The Heart of Thunder Mountain Part 12

"I should judge that you had saddled him this time," he interrupted her to say, without the slightest trace of irony in his tone.

She bit her lip, as she silently made way for him, and stood at Tuesday's head, stroking his neck with one small, gloved hand while Haig adjusted the blanket, fitted the saddle firmly, and tightened the double cinch. He was dressed in the nondescript costume he had worn at their first meeting. That same hat, uniquely insolent, soiled and limp and disreputable, was stuck on the back of his head, revealing a full, clean-moulded brow, over which, at one side, his thick black hair fell carelessly. His eyes were calm gray rather than stormy black to-day, but a gray that was singularly dark and deep and luminous. His manner was in the strangest contrast with the two different moods in which she had already seen him--as if the fires were out, as if all emotion and interest had been dissolved in listlessness. And she divined at once that her chance of success was small.

"That will hold, I think," he said gravely; and started toward his horse.

"It wasn't Tuesday's fault," she said eagerly.

Haig paused, on one foot as it were, and looked over his shoulder.

"It was fortunate for you that he's been well gentled," he said. "You should look to your cinches rather often when you ride these hills."

("You should keep your feet dry, and come in when it rains," he might as well have said, she thought angrily.)

"Yes, it was careless of me," she answered, trying to say it brightly, but really wanting to shriek.

"It happens to everybody once in a while," he said.

On that, he stepped to his pony, put a foot in the stirrup, and one hand on the saddle horn, and paused.

She could easily have flopped down in the road, and wept. Once he had raged at her, once he had thrilled her with a look, and now he was simply dismissing her,--leaving her, as her father would have put it, "to stew in her own juice." She saw all her elaborate strategy, her long vigil on the hill, her struggle with the saddle, her appealing'

glances--all, all about to go for nothing.

"He might at least help me on my horse!" she thought, in bitter resentment.

Perhaps tears blinded her. At any rate--and this was without pretence, and no part of her scheme--she did not see clearly what she was doing.

It was nothing new to mount her pony from the level; she had done it a hundred times without mishap. But now, in her agitation, she stood somewhat too far away from Tuesday's shoulder; and the pony, as ponies will sometimes do, started forward the instant he felt the weight in the stirrup.

"Look out!" cried Haig.

It was too late. She missed the saddle; her right foot struck Tuesday's back, and slipped off; and she fell sprawling on the ground, with her left foot fast in the stirrup.

"Whoa, Tuesday!" she cried shrilly as she fell.

Luckily the horse did not take alarm and run, as a less reliable animal might have done, dragging the girl under his heels. He stopped in his tracks, and stood obediently, even turning his head as if to see what damage had been done. It was enough. Marion was uninjured, but badly frightened; and her humiliation was complete. She lay on her back, struggling vainly to extricate her foot from the stirrup. Her coat skirts had fallen back, and--Thank Heaven for the riding breeches, and not what she had worn under divided skirts!

"Lie still!" yelled Haig, remembering what he had seen happen to men in such circ.u.mstances.

In three leaps he was at her side. With a swift movement (and none too gentle), he wrenched her foot loose from the stirrup, and helped her to sit up, dazed and trembling and very white.

"Your ankle--is it hurt?" he asked sharply.

"I don't know," she said.

And then the expected "inspiration of the moment" came.

"A little," she added.

And so it was done. Her foot had indeed been twisted slightly; she had truly, _truly_ felt a twinge of pain. At another time she would have thought no more about it, but now--The color rushed back into her cheeks; she fetched a smile that was half a grimace; and the game was on again.

Haig reached a hand to her. She took it, and let him draw her to her feet.

"Try the ankle--just a step!" he commanded.

She rested her weight on her left foot.

"Oh!" she cried out, and looked helplessly at Haig.

A shadow, unmistakably of annoyance, pa.s.sed over his face.

"You're not going to faint, are you?" he asked, looking keenly at her.

Her color always came and went easily, and now, a little frightened by her bold deception, she was pale again.

"No--I think not," she said. ("At any rate not here," she might have added.)

"Can you ride to the corrals?" was his next question.

The look of annoyance was now fixed on his face, but it did not discourage her.

"Yes, if--"

She looked doubtfully at Tuesday. Thereupon, without a word, Haig led the horse close to her, but placed so that she was at Tuesday's right side instead of the left. Then, while she supported herself with one hand on his shoulder, he raised her right foot, and thrust it into the stirrup; and, with a hand under each of her arms, lifted her until she was able to throw the left foot over, and her body into the saddle.

Once more Marion bit her lip. His action was as devoid of personal interest as Pete's had been when he carried her out of the pool; and she had not come to Philip Haig to be treated like a sack of oats!

Haig mounted his pony, and rode up close beside her; and thus, in unbroken silence, they arrived at the door of the stable. There Haig dismounted quickly, stepped briskly around her horse, and almost before she was aware of his intention, lifted her out of the saddle, and set her on her feet--all very carefully and gently, but also very scrupulously, without an unnecessary pressure, without even a glance into her waiting eyes. What was the man made of? Why would he not look at her? Why did he not rage at her--if he could do nothing better?

Well, the cat had at least seven lives left!

She almost forgot to limp, but bethought herself in time, and gasped as he led her to an empty soap box at the side of the stable door.

Having seated her there, he called out to the man on guard at Sunnysides' corral: "Where's Curly?"

"Down by the crick," was the answer.

"Bring him here! I'll watch the horse."

Thereupon he took the man's place, and stood with his arms crossed on the top rail of the fence, his eyes fixed on the golden horse. And Marion felt a real pain at last,--a pang of jealousy. So he preferred to look at the horse, did he? If he had chanced at that instant to glance at her he would have seen a pair of blue eyes blazing with wrath.

The two men came hurrying from the creek.

"Here, Curly!" said Haig, resigning his post. "Miss g.a.y.l.o.r.d has hurt her ankle. I found her unseated down the road yonder." He paused, as if to let that be thoroughly understood. "I want you to hitch up the sorrels and drive her home."

"Right!" responded Curly, going into the stable.

Marion then did almost faint. She had not foreseen that manoeuver.

"I'd rather not, please," she said, as sweetly as she could in her dismay.

"Rather not what?" asked Haig, turning at last to her.