Wilson Harry Leon - Ewing's Lady

7/27/2019 Wilson Harry Leon - Ewing's Lady

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ewing's

Lady, by Harry Leon Wilson

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Title: Ewing\'s Lady

Author: Harry Leon Wilson

Release Date: June 27, 2010 [EBook #32988

Language: English

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EWING\'S LADY ***


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EWING'S LADY


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EWING'S LADY

By

HARRY LEON


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WILSON

Author of "The Spenders"


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D. APPLETON AND

COMPANY

NEW YORK

1907

CopyrigD. APPLETON


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CopyrighAINSLEE MAG

ublished, November, 1907


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To N. B. T.


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CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I.Ewing's Kid

II.A Lady Loses

Herself 12

III.A Private View 20

IV.A Portrait 32

V.Into the Past and Out 4

VI.The Lady and the

Plan 5


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VII.Two SleepersAwaken

64

VIII.The Journey Wonder 7

IX.A Dinner at Seven-

thirty 8

X.The Way of the Little

Man 97

XI.A Night at the

Monastery 10

XII.The New Member 124

XIII.Searching the

Wilderness 13

XIV.The Trick of Color 140


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XV.Flesh of Her Flesh 147

XVI.

Teevan as Special

Providence 156

XVII.An Elusive Venus 164

XVIII.Mrs. Laithe is In 174

XIX.The Unblazed Way 18

XX.A Lady Blushes 196

XXI.The Drama in Ninth

Street 203

XXII.A Revolt 21

XXIII.The Little Land 222


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XXIV.Ewing Interrupts 23

XXV.

Mrs. Laithe is

Enlightened 247

XXVI.The Sunset Trail 256

XXVII.

The Hills of Rest262

XXVIII.

The White Time

273

XXIX.The Awakening 279

XXX.The Hardest Thing 290

XXXI.

The Mission ofEwing

304


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XXXII.

The Turning ofCooney 313


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EWING'S LADY


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T

CHAPTER I

EWING'S KID

WO weeks of instructive contact witthe Bar-7 school of gallantry ha

prepared Mrs. Laithe to be amazed a

her first encounter with Ewing's kidRiding out from the ranch one afternooand turning, for coolness, up the woodemesa that rises from the creek flat, sh

overwhelmed him at a bend in the traiStricken motionless, he glared at the ladwith eyes in which she was compelled tbelieve that she read more horror tha

admiration. There was a moment of this


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hen her pony neighed a greeting to thstatueof dusty bronzeas if to say thahings were not so bad as they seemed

and the gazing youth broke the spell hivision had laid upon him. He bowed hihead doggedly and vanished beyond somow-growing cedars that lined the way.

As he fled the lady laughed softly, yewas silent, with face austerely set as shpassed the point of his evanishment. Hi

behavior recalled that of a deer she haerrorized one day in this same green isl

of the woods; and she had laughed thsame furtive laugh, as if in confidence t

herself, when the creature tossed its hean challenge, pawed the earth with

dainty bravado, and then fled in such aecstasy of panic that she could hear i


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crashing through the underbrush long aftet had vanished. But this human woods

creature had gone silently; and no grea

way, she suspectedfar enough only toscreen himself while his eyes still helher through some opening in the greecurtain. Wherefore let us comprehend th

mien of austerity as she passed.

Elusiveness in the male, be it bluntlsaid, was confounding to the experience o

Mrs. Laithe since she had ventured inthe San Juan Mountains under the nomina

care of an inattentive brother, and hebelief was still firm that the men about he

suffered little from shyness. This latesspecimen would be a single variatiofrom type and of slight value idetermining the ways of his kind.


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As her pony picked its way up the traishe mused over the not unpleasant picturof the youth at bay. It was a thing to b

caught at the moment, for she would finhim otherwise, she believed, at their nexmeeting. She would come on him somday at Bar-7, or at one of the ranche

neighboring it, and find him quite like hifellows, rigidly respectful, but with a selfconfidence and a simple directness in higallantry that had entertained her not ittle as practiced by local courtiers. H

would be like the others, from BeulaPierce, owner of Bar-7, down to Shan

Riley, humble helper in the cookhouse.An hour later, refreshed by the balsam

aden air of the upper reaches, she left thwoods at the foot of the mesa and rode ou


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on the willow flat, lush with grass foBar-7's winter feeding. From the firsbench above the creek she descried th

figures of two men in front of the ranchouse. One she saw to be Beulah Piercehis incredible length draped lazily ovehe gate that opened into his wife's flowe

garden. Outside this gate, under the flowof his talk (Pierce would surely balking) stood one whom the lady, ridin

nearer, identified as the youth who soately had shirked a meeting with her. Ahis sight she warmed with a little glow o

pride in her powers of prophecy. Truly he

had waited no long time. His hat was ofand he leaned restfully against the witherof a saddled horse, a horse that droopedhead to the ground, in some far low leve

of dejection.


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She laughed again, comprehending thfellow at last. His variation from type habeen but seeming, due to an erratic but no

constitutional embarrassment. Brazenlenough now he contrived to await hecoming, craftily engaging the not difficulPierce in idle talk. And Pierce, as sh

rode up, would perform, with stifmportance, the orthodox ceremony o

presentation. Whereupon the youth woulbow with visible effort, shake her hanwith a rigid cordiality, once up, oncdown, and remark, after swallowinearnestly, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am!

or perhaps, "Glad to make youacquaintance!" Then, tactfully affecting tgnore her, he would demand if Pierce had

seen anything of that buckskin mare an

colt that strayed off last Tuesday; or i


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anyone had brought mail up from PagosSprings lately; or if Pierce happened tneed two thousand hemlock shakes. Thi

query he would follow with a populaocal witticism concerning sheepmen ohe Colorado climatenominall

addressed to Pierce but intended for he

own refreshment. And, in readjusting thsilk kerchief at his throat, he woulmanage a quick side glance at her to sehow she relished the jest. For Mrs. Laithhad learned their ways in two weeks, anhis was one of themto favor on

another with witty sallies in her presence

and solely in her behalf. All the men oBar-7 practiced this amiable strategyWhen a group of them assembled withiher hearing the swift exchange of repartee

accompanied by the inevitable sid


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glance, was a thing to wonder at.

Indeed, the lady had learned their ways

Even before she neared the gate AlonzoPierce, son of Beulah, appeared round thcorner of the ranch house to take her ponysauntering with a flagrant ennui, in ful

knowledge that Sandy Goodhue hastarted violently on the same gallanmission, but from the farthest corraShane Riley, chained by his labors to th

doorway of the cookhouse, smirkegenially out over a pot that he polishedand Red Phinney, star rider at Bar-7seated himself on the step before the fron

door, so that he might have to arise witflourishing apologiesa performance thawould move the lady to ask about hisprained wrist, now in bandage.


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This familiar assembling of her courtprofessedly casual, was swiftly detecteby Mrs. Laithe. But she saw now, bein

near the gate, a quick turning toward heof the strange youth. It was a briefmpersonal survey that seemed not t

disengage her from the background of gra

road and yellowish-green willows; buclearly it sufficed. With a curt nod toPierce he was mounted; in another breathis amazed and indignant horse, spurreviciously from its trance, raged witprotesting snorts over the road to the easAs Mrs. Laithe reined up at the gate sh

beheld, through a nimbus of dust, thrider's boots groping pathetically for theistirrups.

She repressed a little gasp o


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astonishment in which the natural womamight have betrayed her view of sheadlong a retreat, although, had Beula

Pierce been alone at the gate, she mighhave descended to speech with him abouhis strangely retiring youth. But as 'Lo

Pierce waited for her pony, with

masterly taunt for Sandy Goodhue, whcame up breathless but late, and as RePhinney had already risen from hiobstructive seat in the doorway, his wrisheld cunningly forward to provoksolicitous inquiry, the lady passed in witonly such easy words as the momen

demanded. She was reflecting, witagreeable interest, that the young man'avoidance of her would presently begin tseem pointed.


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This conjecture was to be abundantlconfirmed. Returning from her ride thfollowing afternoon, she saw that th

youth must pass her on the public highwayThey were out on the flat, with narboreal sanctuary for the timid one. Thady looked forward with genial malice t

a meeting which, it appeared, he was nowpowerless to avoid. But the youthperceiving his plight, instantly had troublwith a saddle girth. Turning well out ohe road, he dismounted on the farther sid

of his horse and busied himself with thmechanics of proper cinching. As Mrs

Laithe rode by she saw only the top of wide-brimmed gray hat above the saddle.

The day following, when, in an orderlsequence of events, they should have me


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at the ford, he turned with admirablpromptness down the stream, where nrail was, sharply scanning the thinne

edge of a wood in the perfect manner oone absorbed in a search for lost stockClearly, his was a mind fertile, if nosubtle, in resource.

Not until a day later did he come trulo face her, and then only by th

circumstance of his being penned by he

within the high-walled corral where RePhinney broke green horses to ride, woror carry. Returning this day earlier thawas her wont, and finding no one at th

front of the house to take her pony, she hadridden back to the corrals. Here shdelivered the animal to Phinney, but nobefore the timid one had been compelle


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o pass her. He did this, she thought, onlyafter swiftly calculating the height of thwalls that pent him. And though his ha

was doffed as he hurtled by, his eyes weron the ground. Mrs. Laithe, feeling thus aiberty to stare brutally at him, felt

prodigious heightening of that tower o

amazement he had been rearing within hemind, for she saw him blush mosfuriously; beheld it under the brown of hibeardless face.

Yet there was more in the young facehan this flaunted banner o

embarrassment; and scanning it intently

she resolved forthwith to know him.

Late that day she was pleased to comupon Beulah Pierce alone in the big livin

room of the ranch house. Smoking a las


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pipe before the call to supper, Beularelaxed on the "lounge" after a toilsomseason of ditch-making.

"Oh, him?" he answered, luxuriouslextending legs that seemed much too lonfor any reasonable need of man, an

pulling at his ragged red mustache. "Whyhat's Ewing's kid."

"Ewing?" retorted Mrs. Laithe

provocatively, winningly."Ewing," affirmed Pierce, wit

unaccustomed brevity, his mind adalliance with other matters.

"Ewing's kid," murmured the lady, as in careless musing.

"Sure, Ewing's kidHi Mighty! I struc


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one o' them willow roots to-day, on thapiece o' ditch over on the west forty, ansay! it yanked me clean over the plow

handles. It did, fur a factstraightened mout like a whiplash. It scraped all the walpaper off'n this left shoulder o' mine whe

landed, too, say nothin' o' the jounce i

give me. Ma, whur's that embrycation fuman andbeast?" And Beulah laid a gentlhand on the abraded member.

"After you've et a bite," called his wiffrom the next room. "Shane has the thingall on, so come along an' set up."

Beulah erected himself with aunctuous groan and spoke his favorite jest"Wa'al, le's go out an' see what theneighbors has brought in."


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The meal over, Mrs. Laithe again foundherself with Pierce in the living room. Shsat on the bearskin before the open fire

her hands clasped about her kneesThrough the dancing jets of flame shobserved the kid of Ewing with hidownward, troubled face. Pierce, tuckin

shreds of tobacco into the bowl of hipipe, glanced toward her, the light ocoming talk in his eyes.

"How'd you like that there little reroan you're ridin', Mis' Laithe?" he began

"Cooney? Oh, Cooney's a dear

generally. Sometimes he's stubborn andpretends to know the way better than do."

"Sound and kind, though, I bet you."


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"Oh, yes; but when I want to ride dowhe east side of the valley, why does h

always try to go up that steep trail to th

eft? Sometimes I've quite a struggle tkeep him in the valley road."

"Wa'al, you see I bought him off'n

Ewing's kid an' he wants to git back homeSure's ever we dast let him loose with thsaddle band, he's over to Ewing's placecome sun-up. You give him his head any

imehe'll carry you straight there."

"He will?"

"Surest thingyou know! When that kibreaks a pony he gits it all gentled up so't hones to git back to him."

"How interesting!"


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"Nawmakes lashin's o' trouble fuhem that buys off'n him. Say, Mis' Laithe

you was askin' about Ewing's kid."

"Was I?" She looked politely blank.

"Sure you wasjest 'fore supperWa'al, Ewing's kid is the son of a mannamednow hear me talk! Course he'his father's son. Wa'al, anyway, this manEwing comes in here with this kid abou

fifteen, sixteen year ago, an' takes thaplace over there by the lake to git cured uo' the consumption. He was a painterpainted pitchers an' all sech, understand

puts up a big stoodio with a winder in isix feet high to paint by. But he was punyHe couldn't fat up none. You never seen acritter so gaunted as he was. Some said h

never got over losin' his wife. Anyway,


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wa'n't no surprise when he was took offseven, eight year ago. An' since he diedhat there kid has sort o' half run the plac

along with a feller named Ben Crider thahe old man had got fur help. O' course w

all kind o' looked in on the boy at first tmake sure he wa'n't in need, an' done

day's work now an' then, an' they raised few horses an' a few cattle an' one thinan' another. Trouble with that boy, thoughhe's always putterin' round with his dad'paint brushes, an' talkin' about portrayinart an' all like that, understand? I've tolhat kid time an' time again, 'Kid,' I says

neveryou mind about portrayin' art andepictin' the linnerments an' the varieaspecks o' nature,' I says; 'you jes' burn uhem foolish little long-shanked pain

brushes in your Charter Oak cookstove,'


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says, 'an' ten' to portrayin' a good littlbunch of cattle an' depictin' Ben Crider twork also, an' you'llgit somewhur's,'

says. But himwhy, he jes' moons alongAn' Ben Crider ain't much better. Ben ainnostimulant to him. Ben had ort to beehe only son of a tenderhearted widow

ady of means. That's what he'd ort tbeen. You give him a new coon song ouof a Sunday supplement an' his guitar, anBen's fixed fur half a day at least.Heaingoin' to worry none about a strayeyearlin' or two. Why, one time, I rec'lec"

"Then young Mr. Ewing is a painteroo?" she interrupted.

"Wa'al"Pierce became judicia

"yes an' no. He ain't a reg'ler one, lik


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you might saynot like his pa was. Stilhe can do hand paintin'if you want tcall it that. Made a pitcher o' me thi

summer, bein' buckjumped by old TobeTobe was cert'n'y actin' high, wide anhandsome, comin' down with his fouhoofs in a bunch, an' me lookin' like m

works was comin' all apart the nexminute. A lively pitcheryes; but, mLord! it wa'n't a thing you could show! Imade me out that reediculous. Course, ain't Mrs. Langtry, but you got to draw thine somewhurs, hain't you? Now there"

Beulah pushed an informing thumb towar

crayon portraits of himself and MrsPierce that graced the opposite wall iframes of massive gilt, one on either sidof the organ"that's what you can call ar

drawn by a reg'ler one down t


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Durangoeverything showin' like it oro, expressions an' all, even down to M

Pierce's breastpin an' my watch chain

made out o' my own mother's hair. They'rdecentpitchers. That other one was plumndecent, I can tell you. Ma she up an' hit away, quick as she seen it."

"And has he done other things?"

"Hey?"

"Painted other pictures?"

"Slathershorses an' animals an' BeCrider with his gun an' all sech, an' deer

Say now, I seen another artist down to thDurango fair last fall that was a genuinwonder an' no mistake. He was writincallin' cards at a little table, an' he coul


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draw a runnin' deer all in flourishes ancurlycurves, without liftin' his pen frohe card, all slick an' natural as you'd wan

o"

"Did you know his mother?"

"No-o-odidn't even know him. I jesstopped to look an' he drawed a fine bibird right while I watched, havin' a ribbon its bill with my name on it in red ink

about as tasty a thing as you'd care to seefur a quarter of a dollar. It's round thhouse somewhur now, I reckon, if yo"

"Ewing's kid's mother?"

"Hey? Oh, no, I never knew that ladyShe passed away sommers off up the stat


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before these other parties moved in."

"Does the boy resemble his father?"

"Ewing? Wa'al, not to sayresemble. Ifact he didn't favor him, not at all, that can rec'lect. He must of been most like hima."

The lady had been speaking as from distance, staring fixedly into the fire, withe distraction of one engaged in som

hopeless feat of memory. So intently aloowas she that Pierce had to repeat his nexremark.

"I say, you don't never want to leCooney git you started up that trail yowas speakin' about. First place, it'steeper'n the side of a house. Next place


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ever let him git you to the top, he'd lanyou slambang over to Ewing's, spite of alyou could do."

"Thank you! I'll be sure to remembehat. Good night!"

She left him, still with the far-centeredpuzzled look on her facethe shadow osome resemblance, indefinite, namelessbut insistent.


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O

CHAPTER II

A LADY LOSES HERSELF

NLY a few miles separate Bar-7from the Ewing place; but they arinteresting miles and at least one o

hem will be found exciting by the townbred novice. There is a stretch where thrail leaves the valley road and zigzags uphe face of the east bench to a height fro

which one may survey the whole sleepinvalley of the Wimmenuche as through reducing glass. The way seems no broadehan one's hand, and to Mrs. Laithe, wh

approached it from across the flat an


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studied it for the first time as a practicablhoroughfare, it looked to be impossibl

perpendicular; a climb that no horse in it

right mind would attempt, an angle oelevation that no rider could sustain.

Brought to incredulity by this survey

she pulled Cooney to a walk as she nearehe parting of the ways. Thenndecisively, she let the bridle rein fall on

his neck. The little horse loitered on

splashing through the creek with a feweisurely sips of its icy water (take

merely in the spirit of a connoisseur), ana moment later halted where the benc

rail turned out. At the beginning of hintimacy with his present rider he ha

adopted rushing tactics at this pointeaping at the trail in a fine pretense tha


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no other way could have been thought ofand showing a hurt bewilderment whehe sudden pull brought him about and int

he valley road. For that was a road thaed nowhere, since it led away from hi

home. Day after day he had played thigame, seemingly with an untouched fait

hat some time he would win. Day afteday had he exercised all his powers oastonished protest when the frustrating tuwas felt. But these tugs had becomsharper, to betoken the rider's growinmpatience, and it may be surmised that ohis day Cooney had lost his faith. If i

were inevitable that one should bwhirled back into the broad, foolish wayone might save effort by omitting that firsfutile rush; one might stop and let evi

come. Cooney stopped now, drooping i


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anguid cynicism.

His rider waited, wishing that he ha

not stopped; wishing he had rushed thrail as always before. She felt the need oevery excuse for daring the hazards of thaclimb. Cooney waitedand waited

morosely anticipating the corrective jerof a rider who refused to guide hiproperly by pressing a rein across hineck. The shock was delayed. Coone

hrilled, aspiring joyously. He waited stilanother uncertain moment, bracing hislim legs. At last, with a quick indrawinof breath, he sprang up the only desirabl

rail in all the world, with an energy oscurrying hoofs that confined his rider'attention wholly to keeping her seat. Shhardly dared look down even when th


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ittle horse stopped on a narrow ledge tbreathe. Nor did Cooney tarry. Stilfearful, perhaps, of that deadly backwar

erk, he stopped but once again before thsummit was reached. Doubtless hsuspected that the most should be made ohis probably fleeting mood of complianc

n one who had hitherto shown herselnveterately hostile to his most cherishe

design.

Looking back over the ascent while thstanch little animal panted under her, MrsLaithe discovered that the thing had beeworth while. The excitement had bee

pleasurable and the view was a thing tclimb for. On the north the vallenarrowed to a caon, its granite sidemuffled in clouds of soft green spruce. To


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he south it widened away until, beyond broad plain, quickened with flying cloushadows, a long, low-lying range of blu

hills showed hazily, far over the NewMexico border. Straight before her, acroshe valley, were mountains whose roug

summits leaped gray and barren abov

heir ragged hemming of timbermountains not to be seen from the rancbecause of the intervening mesa.

But the picture was not long to benjoyedno longer a time than Cooneneeded to recover his wind. He wapresently off through a sparse grove o

aspen, breaking by his own will into ope as they crossed a wide, grass

meadow, level between the wooded hillhat sloped to its edge on either side. And


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his was the horse who, when he bore heazily up and down the valley, constantl

cropped the good green stuff to right an

eft, a horse always before willing toiter, or to stand motionless for an hou

with his bridle rein on the ground, whilshe adventured beyond him on foot. Th

rider caught his new spirit and laughed ashe felt herself hurried to thconsummation of this mild adventurehurried up the long ridge, over a crossystem of sudden gullies, through anothewide meadow of the mountains wherstrange cattle paused to regard her rathe

disconcertingly; on through the gloom oother woods, the trail worrying itself uanother ascent, and then out upon an opesummit that looked down upon a tiny lak

set in a cup of the hills. On one side th


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water, its shining surface pierced only bhe heaps of hungry trout, flashed the gree

of chrysoprase up to the spruce trees tha

crept to its edge; on the other it mirrored scarred wall of rock that rose sheer frohe water to some far, incalculable heightts summit carved into semblances o

buttressed castles with gray and splendibattlements.

But Cooney was still loath to linge

over mere scenery. He hurried his ridedown the ridge and out on a flat of marshgrass, thickly starred with purple gentiansHere he delayed only to recall, as it late

appeared, a duty familiar to him in thdays before he was sold into bondageStanding across the trail where it nearehe margin of the lake, a sedate-lookin


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cow grazed and was at peace with thworld.

Looking up as the horse bore dowupon her, and observing that she waexpected to move, the cow did so with buslight signs of annoyance in the shaking o

her head. The incident, however, was nohus simply to be closed, for now begahat which enabled the lady to regard th

day as one of red adventure. Coone

swerved from the trail with a suddenneshat was like to have unseated his rider

Then as the cow halted, head down anforefeet braced, he swerved once more

heading so obviously for the beast that shurned and trotted off on the trai

mumbling petulant remonstrance. With knowing shake of his head Cooney fell i


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behind her.

His intention might no longer b

mistaken. He meant to drive the cow. Didshe turn aside, Cooney turned aside, evealert for her slightest deviation. The trainow lay through a grove of spruce an

balsam that had been partially cleared, buhe trees were still too many for the lado relish being hurtled among them by

volatile and too-conscientious cow pony

She found herself eying their charge aalertly as did Cooney himself, praying thahe driven beast might prove les

reluctant. When she did break from th

rail Mrs. Laithe braced herself to meeCooney's simultaneous detour, andhereafter, until the indignant animal wa

again in the beaten way, the rider wa


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engaged in avoiding fearful impact witrees and entanglement with low-growin

branches. She debated the wisdom o

dropping from the saddle and abandoninherself to the more seemly fate ostarvation in this wooded fastness. To besure, there was a chance that Coone

would rush on to find his late master, whomight return to solve the problem of thempty saddle. But even so, that young mawould only glance at her and run swiftlaway, after he had blushed. MoreoveCooney, whom she now believed to bdemented, had increased his speed

despite her restraining pulls, while thcow, in a frenzy of desperation, becammore daring in her sorties.

Then, to the glad relief of the rider, a


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opening showed through the trees closahead, and in another moment Cooney hagalloped her out into an extensiv

clearing. Swiftly about its edge he circledo thwart a last dash of his prey for th

glad, free grazing life from which she haso summarily been withdrawn. Half roun

he clearing they went in the startled gazof a person who had been at work over deer hide in the shade of a mighthemlock. Then, with lightning swervpursued and pursuers fled straight answiftly across the clearingCooney closon the flanks of his prizeinto th

astounded vision of Ewing's kid, who hasauntered to the open door at the sound oflying hoofs.

Hereupon the little roan abandoned hi


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ask, halting before the figure in thdoorway. The halt was so abrupt that MrsLaithe never knew whether sh

dismounted or was thrown.

They looked at each other helplesslyhe lady's eyes still wide with the disma

hat had been growing in them sincCooney's mysterious seizure. She felherself trembling and she tried to smileThe young man released the arm he ha

seized to support her and stepped backputting a hand up to Cooney, who hadbeen mouthing his sleeve with littlwhinnies of rejoicing.

Then the lady heard the voice oEwing's kid, heard him say with quickembarrassed utterance, "It's too bad yo

went to all that trouble. We're not milking


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Clara any more."

Still breathing rapidly, she turned hal

away, confused by this cryptic utterance."Clara?I didn't knowI don'tI be

your pardon, but I'm afraid I donunderstand."

"Yes, we don't drive her in any moreMidge came in fresh a few weeks ago, anwe let Clara run along with her cal

again."

Pondering this item, she put her hando her head. One of them found her ca

which a low branch had raked awry; thother grasped a tangle of hair that mufflehe other side of her head, regrettably ou

of place. From this surprising touch o


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hings she divined the picture she must bmaking. More, she saw herself dash inthis sylvan opening apparently in ma

pursuit of a frenzied cow; for, as requisite to keeping her seat in the saddleshe had been compelled to seem as eagen the chase as Cooney himself. She san

collapsed, ratherupon the broad slaof stone before the door, laughing weakly

The youth looked down at her wit

puzzled eyes in which she saw alarrising.

"But I didn't try to chase your cow

didn't want to," she broke out. "It was youhorse; hisidea, his alone."

There was such fine, shy commiseratio

n his face as she rose that she laughe


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again.

"Of course it must have been Cooney'

fault," he said. "I might have known thaHe used to have to drive her in everday." He regarded her for a moment with sort of dumb chivalry, then politel

offered his hand, saying, with a curiouittle air of taught formality: "I'm very glao see you. Thank you so much fo

coming!"

In avoiding each other's eyes, as theihands fell apart, they both looked out the person who stooped busily over a dee

hide in the shade of the big hemlock. Hiview of the circumstance was revealintself. Only his rounded back could b

seen, but this rose and fell in the rapid

rhythmic convulsions of silent laughter


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They turned quickly back to each otheand smiled in a sudden sympathy with himirth.

"If I may have a glass of water" shsuggested, as a device for establishinease between them.

"Of course!" He called to the persounder the tree, arresting the back at thheight of one of its recurrent spasms. Th

face turned upon them was rigidly sad, face of almost saturnine solemnity, thface of one who has been brought to viewife as an engine of woe. As he ambled

dejectedly toward them, his head bowefrom his work-bent shoulders, the lines ogrief in his face seemed to deepen, and gnarled hand tugged at the alread

drooping ends of his long mustache, as i


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he would be assured that they, alsoestified to the world's objectionableness.

"Mr. Crider, this is Mrs. Laitheshehas come to see us." The youth achievehis with austere formality. The sad on

nodded and put forth his hand with

funereal "Glad to know you, ma'am!" as ihey met at the open grave of a friend.

"Ben, won't you go to the spring and ge

her some fresh water? She's thirsty. She'had a hard ride."

The other turned quickly away, andhere was a sound as if he had manfull

stifled a sob. Ewing faced his guest witeyes that twinkled a bit, she thoughbeneath their apologetic droop.


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"I'd be glad to have you come inside,he ventured.


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F

CHAPTER III

A PRIVATE VIEW

ROM the first room, a kitchen angeneral living room, such as she halearned to know in the other ranc

houses, he conducted her up two steps to doorway, from which he pushed aside avajo blanket with its rude coloring o

black and red. There was disclose

beyond this an apartment of a sort witwhich she was more familiar, a spacioustudio with its large window giving to thnorth. In the clear light her eyes ra

quickly over its details: the chinked log


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hat made its walls, the huge stonfireplace on one side, the broad coucalong the opposite wall, covered wit

another of the vivid Navajo weaves, thskins of bear and lynx and cougar on thstained floor, the easel before thwindow, a canvas in place on it; th

branching antlers over the fireplacecontrived into a gun rack; a tall, roughlmade cabinet, its single shelf littered withalf-squeezed tubes of paint, a daubepalette, and a red-glazed jar from whicbrushes protruded. Above the couch wersome shelves of books, and between it an

he fireplace was a table strewn witpapers, magazines, a drawing board wita sheet of paper tacked to it, and half dozen sharpened pencils.


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He indicated the couch. "It will be good thing for you to rest a little," he saidShe seated herself with a smile of assent

He rashly began to arrange the pillows foher, but left off in a sudden consciousnesof his temerity, withdrawing a few paceo regard her. He was still apprehensive

but his boy's eyes were full of delighamusement, curiosity, and, more than allof a wistfulness like that of a dumcreature. He stepped to the door for thpitcher of water and glass that Ben nowbrought.

She had studied him coolly as he spok

the negligent out-of-doors carriage ohe figure, not without a kind of fre

animal grace, the grace of a tramplinhorse rather than that of soft-goin


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panthers. The floor boards rechoed to hicareless, rattling tread, and occasionallyhis attention being drawn to thi

reverberation, he was at great pains for moment to go on tiptoe. He was well seup, with a sufficient length of thigh. MrsLaithe approved of this, for, in he

opinion, many a goodly masculine torso ihese times goes for nothing because of

shortness of leg. His hair was a lightisbrown and so straight that a lock waprone to come out behind and poinuncompromisingly toward distant thingsThis impropriety he wholly disregarded

whereas the more civilized man woulhave borne the fault in mind anremembered occasionally to apply restrictive hand. His face was a long

browned square, with gray eyes, s


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mbedded under the brow that they had ook of fierceness. His lips showed only

narrow line of color, and trembled

constantly with smiles. These he tried trestrain from time to time, with an air opinning down the corners of his mouth.

She had noted so much while he poureout the water, and now he came to herwalking carefully so as not to thunder withis boots.

"You must have been frightened," hesaid, and his eyes sought hers with young, sorry look.

"Not after we left the woods; it wasnfunny among those trees."

He brightened. "I'd always though


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women don't like to look funny."

"They don't," said the lady incisively

"no more than men do.""But you can laugh at yourself," h

nsisted.

"Can you?" She meditated a swifexposure of his own absurdity at theimeetings in the valley, but forbore andspoke instead of his pictures.

"You must show me your work," shesaid.

For a moment it seemed that she haost all she had gained with him. H

patently meditated a flying leap throughe door and an instant vanishing into th

nearest thicket. She had an impulse to pu


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out a hand and secure him by the coat. Buhe held his ground, though all his genialitwas suddenly veiled, while he vibrate

behind the curtain, scheming escape, like child harried by invading grown people its secret playhouse.

She looked cunningly away, examinina rip in her glove.

"I tried to paint a little myself once,

she essayed craftily. Nothing came of itHe remained in ambush.

"But it wasn't in me," she continuedand was conscious that he at least took breath.

"You see, I hadn't anything but theiking," she went on, "and so I had th


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sense to give it up. Still, I learned enougo help me see other people's work bette

and to be interested in pictures."

"Did anyone try to teach you?" hasked.

"Yes, but they couldn't make me painthey could only make me see."

"Perhaps you could tell me somhings," he admitted at last, "if you'v

ried." He paltered a little longer. Then"Ben Crider says this is the best thing I'vever done," and he quickly took a canvafrom against the wall and placed it on chair before her.

She considered it so quietly that hwarmed a little, like a routed anima


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ulled once more into security by thstillness.

"Do you get the right light?" he askeanxiously.

She nodded, and managed a fainabstracted smile, indicative of pleasureShe heard him emit a sigh of returninease. He spoke in almost his formeconfiding tone.

"That's our lake, you know, painted ihe late afternoon. Ben is set on m

sending it down to the Durango fair nexmonth."

It was the lake, indeed, but, alas! aelaborate, a labored parody of it. Thdead blue water, the granite wall evenl


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gray in shadow, garishly pink where icaught the sun, the opaque green of threes, the carefully arranged clouds in th

flat blue skyall smirked consciouburlesque. It recalled the things in gilframes which Mrs. Laithe remembered thave seen in front of "art emporiums," o

Fourteenth Street, tagged "Genuine OiPainting," the "$12.00" carefully crosseout and "$3.98" written despairinglbelow to tempt the alert connoisseur.

She knew the artist's eyes were upoher in appeal for praise. She drew in heunder lip and narrowed her eyes as one i

he throes of critical deliberation.

"Yes, I should recognize the spot aonce," she dared to say at last. "How wel

you've drawn the rock."


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"I hoped you'd like it. I don't minelling you I put in a lot of time on thahing. I 'carried it along' as my father use

o say. I don't believe I could better thatAnd here are some others."

He displayed them without furthe

urging, his shyness vanished by hienthusiasm, in his eye a patent confusioof pride and anxiety. She found them iquality like the first. In one the valley o

he Wimmenuche from the east bench waas precisely definite as a topographicamap; in another the low-lying range ohills to the south had lost all their graciou

and dignifying haze.

"They are immensely interesting,observed his critic with animation, "It ma

be"she searched for a tempering phras


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"it is just possible there's a trick ocolor you need to learn yet. You knowcolor is so difficult to convict. It's shifty

evasive, impalpable. I dare say that laksn't as flatly blue as you've painted it, nohat cliff as flatly pink in sunlight. Andhose hillsisn't there a mistiness tha

softens their lines and gives one a sense oheir distance? Color isso difficultsricky!"

She had spoken rapidly, her eyekeeping to the poor things before her

ow she ventured a glance at the painteand met a puzzled seriousness in his look.

"You may be right," he assented at last"Sometimes I've felt I was on the wronrack. I see what you mean. You mean you

could reach over a mile and pick up th


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ranch house at Bar-7that it's like a littlpainted doll's house; and you mean yocould push your finger into those hills

hough they're meant to be a hundred mileaway. Well, it serves me right, I guessMy father warned me about color. And never saw any good pictures but his, an

hat was years ago. I've forgotten how theought to look. He sold all his when I wayoungall but one."

"You've done well, considering that."

"He said I must learn to draw firstreally to drawand he taught me to d

hat. I candraw. But black and white is sodingy, and these colors are alwaynagging you, daring you to try them. If could only learn to get real air betwee

me and those hills. I wonder, now, if my


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colors seem like those Navajo blankets tyou." He flung himself away from thcanvases like an offended horse.

"Let me see your black-and-whites,she suggested hastily.

"Oh, those! They don't amount to muchbut I'll show you." He thrust aside thcanvases and opened a portfolio on thchair.

She saw at a glance that he had beeright when he said he could draw. She leher surprise have play and expanded in thpleasure of honest praise. She had norealized how her former disappointmenhad taken her aback. But he could drawHere were true lines and true modeling

not dead, as he had warned her, but quic


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with life, portrayed not only with truth buwith a handling all his own, free fromitative touches. He had achieve

difficult feats of action, of foreshorteningwith an apparently effortless facilitythduck of a horse's head to avoid the throwrope; the poise of the man who had cast it

he braced tension of a cow pony holdina roped and thrown steer while his ridedismounted; the airy grace of Red Phinneat work with a stubborn broncho, comino earth on his stiff-legged mount an

raking its side from shoulder to flank witan effective spur. There was humor i

hem, the real feeling in one of the lasMrs. Laithe lingered over this.

"It's Beulah Pierce's wife in that flowegarden of hers," the artist explained. "I


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seems kind of sad when she goes out theralone sometimes. You know how tired shegenerally is, and how homesick she's bee

for twenty years or so'all gaunted upas Ben says, like every ranchman's wifehey have to work so hard. And in th

house she's apt to be peevish and scol

Beulah and the boys like she despisehem. But when she goes out into tha

garden"

"Tell me," said his listener, aftewaiting discreetly a moment.

"Well, she's mighty different. She

stands around mooning at the hollyhockand petunias and geraniums and things, thflowers that grew in her garden back Eastand I reckon she kind of forgets and think

she's a girl back home again. Her face get


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all gentled up. I've watched her when shdidn't notice meshe's looking so far ofand when she goes into the house agai

her voice is queer, and she forgets torampage till Shane Riley lets the stewburn, or Beulah tracks mud into the fronroom, or something. I tried to show he

here, looking soft, just that way." Hsounded a little apologetic as he finished.

"It's delightful," she insisted, "an

hey're all goodI can't tell you howgood. You must do more of them, and"she paused and shot him a careful glanco determine how wary it behooved her t

be"and I believe you should let coloalone for awhile, until you've had eacher show you some things. You musearn the trick."


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"Oh, I'd try to learn fast enough, if I hahe chance." His eyes lighted with a kin

of furtive wistfulness, as if he would no

have her wholly fathom his longing.

"Of course you could learn. I believyou can do somethingsomething fine."

She rose from the couch and glanceover his books, with an air of wishing touch other matters before they dwelt lon

on this. She noticed with some surprise set of Meredith.

"Do you read these?" she asked, takindown one of the volumes.

There was an instant return of hiformer shyness, a hint of the child and thnvaded playhouse. But she knew what t


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do. Without further remark she calmly losherself in "Diana."

"Those books were my father's," hsaid at last, with the air of addressing aexplanation to some third person. Shgnored this, not even glancing at him

"But I've read them," he added, still as io another person.

At last, after studying her face a bit, h

ventured, "Have you read them all?" Hspoke low, so as not to interrupt her toopointedly. She did not look up, bunodded, with a smile that sai

confidentially, "Well, I should think so!He edged nearer then, like one who woulbe glad, if pressed, to share his secrets.

"I was sorry when I reached the las


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one," he began. "It was another world. Ohhe's a great writer. He writes as if he wahinking all the time in fireworks, and h

makes you do the same thing. Every pagor two he sets off a bunch of firecrackern your mind that you didn't know you hahere. But he writes as if he didn't car

whether anybody understood him or nott's a blind trail, lots of the way, and o

some pages I just bog down."

She smiled sympathetically. "Many ous have that trouble with him." She pu"Diana" back on the shelf and held up thpoems of Robert Browning.

"And this?"

"Oh, do you read that, too?" h

counterquestioned with sparklin


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curiosity. She could see that he waenlivened beyond his self-consciousnesfor the moment. "Well, I do, too, in spots

He's pretty good in spots. But other timehe's choppy and talky and has a hard timgetting into the saddle. Why, sometimewhen Ben Crider is talking to himself, i

would sound just like Browning, if yobroke it up into poetry lengths and gave ia good title."

"And this you like, too?" She waopening a volume of Whitman.

"Sure!" he rang out. "Don't you? There'

he man." He began walking about with fine smile that was almost a friendly grinShe felt suddenly sure that he had nevealked about the books before, and that i

was a kind of feast day for him.


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"Yes," he continued easily; "when I geo feeling too much alone up here I pretensee him striding in off the trail, his hea

up, sniffing the air, his eyes just eatinghese big hills, and he'd march right in an

sit down. Only I can't ever think of whawe'd say. I reckon we'd sit here without

word. He must have had wonderful eyesHe's good in winters when you're holed uhere in the snow and get on edge witnothing to do for five or six months bufeed the stock and keep a water hole openSometimes I wonder if Ben and I woncome out crazy in the spring, and then

read old Whitman and he makes me feeall easy-like and sure of myself."

He paused again, but she only waited.

"I had a funny thought last winter," h


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pursued. "It seemed to me that if peoplurn into other things when they dieth

way some folks believe, you knowtha

Whitman must have become a wholworld when he died, whirling awasomewhere off in space; a fine, big, fresworld, with mountains and valleys an

akes, with big rivers and little ones, anforests and plains and people, goopeople and bad people, he just liked alsortsit didn't seem to make mucdifference to him what they were, so thewere peopleand he'd carry them all ohis back and breathe in and out and fee

great."He laughed as if the idea still delighte

him, and she laughed with him.

"I'd like to have told him that," h


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continued, almost meditatively. "But I'lbet he often thought of it himself. I gueshe wouldn't be satisfied with anything les

han that."

When he stopped they stood a momensmiling at each other. Then she went bac

o the couch with rather a businesslike air

"How old are you?" she asked.

"I'm twenty-four. How old are you?"

She smiled, quite disarmed by thartlessness of this brutality.

"I am twenty-seven."

"That's pretty old, isn't it?" hcommented, gravely. "I shouldn't hav

said you were older than I am. Some way


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you look younger. And what a lot you mushave seen out yonder!"

"You should go there yourself, to worko study." She felt that he was curiouslwatching her lips as she spoke rather thaistening to her.

"Now I see it's only your profile that'sad," he began in the same detachedabsent way he had spoken of the books

he way of one talking in solitude. "Youfull face isn't sad; it's full of joy; buhere's a droop to the profile. HereI'l

show you." He took a sketch-book fro

he table.

"I'll show you this, now we're sucgood friends. I could only draw the profil

becausewell, that was the only thing


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could look at much."

She looked and saw herself on thre

pages of the book, quick little drawingsall of the side face.

"I didn't dream you had seen menough," she said. "And you haveverything from cap to boots, and Coone"

"I knew Cooney, and I'vewellI'v

watched you some when you didn't know.

"Certainly you never watched me whedid know," she retorted.

"I should think not!" He laugheuneasily. "But you see the sadness there. ried to locate it, but I couldn't. I onl

knew it was there because I found it in th


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sketches when they were done. I think caught the figure pretty well in that oneStand that way now, won't you?"

She rose graciously.

"Here's your quirt, and catch your skirthe way you've done therethat's it. Yes

got that long line down from thshoulder. It's a fine line. You arebeautiful," he continued critically. "I lik

he way your neck goes up from youshoulders, and your head has a perky kinof a tilt, as if you wouldn't be easy tbluff."

She smiled, meditating some jocosretort, but he still surveyed hempersonally, not seeing the smile. Sh

dropped to the couch rather quickly.


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"Let us talk about you," she urged. Buhe did not hear.

"Your face, thoughthat's the fine thing" He was scanning it with narroweeyes. But a protesting movement of herrestored him to his normal embarrassment

He writhed in uncomfortable apologbefore her. "I'd 'most forgot you werreally here," he explained. "I've seen yohat way so often when you weren'there

There nowI see that sadness; it's in thupper lip. It showed even when yoaughed then."

"Really, this must stop," she broke in"People don't talk this way."

"Don't they? Why don't they? I'm sorr

but all that interested me." The wave o


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his hand indicated the fluent grace of thady impartially from head to foot.

"Of course," he added, "I knew thermust be people like you, out there, but never dreamed I'd have one of them closenough to look atlet alone get friendl

with. I hope you won't hold it against me."


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T

CHAPTER IV

A PORTRAIT

HOUGH she had made him tinglwith an impulse to flee from her, hwas at the edge of the east benc

early the next afternoon. He might see hefrom a distance. If she came close upohimwell, it was worth risking; he had good horse. Her eyes were the best of he

he thought, big gray things under blacbrows, with a dark ring, well definedabout the iris. He had seen no such eyebefore. And how they lighted her fac

when she spoke. Her face needed lighting


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he thought. It was pale under the dark haiher hair stopped short of being blackand was lusterlesswith only a bit o

scared pink in her cheeks, after that ride ohe day before. He thought of her handsoo. They were the right hands for herong, slender, and strong, he did not doubt

under a tricky look of being delicate. Iwas not possible that they could ever talogether again so easily. He could no

make that seem true, but he could look aher. He had hoped she would promise tocome again, but they had parted abruptlhe afternoon before. Riding back wit

her, as they breasted the last slope leadino the ranch, he had rejoiced boldly at thchance that had led her up the lake traihat morning. Then Beulah Pierce ha

hailed them from his station at the bars


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hailed them in a voice built to admirablcarrying power by many cattle drives. Hispeech began, "Didn't I tellyou where tha

upper trail would"

Whereupon the lady turned to dismisher escort rather curtly.

"Thank you for riding back with me. shall not trouble you any further." And hestaring suddenly at her with the wil

deer's eyes again, had fled over the bacrail.

He thought if there had been more timshe might have said, "I will come agaisoonperhaps to-morrow." He liked tohink she might have said that, but he coul

not give it much reality.


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He sprawled easily in the saddleeaning his crossed arms on the pomme

and gazing out over the sun-shot valley t

he group of buildings and corrals at Bar7. At least she rode somewhere everafternoon, and he would see her leave. Ishe turned down the valley road or up th

caonwell, that emergency could bmet. He thought of speeches to make iplain that he had not followed her, darino approach her in his mind, but knowin

well that he would probably hide at sighof her.

A half hour he waited so, beholdin

visions of their accidental meeting. Thehis pulses raced. He saw the stockybarreled Cooney led from the corral to thfront of the house by Red Phinney. H


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could almost discern the Sabbath finery oRed across that crystal milefor this wahe breathing day of the week, when face

were rasped cruelly by indifferent razorsand fine raiment was donned, blacrousers and gay, clean shirts and

neckerchiefs of flaming silk.

He could not see her mount. The ranchouse hid that spectacle. But she rode intview presently, putting Cooney first to hi

ittle fox trot and then to a lope, as throad wound among the willows.

He straightened in the saddle as sh

reached the creek. He was eager tretreat, yet feared to have his cowardicdetected. And when Cooney haltedmidway of the stream, pawing its rock

bed and making a pretense of thirst, th


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woman looked up and saw her watcher ohe trail. She waved the gauntleted hanhat held her quirt, and he found himsel

holding his hat in his hand with aaffectation of ease. Then each laughedand, though neither could hear the other, iwas as if they had laughed together i

some little flurry of understanding. Hcould still pretend to have happened therat that moment, he reflected. And thibrought him courage as he saw her givCooney his way where the trail branchedWhen the little horse had carried her to thsummit and stood in panting gratitude, th

waiting youth evolved a splendid plan fohiding his fright. He dismounted anforced himself to go coolly and take hehand. Perhaps it was as well that he ha

not trusted himself to remain in the saddl


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at that first moment. But when the thinwas really over he no longer made secret of his delight at her coming. Hi

first anxious look at her face had showhim the cordial friendliness of thpreceding day. She was amused by himhe could see that, and did not resent it; bu

she was kind, and in his joy at this hbabbled, at first, with little coherence.

"I rode right over here to make sure

would see you," he began, "and then if yorode down the valley, or up, I was goino loaf along and find you by accident, an

pretend I was hunting a colt. I was goin

o be afraid the mountain lions had got it.He laughed immoderately at this joke"And while I waited for you I kept tryino think how fine it would have sounde


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ast night if you had said, 'I think I shall gover and look at your place again tomorrow.' I couldn't make your voice soun

rue, though. It's a good thing we neednry to paint voices."

They were riding together over the firs

stretch of meadow. It seemed to have beenagreed without words that they should rido the lake cabin.

"To paint voices?" she queried."Voices, yes; how could yours be

painted? It couldn't. You'll see that. hought of a jumble of thingswine an

velvet, for instance; some kind of richgolden wine and purple velvet, and thenwarm flickers of light in a darkened room

and a big bronze bell struck wit


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something soft that would muffle it and yemake everything about it tremble. You seedon't you?" he concluded with

questioning look of deep seriousness.

His own voice was low and eager, witts undernote of wistfulness. Already h

had renewed upon her that companionablcharm which she had felt the day before, charm compounded of half-shy directnessof flashes of self-forgetfulness, of quick

rusting comradeship. She rejected a canphrase of humorous disclaimer that habibrought to her lips. It would puzzle oaffront his forthrightness.

"Very well, we'll agree that my voicecan't be painted," she said at last. "So leus talk of you."


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"I guess I should like that pretty well,he answered after a moment's pondering"I don't believe I've ever talked much; bu

now I feel as if I could tire you out, talkinas we did yesterday. Queer, wasn't it?"

He fell silent, however, when the trai

narrowed to climb the long ridge, as if thacknowledgment of his desire to speahad somehow quenched it. She fell iahead, half turning in her saddle t

address him from time to time, but hwould talk only about things of thmoment. In a marshy spot at the edge ohe meadow he pointed out a bear wallow

and farther on a deer lick. "It's a sulphuspring," he exclaimed, "and deer comfrom miles around to drink there."

"Do you shoot them?" she asked.


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"We always have fresh meat when weneed. Ben Crider says he won't let a deecome up and bite him without trying t

defend himself."

"It's like murder, isn't it?"

"Well, I never murdered anyone myselfbut I hit the first deer I ever shot at, and felt as if I'd lain in wait at a street corneand killed a schoolboy on his way home

But I missed the next three or four, andhat made me blood-thirsty. I guess if yocarried that feeling back far enough a macould go out and shoot his little sister i

he'd had to still-hunt her over rougground all day, and especially if he'dmissed two or three cousins or an uncle ihe meantime. I think that would raise th

savage in him enough."


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They were skirting the lake now, glinting oval of sapphire in its setting ogranite. Beyond this they rode through th

hinned timberwhere Cooney wadissuaded, not without effort, fropursuing his ancient charge, and emergento the glare of the clearing.

As they dismounted at the door of thcabin a melancholy of minor chords froa guitar came to their ears, and a voice

nasal, but vibrant with emotion, sang thfinal couplet of what had too plainly beea ballad of pathos:


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"While they were honeymooning in a mKind friends were laying Nellie out b

"That's one of Ben's best songs," saiEwing, with so genuine a gravity that hstifled quite another emotion in the lady ashe caught his look.

"Indeed! I must hear him sing more,she managed with some difficulty.

The sorrowful one arose as the

entered, hastily thrusting aside his guitaas might an assassin have cast away hiweapon. His face was shaven to a bittedegree; in spots it was scarified. But thdrooping lines of woe unutterable werstill there in opposition to his Sabbatfinerya spreading blue-satin cravat

ighted by a stone of impressive bulk


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elegant black trousers, and suspenders ored silk embroidered with pansies and running vine of green. He greeted th

visitor as one who would say, "Yes, it's asad affairwholly unexpected," andcocking an eye of long-suffering negatioon Ewing, he went out to the horses.

As they entered the studio Mrs. Laithsaw that the easel had been wheeled inthe light from the big window and that

woman's portrait had been placed upon itHad Ewing looked at her on the instant hmight have detected that her face seemeo ripple under some wind of emotion. Bu

his own eyes had been on the portrait.

"That's my mother," he saidunconsciously hushing his voice.


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"I should have known it," she answeredwith a kind of spurious animation. "Thface is so much like yours. It is a face on

seems to have known before, one of thoselusive resemblances that haunt the mindt is well done." She ended the speec

glibly enough.

"She was beautiful. My father did it. Hhad that trick of color, as you call it, or hcould never have painted her. She was so

slight, but she had color. And she waquick and fiery. I used to see her ragwhen I was very small. I believed therwere coals in her eyes, and that somethin

blew on them inside to make them blaze. wouldn't know what it was about, onlhat it wasn't us she raged atnot m

father or me. I could go up and catch he


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hand even when she frightened me. Andsometimes, after a while, my father woulget excited, too. He was slower to tak

fire, but he burned longer. And at last shewould become afraid and grow quieherself and try to soothe him. I nevecould tell what they were at war with."

They looked in silence at the viviyoung face on the canvas, a thin, daringeager face, a face of delicate features, bu

strong in a perfect balance. The eyes werdarkly alive.

"You were young when she died?" the

woman asked at last.

"Too young to understand. I was eight, hink. There was a lot I shall neve

understand. Sometimes my father woul


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ell me about their life here in the Westbut never of the time before they camhere. It always seemed to me that either h

or she had quarreled with their peopleThey were poor when they came here. Weived in Leadville when I first remember

My mother sang in a church choir an

made a little money and nightsyou'lhink this queermy father played a piann a dance hall. They had to live. Days, h

painted. He had studied abroad in Pariand Munich, but he wasn't selling hipictures then. It took him years to do mucof that. Sometimes they were hungry

hough I didn't know it." He pausedoverwhelmed by a sudden realization thahe was talking much.

"Tell me more," she said very quietly


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"I wish to hear the rest."

"Well, at the last my mother was in bed

a long time, and my father worked hard tget things for her, things she must haveBut one night she diedit was a colnight in winter. He and I were alone with

her. I'll not soon forget that. I sat up on thcot where I slept and saw my father sittinon the bed looking down at my motherThey were both still, and he wouldn

answer or turn his head when I spokeThen I cried, for it was cold in the littlcabin and my father's stillness scared meBut I don't think he heard me crying. H

kept looking down at my mother's faceeven when I called to him as loud as could. Then I was afraid to see him thaway any longer, so I pulled the blanket


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over my head and I must have cried myselo sleep.

"He was sitting the same way when woke in the morning, still looking at mmother's face. Even when the people camo take her away he kept silentand whil

hey put her in the ground in a greasnowy field with little short waves alover it. And when we were back in thcabin not a word could I get from him, no

a look. He just sat on the bed againooking at her pillow.

"In the evening some one brought

etter. I lighted a candle and took thietter to him, crowding it into his hand.

wanted him to notice me. I saw him studhe envelope, then tear it open and look a

a little slip of green paper that fell out. I


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was money, you understand, for picturehe had sent to New York. I knew this aonce. I'd heard them talk of its coming an

of wonderful things they'd do with it whet did come. I was glad in an instant, for hought that now we could get my mothe

back out of the ground. I was sure w

could when he held the green slip close the candle and began to laugh. It wasn't th

way he usually laughed, it was louder anonger, but it was the first sound I'd heard

from him, and it made me happy. I begao laugh myself as loud as I could, an

danced before him, and his laugh wen

still higher at that. I ran for my jacket anmittens and cap. I wanted him to stoaughing and hurry along. I pulled his ar

and he stopped laughing and looked dow

at me. I shouted 'Hurrylet's hurry an


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bring her backlet me carry the moneyHe caught my shoulder and looked sastonished, then he burst into that lou

augh again, after he'd made me say iover. I ran for his overcoat, too, but when

came with it I saw he wasn't laughing aall. He was crying, and it was so muc

ike his laugh that I hadn't noticed thchange."

He had kept his eyes on the portrai

while he spoke. He stopped abruptly nowurning to the listening woman, searchin

her face with new signs of confusion.

"II didn't know I was telling you alhat."

She did not answer at once.


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"And you came here after that?" shsaid at last.

"Yes; my father found this place. Hewanted to be alone. I think he began to diwhen my mother went. He couldn't livwithout her. He taught me what he could

about books and pictures, but I couldnhave been much to him. I think it hurt hihat I looked like herhe said I lookeike her. He worked on that portrait to th

very last, even on the morning of the dahe died."

"What was your father's name?"

"Gilbert Denham Ewing. I was namefor him."

"And your mother's name befor


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marriage was"

"I'm ashamed that I never knew. It mus

have been spoken often, but I was syoung; it never stayed in my mind. And ittle while before he died my fathe

burned all his letters and papers. I'v

wondered about their life long ago beforcame, but I think my father meant me no

o know. He had some reason."

"I am glad you have told me all you diknow," she said.

"But you have made me glad," hassured her, returning to his liveliemanner.

"Your mother's first name"she asked"what did your father call her?"


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"Oh, thatKatharine. He called heKitty."

"Kitty!" She repeated it after himsoftly, as if she spoke it in compassion tohe portrait.

"But see," he continued, "it's late. Staand eat with us and I'll take you back bmoonlight. I've ordered a fine, big, silvemoon to be set up in the sky at seven, an

Ben is already getting supper."He pulled aside the blanket portire

and through the doorway she could see thsaturnine onea man fashioned foragedies, for deeds of desperate hazardncongruously busied with a pan of sod

biscuits and a hissing broiler.


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When they rode back to Bar-7 the hillwere struck to silver by the moon. Thewere companionably silent for most of th

ride, though the youth from time to timewhen the trail narrowed to put him in threar, crooned stray bits of a song witwhich Ben Crider had favored them whil

he prepared the evening meal. The lineMrs Laithe remembered were:

"Take back your gold, for gold it canno

Make me your wife, 'tis all I ask of yo

When they parted she said, "You mushink about leaving here. It's time you rod

out into the world. I think my brother wilbe back from his cattle-driving trip tomorrow, and I mean to bring him to seyour pictures very soon. Perhaps he wil

suggest something for you."


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"This moonlight does such wonderfuhings to your face," he remarked.

"Good night! I'm sorry you have so fao go."

"It isn't far enough," he answered, stilsearching her face. "Not half far enough

have so much thinkingso much thinkino do."


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I

CHAPTER V

INTO THE PAST AND OUT

T was not without concern that MrsLaithe awaited the return of her brothethe following day. The cattle drive tha

had beguiled him from habits of extremand enforced precision had occupied fortnight, and she understood the life to bsorely trying to any but the rugged

Earnestly had she sought to dissuade hifrom the adventure, for insomnia had lonbeset him, and dyspepsia marked him fots plaything. Eloquently exposed to hi

had been the folly of hoping for sleep o


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stony ground after vainly wooing it in thsoftest of beds with an air pillow inflateo the nice degree of resiliency. And the

unsuitability of camp fare to a man whhad long been sustained by an invalid'diet had been shrewdly set forth. None thess he had persisted, caught in the frenz

of desperation that sometimes overwhelmeven the practiced dyspeptic.

"It can't be worse, Sis," he ha

ragically assured her at parting. "If I'vgot to writhe out my days, why, I shalwrithe like a gentleman, that's all. I can aeast chuck those baby foods and peris

with some dignity."

"But you're not leaving your medicineshose drops and things?" she had asked, i

real alarm.


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"Every infernal drop. I've struck alalong the linenot another morsel odisinfected zwieback nor sanitar

breakfast food nor hygienic prunes noglutenized near-foodnot even onpepsin tablet. It's come to where I'sooner have no stomach at all than b

bullied night and day by one."

With which splendid defiance he hadridden desperately off, a steely flash in hi

ired gray eyes and a bit of fevered cologlowing in his sallow cheeks.

When Mrs. Pierce loudly announced th

return of the men early in the afternoonherefore, the invalid's sister was ready t

be harrowed. There would be bitteagonies to relatechiefly stomachic. Sh

had heroically resolved, moreover, no


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mmediately to flaw the surface of hesympathy with any gusty "I told you so!That was a privilege sacred unto her, and

not to be foregone; but she would defer itsatisfaction until the pangs of confessiohad been suffered; until the rash onshould achieve a mood receptive t

counsel.

At the call of Mrs. Pierce she ran dowhe flower-bordered walk to join that lad

at the gate, and there they watched thcavalcade as it jolted down the lacets ohe mesa trailfour horsemen in singl

file, two laden pack animals, anothe

horseman in the rear. The returning invaliwas equal, then, to sitting a horse. The farfocused eyes of Mrs. Pierce were the firso identify him. As the line advanced


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hrough the willow growth that fringed thcreek she said, pointing, "There's MrBartellhe's in the lead."

"But Clarence doesn't smoke; thdoctors won't let him," his sistenterposed, for she could distinguish

pipe in the mouth of the foremoshorseman. "And, anyway, it couldn't bClarence; it's too" On the point osaying "too disreputable," she reflecte

hat the person in front looked quite likhe run of Mrs. Pierce's nearest friend

and might, indeed, be of her owhousehold.

"It's sure your brother, though," insistedMrs. Pierce, as the riders broke into ope over the level, "and he don't loo

quite as" Mrs. Pierce forbore tactfull


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n her turn. She had meant to sa"dandified."

"And I tell you, Mis' Laithe, he doeook husky, too. Not no ways sosquammish as when he started. My suzHere we've et dinner and they'll be hungr

as bears. I must run in and set bacsomething."

The other men turned with th

packhorses off toward the corrals, buBartell came on at a stiff gallop to wherhis sister waited. When he had pulled hihorse up before her with perilous bu

showy abruptness, he raised himself in thsaddle, swung his hat, and poured into thstill air of the valley a long, high yell osuch volume that his sister stepped hastil

within the gate again. She had heard th


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ike of that yell as they passed througPagosa Springs, rendered by a cowboy ihe acute stage of alcoholic dementia.

"Why, Clarence, dear!" she gaspedfearing the worst. But he hurriedldismounted and came, steadily enough, t

kiss her. She submitted doubtfully to thisand immediately held him off fonspection. He was frankly disreputable

The flannel shirt and corduroy trouser

were torn, bedraggled, gray with the dusof the trail; his boots were pasredemption, his hat a reproach; his face bronzed and hairy caricature; and h

reeked of the most malignant tobacco MrsLaithe had ever encountered. Only thgold-rimmed spectacles, the nearsightedpeering gray eyes, and a narrow zone o


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white forehead under his hat brim serveo recall the somewhat fastidious, sedate

and rather oldish-looking young man wh

had parted from her.

He smiled at her with a complacenchat made it almost a smirk. Then h

boisterously kissed her again before shcould evade him, and uttered once morhat yell of lawless abandon.

"Clarence!" she expostulated, but hwaved her to silence with an imperiouhand.

"Quickest way to tell the story, Nellhat's my pan of victory. Sleep? Slepike a night watchman. Eat? I debauche

myself with the rowdiest sort of foo

every chance I gotfried bacon, boile


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beans, baking-powder biscuit, blaccoffee that would bite your finger offcouldn't get enough; smoked when I wasn

eating or sleeping; drank raw whisky, toowhisky that would etch copper. Work? worked harder than a Coney Island pianplayer, fell over asleep at night and got up

asleep in the morningwhen they kickeme the third time. And I galloped up anddown cliffs after runaway steers where wouldn't have crawled on my hands anknees two weeks before. And now thawhole bunch of boys treat me like one ohemselves. I found out they called m

Willie Four-eyes' when I first came hereow they call me 'Doc,' as friendly as yocan imagine, and Buck Devlin told me lasnight I could ride a streak of lightning wit

he back cinch busted, if I tried."


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He broke off to light the evil pipostentatiously, while she watched himopen eyed, not yet equal to speech.

"Now run in like a good girl and see iMa Pierce has plenty of fragments frohe noonday feast. Anything at allI coul

eat a deer hide with the hair on."

Wavering incredulously, she left to dohis bidding. As he led his horse around to

he corral he roared a snatch from BucDevlin's favorite ballad, with an excellenmitation of the cowboy manner:

"Oh, bur-ree me noton the lone prai-re

After he had eaten he slouched into hammock on the veranda with extravagangroans of repletion, and again lighted hi


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pipe. His sister promptly removed hechair beyond the line of its balefuemanations.

"Well, Sis," he began, "that trip suredid for me good and plenty. Me for thhigh country uninterrupted hereafter!"

She regarded him with an amusesmile.

"I'm so glad, dear, about the health. It'

a miracle, but don't overdo it, donattempt everything at once. And the tripsure' seems to have 'done' you in anothewayhow is it'good and plenty'? Youwalk like a cowboy and talk and sing anact generally like one"

"Do I, really, though?" A sort of half


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shamed pleasure glowed in his eyes"Well, you know they're goodcompanionable fellows, and a man take

on their ways of speech unconsciouslyBut I didn't think it would be noticed in mso soon. Do I seem like the real thinghonestly, now?"

She reassured him, laughing frankly.

"Well, you needn't laugh. It's all fixed

'm going to be one.""But, Clarence, not for long, surely!"

"It's all settled, I tell you. I've bought

ranch, old Swede Peterson's place over oPine River; corking spot, three halsections under fence and ditch, right at thmouth of a box caon where nobody ca


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get in above me, plenty of water, plenty ofree range close at hand."

"Clarence Bartell, you'rewhat do yocall it?stringing."

"Not a bit of it. Wait till I come on inabout two years, after selling a train loaof fat steers at Omaha or Kansas Citsashaying down Fifth Avenue androunding into Ninth Street with my big ha

and long-shanked spurs and a couple oforty-fours booming into the air. You'lsee, and won't dad say it's deuceunpleasant!"

"But I'll not believe until I see."

He spoke ruminantly between pulls ahe pipe.


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"Lots of things to do now, though. Goo go down to Pagosa this week to pa

over the money, get the deed, and registe

my brand. How does 'Bar-B' strike youRather neat, yes? It'll make a tasty littlmonogram on the three hundred critters start with. I'm on track of a herd o

shorthorns already."

"And a little while ago you were off the Philippines, and before that to Port

Rico, and last summer you were going oone of those expeditions that come bacand tell why they didn't reach the NortPole, and you came out here to be a mine

and you've"

There was an impatient, silencing wavof the pipe.


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"Oh, let all that go, can't you?let thdead past bury its dead. I'm fixed for lifeYou and dad won't laugh at me any more

Come on out now and see me throw rope, if you don't believe me. I've beepracticing every day. And say, you didn'happen to notice the diamond hitch on tha

forward pack horse, did you? Well, I'mhe boy that did most of that."

She followed him dutifully to th

corrals and for half an hour watched hihurl thirty feet of rope at the horned skulof a steer nailed to the top of a post. Whehe noose settled over this mark his boyis

delight was supreme. When it flew widewhich was oftener, his look was one onvincible determination.

As his sister left him he was explainin


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o Red Phinney, who had sauntered up tobe a help in the practice, that the range oBar-B had a lucky lieno "greaser" coul

come along and "sleep" him.

She went back to her chair and bookshaping certain questions she would put t

his brother. But it was not until after thevening meal that she could again talwith him, for the ardent novice founoccupation about the stable and corrals th

rest of the afternoon, and even sat for ime with the men in the evening, listenin

avidly to their small talk of the rangewatchful to share in it. When he dared as

a question knowingly, or venture a swifcomment couched in the vernacular, hhrilled with a joy not less poignan

because it must be dissembled.


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But conscience pricked him at length teave those fascinating adventurers in th

bunkhouse and to condescend for a

nterval to mere brotherhood. He found hisister alone in the "front" room, ensconceon the bearskin rug before a snapping anfragrant fire of cedar wood.

He drew up the wooden rocker anremarked that the fire smelled like housand burning leadpencils. He woul

have gone on to talk of his greaexperience, but the woman wiselforestalled him.

"Clarence," she began directly, "I'vbeen thinking over that old affair oRandall Teevan and his wife, KittLowndes, you know. Do you happen to

recall the name of the manthe man Kitt


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went away with?"

"Lord, no! That was before I'd learne

o remember anything. If you want to rakhat affair up, ask Randy Teevan himself'll wager he hasn't forgotten the chap'

name. But why desecrate the grave of s

antique a scandal? Ask me abousomething later. I remember he had a cooonce, when I was six"

"Becausebecause I was thinking, jushinking. Are you certain you remembenothing about it, not even the man's namenor what sort of man he was, nor what h

did, nor anything?"

"I only know what you must knowRandall Teevan's wife decided that the

Bishop had made two into the wrong one


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doubt if I ever heard the chap's name. seem to remember that they took Aldewith themhe was a baby of four or five

believe, and that Randy scurried abouand got him back after no end of fuss. I'vheard dad speak of that."

"Did Kitty and that man ever marry?"

"No; you can be sure Teevan saw tohat. He took precious good care not t

divorce her. They manage those thingmore politely nowadays; everythinformal, six months' lease of a furnishehouse in Sioux Falls, with the chap livin

at a hotel and dropping in for tea everday at five; and felicitations from the lathusband when the decree is granted in thmorning and the new knot tied in th

afternoonanother slipknot like the firs


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so that the merest twitch at a loose enwill"

"Please don't! And did you never knowanything more about them, where theived or how they ended?"

"Never a thing, Sis. It's all so oldeverybody's forgotten it, except TeevanOf course he'd not forget the only womawho ever really put a lance through hi

shirt-of-mail vanity.""You forget Kitty's mother. She

remembers."

"That's so, by Jove. Teevan got whawas coming to him, he got his 'coneuppance' as the boys say; but old Kittyyes, it was rough on her. But she's alway


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put a great face on it. No one would knowf they didn'tknow."

"She's proud. Even though she's beeanother mother to me sh

Wilson Harry Leon - Ewing's Lady

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