Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 29

"You'll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I'm afraid, though. It's the Mounted Police detachment, and I'm the Sergeant in charge. But-we'll do what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I'll fix up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards."

Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for the first time in the light.

He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed, scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely censured by her aunt.

Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small, superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick ma.s.ses of silky, s.h.i.+ning, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face-which, though pleasing, healthy, and happy-could scarcely be called beautiful at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth, with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected the constant lively and changeful play of their owner's irrepressible emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.

She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain, white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her splendid columnar throat. Her feet-absurdly small for a woman of her generous build-were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl's Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coa.r.s.e though her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded outlines of her abnormally tall, cla.s.sical, magnificent figure.

"Well, well," said the Sergeant. "This sure is a pleasure. Why, I might have known you again if only from your voice."

She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous chuckle, like a boy whose voice is breaking.

"Same here," she said, with emphasis. "Though I've never had the pleasure of hearing yours in song before. Why, you must be the Mounted Policeman I often hear Mr. Trainer speaking of? I never thought to connect you with the same man on the black horse that time last year."

"Sure," he answered, grinning. "Only I hope Dave doesn't libel me as badly as some of 'em do, for I'm very sensitive. My name's Benton-Sergeant Benton."

Her dark eyes flashed roguishly and, drawing off a gauntlet, she held out her hand with a frank, impulsive camaraderie and grasped his with a warm, strong clasp.

"My Good Samaritan," she said simply. "I'm very glad to know you and, since introductions are going, suffice it to say _my_ name's O'Malley-Mary O'Malley-and I originally hail from New York. At present I'm companion to Mrs. Trainer, governess to her children-what you will."

He nodded. "Well," he said, "since you've been kind enough to confer the t.i.tle of 'Good Samaritan' on me, I must make good on the best this poor house can offer you."

And he bustled through into the kitchen. "No, no," he protested laughingly, as she arose with an offer of help and made as if to follow him. "You be good, now, and stay right where you are. You may run things at Dave Trainer's, but I won't have you b.u.t.ting around _my_ kitchen. Oh, I'm quite a competent cook, I can a.s.sure you."

She gave a little comical grimace of despair. "Oh, very well, then," she said. "I'll just stay here and sulk instead."

And she began to wander around the room, examining all his military accouterments, pictures, and curios, with a lively, almost childlike, interest, calling out from time to time "What this was for?" and "What that was?" etc. Then, suddenly seating herself at the piano, she lifted up a great, rollicking voice and, in an amusing, exaggerated Hibernian brogue, commenced to sing "Th' Waking of Pat Malone":

Thin-Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead- He raised his head and shouldthers from th' bed;

Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he continued his cooking operations.

Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning in the doorway, regarded him with serious, appraising eyes.

"Man," she said solemnly, "'tis th' grand voice that ye have-singin'

away all on your lonesome."

And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense amus.e.m.e.nt and surprise, a well-worn verse from "Omar Khayyam."

"So," said Ellis, with a delighted chuckle, as the daring and utter absurdity of the quotation, under the circ.u.mstances, struck him, "it's kind of you to suggest it. All the ingredients are at hand, too, except the 'Flask of Wine,' 'Wilderness enow,' particularly.... Sorry about the Wine, though, after that compliment. Unfortunately, we're strictly 'on the tack,' as we call it, just now. Oh, 'Barkis is willin',' all right."

He cleared the books and papers off the table in the living-room and, spreading out the simple repast that he had prepared for her, drew up a chair.

"Grub pi-i-ile!" she shrilled, in droll imitation of a camp cookee; and, seating herself, she attacked the frugal meal with a healthy appet.i.te that fully demonstrated her previous admission that she was hungry.

"Sorry I forgot to ask whether you'd have tea or coffee," he said apologetically. "I've made you coffee."

"Oh, that's all right," she said carelessly. "I much prefer coffee.

Thanks. My! but I'm hungry!"

He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite and, leaning his head back against the leopard skin, watched her with a lively and all-absorbing interest. Her complete self-possession and confidence, and the unconventional manner in which she proceeded to make herself entirely at home in the detachment, amused and astounded him. He remembered the impulsive, winning way that she had come over and spoken to him on the occasion of their first meeting. She was a new type to him and he realized that she was quite out of the ordinary.

She was not "mannish," but there seemed to be a good deal of the irresponsible boy, as it were, left in her. She couldn't be a strolling ex-actress, he reflected. The utter absence of coquetry, the fresh, healthy, open-air look of her, and the mention that she had made of the position she occupied at the Trainors' immediately dispelled that idea.

And besides, Dave Trainor's wife was a lady-like, nice woman and-particular. He was a frequent and welcome caller at their ranch-knew them intimately.

No, she was all right. Just a big, simple, jolly girl, well bred and educated; brought up, perhaps, amongst a host of brothers and their friends so, therefore, accustomed to masculine society, and most likely preferring it to her own s.e.x. Mixing with them in their out-door sports-clean minded, healthy specimens like herself-daring, high spirited and impulsive, without being brazen and bold-funny, without being vulgar. Her manner, and clear, frank, honest eyes showed him that.

Used to being teased and welcomed everywhere-clever, mirth loving, independent, self-reliant, kind and brave.

It was thus that he mentally diagnosed the character of his fair guest.

He was no vain, smirking Lothario, but he instinctively guessed how that strong mouth of hers could set, and those hazel eyes blaze and scintillate with dangerous anger at times; and that the man who was ill-advised and-ignorant enough-to ever make the foolish break of misconstruing her careless geniality for anything else _but_ that, was only inviting disaster of the most ignominious and humiliating kind.

Her gaze flitted around the room continually as she appeased her appet.i.te, and he was subjected to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.

"And do they supply your detachments with pianos, too?" she inquired ingenuously. "Now, you needn't laugh. I believe you've only been telling me a lot of nonsense. 'I was a stranger, so you took me in.' It's too bad of you."

"Honor bright, I haven't," he protested, with a grin. "I've told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pianos! Oh, my long-suffering Force. No, we get a pretty good outfit, but the Government don't extend their generosity quite _that_ far. This musical box belongs to the Honorable Percy Lake. He's a rich Englishman who plays at 'rawnching' here-a 'jolly boy,' as we call 'em. His place is about five miles due west from here; it's fitted up like a Fifth Avenue mansion. Oh, he's no end of a swell. But it's caddish of me to make fun of him, for he's an awfully decent chap at heart, in spite of his lazy, fastidious ways, and a man-every bit of him. He's away in California just now. He and his wife always flit South with the geese before the winter sets in, but they should be back any old time now. He was scared the punchers would ruin this piano if it was left to their tender mercies. It's a pretty good one, I believe-a Broadwood. Had it s.h.i.+pped out from the Old Country and, as he knows I'm fond of music, he insisted on carting it over here. Kind enough, but whatever I'd do with it if I was transferred suddenly anywhere else, I don't know. It'll be a relief, in a way, when he redeems it."

He got up and poured her some more coffee, remarking a little anxiously:

"I suppose the Trainors will be having a search party out for you, thinking something's happened. Shouldn't wonder but what Dave's on his way down here right now to notify me."

"Oh, no; don't you worry," she said rea.s.suringly. "I told them I _might_ stay at the G.o.ddard's place for the night. I would have done so, only I found little w.i.l.l.y G.o.ddard was sickening for measles and I didn't want to take chances in my capacity of governess of probably pa.s.sing it on to the Trainors' children-Bert and Gwyn. Not that I'm scared for myself-I've had it, years and years ago. Oh, the Trainors know I'm jolly well able to take care of my little self," she added, with a slight suggestion of defiant challenge in her tones and look which stirred the fiery Benton blood in his veins strangely.

"Yes, you just bet you are!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed admiringly, as he appraised her strong, splendid figure. "You're away taller than I am, and I shouldn't wonder if you don't _weigh_ heavier, too. Riding keeps my weight down, though. I don't suppose I go more'n a hundred and seventy-five; but that's plenty heavy enough for a horse."

She nodded carelessly. "Went one hundred and seventy-eight last week when I weighed myself on the grain scales-and I'm five feet ten and a half. Oh, Finnegan, that's me!

"I had quite an adventure coming along," she continued, with reflective gravity. "After I'd left the G.o.ddards' I came through a place away back on the trail there-I think it's called 'Fish Creek.' I was pa.s.sing by a bit of an old homestead-you couldn't dignify it with the t.i.tle of 'ranch.' There was a tumble-down old shack there, anyway, and as I came round the front of it-the trail bends there-I saw a funny little old man standing, or rather, leaning, in the doorway. He'd got a bottle in his hand and, oh! he _was_ so tipsy-singing away like anything.

"Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his bottle and shouted "_Urroo!_' I didn't know what he was rejoicing about, but of course I shouted 'Urroo! back. And then I suppose he intended to come over and speak to me, but the steps of his shack were broken and, oh, dear! he came such an awful tumble off his perch and smashed the bottle all to pieces."

Ellis gave a shout of laughter. "Why, that must be old Bob Tucker," he said. "He's always getting 'lit up.' Did he scare you?"

The great, smiling girl arose and, dusting some crumbs off her lap, drew herself up to her full regal height and looked down upon him with pitying toleration.

"Huh!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. But words cannot express the world of scornful amus.e.m.e.nt, derision, and incredulity that she put into the exclamation.

"Scare nothing! the poor little, dirty old tipsy thing. I got off Sam and picked him up, and then I saw he'd cut one of his hands on the broken bottle. It was bleeding ever so badly, and a piece of the gla.s.s was still sticking in the cut. When he saw he'd lost all his whiskey he started to swear something awful-leastways I _think_ it was swearing....

It sounded like it, but it was in a funny language I couldn't understand. And then he began to cry. Oh, I _was_ so sorry for him. I helped him up the steps into the shack, and got some water and washed his cut hand-then I tied it up with my handkerchief. All the time he kept whimpering: 'Oh, gorblimey, it 'urts! it 'urts!' And he kept calling me '_intombi_.' What's that mean?"

"It's Zulu," said Ellis. "It means 'young woman.' I guess he was swearing in Kaffir or the _Taal_. He's an old c.o.c.kney, but he's lived the best part of his life in South Africa."

"Well," she continued, "after I'd fixed up his hand he stopped crying and commenced to shout: "Urroo! 'Urroo!' again. And then he pulled a dirty old letter out of his pocket and began to tell me it was from 'Jack 'Arper,' who, he explained, was a friend of his son's, somewhere down in Eastern Ontario. "E tells me my b'y 'Arry's _vrouw's doed_!-gorn to 'eving!' he says, in a screech you could pretty nearly hear to Sabbano. And it was awful the way he chuckled and grinned over it. Just as if it was some great joke. 'An' Jack, 'e says as 'ow 'Arry's bin _dronk_ ever since, but wevver it's becos 'e's sorry, or becos 'e's glad, w'y 'e don't know.... An' 'e says as 'ow 'Arry wants me to come back Heast an' live wiv 'im on th' farm. An' I'm a-goin', too!' he says.

'I've sold aht this old plice-an' me stock-to Walter 'Umphries, an' I'm a-goin' to _trek_ next week. 'Urroo! 'Urroo! 'ere goes nuthin'!'"

Ellis, at this point, was convulsed with mirth; for her exact mimicry of old Tucker's c.o.c.kney speech was startlingly natural and funny in the extreme.

The girl laughed with him, continuing: "He was stumbling about and waving his arms all the while he was telling me this joyful news, and he wanted to get me some supper but, ugh!... I simply couldn't. The place and everything was so dirty-like a pigstye. I was glad to get away, and I left him standing on the broken steps waving his bandaged hand to me.

The poor old thing! does he live there all alone?"