CHAPTER XVITwo Women

CHAPTER XVITwo Women

IT was a well-sheltered patch of ploughing. To the south a fringe of woodland bounded it. Then came a narrow opening. And then again, on the eastern side, a wooded hill rose up to protect it from the bitter east and north-east. To the north stood an extensive stretch of tamarack and pine woods, beyond which lay the farm, while its western boundary was formed by the creek which watered the farm. There were approximately two hundred acres of open, and the last of the ploughing had just been harrowed down.

Lightning stood beside his team gazing over his completed work. The man’s fringe of whisker was thrust aggressively. His eyes were unsmiling. His gnarled, brown hands were thrust in the top of his soil-stained trousers.

He was regarding his work with a curious contempt. It was the contempt of the cattleman for the industry of the simple farmer. He was nursing his memories of past glories, when his skill with both rope and gun, and in the saddle, were bywords with the men who were as ready to fight as drink themselves to death. How he regretted those wonderful days!

Blue Pete flung up his fiddle head, and Jane was gazing out to the south-west. Lightning spoke a sharp word in the harsh tone the beasts knew so well. And the break in his thought brought him back to the meaning of the things about him.

Oh, yes. Those days were past, and he had no real right to complain. They were days of irresponsibility.Now it was all different. Responsibility was with him, and something more. He knew that. And he was glad. He regretted the cattle days, but his work now was for Molly. And Molly needed all the help he could give her.

For all she had returned home the night before with the lost cows he still retained his obstinate conviction that there were cattle thieves about. Who was the white-haired man she had told him she had met? The man had learned all the information she had to supply, and had given her in return no inkling of whence he came, or his business in the hills, or even of his name.

Then she had told him the man was riding a coal-black horse from the race-tracks of Kentucky. That sort of thing was by no means new to him. Every cattle thief prided himself on his horseflesh. Doubtless the horse had been stolen. Then his city clothes. That was sheer bluff, only to deceive a simpleton. Disguised as a city man! Why, it was a game that was a good deal older than he was.

No. The facts remained. She was surrounded on the one hand by a bunch of cattle thieves who were located around Dan Quinlan’s, and on the other lay the threat of a good-looker bad lot, who had somehow contrived to dazzle her innocent mind. She certainly needed all the help he could give her.

He made a sound in his throat like a chuckle. He felt he had by no means done badly by Mister Andy McFardell. He had sown the ground well, he felt. Set him after the cattle-thieving bunch up at Dan Quinlan’s, get him playing the police game which belonged to him, with the prospect of getting back into the Force as a result. The thing would get right hold of him, and, if it succeeded, it might well rid the neighbourhood of his detested presence. Then Molly would forget him.

But would she? Women were queer. He rememberedSadie Long, who once chased him half-way across the States. Anyway——

His reflections were interrupted, and he thrust up a hand to push the loose brim of his hat clear from his eyes. His startled gaze was fixed on the approach of a horseman on a big, raking sorrel. He was emerging from a gap in the bush lining the bank of the creek, which he had apparently only just crossed. In his quick way Lightning also realised that the horseman must have come from somewhere out of the south-west. Maybe from—Dan Quinlan’s!

But as the horse came on an ejaculation of surprise broke from him. It was not a horseman at all. The rider was a woman! A woman clad in city clothing, and riding on a man’s saddle, with the horn and leggaderos and stirrups which he recognised at once as of Californian make!

Blanche Pryse reined up sharply. And her greeting came with a disarming smile. Lightning’s hat was torn from his head, to reveal the shock of grey hair which looked never to have known the use of a comb.

“I’m looking for some place I can get feed for my horse,” Blanche cried, “and a bite of something to eat for myself. You see, I came further than I ought, and—and got rather mazed up with the hills around here. I saw you with your team, and reckoned you must have a homestead near abouts.”

Lightning’s grinning face was transparently reassuring. Had the stranger been a man, there would have been a difference. He cleared his throat, and, out of respect for a woman who was obviously a lady, and a stranger, he spat out his chew of tobacco, and trod the result underfoot.

“I’m real glad you come along, ma’am,” he said cordially. “You surely hev come to the right place fer feed. The barn’s back o’ them woods,” he added, pointing in anortherly direction. “An’ Molly gal’s right to home, an’ll feel good if you’ll eat with her. I’m just quittin’ fer feed myself, an’ making home, an’ I’ll be mighty pleased to give you a lead.”

Lightning’s effort was in his best manner, for he was gazing up into a face which, even to his suspicious mind, could have no association with cattle thieves.

“Why, that’s real kind of you, and—and I’m very grateful.”

Blanche gazed interestedly down upon the tall creature. She knew him at once. There could be no mistake. This was the Marton farm. So this queer, grey-whiskered creature must be “Lightning” she had been told about. The man impressed her. There was something tremendously purposeful in the hard lines of his weather-beaten face. There was something compelling in his eyes, and in the aquilinity of his nose. Then there were his old guns on the belt at his waist. He was startlingly picturesque.

“You’re the owner of this farm?” Blanche suggested shrewdly.

“Hired man, ma’am.”

“Oh. Then Molly’s not your daughter?”

Lightning shook his head, and his gaze wandered regretfully towards the farm.

“Can’t just say she is, ma’am,” he said. “I work for her. She hires me. But if you’ll kindly foller right along I’ll lead the way to the farm, where Molly gal’ll be right glad to welcome you.”

Molly saw Lightning and the stranger approach from the doorway of the house. She was washing out some garments, revelling in the wonderful spring sunshine. There were already a number of articles drying on thenear-by bushes, and the iron bath, over which she was standing, was a-froth with a lather of soap-suds.

She left her work at once and came down to the barn. The impulse was irresistible. The sleeves of her shirt-waist were rolled up, displaying a pair of beautifully rounded arms, and a linen sun-bonnet enveloped her neat, dark head.

Curiosity and amazement were struggling for place in her mind. Even at a distance she had recognised the stranger was a woman. Then, too, her horse was so different from the bronchos she was accustomed to. And instantly her thoughts flung back to the white-haired, city-clad man on his black thoroughbred. Could this woman by any chance be connected with Silver-Thatch? It must be. Where else could she have come from?

Her eyes were full of the questions in her mind as she gazed into the stranger’s face.

“Howdy.”

A curious awkwardness had taken possession of Molly. She wanted to say something cordial. But, strangely enough, the best she was capable of at the moment was a simple, almost meaningless “Howdy.”

A mental reservation warned Blanche that Jim’s description of Molly Marton had by no means been a man’s exaggeration. The sweet, shy face gazing out of the sun-bonnet at her struck her as a picture such as she had never before beheld.

“I’m just dying to eat, and so is Pedro,” she said with a laugh, patting her horse. “You’re Molly Marton. He told me your name,” she went on, indicating Lightning still waiting in the background. “Mine’s Pryse—Blanche Pryse—and I guess I’ve ridden farther than I ought. May I off-saddle?”

Molly thrust out a brown hand. She felt that the girl’s introduction demanded it. And, in a moment, it wasclasped in the two gauntleted palms with which Blanche took possession of it.

“Why, surely,” Molly cried, all her shyness suddenly swept away before the frank manner of the city woman. “But you don’t need——”

She broke off. Lightning was already at the cinchas of Pedro’s saddle. In a moment the saddle was on the ground, while the old man passed an appreciative hand over the creature’s back.

“That’s a rare bit o’ hossflesh, ma’am,” he commented shrewdly, as Blanche turned about to him. “He’s the bellows of a forge. Legs? Gee! They’re elegant, an’ as clean as young saplings. That plug can beat a hell of a gait, or I ain’t wise. Look at them pasterns. An’ he’s ribbed, too. Short-backed an’ ribbed to his quarters. You could ride the prairie all day an’ night fer a week, an’ he wouldn’t blow a lucifer out when you’re through.”

Molly laughed quietly.

“He’ll hand out that stuff all day if you listen to Lightning,” she said. “There’s just one thing he’s crazy about. Don’t worry for your Pedro. Lightning’ll treat him like a babe. Will you come right up to the house? Food’s most ready. There’s nothing fancy. The beans are right, an’ there’s good dry hash. But it’s not too bad if you feel like eating.”

All the warmth her greeting had lacked was in Molly’s invitation. And Blanche stepped towards her, and linked an arm under the girl’s, and let her fingers clasp themselves on the forearm which the rolled sleeves left bare.

“My dear,” she cried, as they moved off together, “you don’t need to worry a thing. Food’s food. And the food that’s filled out your pretty cheeks, and built up the swell muscles of this arm, is more than good enough for a woman like me. Laundering?”

Molly nodded. A sudden feeling of interest and likingfor Blanche was already stirring. The way she had of saying things was quite irresistible.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been at the wash most all morning.”

Blanche laughed happily.

“You know, I’m crazy over a wash-day. It’s been that way always. Why, when I lived home in New York City there were times when you just couldn’t take a bath for the laundry I’d got drying in the bathroom. My brothers used to get mad, and bundle things out of the way, and hide them. There isn’t a week goes by but I have an elegant laundry.”

Molly laughed.

“Now?” she cried, eyeing the quality of the girl’s riding-suit. Then she raised her other hand and touched the fingers clasped about her arm. There were rings on them containing beautiful stones. The fingers were tapering, and carefully manicured, and she felt ashamed of the roughness of her own beside them. “With these hands?” she asked incredulously.

Blanche released the girl’s arm and spread out her hand, palm upwards. For all their condition of care there were lines indicating utility in them.

“Surely. And they’re strong, too. Nearly as strong as yours. Oh, yes. I never let them get afraid of work.”

Molly sighed.

“They’re real beautiful,” she said. “Oh, I’d just love my hands to be like yours. But they aren’t, an’ never will be. You can’t plough, an’ milk, an’ fork hay, an’ do the chores of the farm, an’ keep swell hands. But, my,” she went on, with a little firm setting of her lips, “it doesn’t matter. Those things don’t really matter, do they? You’ve got to make good in these hills, and you can’t do that right without using the hands God gave you.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “You know,I never used to think about hands, and feet, and pretty fixings. I can’t think why I do now.”

They were nearing the house, which Blanche was regarding interestedly. But now she turned, and her eyes contained all the twinkling humour of her brother’s.

“When a girl suddenly gets worried about those things she hadn’t bothered with before there’s mostly—a beau around,” she said slily.

Molly half halted, and turned her startled eyes upon her companion.

“How—how? I never thought that way. I——”

“Then there is a beau?”

Molly linked her arm through the other’s again and squeezed it.

“I—I like you, ma’am,” she cried impulsively. “But,” she added, with a note of real regret, “you don’t belong around here.”

Blanche was lounging in the old frame rocker, with its rawhide seat, which, years ago, George Marton had designed for his own comfort. It was capacious beyond her needs, for all she was tall and of shapely proportions. Molly had insisted. She had set Blanche there while she went about her business preparing the meal which stood ready on the cook-stove. Molly was happy. A sense of delight in this woman’s presence thrilled her. And she chattered and laughed as she went about her preparations, with a light-heartedness that entirely captivated the other.

Ordinarily Lightning would have shared the meal with the girl. But, in the circumstances, Molly knew the old man would not put in an appearance if he waited for his food till the evening supper. The cattleman had definite notions about eating as he had about most things. He disliked the observation of strangers. Perhaps he realisedthat years of bunk-house life had by no means added to his limited stock of table manners. And Molly was relieved and glad.

Blanche surveyed the simple furnishings of Molly’s living-room, and sought to learn something of the girl from her surroundings. It was Molly she had come to see. And for the moment nothing and nobody else mattered.

The smell of cooking was appetising. The sight of a boiling kettle on the stove, and the warming teapot beside it, were a positive joy to Blanche. And, rocking herself leisurely, and listening to the girl’s chatter, she contemplated the thing she had yet to do. She knew that in a few moments she must resort to subterfuge. It was worse than that. It was downright lying. And to her frank nature it was an outrage. The more so that the victim of it was a girl of such transparent simplicity. But it could not be helped.

Molly had passed over to the stove to ladle out the hash and beans into the hot dish prepared for them.

“You haven’t asked me yet where I come from, Molly,” Blanche said gently. “Maybe you’re not interested. Is that so?”

Molly turned hastily. She wondered if she had displeased.

“I surely am interested,” she protested. Then the colour mounted to her cheeks. “I just didn’t feel I’d a right to ask. You hadn’t said.”

Blanche experienced a further feeling of contrition. But she smiled and shook her head.

“Say,” she cried, “if I lived around this farm I shouldn’t have such scruples. I’d be scared to death of strange faces. I certainly should. Do you know, Molly, I should always have a gun tucked somewhere handy in my skirts. And when a strange face got peeking around I should ‘draw’ quick. It would be ‘Name!’ right away.‘Where from?’ and ‘Why?’ Now, if you’d acted that way to me I should have told you my piece like answers to a catechism. I’d have told you I was stopping around on a visit to friends the other side of Hartspool. That I was on a holiday trip from New York, my home city, and a place I get sick to death of, and am ready to quit most any time. I should have said I had all the things a woman mostly needs except a husband, and that these hills are so fascinating I don’t even worry about that. That I’ve been riding around gawking like a personally conducted tour, and didn’t guess how far I’d come till I got yearning for dry hash and those beans you’re fixing for us. Doesn’t it all sound dreadful? I just can’t keep my thoughts from food. But there it is, and I guess it’s mostly human.”

Molly joined in the laugh with which Blanche finished up, while her eyes twinkled slily.

“I knew you weren’t married,” she said.

Blanche noted the prim pursing of her lips.

“How did you know that?” she humoured her.

Molly set her dishes on the immaculate table, and glanced over it to see that everything had been provided for.

“Guess ther’ isn’t a wedding-ring on your left hand,” she smiled triumphantly. “Only beautiful, beautiful diamonds.”

“Well, say! Did you guess anything else?”

Molly set the chairs ready, and stood grasping the back of one of them. Just for a moment there was hesitation.

“I—I thought someway you belonged to—to Silver-Thatch,” she said.

“Silver-Thatch? Who’s Silver-Thatch?”

Molly laughed at the look of surprise she beheld in the other’s eyes.

“Oh, it’s just my fancy,” she said. “The name, Imean. You see, he didn’t hand me his name, an’ I felt mean about it. So I called him ‘Silver-Thatch’ to myself, just to punish him.”

Blanche stood up. Her eyes were smiling very softly.

“You queer child!” she said. “Tell me about him.”

“Oh, it’s just nothing. I was out after my fool cows yesterday. They’d strayed, and Lightning guessed the cattle thieves had them. I was at a water-hole along the creek, away up towards Dan Quinlan’s. While I was there a man came to water his horse. He looked like a city man, an’ he’d a gold watch-chain, an’ a check coat and vest, an’ riding-pants, an’ boots, and—and the whitest hair you’ve ever seen. It was just too lovely. And he’d blue eyes that—that smiled like yours. Well, he rode a piece with me, and when I’d located the cows he passed me a hand rounding them up. And—and then he quit up into the hills westward. And then I remembered I’d handed out my talk to him like a fool kid, and he just hadn’t said a thing of himself. So—so I got mad to myself and called him ‘Silver-Thatch.’ But he didn’t know.”

Blanche took her seat at the table, and her eyes regarded the meal set ready.

“Silver-Thatch,” she said. “It’s—a pretty name. Why, Molly,” she laughed, “I guess your notion of punishment would have delighted him.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t if he’d known how mad I was with myself.”

Molly helped her guest with a lavish hand. And Blanche set to work with a will to reduce her overflowing plate. She felt it was no moment for protest. She had no desire to upset this girl’s ideas of hospitality. Besides, she was really hungry.

For some moments the two ate in silence. Then Molly poured out tea, and her eagerness would no longer be denied.

“You’re the first girl I’ve seen sitting at this table, ma’am,” she said, as she passed a cup to Blanche, and set milk and sugar near to her hand.

Blanche looked up.

“My name’s Blanche,” she said.

Molly blushed.

“It seems queer saying ‘Blanche’ to you.”

“But you must. I called you ‘Molly’ right away.”

“But it’s diff’rent.”

“Is it?” Blanche shook her head. “It isn’t. You and I are going to be friends. Good friends. I shall certainly be around all summer, and maybe longer. And I’m going to see you whenever I can. So I’m ‘Blanche’ to you, and only the other to folks I don’t know and don’t care about.”

Molly’s eyes lit with delight.

“You’re goin’ to be around all summer—Blanche?”

“I certainly am—Molly.”

Both laughed happily, and Molly went on:

“Then maybe you’ll be at the swell farmers’ dance in Hartspool?”

“Dance? What dance? I—hadn’t heard.”

“Why, it’s the annual dance,” Molly cried, with a little dash of awe. “It’s—it’s awful swell. Folks come in from all around to it. They have a big supper—a real sit-down supper, with ice-creams, and—and everything. I’m going to it. I—I made up my mind yesterday. Oh, I do hope you’ll go. My, you’d be the belle of the ball. You just would.”

Blanche shook her head.

“Not with Molly Marton there,” she said. Again she saw the colour mount to the girl’s cheeks. “But it’s a long way for you. What is it? Twenty miles?”

Molly had finished eating, and sat with elbows on the table. She was gazing out of the window, through which the noon sun poured on to the whiteness of the cottontablecloth. A surge of excitement was driving through her young body. She was thinking of Andy McFardell, and an irresistible desire was urging her to tell this wonderful new friend the story of the thing that had just come into her life. She yielded to the impulse. She flung discretion to the winds. She—she must tell someone. And Lightning, the only other person, was denied her by reason of his hatred of Andy.

“I’m not going alone,” she said quickly. “I’m—I’m——”

She broke off in confusion, and Blanche urged her gently.

“Yes?”

“Andy’s promised to take me. He’ll drive me in, and drive me out again. He’s——”

“Yes?”

There was no smile in Blanche’s eyes now. They were urgent, and something of their calm had gone. She was thinking of Jim. She was thinking of the possible meaning of this man, Andy, whoever he was, driving Molly into the dance.

But just on the brink Molly drew back. That which she had been about to say remained unspoken. Instead she laughed.

“Oh, Andy’s a neighbour. He’s ten miles down the creek on Whale River. He’s only just started his homestead about two years. He’s a great worker, and he’ll make good. You know, Blanche, the boy who’s got the grit to start right up on bare ground, without capital, an’ make good farming, gets all my notions of a man. Think of it. These hills. The awful, awful winter. It’s us folk know what it means. You don’t; you’re a visitor. My it’s—it’s just ter’ble.”

The girl’s effort at concealment was sheer revelation.

“I must try and get to that dance,” Blanche said, avoiding the subject of the man deliberately. “I’d justlove to see you all fixed up in your party frock. What’ll it be? Let’s see, you’re dark. And those grey eyes of yours. You mustn’t wear white. It’s too ordinary for you. Pink? No,” she went on critically. “It mustn’t be dark, either. I should rather think the palest of pale blue. You can’t go wrong that way. Say, have you a nice frock?”

Molly’s face was a study. While Blanche was talking it passed from happy laughter to the gravest trouble. And as the older woman put her final question she shook her head almost dejectedly.

“I’ve never been to a—real party,” she said.

“No. You live so far away from a town.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that. You see, father didn’t just think dancin’ was right. An’ then there was always the farm. Mother died when I was a small kid. But I got my Sunday suit,” she added, brightening. “Maybe that would be too heavy, though. It’s black, and it isn’t a party frock. Then I thought of a skirt and a waist. I could fix up a waist. I got one that’s real silk. Only that’s black, too.”

A thrill of intense pity flooded Blanche’s heart. To her the pathos of the thing she was listening to was beyond words. Their meal was finished. They were only sitting over their tea. Suddenly she stood up, and a joyous smile lit her eyes.

“Here, Molly,” she cried, “stand up, and let’s measure. I believe we’re the same height.”

The girl obeyed her with a wondering smile. They stood back to back, and Blanche measured with her hand.

“Exactly,” she cried. Then she turned and studied the girl for some critical moments. “Yes, and just about the same build. Here,” she hurried on, “put your foot against mine. That’s it.”

“Sure, sure,” Blanche exclaimed, as the two feet came into contact. “My shoes will fit you, too. Oh, this isbully. My word, but you shall be the belle of that farmers’ ball, I promise you. Sit down, my dear, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Blanche sat again, and they gazed across the table at each other. Molly was all smiling hope and expectation, and Blanche was happy in the opportunity which chance had afforded her.

“Listen, Molly. I’ve got the sweetest forget-me-not blue dance frock you’ve ever dreamed about,” she cried impressively. “It’s just the latest thing, made by a swell New York house. I’ve—never even worn it. I got shoes to match, and lovely, lovely silk stockings that’ll set all the other women crazy with envy. My, you’ll just look sweet in it. And then I’ve a beautiful fur-lined wrap. You can wear that on your journey, under a coat. Now, when’s the dance?”

“Why soon—very soon. When seeding’s through. But——”

Blanche was in no mood to listen to any protest. She had come to see Molly because Jim had asked her. The thing she had in mind now was out of her own impulsive liking for the girl herself.

“It’s useless, my dear,” she laughed. “My mind’s quite made up. You’re going to the dance in that frock, if I have to come and dress you myself.”

The light in Molly’s eyes was ecstatic.

“But—but if I muss it?” she cried, in sudden alarm.

“Muss it? Why, you dear, simple child, that’s right up to you. It’s a—a present, silk stockings, and shoes, and wrap, and all—with my best love.”

Lightning and Molly were standing together down by the barn. The door stood wide open. Blanche had just ridden off on her Pedro. The old man was observing thecreature’s gait with all the admiration of a real horseman. The rider interested him far less.

Molly, too, was gazing after the departing visitor. But the horse held none of her interest. She was thinking of Blanche. She was contemplating again those smiling eyes. And a great joy was surging in her heart. The whole thing seemed to her like some fairy-story, or some happy dream from which she would surely wake up.

She drew a profound sigh, and Lightning promptly withdrew his fascinated gaze from the departing horse.

“Ther’ ain’t nothing better’n the whole darn world than them four legs, an’ a bar’l like that,” he said. “That plug’s worth fi’ thousand dollars.”

Molly’s smile searched the old man’s eyes.

“An’ the girl on its back’s worth—a million,” she said decidedly.

Lightning spat.

“She’s surely an upstander,” he admitted. “But she ain’t a circumstance beside her plug. I ain’t ever seen a human that could be. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ better. Not in the world.”

He spat again to emphasise his opinion.

“I know something better.”

The girl’s eyes were dancing with delight. She was dying to proclaim her good fortune and happiness to all the world. As nothing better was to hand, Lightning would serve.

“She’s going to hand me a present of a swell gown, an’ real silk stockings, an’ shoes, an’—an’ a fur-lined cloak. It’s for the dance. An’ she says I’ll be the belle of the whole ball.”

“Dance? What dance?”

“Why, the farmers’ ball in Hartspool.”

The old man’s face was a study. His expression passed from astonishment and incredulity to frank contempt and disapproval.

“Ball? Say, Molly, gal, you ain’t goin’ to that bum hoe-down?” he cried almost desperately.

Molly’s eyes widened with resentment at the man’s contemptuous tone.

“It’s not a hoe-down,” she cried hotly. “It’s—it’s a swell ball, an’ you know it. Sure I’m going to it. And the suit’s forget-me-not blue, and the stockings are real silk—to match.”

Quite suddenly the eyes of the old man hardened fiercely.

“How you goin’?” he demanded almost roughly.

Perhaps it was the tone. Molly was looking straight into the eyes of her loyal old friend, and a spirit of mischief prompted her.

“Why, Andy McFardell’s going to take me. He’s getting tickets.”

There was a moment of deathly silence. Then Lightning thrust a gnarled forefinger into his mouth and hooked the chew of tobacco out of his cheek. He flung it on the ground and trod it underfoot. Then he hunched his shoulders and turned away.

In an instant contrition swept through Molly’s heart.

“You haven’t eaten, Lightning,” she said gently.

The old man paused and glanced round.

“Eaten?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, Molly, gal,” he said almost dejectedly. “Guess I don’t feel like eatin’—now.”

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