Bruce of the Circle A Part 20

"So,"--as he lathered his hands with soap--"I've always figured that when us men got runnin' too loose we was makin' mistakes, losin' a lot.

It may seem a little hard on us to stop doin' what we've had a good time doin' for a while, but, when you stop to consider all sides, I guess there's about as much pleasure for us when we think of others as there is when we're so selfish that we don't see nothin' but our own desires."

Lytton stirred uneasily in his chair and tossed his chin scornfully.

"Don't you ever get tired playing the hero?" he taunted. "That's what you are, you know. You're the hero; I'm the villain. You're the one who's always saying the things heroes say in books. You're the one who's always right, while I'm always wrong.

"You know, Bayard, when a man gets to be so d.a.m.n heroic it's time he watched himself. I've never seen one yet whose foot didn't slip sooner or later. The higher you fly, understand, the harder you fall. You're pretty high; mighty superior to most of us. Look out!"

The other regarded him a moment, cheeks flus.h.i.+ng slowly under the taunt.

"Lytton, if I was to ask a favor of you, would you consider it?"

"Fire away! The devil alone knows what I could do for anybody."

"Just this. Be careful of me, please. I might, sometime, sort of choke you or something!"

He turned back to the wash basin at that and soused his face and head in the cold water.

A moment before he had looked through that red film which makes killers of gentle men. He had mastered himself at the cost of a mighty effort, but in the wake of his rage came a fresh loathing for that other man ...

the man he was grooming, rehabilitating, only to blot out the possibility of having a bit of Ann's life for himself. He was putting his best heart, his best mind, his best strength into that discouraging task, hoping against hope that he might lift Lytton to a level where Ann would find something to attract and hold her, something to safeguard her against the true lover who might ride past on his fire-shod stallion.

And it was bitter work.

CHAPTER XII

THE RUNAWAY

During these days Bayard saw Ann regularly. He would be up before dawn that he might do the necessary riding after his cattle and reach Yavapai before sunset, because, somehow, he felt that to see another man's wife by daylight was less of a transgression than though he went under cover of darkness. Perhaps it was also because he feared that in spite of his caution to keep Ann's ident.i.ty secret, in spite of the community's accepted first conclusion, Yavapai might learn that she was wife and not sister, and wished to fortify her against the sting of comment that might be pa.s.sed should the revelation occur and his affection for her be guessed.

He was punctilious about his appearance. Invariably he changed s.h.i.+rts and overalls before riding to the town, and he had reserved one gorgeous green silk scarf for those occasions. He never appeared before the woman unshaven and, since his one confessional outburst, he was as careful of his speech, his manner, as he was of his person.

Ann had taken to Arizona whole heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading--divided skirts, simple blouses, a brimmed hat that would shade her eyes. Her cheeks bronzed from sun and wind, the blood pumped closer to her skin from the outdoor life and her eyes, above the latent pain in their depths, took on the brilliance of health.

Her new manner of dress, the better color that came to her face and accentuated her beauty, the growing indications of vitality about her, served only to fan the flame in Bayard's heart, for as it made her more attractive to him, it also made her more understandable, brought her nearer to his virile kind.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ann had taken to Arizona whole-heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading.]

"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of opening their conversations.

Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal regard to pa.s.s his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck, change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic movement as she walked.

Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse when he approached.

Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face; and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast.

He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.

Mrs. Weyl returned to Yavapai and with her coming Ann found another outlet for the trouble that she fought vainly to repress. To Bayard she had given the fullest detail of her confidence; through Nora she had found a method of forgetting for short successions of hours. But Bayard was a man, and between them was the peculiar barrier which his love had erected; Nora was not the type to which Ann would go for comfort and there, anyhow, was again a dividing circ.u.mstance which could not wholly be overcome. It was the emotional receptiveness of an understanding woman that Ann Lytton needed; she wanted to be mothered, to be pitied, to be a.s.sured in the terms of her kind and all that she found in the clergyman's wife.

"Why, the poor child!" that good woman had cried when, on her arrival home, her husband had told her of Ann's presence. "And you say her brother has disappeared?"

"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite desperately in love."

Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to physical and moral health.

To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet understanding.

"And because of everything, we--Mr. Bayard and I--had thought it best to let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it might be embarra.s.sing to have them talk."

Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,

"I know, daughter, I know."

That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight, Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:

"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."

The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby coal before he spoke.

"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help--from listening on up--just let me try, will you, my boy?"

"If any man could help, you'd be the one," was the answer. "But th'

other day we sifted this thing down; it's up to th' man himself to be sure that he's ridin' th' open trail an' ain't got anything to cover up.

"But lately so much has happened that I don't feel free, even when I'm out on the valley. I feel, somehow, like I was under fence ... fenced in."

Nora and Ann continued their rides together and one afternoon they had gone to the westward in the direction of Bayard's ranch. It was at Nora's suggestion, after they had agreed that Bruce might be on his way to Yavapai that day. In the distance, they had sighted a rider and after watching him a time saw him wave his hat.

"That's him," the waitress said. "Here's some fine gra.s.s; let's give th'

horses a bite an' let 'em cool till he comes up."

They waited there then, slouched in their saddles. Ann wanted to talk about something other than Bruce, because, at the mention of his name, that old chill was bound to a.s.sert itself in Nora.

"This is a better horse than the one I've had," she commented, stroking the pony's withers and hoping to start talk that would make the interval of waiting one of ease between them.

"Yes," agreed Nora, "but he's got a bad eye. I was afraid of him when we first started out, but he seems to be all right. Bruce had one that looked like him once an' he tried to pitch me off."

"Hold up your head, pony," Ann said, "You'll get us into trouble--"

Her horse, searching gra.s.s, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright.

Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint, broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and, surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a panicky run.

Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would only set the runaway at a greater speed.

"Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!"

Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap that carried them forward.