plaintively. “He was, at that time. He’s generally what happens to be the most dev—mean under the circumstances.”
“Well, maybe he’ll consent to being led to the stable; he looks as if he had a most unmerciful master!” (Weary, being perfectly innocent, blushed guiltily) “But I’ll forgive you riding him like that, and make for you a pitcher of lemonade and give you some cake while he rests. You certainly must not ride back with him so tired.”
Fresh lemonade sounded tempting, after that ride. And being lectured was not at all what he had expected from the schoolma’am—and who can fathom the mind of a man? Weary gave her one complex glance, laid his hand upon the bridle and discovered that Glory, having done what mischief he could, was disposed to be very meek. At the corral gate Weary looked back.
“At dances,” he mused aloud, “one doesn’t consider men as individuals—it’s merely a question of feet. She took me for a train robber; and I danced with her about forty times, that night, and took her over to supper and we whacked up on our chicken salad because there was only one dish for the two of us—oh, mamma!”
He pulled off the saddle with a preoccupied air and rubbed Glory down mechanically. After that he went over and sat down on the oats’ box and smoked two cigarettes while he pondered many things.
He stood up and thoughtfully surveyed himself, brushed sundry bright sorrel hairs from his coat sleeves, stooped and tried to pinch creases into the knees of his trousers, which showed symptoms of “bagging.” He took off his hat and polished it with his sleeve he had just brushed so carefully, pinched four big dimples in the crown, turned it around three times for critical inspection, placed it upon his head at a studiously unstudied angle, felt anxiously at his neck-gear and slapped Glory affectionately upon the rump—and came near getting kicked into eternity. Then he swung off up the path, softly whistling “In the good, old summer-time.” An old hen, hovering her chicks in the shade of the hay-rack, eyed him distrustfully and cried “k-r-r-r-r” in a shocked tone that sent her chickens burrowing deeper under her feathers.
Miss Satterly had changed her pink kimono for a white shirt-waist and had fluffed her hair into a smooth coil on the top of her head. Weary thought she looked very nice. She could make excellent lemonade, he discovered, and she proved herself altogether different from what the messages she sent him had led him to expect. Weary wondered, until he became too interested to think about it.
Presently, without quite knowing how it came about, he was telling her all about the race. Miss Satterly helped him reckon his winnings—which was not easy to do, since he had been offered all sorts of odds and had accepted them all with a recklessness that was appalling. While her dark head was bent above the piece of paper, and her pencil was setting down figures with precise little jabs, he watched her. He quite forgot the messages he had received from her through the medium of the Happy Family, and he quite forgot that women could hurt a man.
“Mr. Davidson,” she announced severely, when the figures had all been dabbed upon the paper, “You ought to have lost. It would be a lesson to you. I haven’t quite figured all your winnings, these six-to-ones and ten-to-ones and—and all that, take time to unravel. But you, yourself, stood to lose just three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Gee! but you cowboys are reckless.”
There was more that she said, but Weary did not mind. He had discovered that he liked to look at the schoolma’am. After that, nothing else was of much importance. He began to wish he might prolong his opportunity for looking.
“Say,” he said suddenly, “Come on and let’s go to the dance.”
The schoolma’am bit at her pencil and looked at him. “It’s late—”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” urged Weary.
“Maybe—but—”
“Do yuh think we aren’t well enough acquainted?”
“Well we’re not exactly old friends,” she laughed.
“We’re going to be, so it’s all the same,” Weary surprised himself by declaring with much emphasis. “You’d go, wouldn’t you, if I was—well, say your brother?”
Miss Satterly rested her chin in her palms and regarded him measuringly. “I don’t know. I never had one—except three or four that I—er—adopted, at one time or another. I suppose one could go, though—with a brother.”
Weary made a rapid, mental note for the benefit of the Happy Family—and particularly Cal Emmett. “Darling Brother” was a myth, then; he ought to have known it, all along. And if that were a myth, so probably were all those messages and things that he had hated. She didn’t care anything about him—and suddenly that struck him unpleasantly, instead of being a relief, as it consistently should have been.
“I wish you’d adopt me, just for to-night, and go;” he said, and his eyes backed the wish. “You see,” he added artfully, “it’s a sin to waste all that good music—a real, honest-to-God stringed orchestra from Great Falls, and—”
“Meekers have taken both rigs,” objected she, weakly.
“I noticed a side saddle hanging in the stable,” he wheedled, “and I’ll gamble I can rustle something to put it on. I—”
“I should think you’d gambled enough for one day,” she quelled. “But that chunky little gray in the pasture is the horse I always ride. I expect,” she sighed, “my new dancing dress would be a sight to behold when I got there—and it won’t wash. But what does a mere man care—”
“Wrap it up in something, and I’ll carry it for yuh,” Weary advised eagerly. “You can change at the hotel. It’s dead easy.” He picked up his hat from the floor, rose and stood looking anxiously down at her. “About how soon,” he insinuated, “can you be ready?”
The schoolma’am looked up at him irresolutely, drew a long breath and then laughed. “Oh, ten minutes will do,” she surrendered. “I shall put my new dress in a box, and go just as I am. Do you always get your own way, Mr. Davidson?”
“Always,” he lied convincingly over his shoulder, and jumped off the porch without bothering to use the steps.
She was waiting when he led the little gray up to the house, and she came down the steps with a large, flat, pasteboard box in her arms.
“Don’t get off,” she commanded. “I can mount alone—and you’ll have to carry the box. It’s going to be awkward, but you would have me go.”
Weary took the box and prudently remained in the saddle. Glory, having the man he did for master, was unused to the flutter of women’s skirts so close, and rolled his eyes till the whites showed all round. Moreover, he was not satisfied with that big, white thing in Weary’s arms.
He stood quite still, however, until the schoolma’am was settled to her liking in the saddle, and had tucked her skirt down over the toe of her right foot. He watched the proceeding with much interest—as did Weary—and then walked sedately from the yard, through the pebbly creek and up the slope beyond. He heard Weary give a sigh of relief at his docility, and straightway thrust his nose between his white front feet, and proceeded to carry out certain little plans of his own. Weary, taken by surprise and encumbered by the box, could not argue the point; he could only, in range parlance, “hang and rattle.”
“Oh,”
