Partners of Chance Part 30

With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas Valley.

True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable.

Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with eyes hungry for the sympathetic companions.h.i.+p of youth, especially feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate.

In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friends.h.i.+p could become anything more than friends.h.i.+p. And it was upon that understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.

Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon.

Bartley was at once invited to partic.i.p.ate in the hunt, and he could think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.

Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She promised to be here right after dinner."

"Was Miss Dorry going with you?"

Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a girl."

"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley.

"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow."

But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned with a n.o.ble buck deer hanging across the saddle.

It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the desert.

Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?"

she queried, smiling.

"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--"

Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.

"Then you know?"

"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."

"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," a.s.serted Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of course, if anything happens to Sears--"

Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the trail."

"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.

"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once."

"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills and get in the shade?"

"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."

It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim a.s.sured his charges that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a spell."

The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond them stretched the valley floor, s.h.i.+mmering in the sun. Behind them the hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber showed against the eastern sky.

"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," a.s.serted Jimmy, pointing toward the distant ridge. "I been up there."

"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very angry."

"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.

"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley.

"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights.

Fairy stories make me tired."

"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.

"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't growed up till they git married."

Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers.

Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley's presence rather awed him.

Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!

Under such circ.u.mstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to elephants.

Some time pa.s.sed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no reply. "He won't go far," she a.s.sured Bartley who rose to go and look for Jimmy.

Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those little machines!

Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an automobile snorting and snuffing through my story."

"Your story!"

"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag.

I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it."

"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?"

"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far wrong."

Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until that moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was a writer of stories.

"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine in your story."

"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--"

"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley."

"You really mean it?"

Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he was rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his first Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a compliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry gra.s.s in his fingers.

"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on Aunt Jane."