn't—"
"It was him you saw to-day," Skinny added, "riding down toward theNarrows when we was coming from Eagle Butte."
"Do you know; where he went, Parker?" Old Heck asked.
"No. When we started over to the Springs he was here. Said he reckoned we could get along without him and he wouldn't go—"
"He's just got one of them lonesome spells," Bert said, "and wanted to get off by himself somewhere."
"He knowed we was going to have company, too," Chuck observed.
"More than likely that's why he went," Skinny suggested.
"Is he afraid of women?" Carolyn June laughed.
"Not particularly," Skinny replied; "he don't bother with them, that's all."
"I think he went after that Gold Dust maverick," Charley said. "He'll probably come in when he sees how it's going to storm—"
"He don't give a darn for storms," Bert declared. "—Pass them frijoles, Pedro.—Remember that time it blowed the hay derrick down and he wouldn't come to the house, just stayed out and watched the wind and lightning?"
"He is funny that way," Charley admitted.
"Well, he'll never catch that mare," Parker said, "she's too—"
"Oh, I don't know," Chuck interrupted, "look how he has tamed Captain Jack," referring to the Ramblin' Kid's own horse, one time a famous renegade.
"How was that?" Carolyn June inquired carelessly.
"Captain Jack was an outlaw, too," Bert explained. "He run over on the East Mesa on the Una de Gata. Charley and me and th' Ramblin' Kid got him to going one day when there was some ranch mares in his bunch. One of them was a hand-raised filly, was a pet and she was—well, pretty hot! We worked them over the rim of the Mesa and into the canyon, it was a box-gorge from where they hit it to its head, and at the upper end there was a wing corral. The mare swung up the canyon towards the ranch and—Jack wouldn't quit her! We was pounding right on their heels and before he knowed it we had them penned—"
"That shows what happens when a he-thing goes locoed over a female critter," Chuck whispered to Parker; "you and Old Heck want to watch out!"
"Be careful, you danged fool!" Parker hissed as he kicked at Chuck's shins under the table. Excited, he made a mistake in the foot he should have used and viciously slammed his left toe against Ophelia's dainty ankle.
The widow looked startled and suddenly sat up very straight in her chair.
Parker realized his error, turned red, choked, leaned close to Chuck and breathed hoarsely, "I'll kill you some day for that!"
"He sure went crazy when he found he was corraled," Charley said, "and forgot all about the mare."
"He sure did," Bert continued, while Carolyn June listened intently, "and was plumb wild to bu'st down the pen and be free again. Charley nor me didn't want him and so th' Ramblin' Kid said he'd take him. Just then Tony Malush—we was punchin' for him—come riding up and was going to shoot Captain Jack on account of wanting to clean the range of the outlaw stallions. He yanked out his gun and started to pull a drop on old Jack's head. Th' Ramblin' Kid jerked his own forty-four and told Tony he'd kill him if he shot the renegade broncho. Tony backed up, but it made him sore and he fired th' Ramblin' Kid. The darned little cuss set there a minute thinking, then slid off his horse, stripped him of riding gear, flung saddle, blanket and bridle over the bars into the corral. Before we knowed what he was aiming to do he climbed up and dropped down inside, on foot, with just his rope, and faced that outlaw battin' around trying to get outside—"
Carolyn June leaned forward on the table listening with breathless interest. The others stopped eating and gave all their attention to the story Bert was telling.
"Captain Jack saw him, stopped for just a second, sort of surprised, then went right at th' Ramblin' Kid—head down, eyes blazin' like coals, mouth wide open, ears laid back and strikin' with both front feet—"
"He was some wicked!" Charley ejaculated.
"He sure was," Bert went on. "Tony and Charley and me just set on our horses stunned—thinkin' th' Kid had gone clean loco and was flirtin' with certain and pronto death. As Captain Jack rushed him th' Ramblin' Kid give a jump sideways, his rope went true, a quick run to the snubbin' post and he throwed him dead! The broncho hit his feet, give a squeal and come straight back! Th' Ramblin' Kid run once more, yankin' like blazes to get the slack! That time when he went down—well, before we realized it, th' Ramblin' Kid had him bridled and saddled and was safe on deck—"
"I'm tellin' you too, Captain Jack went higher than a kite when he felt the rowels in his flanks!" Charley interrupted.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid yelled for us to let him out," Bert continued. "Charley and me flung down the bars to the corral and Captain Jack come out sun-fishin' and hittin' the breeze like a streak of twisted lightning! That was just before dinner in the forenoon. That afternoon and night th' Ramblin' Kid rode the outlaw to the Hundred and One—ninety miles away! We didn't see either of them any more for a month and when they hit the Kiowa again Captain Jack was a regular baby after th' Ramblin' Kid and would follow him around like a dog—"
"That's the way he's been ever since," Charley said, "them two are just like sweethearts."
"Nobody else ever rides him—" Bert added.
"They can't," Chuck said. "He's a one-man horse and th' Ramblin' Kid is the man. Captain Jack would die for th' Ramblin' Kid!"
"Yes, and kill any one else if he could!" Parker exclaimed.
"Has no one but—but the Ramblin' Kid"—Carolyn June hesitated queerly over the name—"ever ridden him?"
"Never that we know of," Bert said; "several have tried it—the last one was a fellow from down on the Chickasaw. Guess he was trying to steal him. Anyway, we was all up at Eagle Butte and had left our horses out in front of the Occidental Hotel while we was in the dining-room eating our dinners. We got outside just in time to see the stranger hit the ground and Captain Jack jump on him with all four feet doubled up in a bunch—he's buried in that little graveyard you might have noticed on the hill this side of the river bridge."
"Killed him?" Carolyn June gasped.
"Seemed like it." Bert answered, with a grin; "anyway, we buried him."
"What did the—the Ramblin' Kid do?" she asked.
"He just laughed kind of soft and scornful," Skinny said, "and got onCaptain Jack and rode away while we was picking the fellow up!"
During the rest of the meal Carolyn June's eyes looked frequently and curiously at the unused plate at her right. She felt, some way, that an affront had been shown her by the absence of the one for whom it was laid. The other cowboys, it was quite evident to her intuitive woman's mind, had looked forward with considerable eagerness to the arrival of herself and Ophelia. The Ramblin' Kid, at the very moment almost of their reaching the Quarter Circle KT, had deliberately mounted Captain Jack and ridden away. It seemed like little less than an intentional snub! In addition to the half-resentment she felt, there remained in her mind an insistent and tormenting picture of the slender, subtle, young rider swaying easily to the swing of Captain Jack as he galloped down the valley earlier in the day.
Bert, Charley, Chuck, before the meal was finished cast frankly admiring glances at Carolyn June and Skinny plainly was gaining confidence at a rapid rate, while Pedro, silent throughout it all, kept, almost constantly, his half-closed eyes fixed in a sidelong look at the girl at the end of the table.
Attention and admiration, Carolyn June expected from men. They had always been hers. She was beautiful and was conscious of it. Had the cowboys of the Quarter Circle KT not registered appreciation of her charms by their looks Carolyn June would have believed something was wrong with her dress or the arrangement of her hair. Her eyes—she was sure of them—without effort lured men to her feet.
"It's hotter than blue blazes in here," Old Heck said when all had finished; "we'd better go out into the big room. Maybe Carolyn June will play some on the piano."
"The boys and me will go on out on the porch," Parker said as they reached the front room, speaking significantly to Old Heck, but in a tone both Ophelia and Carolyn June heard. "We'll leave you and Skinny with the ladies and not intrude—"
"You won't be intruding if you remain," Ophelia said brightly. "Carolyn June and I are not partial at all and want you to feel that we enjoy meeting you all."
"Yes, stay," Carolyn June added, somewhat reluctant that of the entire group only one should be left to the wiles of her unconsciously intentional coquetry; "there is plenty of room in here and it's cool—"
"We're much obliged," Bert said, "but we'd better do the way Parker mentioned. Anyhow that was the agreement."
"Agreement?" Ophelia spoke with a questioning lift of her brows.
"Yes," Chuck said, evidently trying to relieve the embarrassment of Old Heck, Parker and Skinny who looked daggers at Bert when he spoke of an agreement, "Parker and Old Heck was to take turn about—"
"Bert meant," Parker interrupted hastily, "—he meant they—they had to agree not to loaf in this room before Old Heck would give them jobs on the Quarter Circle KT!"
"Yes," Old Heck added quickly, "that was the bargain on account of—of—getting it mussed up and everything and making too much work for Sing Pete to clean it up!"
Ophelia and Carolyn June looked curiously at each other as if they suspected some secret that had to do with their presence at the Quarter Circle KT.
Outside, the cowboys lounged on the porch or lay spread full length on the grass smoking their cigarettes, and silent. Each was busy with thoughts of his own. Carolyn June had been very impartial during the evening meal, distributing her smiles and little attentions freely among them all. Now she was sitting at the piano playing snatches of random melodies as they came to her mind, while Skinny sat stiffly on a high-backed chair at the corner of the instrument.
A drone of voices reached the ears of Parker and the cowboys as Old Heck, skilfully led on by Ophelia, told about the ranch, the Kiowa range and the traditions of western Texas.
"Can you playLa Paloma?" Skinny asked as Carolyn June paused after running over a dainty and vivacious one-step, memories of which made her think of Hartville and the fashionable ballrooms where she had reigned as princess at least if not as queen, and which seemed now very far away.
"I'm afraid not—unless I have the music, but I'll try," she answered, and her fingers again sought the keys.
The dreamy Mexican air drifted seductively out on the sultry motionless night.
Bert looked through the window and saw Skinny lean back in his chair, his eyes closed and an expression of supreme content stealing over his face.
"Skinny's gone—he's surrendered," he said to Chuck, lying full length on the porch at his side; "look at the poor cuss with his eyes shut and grinning as if he was seeing visions of Paradise!"
"That combination would capture most anybody," Chuck answered. "I'm starting to feel affectionate myself."
Bert didn't reply, Chuck having expressed too nearly his own swelling emotions.
"Uncle Josiah!" Carolyn June called, suddenly whirling around on the piano stool as she finished the last bars ofLa Paloma, "may I have a horse?"
Old Heck, grown silent under the spell of the music, and, like Skinny, sitting dreaming dreams that almost frightened him, started quickly.
"A—a what?" he asked.
"A horse—" she answered, "a broncho to ride!"
"Oh, uh—sure! Skinny, go get her one!" he replied confusedly.
"Not now," Carolyn June laughed, "to-morrow—any time, whenever I want to use it!"
"Can you ride?" Skinny asked eagerly.
"Ever since I can remember," Carolyn June said, "daddy has kept horses—I love 'em! Ophelia rides, too," she added.
"In automobiles—" Ophelia corrected.
"That's a good arrangement," Skinny said; "it will make everything work out all right."
"I don't understand," Carolyn June said; "what arrangement?"
"We'd better be going to bed, Skinny," Old Heck interposed anxiously, "it's getting late!"
"Guess we had," Skinny said reluctantly. "Gosh, it's warm to-night!"
"You can leave the door and windows open," Old Heck said to Ophelia and Carolyn June as he and Skinny moved toward the door; "we don't have burglars out here."
Parker and the cowboys straightened up when they heard Skinny and Old Heck preparing to leave and went around the corner of the building toward the bunk-house.
Ophelia and Carolyn June stepped out on the porch with Old Heck andSkinny.
The air was oppressively still and hot. The black cloud bank that had hung over the Costejo Mountains earlier in the evening now covered the whole western half of the sky. Night sounds seemed almost stifled by the suffocating heat. From the pasture below the stables the faint call of a kill-deer suddenly shrilled out, followed by intense silence. No lightning flash filled the wall-like blackness slowly creeping over the earth from the west. A pale glow on the rim of the rolling hills across the valley, herald of the moon not yet above the horizon, intensified the pall beneath the approaching cloud. A sullen roar, throbbing angrily, rising and falling in volume, could be heard coming out of the depths of the storm.
"Acts like it's going to be a bad one," Old Heck observed, studying the cloud they all were watching.
"Wicked," Skinny said, "one of them mutterin' kind until it breaks and then all hell tears loose."
"If th' Ramblin' Kid is out in the sand-hills to-night he'll—"
A withering stream of fire poured from the cloud almost over their heads; it was accompanied by a crashing peal of thunder that rocked the earth under their feet and stopped the words on Old Heck's lips. The flame lighted the whole valley. They had an instant's glimpse of a writhing, overhanging curtain of dust and rain sweeping toward them. In the glare they saw a giant cottonwood that stood alone in the meadow west of the house reel and sway like a drunken thing and pitch to the earth.
"It's here! It struck that tree!" Old Heck yelled. "Run for the bunk-house, Skinny, maybe we can make it! You women go inside and shut the door!"
Carolyn June and Ophelia sprang—were blown almost—inside the house and slammed the door as another bolt fell, flooding the room with a blaze that made the light from the lamp on the reading table seem faint and dim. Old Heck and Skinny darted around the corner as the tempest pulled and tugged at the buildings of the Quarter Circle KT.
For an hour Ophelia and Carolyn June sat and listened to the storm and while it still raged went to bed.
Carolyn June fell asleep watching the incessant glare of the lightning as flash after flash filled the room with light and illumined the world outside, while the rain and wind lashed the trees in the garden near her window. Above the tumult the words of Old Heck: "If the Ramblin' Kid is out in the sand-hills to-night"—kept repeating themselves over and over in her mind. Try as she would, she could not shut out the picture of a slender young rider, alone, far out on the range in the storm-mad night, unsheltered from the fury and wrath of the elements.
When the storm broke over the Quarter Circle KT the Ramblin' Kid was twenty miles away following the Gold Dust maverick. Old Heck's surmise that he had gone in search of the outlaw filly was but half correct. It was not with the definite purpose of trying for the renegade mare that he had mounted Captain Jack and headed him toward the Narrows at the moment Carolyn June Dixon and Ophelia Cobb arrived at the ranch. Nor was it to escape meeting the women. Their coming meant nothing to the Ramblin' Kid.
He simply wanted to be alone.
The ride with Parker and the boys to the North Springs meant talk. The Ramblin' Kid did not want to talk. He wanted to be with his thoughts, his horse and silence.
Should he happen on to the maverick he might give her a run. Since her first appearance on the Kiowa, the Ramblin' Kid had seen her many times. More than once, from a distance, he had watched the mare, getting a line on her habits. Sooner or later he expected to test Captain Jack's endurance and skill against the filly's speed and cunning. Without success other riders of the Kiowa had tried to corral the outlaw or get within roping throw of her shapely head. So far she had proved herself faster and more clever than any horse ridden against her. The Ramblin' Kid believed Captain Jack was master of the beautiful mare, that in a battle of nerve and muscle and wind the roan stallion could run her down. Some day he would prove it.
At the Narrows the trail forked. One branch turned sharply to the right and followed a coulée out on to the divide between the Cimarron and the lower Una de Gata; the other swung toward the river, slipped into it, crossed the stream, and was lost in the sand-hills beyond.
The broncho, of his own will, at the prongs of the road wheeled up the coulée and climbed out on the level bench south of the Cimarron. A half-dozen miles away Sentinel Mountain rose abruptly out of the plain. Toward the lone butte Captain Jack turned. He knew the place. On the north slope there was a tiny spring, fenced with wire to keep the stock from trampling it into a bog; near by was a duster of piñon trees; below the seep in the narrow gorge was a thin strip of willows. It was a favorite rendezvous sought by the Ramblin' Kid when in moods such as now possessed him. Silently he rode to the group of piñons and dismounted.
The Ramblin' Kid stretched himself under the trees while Captain Jack drank at the little water course. Then, with his bridle off, the broncho fed contentedly on the bunch grass along the hillside. After a time Captain Jack quit feeding and came into the shade of the piñons. The Ramblin' Kid, flat on his back, stared through the scant foliage of the trees into the sky—overcast now with a dim haze, forerunner of the storm gathering above the Costejo peaks. Thousands of feet in the air a buzzard, merely a black speck, without motion of wings, wheeled in great, lazy, ever-widening circles.
As the sun dropped into the cloud bank in the west a band of mares and colts came from that direction and rounded a spur of Sentinel Mountain. At their heads was the most beautiful horse ever seen on the Kiowa range.
In color a coppery, almost golden, chestnut sorrel; flaxen mane and tail, verging on creamy white; short-coupled in the back and with withers that marked the runner; belly smooth and round; legs trim and neat as an antelope's and muscled like a panther's; head small, carried proudly erect and eyes full and wonderfully clear and brown.
"Th' filly!" the Ramblin' Kid breathed, "with a bunch of Tony Malush'sAnchor Bar mares and colts!"
Captain Jack saw the range horses and lifted his head.
"Psst!" the Ramblin' Kid hissed and the neigh was stopped.
The rangers moved toward the east and over the crest of a ridge a quarter of a mile away. On the flat beyond the rise they stopped, the colts immediately teasing the mares to suck. The filly withdrew a short distance from the herd and stood alert and watchful.
For half an hour the Ramblin' Kid studied the Gold Dust maverick.
He looked at the clouds climbing higher and higher in the west, then long and thoughtfully at Captain Jack.
"Let's get her, Boy!" he murmured; "let's go an' get her!"
His mind made up, the Ramblin' Kid slipped the bridle again on Captain Jack, removed the saddle and with the blanket wiped the sweat from the broncho's back, smoothed the blanket, reset the saddle, carefully tightened front and rear cinches and mounting the little stallion guided him slowly down the ravine in the direction of the horses on the flat. A hundred yards away the mares and colts, alarmed by the sudden half-whinny, half-snort, from the filly, discovered the approaching horse and rider.
Instantly the wild horses crowded closely together and galloped toward the Una de Gata. Captain Jack leaped into a run, rushing them. The maverick wheeled quickly and dashed away to the south alone.
"Her pet trick!" the Ramblin' Kid muttered as he headed Captain Jack after the nimble creature. "She absodamnedlutely will not bunch—seems to know a crowd means a corral, a rope and at last a rider on her shapely back!"
For two miles it was a race. The Ramblin' Kid held Captain Jack to a steady run a couple of hundred yards in the rear of the speeding mare. At last he pulled the stallion down to a trot. The Gold Dust maverick answered by running another fifty yards and then herself settling into the slower stride. "Like I thought," the Ramblin' Kid said to himself, "it's a case of wear her out—a case of seasoned old muscle against speedy young heels!"
It became a duel of endurance between Captain Jack, wiry, toughened and fully matured, with heavier muscles, and the nimble, lighter-footed Gold Dust mare.
At dark they were on the edge of the Arroyo Grande and Captain Jack had closed the distance between them until less than a hundred yards was between the heels of the filly and the head of the stallion behind her. She turned east along the arroyo, followed it a mile, seeking a crossing, then doubled straight north toward the Cimarron. Captain Jack hung to her trail like a hound. In the blackness that preceded the storm she could not lose him. With almost uncanny sureness he picked her out—following, following, never giving the maverick a moment's rest. Yet it seemed that the distance she kept ahead was measured, so alert and watchful was she always. Both were dripping with sweat. Try as he would, it seemed impossible for Captain Jack to win those few yards that would put the filly in reach of the rope the Ramblin' Kid held ready to cast until the inky darkness made it impossible to risk a throw.
The mare splashed into the Cimarron.
A dazzling zigzag flash of lightning, the first of the storm, and the Ramblin' Kid saw the filly struggling in the yellow wind-whipped current. A moment later and Captain Jack was swimming close behind her. On the north side of the river the mare yielded to the drive of the tempest and turned east down the stream. A rocky gorge running at right angles toward the north offered shelter from the lashing wind and rain. Up the ravine the maverick headed. A rush of muddy water down the canyon sent pursued and pursuer slipping and sliding and climbing for safety high up on the brush-covered, torrent-swept hillside. The constant blaze and tremble of lightning illumined the whole range. A wolf, terrified by the storm, seeking cover, crouched in the shelter of a black rock-cliff. The Ramblin' Kid saw the creature. His hand instinctively slipped under his slicker and gripped the gun at his hip.
"Hell! what's th' use of killin' just to kill?" he murmured. His hold on the gun relaxed. A bolt of lightning slivered the rock above the wolf; there was an acrid odor of burning hair. The next flash showed the wolf stretched dead twenty feet below the cliff. "Well, I'll be damned!" the Ramblin' Kid whispered as he bowed his head before the gale, "that was funny! Guess God himself figured it was time for that poor cuss to die!"
In the last quarter of the night, at the North Springs, when the storm had spent itself and the white moon looked down on a drenched and flood-washed earth, the 'Ramblin' Kid dropped his rope over the head of the Gold Dust maverick—barely twenty feet ahead of the horse he rode—conquered by the superior nerve, muscle and endurance of Captain Jack, still the greatest outlaw the Kiowa range had ever known!
The touch of the rope fired the filly to a supreme effort; she lunged forward; Captain Jack set himself for the shock—he threw her cold, full length, in the soft mud; instantly the little stallion sprang forward to give the mare slack, she came to her feet, squealing piteously, and plunged desperately ahead—again Captain Jack braced himself for the jar and put her down, "It's hell, Little Girl," the Ramblin' Kid said with a catch in his throat; "but you've got to learn!" The third time the maverick tested the rope and the third time Captain Jack threw her in a helpless heap. That time when she got to her feet she stood trembling in every muscle until Captain Jack came up to her side and the Ramblin' Kid reached out and laid his hand on the beautiful mane. She had learned. Never again would the wonderful creature tighten a rope on her neck.
Trailing the filly, the Ramblin' Kid forced her back toward the Cimarron, into its raging flood, multiplied a hundredfold by the torrential rain of the night; side by side she and Captain Jack swam the stream, and in the gray dawn, while the Quarter Circle KT still slept, he turned the mare and Captain Jack into the circular corral. He removed the saddle from Captain Jack, took the rope from the filly's neck, threw the horses some hay and on the dry ground under the shed by the corral, lay down and went to sleep.
For fourteen hours, without rest, the Ramblin' Kid had ridden.
The sun was up when Sing Pete electrified the Quarter Circle KT into life and action by the jangle of the iron triangle sending out the breakfast call.
Old Heck stepped to the door of the bunk-house and looked out across the valley. The Cimarron roared sullenly beyond the meadow. The lower field was a lake of muddy water, backed up from the gorge below. He glanced toward the circular corral.
"What th'—Who left horses up last night?" he asked of the cowboys dressing sleepily inside the bunk-house.
"Nobody," Parker answered for the group.
Skinny Rawlins came to the door. "It's Captain Jack," he said, "and—and darned if th' Ramblin' Kid ain't got the filly!"
"Aw, he couldn't have caught her last night," Bert Lilly said.
"Well, she's there," Skinny retorted, "somebody's corraled her—that's certain!"
Hurriedly dressing, the cowboys crowded out of the bunk-house and down to the circular corral. The Gold Dust maverick leaped to the center of the enclosure as the group drew near and stood with head up, eyes flashing and nostrils quivering, a perfect picture of defiance and fear. The swim across the river had washed the mud from her mane and sides and she was as clean as if she had been brushed.
"Lord, she's a beauty!" Chuck Slithers exclaimed.
"Sure is—be hell to ride, though!" Bert commented. "Wonder where theRamblin' Kid is—"
"S-h-hh! Yonder he is," Charley Saunders said, observing the figure under the shed, "—asleep. Come on away and let him rest!"
"Breakfast's ready anyhow," Old Heck added.
"And Skinny ain't shaved or powdered his face yet—" Chuck laughed; "these lovers ought to fix themselves up better!"
"Shut up, you blamed idiot, ain't you got no respect?" Parker said as they turned toward the house.
"Listen at Parker, he's one of them, too," Chuck continued; "this is his day to be a sweetheart to the widow!"
"I'd rather have Skinny's job," Bert said with a snicker, "I'd be afraid of Ophelia—"
"Why?"
"She acts too gentle to start with"—"
"Give her time," Charley suggested, "she'll bu'st loose when she gets better acquainted!"
"Her and Old Heck got pretty well introduced last night, holding hands the way they did, and—"
"Dry up," Old Heck interposed with a foolish grin, "and come on to breakfast!"
Carolyn June and Ophelia were charmingly fresh and interesting in dainty blue and lavender morning gowns. A bowl of roses, plucked by Ophelia from the crimson rambler by the south window, rested in the center of the table. The cowboys saw the flowers and exchanged glances. Old Heck and Skinny blushed.
Carolyn June noticed the vacant place at her right.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid ain't up yet," Skinny volunteered.
"Then the storm did drive him to shelter, after all?" Carolyn June asked with the barest trace of contempt in her voice.
"I wouldn't hardly say that," Bert Lilly remarked, holding his cup forSing Pete to fill with coffee; "—he brought in the Gold Dust maverick."
"Yes," Chuck said with mock gravity, "it was quite an undertaking—he sprinkled salt on her tail—"
"How clever!" Ophelia exclaimed, looking interested, "and is that the way they catch—mavericks?" stumbling over the unusual word.
"Chuck's joking," Parker said; "he always was foolish—"
"Uncle Josiah," Carolyn June asked suddenly, "can you take Ophelia toEagle Butte to-day?"
"I—Parker can," Old Heck answered, "if he can drive the car. Still there are probably some pretty bad washouts—"
Ophelia looked quickly at Old Heck, interested by the note she detected in his voice.
"I—I—got some work to do," he continued, "if you could wait till to-morrow"—addressing the widow—"I could more than likely go myself—"
"I guess I can handle the car all right," Parker said, looking significantly at Old Heck; "the roads will be dried up in a little while."
"It's Parker's day anyhow and he don't want to miss—" Chuck started to say.
"After breakfast," Old Heck interrupted, scowling at the cowboy, "Chuck and Pedro had better both ride-line on the upper pasture. The cattle probably went against the fence in the storm last night and knocked off a lot of wire. Of course, Skinny will have to stay here," he added, "and the rest of us, except Parker, ought to look after the fences in the east bottoms—from the looks of the river this morning a lot of posts and wire must be washed out."
"Whoever gets up the saddle horses had better catch them in the pasture corral," Parker declared, "it won't do to turn them in with that wild filly and Captain Jack."
"I think I shall go see that wonderful filly," Carolyn June said as they left the table, "she may be the particular broncho I will want to ride—"
"Not much," Old Heck objected, "these outlaws ain't exactly the kind of horses for women to fool with. You can use Old Blue. He's gentle."
"Did I tell you I wanted a 'gentle horse'?" Carolyn June asked with a bit of impatience.
"No, but I figured that was the kind you'd need on account of being raised back east—"
"Well, I am going to see the Gold Dust maverick," Carolyn June said with emphasis, "and if she suits me I'll—I'll ride her!"
"I'll go with you," Skinny offered as Carolyn June stepped from the kitchen door and started toward the circular corral.
"Never mind!" she spoke shortly, "—you can go catch 'Old Blue' and"—with scorn in her voice—"if he's able to walk, maybe it will be safe for me to ride him to the end of the lane and back—Ugh! 'Old Blue!' The very name sounds as if he was dead!"
"Old Blue's a good horse," Skinny protested, "—we work him on the hay derrick—"
But Carolyn June was gone, walking rapidly across the open ground in the direction of the corral in which the Ramblin' Kid had turned Captain Jack and the Gold Dust filly.
"Jumpin' eats!" Bert exclaimed as the cowboys started toward the stable, "didn't the young one show her teeth sudden?"
"Skinny's going to have his hands full if he don't look out," Charley Saunders remarked sagely. "Still that kind ain't as dangerous as the ones that act plumb gentle like the widow has acted so far."
"Any female is treacherous," Chuck observed grimly. "They're just like cinch-binders—you can't tell when they're going to rare up and fall over backwards!"
"I'll bet Ophelia turns out to be a W.C.T.U. or something," Bert predicted solemnly.
"If she does it's all off with the Quarter Circle KT, because Parker and Old Heck are both in love already," Charley said as they rounded the corner of the barn.
Carolyn June gave a gasp of admiration as she stepped up to the circular corral and saw the Gold Dust maverick closely.
"Oh, you beauty! You adorable beauty!" she breathed.
Captain Jack and the filly were near the fence next to the shed. Carolyn June passed in between the low building and the corral to be closer to the horses. The sky was cloudless and a wonderful liquid blue; the sun glistened on the rich, golden, brown sides of the mare and made her coat shine like delicate satin. When Captain Jack and the filly saw Carolyn June they stood for a moment as rigid as though cast in bronze, heads held high, eyes fixed curiously yet without fear on the slender girlish figure.
Captain Jack took a step forward in a half-challenging way. The maverick stood perfectly still.
"You beauty," the girl repeated, "you wonderful golden beauty! You are going to be my horse—I'm going to ride you—just you—"
"You'll get you're neck broke if you do!" a voice, deliberate and of peculiar softness, said behind her.
Carolyn June turned, startled, toward the shed from where the voice had come. She knew, even before she looked, that the speaker was the Ramblin' Kid. Evidently he had just awakened. He had not risen and still lay stretched on the ground, his head resting on the saddle he had used for a pillow. Carolyn June could not help wondering how long he had been lying there studying her back. The thought confused her. In spite of her efforts at self-control a slow flush crept over her cheeks. The Ramblin' Kid saw it and the faintest hint of a smile showed on his lips—or was the suggestion of amusement in the twinkling glance of his eyes? Carolyn June could not tell. The subtlety and queerly humble impudence of it filled her with anger.
While she looked into his eyes Carolyn June appraised the physical appearance of the Ramblin' Kid. Certainly he was not handsome, sprawling there in his rough clothing. She knew his age was somewhere near her own, perhaps he was a year, surely no more than that, older than herself. Yet there was an expression about the face that suggested much experience, a sort of settled maturity and seriousness. His mouth, Carolyn June thought, showed a trace of cruelty—or was it only firmness? The teeth were good. If he stood up her own eyes would have to angle upward a trifle to look into his and if hers were brown the Ramblin' Kid's were positively black—yes, she would say, a brutal, unfathomable black, penetrating and hard. His cheeks were smooth and almost sallow they were so dark, and she could tell there was not an ounce of flesh save tough sinewy muscle on his body. He was fully dressed except for the white weather-beaten Stetson lying beside the saddle and the chaps and spurs kicked off and tossed with the bridle and rope near by on the ground. A dark woolen shirt open at the throat, blue overalls faded and somewhat dingy, black calfskin boots on a pair of feet that could not have been larger than sixes, comprised his attire.
So this was the Ramblin' Kid, Carolyn June thought. Someway she had pictured him a blue-eyed, yellow-haired sort of composite Skinny Rawlins, Chuck, Bert Lilly, Charley Saunders all in one and with the face of a boy in the teens!
He was different. She wondered, and almost laughed at the absurd thought, if he was bow-legged. A glance at the straight limbs stretched in repose on the ground dispelled the doubt.
The suddenness with which the Ramblin' Kid had spoken and the tone he used, Carolyn June thought, was utterly unfair. She felt as if she had been ambushed. How could she know he was sleeping under the shed? Why wasn't he in the bunk-house where he belonged? Her own embarrassment made her cross. She wanted to say "damn!" and stamp her foot or throw something at him, lying there so completely self-possessed! Instead, she looked steadily into the eyes of the Ramblin' Kid. Someway as she looked they seemed not so unkind, more sorrowful they were, on closer scrutiny, than cruel. She started to speak, her cheeks began to burn—
Without a word she turned and walked rapidly toward the house.
As she moved away Carolyn June felt something snap at her knee. She did not stop. Reaching down she gathered the soft folds of the loose gown about her and hurried away from the corral.
"God!" the Ramblin' Kid whispered as he straightened up, "she's built like th' Gold Dust maverick—an' just as game! They was made for each other."
He went to the corral and leaned against the fence, studying the filly thoughtfully, while Captain Jack with a friendly whinny came and nosed at the fingers thrust through the bars. After a time the mare cautiously moved up beside the roan stallion and stretched her own velvety muzzle toward the hand the Ramblin' Kid held out.
"You want to be loved, too, you little devil!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed gently, "—you thought I was mean last night, didn't you?"
For a while he fooled with the horses, then started toward the kitchen. A few steps from where Carolyn June had been standing he glanced down at a broad pink satin elastic band lying on the ground. It had been fastened with a silver butterfly clasp. The clasp was broken. The Ramblin' Kid stooped and picked it up.
"I'll be—!" he chuckled as he fingered, almost reverently, the dainty thing, "it's a—a—darned pretty little jigger!"
Smiling whimsically the Ramblin' Kid slipped his find in his pocket and sought Sing Pete to tease him for a bite of breakfast.
Carolyn June went directly to her room when she reached the house. She wished to investigate the feeling of looseness at her knee. The satin band that belonged there was gone. She felt her cheeks grow hot. Doubtless she had lost it at the corral—the Ramblin' Kid would pick it up! The thought tormented her. Once more she wanted to swear vigorously and with extreme earnestness. Instead she—laughed! It was all so absurd. The strange interest this rough cowboy inspired in her; the confusion she felt when he had spoken to her—no man among all the clever, carefully groomed, ultra-sophisticated suitors she had left in Hartville ever stirred her emotions as had the Ramblin' Kid with a few drawling words and one long look from his black, inscrutable eyes. That look! She had the feeling, someway, that her whole soul was naked before it. She was almost afraid of him. It was silly! She detested him—or—anyway, he needed punishment! No, he wasn't worth it! He was only an ignorant rider of the range—why trouble at all about him?
Quickly changing her dress for a riding suit of khaki—the skirt sensibly divided—and the morning slippers for stout, tan, laced boots, she stepped into the front room. Ophelia was in her own room dressing to go to town. Carolyn June heard voices in the kitchen. Sing Pete's shrill chatter mingled with an occasional slow word from the Ramblin' Kid. Thought of the garter she had lost flashed into her mind. Perhaps the cowboy had not found it. She would run out to the corral and see. Passing quickly out the front way Carolyn June hastened again toward the circular corral. Old Heck and Parker were at the garage getting the car ready for the drive to Eagle Butte; Pedro and Chuck were riding across the valley toward the upper pasture. The other cowboys saddled their horses near the barn.
As she walked, Carolyn June scanned the ground. At the corral she looked carefully where she had been standing. Her search was fruitless. She smiled queerly. Again she glanced at the Gold Dust maverick.
"You darling," she whispered, "I am going to have you—I am—I absolutely am!"
Turning, her eyes rested on the saddle, chaps and riding gear lying in the shed where the Ramblin' Kid had slept. Carolyn June stepped close to the outfit.
"I have a notion to—to spit on you!" she said vehemently, "or kick—" but she didn't finish the sentence. One tan shoe had been drawn back as if to be swung viciously at the inoffensive pile of riding gear; it paused, suspended, then gently, almost caressingly, pushed the leather chaps which suddenly seemed to Carolyn June to look limp and worn and pathetically tired.
As Carolyn June returned to the house Parker drove the car around to the front; Old Heck joined the cowboys, already mounting their bronchos, and with them rode down the lane in the direction of the lower field. Skinny came out of the barn, leading Pie Face and Old Blue. He left the horses standing and at the back-yard gate overtook Carolyn June. As they stepped inside the yard the Ramblin' Kid appeared at the kitchen door.
"There's the Ramblin' Kid now," Skinny said as they approached. "Hello, Kid," he continued, "I see you got the filly—Excuse me, I guess you folks ain't acquainted."
Haltingly he introduced them.
Without the flicker of an eyelid the Ramblin' Kid looked into the eyes of Carolyn June. He had seen her coming from the corral and guessed correctly the reason for her second visit to the enclosure. Indeed at that moment his hand was in his pocket toying with the delicate souvenir for which she had gone to search. Yet his face was utterly without emotion as he lifted his hat and stood aside, acknowledging with formal words the introduction. "It's sure a surprisin' day an' pleasant—" he finished, emphasizing "surprisin'" and "pleasant" till Carolyn June could have sworn there was a veiled taunt in the words he spoke.
She was equally calm. Smiling sweetly and with not a hint of a previous meeting she said: "I think I have heard of the Ramblin' Kid." Pausing a moment: "It's always peaceful after a storm!" she added enigmatically. And the Ramblin' Kid, as Skinny and the girl passed around to the front of the house, knew that Carolyn June had hurled a lance!
"A natural born heart-breaker," he said to himself as he went toward the bunk-house, "a genuine, full-grown vampire, part intentional an' part because it's in her—but she's a pure-bred—" He grew pensive and silent, a look of gentleness came to his face, followed quickly by an expression of extreme humility. "Oh, hell," he exclaimed aloud, "what's th' use!" Entering the building the Ramblin' Kid seated himself at the table at the end of the room. He pulled the pink satin elastic from his pocket and gazed at it, rubbing the soft fabric tenderly with the end of his thumb. His eyes lighted suddenly with anger and contempt. He threw the band violently across the room into a corner. "I wasn't raised to associate with luxuries like that!" he exclaimed with mingled bitterness and scorn, "—a damned ign'rant cow-puncher dreamin' dreams about an angel!" he finished with a harsh laugh. For a while he sat silent, gazing down at the table. Then he got up, went over and lifted the garter from where it had fallen and replaced it in his pocket. "Oh, well," he chuckled less bitterly and whimsically added, "—any idiot can smile at th' mornin' star even if th' darned thing is beyond his reach! Besides, she don't need to ever know—" Leaving the bunk-house he went toward the circular corral.
Parker climbed from the car and entered the house, asking if Ophelia was ready.
"In just a moment!" the widow called from her room.
"What are you and me going to do?" Skinny asked Carolyn June as they stepped on to the porch, "take a ride?"
"On 'Old Blue'?" Carolyn June questioned scornfully, then, with resignation, as they went inside the house: "Oh, well—I suppose, after a while. I have some letters to write now," and she entered her room leaving Skinny standing perplexed by her varying moods. He looked foolishly at Parker a moment. Going to the graphophone he put on a record—
"I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air!"
wailed disconsolately through the house.
"Good heavens," Carolyn June called, "do you blow bubbles this early in the morning?"
"Don't you like it?" Skinny asked soberly. "I thought that was a pretty good tune."
"I'm crazy about it!" Carolyn June answered sarcastically. "There and then, but not here and now—"
"Where and when?" Skinny queried innocently.
"In the valley of the moon at the end of a perfect day!" she laughed back. "—Forgive me, I couldn't help it!"
"What does she mean?" Skinny asked Parker in a whisper. "Is she making fun of me?"
"No, you blamed fool," Parker replied, "she feels good and is just joking—"
Skinny brightened up immediately.
"That's a good one," he called to Carolyn June with a snicker; "I never thought of it before!"
A ripple of laughter came from Carolyn June's room.
"Really, I don't mind," she said; "playBubblesas much as you like—I think it's rather soothing, but truly I must write my letters now so Ophelia can take them to town."
Half an hour later Ophelia appeared dressed for the drive to Eagle Butte. Carolyn June and Skinny went out on the front porch and watched the widow and Parker climb into the Clagstone "Six." As Parker started the engine Skinny suddenly called to him. Parker sat with his foot on the clutch while Skinny hurried out to the car.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently, "We've got to be going!"
"Lean over here," Skinny said, his face flushing scarlet, "I want to tell you something."
"Well?"
"Stop at the Golden Rule and get me a white shirt size number fifteen and—a purple necktie if they've got any!" Skinny whispered.
Ophelia heard and choked back a laugh.
"Thunderation, he's plumb locoed!" Parker exclaimed, as he jammed the clutch into gear and the car sprang forward.
"Don't forget it, Parker," Skinny called earnestly, "I actually need it!"
Carolyn June and Skinny stood on the porch and watched the car climb the grade and out on to the bench. The storm of the night before had washed the earth clean and cooled the air. A faint after-breeze fanned the tree-tops. The Costejo peaks stood out, with stereoscopical clearness, against a cloudless sky. The day was a challenge to one who loved the open.
"You may saddle 'Old Blue,'" Carolyn June said to Skinny. "—I'll see ifI can 'stick on him' long enough to ride as far as the river!"
"He's already saddled," Skinny replied, "him and Old Pie Face both."
"Man, dear," she cried in mock misunderstanding, "you surely are not expecting me to ride the two of them at once!"
"No," he answered meekly, "Old Pie Face is my horse, I'm going to ride him and go with you."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, then laughing mischievously. "Oh, certainly—that's a good one—I hadn't thought of it before!"
"Don't you want me to go?" Skinny asked doubtfully.
"Surely. I should be utterly unhappy if you didn't—I'll get my hat."
"Blamed if I can figure her out," Skinny said to himself as Carolyn June ran lightly into the house. "She keeps a feller freezing to death and burning up all at once—sort of in heaven and hell both mixed together."
A white, medium-brimmed felt hat was set jauntily on the fluffy brown hair when she reappeared. Skinny's heart leaped hungrily. Carolyn June was a picture of perfect physical fitness. The cowboy silently wondered how long he could keep from making "a complete, triple-expansion, darned fool of himself!"
"I'm glad you want me to go," he said, renewing the conversation as they started around the house, "because I wanted to and, well, anyhow it's my job—"
"What do you mean 'your job'?" Carblyn June asked quickly.
Skinny was stricken silent. He realized he was on dangerous ground. He wasn't sure it would be wise to tell her what he meant. Someway he felt Carolyn June would resent it if she knew he was drawing wages for acting the lover to her. It seemed wholly impossible for him, just at that moment, to explain that, although Old Heck was paying him ten dollars a month extra salary to court, temporarily, his attractive niece, he, Skinny Rawlins, would personally be overjoyed to reverse the order and give his entire income, adding a bonus as well, for the privilege of continuing indefinitely and of his own choice the more than pleasant employment. Yet this was the literal truth, so quickly had his susceptible heart yielded to the charms of the girl. But he dared not try to tell her. He knew the words would not come and if they did he would probably choke on them and she, not believing the truth, would detest him. Skinny had heard of men who courted girls of wealth to win their money and with sincere contempt he despised these degenerates of his sex. Now, suddenly, he felt that he himself was in their class. The thought made him sick, actually caused his stomach to quiver with a sort of nausea.
"Skinny Rawlins," Carolyn June said sternly, stopping and looking straight at the confused and mentally tortured cowboy, "tell me—and don't lie—what you meant when you said to go with me was 'your job!'"
Skinny raised his eyes; in them was piteous appeal.
"I meant—I—" he hesitated.
"Tell me the truth," she ordered relentlessly, "or I'll—I'll—do something awful!"
"I meant it was my job—" suddenly inspired, he blurted out, "to ride Old Pie Face. He's—he's dangerous and has to be rode every so often to keep him from getting worse and to-day's the day to ride him!"
"Skinny," Carolyn June spoke gently, "I feel sorry for you. I want to like you and I'm disappointed. It breaks my heart to say it but you are a liar—you're just a common double dashed liar—like Uncle Josiah was when he sent that telegram saying there was smallpox at the Quarter Circle KT—"
"Am I?" Skinny asked humbly.
"You are," she retorted impatiently, "and you know it—"
"Do I?" as if dazed.
"You do, and did all the time—"
"Did I?" he felt like a parrot.
"You did!" Carolyn June snapped. "Good heavens," she continued, "why do men think they have to lie to women? Common sense and experience ought to teach them they can never fool them long—I hoped out here in the big West I would find one man who wouldn't lie—"
"Th' Ramblin' Kid won't," Skinny said as if suddenly struck by a bright thought, "—he wouldn't lie to you!"
Carolyn June laughed scornfully.
"Oh, yes he would," she declared, "all of them do—every last one of the poor frail"—contemptuously—"turtles!"
"But th' Ramblin' Kid wouldn't," Skinny persisted; "he won't lie to anybody."
"Not even to a woman?" she questioned incredulously.
"No," he answered positively, "I'm sure he wouldn't."
"And why wouldn't he?" she asked.
"Well," Skinny replied, "for one thing he don't give a darn. Th' Ramblin' Kid don't care what anybody, man, woman or anything else thinks about him or whether they like what he says or not so there ain't any use of him lying. Maybe he wouldn't tell what was in his mind unless you asked him, but if you did ask him he'd say what it was whether he thought it satisfied you or not. He's funny that way. He just naturally don't seem to be built for telling lies and he wouldn't do it—"
"Oh, Skinny, poor simple Skinny!" Carolyn June laughed. "You don't know men—men when they're dealing with women! Through all the unnamed years of my life I've never found one man who was absolutely truthful when talking with a 'female.' They think they have to lie to women. They do it either to keep from hurting them—or else they do it intentionally for the purpose of hurting them, one or the other! And they are so stupid! No man can hide anything long from a woman—"
Reaching over she jerked a spray of tiny roses from the rambler at the window near which they were standing; tapping the blossoms against her lips, beginning to smile whimsically, she continued: "Why, I can almost read your own thoughts right now! If I wanted to I could tell you more about what is in your mind than you yourself could tell—"
"Could you?" Skinny said, a guilty look coming in his eyes.
"For one thing," Carolyn June went on, ignoring the inane question, "you are in love—"
"I ain't!" the over-hasty denial slipped from his lips unintentionally.
"Lie!" she laughed, "you can't help telling 'em, can you? And you are thinking—" She paused while her eyes rested demurely on the roses in her hand.
"What am I thinking?" Skinny asked breathlessly.
Before she could reply an agonized spitting, yowling and hissing, accompanied by the rattle of tin, came from behind the kitchen. "What's that?" Carolyn June cried half frightened at the instant a yellow house cat, his head fastened in an old tomato can, came bouncing backward, clawing and scratching, from around the corner.
"Gee whiz!" Skinny exclaimed, "it's that darned cat again—Sing Pete goes and dabs butter in the bottoms of the cans and the fool cat sticks his head in trying to lick it out and gets fastened. It looks like the blamed idiot would learn sometime. It's what I call a rotten joke anyhow!"
Sing Pete appeared at the kitchen door cackling with fiendish joy at the success of his ruse.
Carolyn June stared, apparently stricken dumb by the antics of the struggling animal.
"Sun-fish! Go to it—you poor deluded son-of-sorrow!" The Ramblin' Kid, who, unnoticed by Carolyn June and Skinny, at that moment had come from the corral and stood leaning against the fence, chuckled half pityingly, yet making no move toward the creature.
"Catch him and take it off," Carolyn June cried, "it's hurting him!"
Skinny started toward the rapidly gyrating jumble of claws, can and cat.
"I will if the darn' thing'll hold still a minute!" he said.
Carolyn June looked at the Ramblin' Kid, still leaning against the fence watching the cat's contortions.
"Why don't you help him?" she asked impatiently. "Skinny can't do it alone—can't you see it's choking?"
"No, he's not choking," the Ramblin' Kid replied without moving from where he stood, "—he's sufferin' some, but he ain't chokin'. He's got quite a lot of wind yet an' is gettin' some valuable experience. That cat's what I call a genuine acrobat!" he mused as the terrified creature leaped frantically in the air and somersaulted backward, striking and clawing desperately to free itself of the can tightly wedged on its head.
Carolyn June was accustomed to obedience from men creatures. The Ramblin' Kid's indifference to her request, together with his apparent cruelty in refusing to aid in relieving the cat from its torturing dilemma, angered and piqued the girl.
"Help Skinny take it off, I tell you!" she repeated, "haven't you a spark of sympathy—"
The Ramblin' Kid resented her tone and detected as well the note of wounded pride. Instinctively he felt that at that instant the cat, with Carolyn June, had become a secondary consideration.
"Well, some, I reckon," he answered, speaking deliberately, "generally a little, but right now darned little for that old yaller cat. I figure he's a plumb free moral agent," he continued as if speaking to himself; "he got his head in that can on his own hook an' it's up to him to get it out or let it stay inthis time, just as he pleases—"
"But Sing Pete put butter in the can!" Carolyn June said, arguing.
"He's done it before," the Ramblin' Kid answered with a glance at the Chinese cook still gleefully enjoying the results of his cruel joke. "He won't no more. But that don't make no difference," he laughed, "th' darn' cat hadn't ought to have yielded to temptation!"
"You're a brute!" she exclaimed passionately, "—an ignorant, savage, stupid brute—" The harsh words sprang from the lips of Carolyn June before she thought. The Ramblin' Kid flinched involuntarily as if he had been struck full in the face. A look came in his eyes that almost made her regret what she had said.
"I reckon I am," he replied, gazing steadily at her without feeling or resentment and speaking slowly, "yes, I'm an 'ign'rant, savage, stupid brute,'" deliberately accenting each word as he repeated the stinging phrase, "—but—what's the use?" he finished with a mirthless laugh. "Anyhow," he added, glancing again at the cat and Skinny's futile efforts to catch it, "I ain't interferin' this time, at least, with that damned cat!"
Carolyn June knew she had hurt with her unintentionally cruel words. For an instant there was a humane impulse to temper their severity.
"I—I—didn't—" she started to say, but the Ramblin' Kid had turned and, ignoring the cat, Skinny and herself, was leaning on the fence with his back to her, looking off across the valley, apparently lost in thought. She did not finish the sentence.
The cat bucked its way to the fence. As it went under the wire the can caught on a barb of the lower strand. Jerking furiously, the animal freed itself from the can, leaving splotches of hair and hide on the ragged edges of tin. Still spitting and clawing, with its tail standing out like an enormous yellow plume, it dashed toward the barn, eager to put distance between itself and the thing that had been torturing it.
"Gosh a'mighty," Skinny said, sweating with the exertion and the excitement of trying to catch the cat, "it'll be noon before we get started for that ride!"
"We'll go now," Carolyn June answered, "—before some other horrible thing occurs."
"We're going over to the river and maybe out on the sand-hills a ways," Skinny casually remarked to the Ramblin' Kid as Carolyn June and he passed through the gate. "Oh, yes," he added, "Chuck said tell you he took your rope—there was a weak spot in his and he didn't get it fixed yesterday!"
The Ramblin' Kid did not answer.
Skinny had been wrong about the Ramblin' Kid not caring what any one thought of him. He was supersensitive of his roughness, his lack of education and conscious crudeness, and the words of Carolyn June were still in his mind. When Skinny and the girl were going toward their horses the Ramblin' Kid turned and entered the gate. Sing Pete was still at the kitchen door.
The Ramblin' Kid stepped up to him.
"You damned yellow heathen," he said in a level voice, "if you ever play that trick on that cat again th' Quarter Circle KT will be shy a cook an' your ghost'll be headin' pronto for China!"
Without waiting for a reply he went back to the gate and watched Skinny and Carolyn June ride down the lane. The deftness and skill with which the girl handled the horse she rode forced a smile of admiration to the lips of the Ramblin' Kid. She sat close in the saddle and a glance showed she was a born master of horses. "She's a wonder," he said to himself, "a teetotal wonder—" A shade of melancholy passed over his face. "An ign'rant, savage, stupid brute!" he murmured bitterly, "well, I reckon she was right—Hell!" he exclaimed aloud, "I wonder if Skinny'll remember about that upper crossin' bein' dang'rous with quicksand after the rain—Guess he did," he finished as the two riders turned to the right toward the lower and more distant river ford and disappeared among the willows and cottonwood trees that fringed the Cimarron.