Desert Conquest Part 61

"You're an awful bluff, Tom," she accused him. "Really, I believe you're bashful with girls. I never suspected it before."

"It's just want of practice," grinned McHale. "Some day when I have time I'm going out to get me a girl like you. There was one down at----"

But Clyde's appearance interrupted McHale's reminiscences. She and Sheila, arms about each other, strolled away to exchange confidences.

Casey and Farwell followed.

"We ain't in it," said McHale.

"Well, who wants to be?" said Sandy.

"A few weeks ago," McHale mused, "them two girls warmed up to each other about as much as two wet sticks of wood; and them two sports would have locked horns at the bat of an eye. Look at 'em now! What done it?"

"Does your arm hurt you much?" Sandy asked.

"Sortin' out the hand done it," McHale continued, unheeding. "Each girl finds out that the other ain't organizin' to be hostile. And the men find out that they're playin' different systems; likewise, that each has a good point or two."

"She sure must have been a hard trip for you down from the hills,"

Sandy commented, with much sarcasm.

"Love," said McHale sentimentally, "is a durn funny thing."

Sandy's disgusted comment consisted of but one word not usually a.s.sociated with the tender pa.s.sion. "Well, may be--sometimes," McHale admitted.

It was a merry party that sat down to the best supper Feng could prepare on short notice. Wade was in great form. He outdid himself, keeping up a rapid fire of jokes and conversation. The sheriff, infected by his example, uncovered a vein of unsuspected humour.

McHale, who referred to himself as "a temp'rary southpaw," contributed his quota. Sandy was silent and dour, as usual. Jim Hess said little, but he beamed on everybody, enjoying their happiness.

When Sheila insisted that she must go, Casey saddled Dolly for Clyde and Shiner for himself. He rode with Sheila, temporarily relinquishing Clyde to Farwell. A couple of hundred yards behind the others, just free of their dust, they jogged easily side by side.

"Our rides together are about over, Casey," she said, with a little sigh.

"How is that?"

"You know as well as I do. The blessed proprieties are b.u.t.ting in here nowadays; and, besides, we both belong to other people. d.i.c.k wants to be married soon. Of course, I'll have to go where he goes. Thank goodness, he hasn't got any people to be my people, and to pa.s.s judgment on me."

"I'll be sorry to lose you, Sheila; and I think you'll be sorry to go."

"Yes. I'll miss the rolling country, and the hills to the west, and the long days outdoors. Oh, heavens, how I'll miss them! And yet it's worth while, Casey!"

"I'm awfully glad, for your sake, that you think so much of him, old girl. He's a fine chap--when you get to know him. But I'll miss you.

How long is it since we had our first ride together?"

"Seven years--no, eight. I was riding a bad pinto. Dad traded him afterward. You wouldn't let me go home alone. Remember?"

"Of course. Awful brute for a girl to ride!"

"He never set me afoot," she said proudly. "But you'll be leaving here, too, Casey."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, yes, you will. Clyde's money----"

"Hang her money! Don't throw that up to me."

"Nonsense! Don't be so touchy. I wish _I_ had it. You'll go where there are people and things happening. You'll keep the ranch, but Tom will look after it."

"No, no."

"Yes, yes. You won't be idle--you're not that kind--but you'll find other interests, and the money may be a stepping-stone. She's a dear girl, Casey. Be good to her."

"I couldn't be anything else. You needn't tell me I'm not worthy of her; I know it."

"You're worthy of any girl," she said firmly. "Not a bit of hot air, either, old boy. I almost fell in love with you myself."

"By George!" he exclaimed, "there were times when I wondered how much I thought of you."

She laughed, well pleased. "We know the difference now, don't we? What a mistake it would have been! I'm glad we kept these thoughts to ourselves--glad we never played at being in love. Now we can talk without fear of misunderstanding. Somehow, now, the years here seem like a dream to me. Yes, I know they've been busy years, crowded with work for both of us; but just now they don't seem real. We seem--I seem--to be standing at the boundary of a new life. All that is over was just preparation for it--the long days in the sun and the wind, the quiet nights beneath the stars, the big, lonely, brown land, and the hazy blue of the hills. The girl that lived among them seems like a little, dead sister. And yet I love these things. Wherever I go, whatever happens to me, I shall think of them always."

"That's absolutely true. They are in your heart--a part of you. I understand. The little boy that lay on a lake sh.o.r.e years ago and watched the old stone hookers wallowing through the long swells doesn't seem to be Casey Dunne. And yet I can smell the wet sand and the clean lake breezes now. These are the things that keep our hearts young. You were born in the West, Sheila, and I in the East; but the roots of our beings fed on the clean things of the earth that mothered us some thousands of miles apart, and the taste will never be forgotten. In the years to come we will think of the years here as to-night we think of our childhood."

She held out her hand. Gauntlet met gauntlet in the hard grip of comradeship.

"Good-bye, Casey. It's not likely we'll ever talk of these things again. I'm glad you've been a part of my life."

"Good luck to you always, Sheila."

"They've left us behind," she said. "Come on! One last good run, Casey!"

Clyde and Farwell, riding decorously at an easy jog trot, heard the thunder of hoofs behind them, and turned to see the bay and the buckskin sweep past, encouraged by voice and heel.

"She'll kill herself some day," Farwell e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, and he scolded her roundly when they rode up to where she and Casey had finally halted their blown steeds.

"Listen to him!" cried Sheila, in derision. "As if I didn't savvy a horse! All right, my lord, I won't do it again till next time. And now, Casey, you and Clyde must not come any farther. It will be dark before you get back."

"If you want to be rid of us----" he suggested.

"You've been sorry for yourself for the last hour, and you needn't deny it," she retorted.

Clyde and Casey rode slowly homeward through the falling dusk. For the first time since his return they were really alone together. She made him tell her all that had occurred, down to the minutest detail.

"But now there will be no more trouble of any kind," she predicted.

"Thanks to you."

"Thanks to Uncle Jim."

"Both of you. He's a big man--a nation builder--but if his niece hadn't had the good taste to fall in love with me his interest would have been less personal. He wouldn't have got around to a little matter like this for months. Anyway, we bracket you together. Do you know that some of the kids are being taught to pray for you?"

"Not really?"