use,” he said. “Glory’s headed for home and we ain’t got the papers to stop him. He can’t hurt Weary—and the dance opens up at six, and I’ve got a girl in town.”
“Same here,” grinned Bert. “It’s after four, now.”
Chip, who at that time hadn’t a girl—and didn’t want one—let Silver out for another long gallop, seeing it was Weary. Then he, too, gave up the chase and turned back.
Glory settled to a long lope and kept steadily on, gleefully rattling the broken bit which dangled beneath his jaws. Weary, helpless and amused and triumphant because the race was his, sat unconcernedly in the saddle and laid imaginary bets with himself on the outcome. Without doubt, Glory was headed for home. Weary figured that, barring accidents, he could catch up Blazes, in the little pasture, and ride back to Dry Lake by the time the dance was in full swing—for the dancing before dark would be desultory and without much spirit.
But the gate into the big field was closed and tied securely with a rope. Glory comprehended the fact with one roll of his knowing eyes, turned away to the left and took the trail which wound like a snake into the foothills. Clinging warily to the level where choice was given him, trotting where the way was rough, mile after mile he covered till even Weary’s patience showed signs of weakening.
Just then Glory turned, where a wire gate lay flat upon the ground, crossed a pebbly creek and galloped stiffly up to the very steps of a squat, vine-covered ranch-house where, like the Discontented Pendulum in the fable, he suddenly stopped.
“Damn you, Glory—I could kill yuh for this!” gritted Weary, and slid reluctantly from the saddle. For while the place seemed deserted, it was not. There was a girl.
She lay in a hammock; sprawled would come nearer describing her position. She had some magazines scattered around upon the porch, and her hair hung down to the floor in a thick, dark braid. She was dressed in a dark skirt and what, to Weary’s untrained, masculine eyes, looked like a pink gunny sack. In reality it was a kimono. She appeared to be asleep.
Weary saw a chance of leading Glory quietly to the corral before she woke. There he could borrow a bridle and ride back whence he came, and he could explain about the bridle to Joe Meeker in town. Joe was always good about lending things, anyway. He gathered the fragments of the bit in one hand and clucked under his breath, in an agony lest his spurs should jingle.
Glory turned upon him his beautiful, brown eyes, reproachfully questioning.
Weary pulled steadily. Glory stretched neck and nose obediently, but as to feet, they were down to stay.
Weary glanced anxiously toward the hammock and perspired, then stood back and whispered language it would be a sin to repeat. Glory, listening with unruffled calm, stood perfectly still, like a red statue in the sunshine.
The face of the girl was hidden under one round, loose-sleeved arm. She did not move. A faint breeze, freshening in spasmodic puffs, seized upon the hammock, and set it swaying gently.
“Oh, damn you, Glory!” whispered Weary through his teeth. But Glory, accustomed to being damned since he was a yearling, displayed absolutely no interest. Indeed, he seemed inclined to doze there in the sun.
Taking his hat—his best hat—from his head, he belabored Glory viciously over the jaws with it; silently except for the soft thud and slap of felt on flesh. And the mood of him was as near murder as Weary could come. Glory had been belabored with worse things than hats during his eventful career; he laid back his ears, shut his eyes tight and took it meekly.
There came a gasping gurgle from the hammock, and Weary’s hand stopped in mid-air. The girl’s head was burrowed in a pillow and her slippers tapped the floor while she laughed and laughed.
Weary delivered a parting whack, put on his hat and looked at her uncertainly; grinned sheepishly when the humor of the thing came to him slowly, and finally sat down upon the porch steps and laughed with her.
“Oh, gee! It was too funny,” gasped the girl, sitting up and wiping her eyes.
Weary gasped also, though it was a small matter—a common little word of three letters. In all the messages sent him by the schoolma’am, it was the precise, school-grammar wording of them which had irritated him most and impressed him insensibly with the belief that she was too prim to be quite human. The Happy Family had felt all along that they were artists in that line, and they knew that the precise sentences ever carried conviction of their truth. Weary mopped his perspiring face upon a white silk handkerchief and meditated wonderingly.
“You aren’t a train-robber or a horsethief, or—anything, are you?” she asked him presently. “You seemed quite upset at seeing the place wasn’t deserted; but I’m sure, if you are a robber running away from a sheriff, I’d never dream of stopping you. Please don’t mind me; just make yourself at home.”
Weary turned his head and looked straight up at her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint yuh, Miss Satterly,” he said blandly. “I’m just an ordinary human, and my name is Davidson—better known as Weary. You don’t appear to remember me. We’ve met before.”
She eyed him attentively. “Perhaps we have—it you say so. I’m wretched about remembering strange names and faces. Was it at a dance? I meet so many fellows at dances—” She waved a brown little hand and smiled deprecatingly.
“Yes,” said Weary laconically, still looking into her face. “It was.”
She stared down at him, her brows puckered. “I know, now. It was at the Saint Patrick’s dance in Dry Lake! How silly of me to forget.”
Weary turned his gaze to the hill beyond the creek, and fanned his hot face with his hat. “It was not. It wasn’t at that dance, at all.” Funny she didn’t remember him! He suspected her of trying to fool him, now that he was actually in her presence, and he refused absolutely to be fooled.
He could see that she threw out her hand helplessly. “Well, I may as well ’fess up. I don’t remember you at all. It’s horrid of me, when you rode up in that lovely, unconventional way. But you see, at dances one doesn’t think of the men as individuals; they’re just good or bad partners. It resolves itself, you see, into a question of feet. If I should dance with you again,—did I dance with you?”
Weary shot a quick, eloquent glance in her direction. He did not say anything.
Miss Satterly blushed. “I was going to say, if I danced with you again I should no doubt remember you perfectly.”
Weary was betrayed into a smile. “If I could dance in these boots, I’d take off my spurs and try and identify myself. But I guess I’ll have to ask yuh to take my word for it that we’re acquainted.”
“Oh, I will. I meant to, all along. Why aren’t you in town, celebrating? I thought I was the only unpatriotic person in the country.”
“I just came from town,” Weary told her, choosing, his words carefully while yet striving to be truthful. No man likes confessing to a woman that he has been run away with. “I—er—broke my bridle-bit, back a few miles” (it was fifteen, if it were a rod) “and so I rode in here to get one of Joe’s. I didn’t want to bother anybody, but Glory seemed to think this was where the trail ended.”
Miss Satterly laughed again. “It certainly was funny—you trying
