They Of The High Trails Part 48

Her speech was noticeably Southern in accent, as if it were a part of her masquerade, but she brought him a chair and confronted him without confusion. In this calm dignity he read something entirely flattering to himself.

"Evidently she considers me a friend as well as an officer," he reasoned.

"I hope you are a little hungry," she said. "I'd like to have you break bread in our house. You were mighty kind to us the other day."

"Oh, I'm hungry," he admitted, meeting her hospitality half-way. "Seems like I'm always hungry. You see, I cook my own grub, and my bill of fare isn't what you'd call extensive, and, besides, a man's cooking never relishes the way a woman's does, anyhow."

"I'll see what I can find for you," she said, and hurried out.

While waiting he studied the room in which he sat with keenest interest.

It was rather larger than the usual living-room in a mountain home, but it had not much else to distinguish it. The furniture was of the kind to be purchased in the near-by town, and the walls were roughly ceiled with cypress boards; but a few magazines, some books on a rude shelf, a fiddle-box under the table, and a guitar hanging on a nail gave evidence of refinement and taste and spoke to him of pleasures which he had only known afar. The guitar especially engaged his attention. "I wonder if she sings?" he asked himself.

Musing thus in silence, he heard her moving about the kitchen with rapid tread, and when she came in, a few minutes later, bearing a tray, he thought her beautiful--so changed was her expression.

"I didn't wait for the coffee," she smilingly explained. "You said you were hungry and so I have brought in a little 'snack.' The coffee will be ready soon."

"Snack!" he exclaimed. "Lady! This is a feast!" And as she put the tray down beside him he added: "This puts me right back in Aunt Mary's house at Circle Bend, Nebraska. I don't rightly feel fit to sit opposite a spread like that."

She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but a little cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday; and the raspberry jam is mine also."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE AUTHOR AND A FOREST RANGER]

"It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkins and the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to a man who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guilty feeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgiving treat under false pretenses. Perhaps you think I'm an English n.o.bleman in disguise. But I'm not--I'm just a plain dub of a forest ranger, ninety dollars a month and board myself."

She laughed at his disclaimer, and yet under her momentary lightness he still perceived something of the strong current of bitter sadness which had so profoundly moved him at the inquest and which still remained unexplained; therefore he hesitated about referring to the Watson case.

As he ate, she stood to serve him, but not with the air of a serving-maid; on the contrary, though her face was bronzed by the winds, and her hands calloused by spade and hoe, there was little of the rustic in her action. Her blouse, cut sailor fashion at the throat, displayed a lovely neck (also burned by the sun), and she carried herself with the grace of an athlete. Her trust and confidence in her visitor became more evident each moment.

"No," she said in answer to his question. "We hardly ever have visitors.

Now and then some cowboy rides past, but you are almost the only caller we have ever had. The settlers in the valley do not attract me."

"I should think you'd get lonesome."

She looked away, and a sterner, older expression came into her face. "I do, sometimes," she admitted; then she bravely faced him. "But my health is so much better--it was quite broken when I came--that I have every reason to be thankful. After all, health is happiness. I ought to be perfectly content, and I am when I think how miserable I once was."

"Health is cheap with me," he smilingly replied. "But I get so lonesome sometimes that I pretty near quit and go out. Do you intend to stay here all winter?"

"We expect to."

He thought it well to warn her. "The snow falls deep in this valley--terribly deep."

She showed some uneasiness. "I know it, but I'm going to learn to snow-shoe."

"I wish you'd let me come over and teach you."

"Can you snow-shoe? I thought rangers always rode horseback."

He smiled. "You've been reading the opposition press. A forest ranger who is on the job has got to snow-shoe like a Canuck or else go down the valley after the snow begins to fall. It was five feet deep around my cabin last year. I hate to think of your being here alone. If one of you should be sick, it would be--tough. Unless you absolutely have to stay here, I advise you to go down the creek."

"Perhaps our neighbors and not the snow will drive us out," she replied.

"They've already served notice."

He looked startled. "What do you mean by that?"

Without answering, she went to the bookshelf and took down a folded sheet of paper. "Here is a letter I got yesterday," she explained, as she handed it to him.

It was a rudely penciled note, but entirely plain in its message. "Spite of what the coroner found, most folks believe you killed Ed Watson," it began, abruptly. "Some of us don't blame you much. Others do, and they say no matter what the jury reports you've got to go. I don't like to see a woman abused, so you'd better take warning and pull out. Do it right away." It was signed, "A Friend."

The ranger read this through twice before he spoke. "Did this come through the mail?"

"Yes--addressed to me."

He pretended to make light of it. "I wouldn't spend much time over that.

It's only some smart Aleck's practical joke."

"I don't think so," she soberly replied. "It reads to me like a sincere warning--from a woman. I haven't shown it to daddy yet, and I don't know whether to do so or not. I thought of going over to see you, but I was not sure of the way. I'm glad Providence sent you round to-day, for I am uncertain about what to do."

"I'm a little uneasy about that warning myself," he confessed, after a pause. "I hear the Kitsong gang is bitterly dissatisfied with the result of the inquest thus far. They still insist on connecting you in some way with the shooting. Fact is, I came over to-day to see if they had made any new move."

All the lightness had gone out of his face now, and in the girl's eyes the shadow deepened as she said:

"It seems to me that I have drawn more than my share of trouble. I came out here hoping to find a sanctuary, and I seem to have fallen into a den of wolves. These people would hang me if they could. I don't understand their hate of us. They resent our being here. Sometimes I feel as if they were only trying to drive us from our little ranch."

"Of course, all this talk of violence is nonsense," he vigorously went on. "They can make you a whole lot of discomfort, but you are in no danger."

Her glance was again remote as she said: "I cannot take that murder case seriously. It all seems a thousand miles away from me now. And yet I am afraid for daddy's sake. Why connect me with it? Is there no other woman to accuse? Do you suppose a woman did the shooting? I don't."

"No. I think the footprints were accidental. I figure the killing was done by some man who had it in for Watson. He was always rowing with his help, and there are two or three Mexicans who have threatened to get him. At the same time, I don't like this letter. They're a tough lot in this valley." He mused a moment. "Yes, I guess you'd better plan to go."

Her gaze wandered. "I hate to leave my garden and my flowers," she said, sadly. "After all, I've had some very peaceful hours in this nook." Her face brightened. She became the genial hostess again. "If you have finished your lunch, I wish you would come out and see my crops."

He followed her gladly, and their talk again became cheerfully impersonal. Truly she had done wonders in a small s.p.a.ce and in a short time. Flower-beds glowed beside the towering rocks. Small ditches supplied the plants with water, and from the rich red soil luscious vegetables and fragrant blooms were springing.

All animation now, she pointed out her victories. "This is all my work,"

she explained, proudly. "Daddy isn't much of a hand with the spade or the hoe. Therefore I leave the riding and the cows to him. I love to paddle in the mud, and it has done me a great deal of good."

"What will you do with all this 'truck'?"

"Daddy intends to market it in town."

"He's away a good deal, I take it."

"Yes, I'm alone often all day, but he's always home before dark."

He voiced his concern. "I don't like to think of your being alone, even in the daytime." He spoke as one who had been swiftly advanced from stranger to trusted friend. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued, as if moved by a sudden thought. "I'll go into camp across the creek for to-night, and then if anything goes wrong I'll be within call."

"Oh no! Don't think of doing that! You must not neglect your duties.

Daddy is a pretty good marksman, and I have learned to handle a rifle, and, besides"--here her tone became ironic--"in the chivalrous West a woman need not fear."