Rimrock Trail Part 34

"Mormon c'ud take the Nicholson party on his lap, if she ain't too finicky," suggested Sam. This was hewing close to the line, and Mormon glared at him while the spinster sniffed.

"Molly'll ride in with me," said Sandy. "I'm goin' over early on p.r.o.nto an' take the white blazed bay along that Molly rode over the Goats'

Pa.s.s."

"Ride in?"

"She wrote she was jest waitin' fo' the minute she c'ud climb into a real saddle, astride a range-bred hawss," said Sandy.

"She won't be dressed for it, travelin' on the train," said Mirandy.

"I've got a hunch she will," Sandy answered simply. "They got their own private car. If she ain't, why, Sam can ride the bay back. But me an'

p.r.o.nto, the bay an' Grit are goin' thataway."

There were certain tones of Sandy's voice that gave absolute finality to his statements. He used them on this occasion. The argument dropped. In a way Sandy was making the matter a test of Molly. If she was as anxious as she wrote to "fork a bronco," if she understood Sandy and he her, she would feel that he would be waiting with her mount for her to return to the ranch western fashion. If not, it meant that she was out of the chrysalis and had become, not the busy bee that belongs to the mesquite and the sage, but a gaudier, less responsible flutterer among eastern flower-beds.

The bay with the white blaze had been groomed by Sandy until his hide was glossy and rich as polished mahogany, while the blaze on his nose shone like a plate of silver. His dark mane and tail had been braided and combed until it crinkled proudly, the light shone from his curves as he moved, reflecting the sky in the high-lights. Hoofs had been oiled and Sandy had attended to his shoeing. The bay had been up for a month and fed until he was almost pampered, save that Sandy took the excess pepper out of him every morning.

A new saddle came from Cheyenne, most famous of all cities for making of saddles that are tailor-made, the leather carved cunningly into arabesques of cactus design, bossed and rimmed here and there with silver, the pattern carried over into the tapideros that hooded the stirrups, even into the bridle. It was a masterpiece of art craft, that saddle, "made for a lady to ride astride," and it cost Sandy an even quarter of a thousand dollars.

Sam and Mormon knew of the grooming of the horse but, when the saddle, cinched above a Navajo blanket, smote their vision, they blinked and complained. They too had gifts for the homecomer, but Sandy's outshone them as a newly minted five-dollar gold piece does a silver coin.

"If that don't win her to stay west there ain't no use a-tryin',"

declared Sam as Sandy mounted and rode away, leading the bay. Grit, newly washed also, sorely against his will, since he did not know the occasion of the bath at the time of suffering it, went bounding on pads of rubber, leaping up, tearing ahead and back, a shuttling streak of gold and silver.

Miranda's caravan started an hour later, she driving, Mormon and Sam in the back, each dressed in his best, minus chaparejos and spurs, but otherwise most typically the cowboy and therefore out of place--and feeling it--as they sat stiffly in the leatherette-lined tonneau.

Miranda was in starched linen, dest.i.tute of all ornament, a dark red ribbon at her throat the only touch of color, looking extremely efficient and, as Sam whispered to Mormon, "a bit stand-offish." He wanted to add, "'count of the Nicholson party," but dared not.

The train rolled in majestically, the private car gleaming with varnish and polished gla.s.s and bra.s.s, with a white-coated darky flashing white teeth on the platform as the fussy local engine took the detached luxury to the side-track designated for its Hereford location. There, forewarned by the agent, much of Hereford a.s.sembled to witness the arrival of the magnate who had helped to place them more definitely on the map and increased their revenues as supply depot for Casey Town. The flivver was parked and Miranda, Mormon and Sam made one group a little ahead of the others, recognized by the crowd as privileged. Sandy sat p.r.o.nto, talking to the restive bay, proudly conscious of its new trappings and the remarks of the onlookers.

If Wilson Keith, clad in tweeds tailored on Fifth Avenue, a little portly, square-faced, confident, a trifle condescending, typified the East, Sandy was the West. A good horse is the incarnation of symmetry, grace and power. Sandy, erect in the saddle, lean and keen, matched all of p.r.o.nto's fitness. Man and mount both eminently belonged to the land, shimmering with sage, far-stretching to the mountains, a land that demanded and bred such a combination.

Sandy's clean-shaven face was sharp with obstacles faced and overcome, his eyes held clean fine spirit, his jaw showed determination and the good lines of his mouth belied obstinacy. He wore the regalia of his cow-punching holidays, soft-collared shirt of blue, silk bandanna of dark weave in lieu of tie, leather gauntlets, leather chaps, fringed and b.u.t.toned with leather and trimmed with disk of silver, silver spurs on his high-heeled boots, trousers of dark gray stripe, a quirt with the handle plaited in black and white diamonds of horsehair dangling from one wrist, and the blue Colts in the twin holsters. He could not avoid being picturesque, yet there was nothing of the masquerader, the moving-picture cowboy. He held the eye, even of Hereford, but only because they liked to gaze upon a good man on a good horse. His body responded to every shift of p.r.o.nto, jigging impatiently, showing off, pretending to be afraid of the panting locomotive, body shining like metal of bronze and aluminum, his nostrils pink as the inside of a sh.e.l.l, ears twitching, rider and mount one in every movement. Grit stood with plumy tail erect and waving gently, ears up, red tongue playing between white teeth, his eyes like jewels; braced on his feet, tiptoe on his pads, watching the parking of the private car with now and then a glance of inquiry at Sandy.

Keith stood by the railing of his platform, the darky ready with the dismounting stool. He surveyed the crowd affably, with the poise of a successful candidate a.s.sured of welcome, waving his hand in demi-salute to Sandy, Sam and Mormon, lifting his hat graciously to Miranda Bailey.

The man and the car emanated prosperity. Yet, for all the booming of Casey Town, the finding of pay-ore, the sale of shares, Keith's present financial status was not all that he trusted it might be within a short time. It was part of the technique of his profession to a.s.sume a mask and manner of financial success, and of late he had worn these until at times they jaded him, but they were well designed, well worn, and no one doubted but that Wilson Keith was a man of ready millions.

Keith was essentially a gambler. He knew that those who bought his shares were largely tinctured with the same spirit that exists, more or less, in almost every man. They were amateurs and Keith the professional, that was the main difference. The average man likes to believe himself lucky. Keith was no exception. He knew the prevalence of the trait and traded upon it. Also he knew the gold mining game from prospect to prospectus and possible profit. But the expert faro-dealer, after his trick is over, is apt to take his wages to the roulette wheel of an opposition house and buck a game that his experience tells him is, like his own, run with the percentages against the player.

Keith had dallied with oil, had speculated, plunged, been persuaded to invest heavily. He was beginning to have a vague fear of not being so certain as he would have wished as to which end of the line he had taken, that of the baited hook, or the end that was attached to the reel that automatically plays the fish.

He sold gold and he was buying oil. More, he was sinking wells, infected with the fever of the game, whereas, with his own mines, he was cool with the poise of the physician who takes count of a pulse. Others, partners with him in new enterprises in the petroleum field, were making sudden fortunes. His turn had not come yet, but they a.s.sured him that his ventures promised even more than those that had enriched them.

Faster than gold came out of Casey Town, Keith used it in Oklahoma and Texas. He had come west to view his resources, to strain them to the utmost, to overlook the ground with the eye of the past-master of promotion, who could conjure up visions of wealth from the barest indication of pay-ore, trusting to find inspiration for further flotation on his return to New York, his market-place, "fresh from the field of operations."

The engine uncoupled and panted off, leaving the car at rest on the spur-track. The fox-faced secretary came out, held the door open. Some one followed Molly Casey. Sandy surmised it must be Donald Keith, but he had sight for nothing except the slender figure whose radiant face, between a Panama hat and a dustcoat of pongee silk, shone straight at him. It was Molly, but a glorified Molly, woman not girl. The freckles had gone, the snub nose had become defined, the eyes of Irish blue seemed to have deepened in hue back of their smudgy lashes. The wide mouth was the same, scarlet and soft as cactus blossom, smiling, opening in a glad cry....

"Sandy!" Her arms went out toward him in greeting over the bra.s.s railing. Then Grit, catapulting from ground to platform, with frantic yaps of welcome, fairly bowled over the darky with his mounting block and bounded up into Molly's embrace. There was confusion on the platform for a moment with Grit as the nucleus. Another person had come out, evidently Miss Nicholson. She was neither undernourished nor thin, she was medium-sized and her bones were well covered. She had the general appearance of a white rabbit and the manners of a maternally intentioned but none too efficient hen. "Amenable" described her in one word. The darky was bringing out kitbags and suit-cases, piling them on the ground. Sam tackled him and showed him the flivver.

"There's a cupple of trunks," said the porter.

"We'll come back for them," Sam told him and helped him pile in the smaller baggage.

Keith descended first, Molly darted by his extended hand and ran straight to Sandy, who had dismounted.

"I'm going to hug you, and Mormon and Sam, as soon as we get home to the ranch," she cried. "Home! I'm so glad to be here. p.r.o.nto, you beauty, and my own bay, Blaze! Do you remember the trip over the mesa, Blaze?

How did you know I wanted to ride to Three Star instead of drive?"

"Took a chance," said Sandy. "Do you?" The old woman-shyness had come over him, fighting with his knowledge of the child who had changed into a woman. And the pongee duster deceived him.

"Do I? Didn't I write you I was aching to fork a saddle? Look!"

She unb.u.t.toned the duster with swift fingers and stripped it off, standing revealed in riding togs of smallest black and white checks, coat flaring out from the trim waist, slim straight legs in breeches and riding boots, a white stock about the slender, rounded neck. She gave one hand to Mormon, the other to Sam, gazing at her in admiration that was radiant and goggle-eyed.

"You're losing weight, Mormon," she said. "I believe you must be in love."

"I allus was, with you," gallantried Mormon.

"You stand aside, you human chuckawalla!" said Sam. "Miss Molly, you sure look good to sore eyes. An' I'm sure happy you're in my debt, if you ain't grown up too fur to pay yore dues."

"I always pay my debts, Sam. What do you mean?"

"It was me kissed the dawg," said Sam. "I give the animile somethin' I hadn't received."

Molly laughed at him rea.s.suringly. Sandy, looking down at her, saw her eyes crinkle at the corners in the old way. Keith and his son joined them, coming from the car, the Amenable Nicholson hovering behind ingratiatingly.

"Glad to see you, Bourke," he said. "And you, Manning. You too, Peters.

Meet my son, Donald."

The three partners shook hands gravely with the boy, appraising him without his guessing it.

"Glad to see you out west," said Mormon. "We'd sure admire to have you visit us fo' a spell."

"I was hoping for a bid," said young Keith. "Thanks. The car is here, or will be within an hour or two. Father shipped it ahead. Sims wired us it was at the junction. He will drive it over for us to go on to Casey Town as soon as he overhauls it. Then I'll run in from the mines, as soon as Dad can spare me."

"Donald has to get acquainted with a real mining property," said Keith affably. "Molly was certain you would have a horse for her, Bourke.

Don't wait round for us. We have to get some supplies and we'll wait in my car till the machine comes. Er"--he looked around, and Miss Nicholson fluttered up--"this is Molly's companion, Miss Nicholson. She goes with you to the ranch. How...?"

Sandy indicated the flivver and introduced Miranda Bailey, who had been directing the stowage of the grips and the proper subordination of the porter, who had not seemed appreciative of the flivver.

Molly held out a gloved hand for the reins of the fretful Blaze. Young Keith advanced with the proffer of a palm of her mounting. She shook her head at him.

"Blaze wouldn't know what you were trying to do, Don," she said. She turned the stirrup, set in her foot, grasped mane and horn and raised herself lightly, holding her body close to the bay's withers for a second as he whirled, then lifting to the saddle, firm-seated, with a laugh for Blaze's plungings.

"I see they didn't unteach you ridin' back east," said Mormon admiringly.

The pair rode out of the crowd that opened for them, with whispered comments upon Molly's appearance, or rather, her reappearance. There were few stings in the remarks; the girl's spontaneous gaiety, her absolute unconsciousness of effort or cause, her evident delight in her return and reunion with the Three Star partners, disarmed all criticism of her costume. The Amenable Nicholson clambered into the flivver beside Miranda Bailey. Sam, Mormon and the grips packed the tonneau, and Keith and his son were left standing by the private car.

Keith was soon surrounded with a crowd, making himself popular, flattering them until they finally went away convinced that they had all const.i.tuted a first-cla.s.s reception committee to meet the ill.u.s.trious, the energetic, good-fellow-well-met promoter and engineer of other people's fortunes.