in barns and corrals, sheds and cribs, with wide green pastures beyond, spotted with horses. For the first moment since Lark had left home she felt natural, sure of herself, and really happy. She did not show in the least her elation and surprise at the sight of a Western ranch. She reveled in the well-loved sounds and smells.
The main barn was a huge affair, with a wide lane through the center and numerous stalls on each side. A slanting runway led up to the level of the floor. Three cowboys were sitting there, indulging in some game. They wore the customary garb of riders, rough and worn, yet they did not, upon closer view, appear as tough as the cowboys around Batchford.
“Howdy, sonny, what you want?” asked one of them casually, after a glance at her.
“I want a horse,” replied Lark.
“You don’t say?” returned the rider, as he bent over the dice his companion was throwing. “What for do you want a horse?”
“To ride.”
“Got any dough?”
“Dough?—No, I haven’t.”
“Well, beat it then,” he said, snatching at the dice.
Lark sat down across the wide entrance, in such a way that she aided the deception she had begun unwittingly and now began to revel in. She watched them awhile unmolested, as evidently her interrogator had forgotten her. They threw dice, complained, swore mildly. The one who had spoken was bareheaded, a young fellow, clean-cut and smooth-faced, very nice-looking indeed. The second was redheaded and somewhat coarse. The third was older, in his late twenties, which meant maturity for a cowboy. He had strikingly handsome features. His eyes were cast down. There were blue circles under them. His lips and chin were boldly chiseled.
“Damn you, Hurd. Lucky in dice as lucky in women!” complained the cowboy next to him.
“It’s not luck; I’m smart,” replied the other, spreading the dice.
Here Lark pricked up her ears, even more interested. This one must be Hurd Blanding, the cowboy associated with Ellery Wade in the wild-horse drive. Marigold, too, had mentioned him.
“You won’t be smart at all if Stan Weston gets wise to you,” came the significant reply. Whereupon Blanding flung the dice at the other.
“Shut up. If you make another crack like that I’ll—”
He noticed Lark then and checked his speech. He had wonderful, hard, light eyes.
“Who the hell is this, Coil?” he asked, nudging the bareheaded cowboy, and indicating Lark.
“Some kid who came in here asking for a horse . . . Hey, didn’t I tell you to beat it?”
“Reckon you did,” replied Lark, almost giggling, as she sat, elbows on her knees, her hands at the flap of her sombrero. How she wished that the innocent deceit could be prolonged!
Blanding searched around with eye and hand, manifestly for something to throw at Lark. At that moment his look justified her intuition—he had an evil face, undeniably handsome though it was. He found a piece of wood, which he flung at Lark, accompanying the action with a harsh: “Get out!” The missile struck Lark on her right foot; a glancing blow, but it hurt. She stood up.
“My cousin Marigold sure has a fine lot of cowboys,” she said contemptuously.
Lark’s movement and change of tone were followed by a blank silence. Not until she stepped out where they could see her plainly did they accept her sex. Blanding was the first to recover. He rose to his superb height and doffed his sombrero.
“Miss, you can lay it to your ridin’ outfit,” he said, with a winning smile. “We wanted to give you a little fun, seein’ you looked like a boy. But I knew you all the time.”
The other cowboys leaped up, and, not to be outdone, the clean-cut youth, called Coil by his companions, stepped out.
“I’m sure awful sorry, Miss Burrell,” he apologized. And the redheaded fellow nodded and grinned sheepishly, as if to stand by his comrade.
“You’re all liars,” replied Lark coolly. “You didn’t know me from Adam.”
“Well, Red an’ I didn’t throw clubs at you, anyway,” returned Coil significantly.
“It was only in fun, Miss Lark,” protested Hurd, not in the least concerned. “And it didn’t hit you.”
“Like fun it didn’t,” retorted Lark indignantly. “It almost crippled me.” And she exaggerated a limp.
“Maybe you’re not as tough as you look,” remarked Blanding facetiously. “That outfit has had more than one bump, I’ll bet.”
Lark had to acknowledge to herself that Blanding had keen eyes. She did not care much for the look in them.
“Do I get a horse or must I go back to tell Marigold that I was insulted?”
“Aw, Miss Burrell, don’t be too hard on me an’ Red, anyway,” asked Coil appealingly. “I apologize for my part. Miss Wade would sure fire us.”
The emphasis on the us, which significantly eliminated Blanding, was not lost upon Lark. There was something here, almost dismaying, that stimulated her thought.
“In your case, then, I’ll believe you were only in fun,” replied Lark kindly.
“Thanks, miss. You can ride any horse,” began Coil, beaming, but Blanding thrust him and Red back.
“I’m boss here. Now, Miss Lark, what kind of a horse do you want?”
“Any kind that will go,” rejoined Lark slowly, as the two disgruntled cowboys walked out of the barn. Coil looked back at Blanding, a scowl marring his youthful face.
“Can you ride?” asked Blanding in a flattering tone. He stepped close to her, looking down. He was a superb animal and knew it.
“Oh, yes, tolerable.”
“You look like a cowgirl. I’ll bet you’ve ridden at rodeos.”
“No. I’ve just been a ranch hand.”
“Come here. Take a peep at Mari—Miss Wade’s horse,” said Blanding, and he circled his fingers around Lark’s elbow, leading her to a stall. It might have been nothing, this action, and then again it might have been a good deal. He kept his hand there while he showed Lark her cousin’s favorite, a dark bay mare with white feet. They went on to the next stall, and the next, down the line on that side of the stable. Lark had been used all her life to good horses. These fine animals of Mr. Wade’s scarcely needed Blanding’s eloquence. He wanted to talk. He wanted to impress Lark.
Across the aisle in the first stall a white-faced horse poked his head over the bars and whinnied. He took Lark’s eye.
“This here is Chaps,” went on Blanding. “He’s from Oregon, an’ I’ll say they sure raise horseflesh in that state.”
“They’re all wonderful,” burst out Lark in delight. “Saddle Chaps for me.”
