Bransford of Rainbow Range Part 8

"You've promised!" she said. She paused: when she spoke again her voice was low and a trifle unsteady. "I won't sing about Sandy to--any one else--Jeff!"

Then she fled.

Like Lot's wife, she looked back from the hillside. Jeff clung desperately to the sapling with one hand; from the other a handkerchief--hers--fluttered a good-by message. She threw him a farewell, with an ambiguous gesture.

It was late when Jeff reached Rosebud Camp. He unsaddled n.i.g.g.e.r Baby, the little and not entirely gentle black horse, rather un.o.btrusively; but Johnny Dines sauntered out during the process, announcing supper.

"Huh!" sniffed Jeff. "S'pose I thought you'd wait until I come to get it?"

Nothing more alarming than tallies was broached during supper, however.

Afterward, Johnny tilted his chair back and, through cigarette smoke, contemplated the ceiling with innocent eyes.

"n.i.g.g.e.r Babe looks drawed," he suggested.

"Uh-huh. Had one of them poor spells of his."

Puff, puff.

"Your saddle's skinned up a heap."

"Run under a tree."

Johnny's look of innocence grew more p.r.o.nounced.

"How'd you get your clothes so wet?"

"Rain," said Jeff.

Puff, puff.

"You look right muddy too."

"Dust in the air," said Jeff.

"Ah!--yes." Silence during the rolling of another cigarette. Then: "How'd you get that cut on your head?"

Jeff's hand went to his head and felt the b.u.mp there. He regarded his fingers in some perplexity.

"That? Oh, that's where I bit myself!" He stalked off to bed in gloomy dignity.

Half an hour later Johnny called softly:

"Jeff!"

Jeff grunted sulkily.

"Camping party down near Mayhill. Lot o' girls. I saw one of 'em. Young person with eyes and hair."

Jeff grunted again. There was a long silence.

"Nice bear!" There was no answer.

"_Good_ old bear!" said Johnny tearfully. No answer. "Mister Bear, if I give you one nice, good, juicy bite----"

"_U--ugg--rrh!_" said Jeff.

"Then," said Johnny decidedly, "I'll sleep in the yard."

CHAPTER IV

THE ROAD TO ROME

"Behold, one journeyed in the night.

He sang amid the wind and rain; My wet sands gave his feet delight-- When will that traveler come again?"

--_The Heart of the Road_, ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.

A hypotenuse, as has been well said, is the longest side of a right-angled triangle. There is no need for details. That we are all familiar with the use of this handy little article is shown by the existence of shortcuts at every available opportunity, and by keep-off-o'-the-gra.s.s signs in parks.

Now, had Jeff Bransford desired to go to Arcadia--to that masquerade, for instance--his direct route from Jackson's Ranch would have been cater-cornered across the desert, as has been amply demonstrated by Pythagoras and others.

That Jeff did not want to go to Arcadia--to the masked ball, for instance--is made apparent by the fact that the afternoon preceding said ball saw him jogging southward toward Baird's, along the lonely base of that inveterate triangle whereof Jackson's, Baird's and Arcadia are the respective corners, leaving the fifty-five-mile hypotenuse far to his left. It was also obvious from the tenor of his occasional self-communings.

"I don't want to make a bally fool of myself--do I, old Gra.s.shopper?

Anyhow, you'll be too tired when we get to 'Gene's."

Gra.s.shopper made no response, other than a plucky tossing of his bit and a quickening cadence in his rhythmical stride, by way of pardonable bravado.

"I never forced myself in where my company wasn't wanted yet, and I ain't going to begin now," a.s.serted Jeff stoutly; adding, as a fervent afterthought: "d.a.m.n Lake!"

His way lay along the plain, paralleling the long westward range, just far enough out to dodge the jutting foothills; through bare white levels where Gra.s.shopper's hoofs left but a faint trace on the hard-glazed earth. At intervals, tempting cross-roads branched away to mountain springs. The cottonwood at Independent Springs came into view round the granite shoulder of Strawberry, six miles to the right of him. He roused himself from prolonged pondering of the marvelous silhouette, where San Andres unflung in broken ma.s.ses against the sky, to remark in a hushed whisper:

"I wonder if she'd be glad to see me?"

Several miles later he quoted musingly:

"For Ellinor--her Christian name was Ellinor-- Had twenty-seven different kinds of h.e.l.l in her!"

After all, there are problems which Pythagoras never solved.

The longest road must have an end. Ritch's Ranch was pa.s.sed far to the right, lying low in the long shadow of Kaylor; then the mouth of Hembrillo Canon; far ahead, a shifting flicker of Baird's windmill topped the brush. It grew taller; the upper tower took shape. He dipped into the low, mirage-haunted basin, where the age-old Texas Trail crosses the narrow western corner of the White Sands. When he emerged the windmill was tall and silver-shining; the low iron roofs of the house gloomed sullen in the sun.