take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straight running. You've fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not careful you'll marry one of them. … One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute Indian! … Wetherby is young and he idolizes you. In all common sense why don't you take him?"
"I don't care for him," replied Lucy.
"You like him as well as anybody. … John Bostil, what do you say? You approved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and that you'd—"
"Sure, I like Jim," interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy's swift look.
"Well?" demanded his sister.
Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked sheepish, then disgusted.
"Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully.
"See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is of age to-day—an' she can do what she damn pleases!"
"That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as not she'll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to support."
"Auntie!" cried Lucy, her eyes blazing.
"Oh, child, you torment me—worry me so," said the disappointed woman. "It's all for your sake. … Look at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of eighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going around as you are now—in a man's clothes!"
"But, you dear old goose, I can't ride in a woman's skirt," expostulated Lucy. "Mind you, Auntie, I can RIDE!"
"Lucy, if I live here forever I'd never get reconciled to a Bostil woman in leather pants. We Bostils were somebody once, back in Missouri."
Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail west we'd be starvin' yet. Jane, you're a sentimental old fool. Let the girl alone an' reconcile yourself to this wilderness."
Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and hugged and kissed her.
"Auntie, I will promise—from to-day—to have some dignity. I've been free as a boy in these rider clothes. As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it. My dresses are what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I'm grown up—if it's so tremendous—then I'll wear a dress all the time, except just WHEN I ride. Will that do, Auntie?"
"Maybe you will grow up, after all," replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised and pleased.
Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room.
"Jane, what's this nonsense about young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil, gruffly.
"I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever asked Lucy about him?"
"I sure haven't," said Bostil, bluntly.
"Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she'll tell the truth. Lucy'd never sleep at night if she lied."
Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucy returned—a different Lucy—one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his father's heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and the horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose. And all about her seemed different.
"Lucy—you look—like—like she used to be," said Bostil, unsteadily.
"My mother!" murmured Lucy.
But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad memories.
"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, presently. "What about this young Joel Creech?"
Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily. "Dad, you old fox, did you see him ride out after me?"
"No. I was just askin' on—on general principles."
"What do you mean?"
"Lucy, is there anythin' between you an' Joel?" he asked, gravely.
"No," she replied, with her clear eyes up to his.
Bostil thought of a bluebell. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said, hastily.
"Dad, you know how Joel runs after me. I've told you. I let him till lately. I liked him. But that wasn't why. I felt sorry for him—pitied him."
"You did? Seems an awful waste," replied Bostil.
"Dad, I don't believe Joel is—perfectly right in his mind," Lucy said, solemnly.
"Haw! haw! Fine compliments you're payin' yourself."
"Listen. I'm serious. I mean I've grown to see—looking back—that a slow, gradual change has come over Joel since he was kicked in the head by a mustang. I'm sure no one else has noticed it."
"Goin' batty over you. That's no unusual sign round this here camp. Look at—"
"We're talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has done some queer things. To-day, for instance. I thought I gave him the slip. But he must have been watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn't often get Peg across the river. He said the feed was getting scarce over there. I was dying to race Buckles against Peg, but I remembered you wouldn't like that."
"I should say not," said Bostil, darkly.
"Well, Joel caught up to me—and he wasn't nice at all. He was worse to-day. We quarreled. I said I'd bet he'd never follow me again and he said he'd bet he would. Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away, glad to be rid of him, and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. On my way home I saw Peg grazing on the rim of the creek, near that big spring-hole where the water's so deep and clear. And what do you think? There was Joel's head above the water. I remembered in our quarrel I had told him to go wash his dirty face. He was doing it. I had to laugh. When he saw me—he—then—then he—" Lucy faltered, blushing with anger and shame.
"Well, what then?" demanded Bostil, quietly.
"He called, 'Hey, Luce—take off your clothes and come in for a swim!'"
Bostil swore.
"I tell you I was mad," continued Lucy, "and just as surprised. That was one of the queer things. But never before had he dared to—to-"
"Insult you. Then what 'd you do?" interrupted Bostil, curiously.
"I yelled, 'I'll fix you, Joel Creech!' … His clothes were in a pile on the bank. At first I thought I'd throw them in the water, but when I got to them I thought of something better. I took up all but his shoes, for I remembered the ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, and I climbed up on Buckles. Joel screamed and swore something fearful. But I didn't look back. And Peg, you know—maybe you don't know—but Peg is fond of me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle
