The Wind Before the Dawn Part 9

"Not a bit--only muddy," she replied, stooping to brush her earth-stained hands through the rain-laden gra.s.s at the roadside. He was still working with the straps when her hands were cleaned and watched her openly as she shielded her face behind Patsie's head while waiting. The water dripped from the ends of her braided brown hair and the long dark lashes of her brown eyes were mist-laden also. He examined all the accoutrements of her mount minutely. When at last it occurred to her that he was giving them extra attention for the sake of extending the time Elizabeth's eyes lighted up with a humorous twinkle. The young man caught and rightly interpreted the expression and was embarra.s.sed.

"I think it's all right," he said quickly. "I'm awfully sorry to have been so stupid. I never thought of meeting any one in all this rain."

Elizabeth took that as a reflection upon her presence out of doors on such a day, and leading her horse down into the deep road sprang into the saddle from the bank before he could offer his a.s.sistance.

"Thank you for helping me," she said, and was off toward the west before he could speak.

She was gone, and he could do nothing but look after her helplessly.

"Your horse has lamed itself," he called when he was at last able to concern himself with such matters, but either the spattering hoofbeats prevented her hearing his voice or she was determined not to reply; he could not tell which. There was nothing to do but return to his wagon.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "Now you've made an a.s.s of yourself and let her get away without finding out who she was or where she lived." He liked her--and he was an a.s.s! He anathematized himself openly.

When well away from the man, Elizabeth saw that his observation regarding the prospects of meeting people on such a day was a perfectly natural one and not aimed at her at all. She laughed at the spectacle she was sure she must have presented, and wished now that she had not been in such a hurry in leaving him. Here was a man worth looking at. The gesture as he had lifted his hat indicated refinement.

"Curious that I haven't seen him--he lives here some where," she pondered, and now that she could not find out she rated herself severely for the embarra.s.sment which was apt to a.s.sail her at critical moments.

Patsie limped miserably, and Elizabeth brought her down to a walk and let her droop along the old country road, and speculated on this new specimen of masculinity which had dropped from the skies to puzzle and delight her soul.

The rain beat heavily now, and Elizabeth began to take her situation into account after thinking over the stranger a few minutes. There was a perfect deluge of water from the burdened sky, and though no sign of a house could be seen, she knew she could not be far from the Chamberlain homestead; but the ground was becoming more and more soggy, and her garments were not of the heaviest. Patsie's feet went ploop, ploop, ploop, in the soft, muddy road. Elizabeth urged her to the fastest possible walking speed in spite of her lameness. To trot or gallop was impossible, and the young horse slipped now and then in a manner which would have unseated a less skilful rider.

The sodden Kansas road was aflood with this spring rain. Patsie laboured heavily and Elizabeth gave herself up to her cogitations again. Her mind had reacted to more pleasant subjects than home affairs.

It had been a dreary, disheartening ride, and yet it had had its compensations, for was not the rider young and the earth filled with the freshness of spring? The short and tender gra.s.s bordered the road to the very wheel-ruts; the meadow larks sang regardless of the rain, or mayhap in sheer meadow-lark delight because of it. To the south a prairie chicken drummed, and a cow called to her calf, whose reply came from a point still farther in the distance. At the sound of the cow's lowing Elizabeth Farnshaw peered delightedly through mists.

"I knew it couldn't be much farther, Patsie," she said, leaning forward and patting the neck of the dripping horse. Little spurts of water flew spatteringly from under the affectionate palm, and Elizabeth shook her bare hand to free it from the wet hairs which adhered to it, laughing at her rainsoaked condition.

It was indeed a time for seeking shelter.

Presently the rattle of a chain was heard nearby, then the outlines of a straw stable were seen, and from the foreground of mist a man appeared unhitching a team of horses from a large farm wagon. Patsie gave a little nicker of antic.i.p.ation as she scented the sacks of oats, carefully covered, in the back of the wagon. The old man rose from his stooping position in unfastening the tugs and faced the newcomer.

"Why, it's Miss Farnshaw! Gee whiz! Be you a duck t' be out on such a day as this?" he inquired, stepping forward when he saw that she was coming in. Then chuckling at his own humour, he added:

"I guess you be a goslin'--a goslin' bein' a young goose, you know."

Elizabeth Farnshaw laughed. "But my feathers aren't turning the rain, Mr.

Chamberlain." It was the second time within the hour that she had been reminded that women were not expected to go out of doors in a rainstorm.

"That's because you're such a young goose, you know; you ain't got no feathers yet, it's only down."

"Fairly caught!" she replied, backing her horse around so that the rain would come from behind, "Tell me, does the school board meet to-night?"

"Oh, ho!" the farmer replied, "that's th' way th' wind blows, is it? Now look here, young lady, if you be as prompt in lickin' them youngsters in season an' out o' season as you be in lookin' up schools I guess You'll do. Yes, sir-ee, th' school board meets to-night an' you jes' come t' th'

house an' have a bite t' eat an' we'll see what we can do for you. Why, stars an' garters!" he exclaimed as he lifted her down from her horse, "Liza Ann 'll have t' put you in th' oven along with th' rest of th'

goslins." Then he added: "Now you run along to th' house, an' I'll take this horse in hand. I judge by its nicker you didn't stop for no dinner to-day."

Mrs. Chamberlain appeared at the door and her husband called to her,

"Liza Ann! here's Miss Farnshaw, as wet as that last brood of chickens you found under th' corn-planter. Give 'er a dry pair of shoes an' take 'er wet coat off o' 'er."

As Elizabeth turned to her hostess, the old man exclaimed, "Why, Gosh all Friday, what's happened to your horse?"

"I'm awfully worried about Patsie's foot. She slipped in the muddy road this afternoon. Do you suppose It'll lay her up? It's a busy time and pa needs her."

"I don't know; it's in a ticklish place. I'll rub it good with Mustang liniment; that's th' best thing I know of. Now you run on to th' house; you're wet enough t' wake up lame yourself in th' mornin'," he admonished, straightening up, with his hands on the small of his back.

Having dismissed Elizabeth, Silas Chamberlain took Patsie's saddle from her back and laid it across Old Queen's harness, taking his own team into the barn first. Old Queen was an unsocial animal and it was necessary to tie her in the far stall when a strange horse was brought into the barn, as she had a way of treating intruders badly. She sniffed at the saddle distrustfully as Mr. Chamberlain tied her up.

"Whoa! there!" he said emphatically, giving her a slap on the flank which sent her into the opposite corner of the stall. "You needn't be s' all fired touchy you can't let a strange saddle come into th' stall. That saddle's carried th' pluckiest girl in this end of th' county t'day.

Gosh-a-livin's! Think of her a comin' out on a day like this, an' smilin'

at them wet feathers, as she called 'em, 's if it didn't make no difference bein' wet at all. Now if John Hunter gets his eyes on 'er there'll be an end of ma's board money; an' then how'll I finish payin'

fur that sewin' machine?"

In the house, after some time spent in trying to be stiffly polite to her guest, the unwilling hostess began the supper. The potatoes were put on to fry, the kettle sang, and Mrs. Chamberlain sat down to grind the coffee in a mill which she grasped firmly between her knees.

"Maybe you 'uns don't drink coffee?" she remarked anxiously, stopping to look over at the girl, who sat near the fire drying her shoes in the oven.

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth answered slowly, coming back reluctantly from a consideration of the handsome stranger she had met; "that is," she added confusedly, "I never drink anything but water, anyhow."

Mrs. Chamberlain gave a relieved sigh. "I was afraid you'd rather have tea, an' I ain't got no tea in th' house. Bein' farmin' season now it seems as if I can't never get t' town."

Just then one adventurous chick which, with the rest of the brood, had been discovered under the corn-planter earlier in the day, jumped out of the box in which it had been kept near the fire. Mrs. Chamberlain set the mill on the table and gave chase to the runaway.

"That's th' peertest chicken of th' lot," she remarked as she again enveloped him in the old woollen skirt, from the folds of which came much distressed cheeping. "They're hungry, I think," she added, reaching for a bowl of yellow cornmeal which she mixed with water. Lifting the skirt off the little brood carefully, and giving it a cautious shake to a.s.sure herself that no unwary chick was caught in its folds, she dropped some of the mixture in the middle of the box, tapping lightly with the spoon to call the attention of the chicks to its presence. The chickens pecked hungrily, and there was a satisfied note in the twitterings of the downy little group as Mrs. Chamberlain turned to the preparation of her supper again.

"Yes, he's th' peertest chicken of th' lot; an' I'd most as soon he'd been more like th' rest--he's always gettin' out of th' box."

"Now, Liza Ann, you ain't thinkin' nothin' of th' kind," said her husband, who had hurried with his evening ch.o.r.es so as to get a chance to visit with the company and had just come in from the stable. "You know you said yourself, 'Thank goodness, there's one on 'em alive,' when you fished 'em out from under that planter. Th' same thing's keeping 'im on th' go now that kept 'im from givin' up as quick as th' rest did then. Chicken's is like boys, Miss Farnshaw," Silas continued, addressing Elizabeth; "th'

ones that makes th' most trouble when thy're little, you can count on as bein' th' most likely when they're growed up. Now, Liza Ann there counted on that chicken soon's ever she set eyes on 'im."

Having washed his face and hands in the tin basin on the bench just outside the kitchen door, Silas Chamberlain combed his curly locks of iron gray before the little looking gla.s.s which was so wrinkled that he looked like some fantastic caricature when mirrored on its surface. After a short grace at the opening of the meal, he pa.s.sed a dish of potatoes, remarking:

"We ain't much hands t' wait on th' table, Miss Farnshaw; You'll have t'

reach an' help yourself."

"Who's this plate for?" Elizabeth asked at last, designating the vacant place at her side.

"That's John's," said Mrs. Chamberlain.

"John Hunter's, Miss Farnshaw," said Silas. "He's our boarder, an' th'

likeliest young man in these parts." Then he added with conviction, "You two be goin' t' like each other."

A girlish blush covered the well-tanned cheeks, and to hide her embarra.s.sment Elizabeth said with a laugh:

"Describe this beau ideal of yours."

"Now, Si, do let th' child alone," Mrs. Chamberlain protested. "He's always got t' tease," she added deprecatingly.