The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 69

Perhaps the Frangipanni stimulated him. Perhaps the overdose deadened his decision to stay away from the hospital. In any event, that afternoon he betook himself to the hospital, and was fortunate in finding Andover there, to whom he confided the obvious news that he was in town--and that he would like to see little Ruth for a minute, if it was all right.

Andover told him that little Ruth had been taken to her home a month ago--and Pete wondered how she could still miss him, as Miss Gray had intimated in her last letter. And as he wondered he saw light--not a great light, but a faint ray which was reflected in his face as he asked Andover when Miss Gray would be relieved from duty, and if it would be possible to see her then.

Andover thought it might be possible, and suggested that he let Miss Gray know of Pete's presence; but some happy instinct caused Pete to veto that suggestion.

"It ain't important," he told Andover. "I'll jest mosey around about six, and step in for a minute. Don't you say I'm in town!"

Andover gazed curiously after Pete as the latter marched out. The surgeon shook his head. Mixed drinks were not new to Andover, but he could not for the life of him recognize what Pete had been drinking.

Doris, who had not been thinking of Pete at all,--as she was not a spiritualist, and had always doubted that affinities were other than easy excuses for uneasy morals,--came briskly down the hospital steps, gowned in a trim gray skirt and a jacket, and a jaunty turban that hid just enough of her brown hair to make that which was visible the more alluring. She almost walked into Pete--for, as it has been stated, she was not thinking of him at all, but of the cozy evening she would spend with her sister at the latter's apartments on High Street.

Incidentally Doris was thinking, just a little, of how well her gown and turban became her, for she had determined never to let herself become frowsy and slipshod--Well--she had not to look far for her ant.i.thesis.

"Why, Mr. Annersley!"

Pete flushed, the victim of several emotions. "Good-evenin', Miss Gray. I--I thought I'd jest step in and say 'h.e.l.lo' to that little kid."

"Oh! Ruth?" And Doris flushed just the least bit herself. "Why, little Ruth is not here now."

"Shucks! Well, I'm right glad you are! Was you goin' somewhere?"

"Yes. Out to my sister's on High Street."

"I only been in town two or three days, so I don't know jest where High Street is, but I reckon I could find my way back all right." And Pete so far forgot the perfume as to smile in his old, boyish way.

Doris did some rapid mental calculation and concluded that her latest--or rather her last--letter had just about arrived in Tucson, and of course Pete had not read it. That made matters a little difficult. But there was no reason in the world why he should not walk with her to her sister's.

Pete saw no reason why he should not, either, but rather a very attractive reason why he should.

Without further word they turned and walked down the street, Doris wondering what in the world had induced Pete to immerse himself in Frangipanni, and Pete wondering if there was ever a prettier girl in the world than Doris Gray.

And because Pete wanted to talk about something entirely impersonal, he at once began to ask her what she thought of his latest plan, which was to purchase an interest in the Concho, spend his summers working with the men and his winters in Tucson, studying with Forbes about whom he had written to her.

Doris thought it was a splendid plan. She was sure--quite impersonally--that he would make a success of anything he attempted.

Pete was not so sure, and he told her so. She joked him for doubting himself. He promptly told her that he didn't doubt himself for a minute, but that he did doubt the willingness of the person whom he hoped to make a partner in the venture.

"Not Mr. Forbes?" she queried, glancing quickly at Pete's serious face.

"Nope. It's you."

They walked another block without speaking; then they walked still another. And they had begun to walk still another when Pete suddenly pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and threw it in the gutter.

"That doggone perfume is chokin' me to death!" he blurted. And Doris, despite herself, smiled.

They were out where the streets were more open and quiet now. The sun was close to the edge of the desert, far in the west. Doris's hand trembled just the least bit as she turned to say "good-night." They had stopped in front of a house, near the edge of town. Pete's face was a bit pale; his dark eyes were intense and gloomy.

Quite unconscious of what he was doing, he pulled out his watch--a new watch that possessed no erratic tendencies. Suddenly Doris thought of Pete's old watch, and of little Ruth's extreme delight in its irresponsible hands whirling madly around, and of that night when Pete had been brought to the hospital. Suddenly there were two tears trembling on her lashes, and her hand faltered. Then, being a sensible person, she laughed away her emotion, for the time being, and invited Pete in to supper.

Pete thought Doris's sister a mighty nice girl, plumb sensible and not a bit stuck up. And later, when this "plumb sensible" person declared that she was rather tired and excused herself and disappeared, after bidding Pete good-night, he knew that she was a sensible person. He couldn't see how she could help it, being the sister of Doris.

"So I'll be sayin' good-night," stated Pete a few minutes later, as he stood by the door, proud and straight and as vital as a flame.

But he didn't say it, at least coherently. Doris's hand was on his sleeve. Pete thought she had a mighty pretty hand. And as for her eyes--they were gray and misty and warm . . . and not at all like he had ever seen them before. He laughed happily, "You look plumb lonesome!" he said.

"I--I was."

Pete dropped his hat, but he did not know it until, well--several minutes later, when Doris gave it to him.

It was close to midnight when a solitary policeman, pa.s.sing down a side street, heard a nocturnal singer inform dark and empty High Street that he was

"The Ridin' Kid from Powder River,"--

with other more or less interesting details.

Pete felt a hand on his shoulder. "You better cut that out!" said the officer.

Pete whirled and his hand flickered toward his hip. "You go plumb to--" Pete hesitated. The officer sniffed suspiciously. Pete grinned--then proffered his hand with irresistible enthusiasm.

"Sure I'll cut it out."

THE END