way. It was new to Lark, though she had been importuned by cowboys, and it both excited and repelled her. But remembering Marigold’s hint, Lark kept her wits about her. “I reckon I got to see what you look like,” he went on coolly, and removed her sombrero.
“Do I look like a boy now?” asked Lark.
“Say, girl, it’s downright cruel an’ mean to hide your hair an’ face,” he exploded, bending lower. “Under a deceivin’ old slouch hat like this.”
“Why so?” rejoined Lark provocatively.
“Because you’re most awful pretty.
“Thank you. But that’s nothing. Give me my old slouch hat.”
Manifestly, Blanding did not require much time or opportunity to make advances toward a girl. Lark, owing to some vague subtle connection between her cousin and this cowboy which she had grasped, had not reacted immediately upon her instincts. Probably her apparent laxity had deceived him; more probably Blanding was not the kind of man to need encouragement. But when he deliberately bent lower, his face heating, she was sure of her suspicions and thrust him away with no light hand. Then she snatched her sombrero.
“Keep your paws off me, cowboy,” she said, in a tone only a conceited fool could have misunderstood.
“Wha-what?” he stammered, very certainly surprised.
“That’s what I said. Mr. Blanding, it doesn’t follow because you can get fresh with these girls around here that you can do it with a little country jake from down Idaho.”
Lark learned more from his suddenly flaming face than from any other circumstance that had occurred.
“Say, has Marigold been shootin’ off her chin to you?” he demanded, recovering. That question defined his status, as well as gave Lark a most decided concern. Could it be possible— She quelled the thought.
“No. My cousin did not mention you, if that is what you meant,” she replied haughtily.
“Oh . . . Well, I—you—it sure sounded as if somebody had put you against me,” he floundered, seeking a way out. He had no sense of shame.
“It wasn’t necessary. Any decent girl could figure you out in five minutes. Less time if she was alone with you!”
“Say, Lark—”
“What right have you to call me Lark?” she interrupted. “I’m Miss Burrell to you, or any other cowboy.”
“All right, Miss Burrell,” he said, forced to recognize something astounding. “But I didn’t mean any harm. I—”
“No, you didn’t,” retorted Lark scornfully. “You’re a fine gentlemanly cowboy! You threw a club at me—”
“I didn’t know you were a girl.”
“There! I’ve caught you in a lie. . . . You threw a club at me and two minutes afterward you’d have kissed me.”
“What’s a kiss, anyway?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.
“It’s a great deal to some girls.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s an insult to me anyhow. I—shall tell Marigold.”
This was an unconsidered random shot that found its mark. For the first time consternation and alarm appeared in his mobile face.
“Please, Miss Burrell, don’t do that,” he begged, suddenly sincere. And sincerity made him appealing. “Can’t you make allowance? You’ve a most awful pretty face. Red lips! . . . Seein’ them sudden like, without any warnin’—I—I lost my head. I get fool notions over girls. Maybe this was love at first sight.”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” drawled Lark, enjoying Blanding’s right-about-face.
“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”
“Sure, in the case of cowboys with any girl. But Mr. Blanding, I want a horse. I can’t stay here all day listening to you.”
“But please don’t tell her. She’d fire me.”
“I daresay that would be a calamity for Wade Ranch, in your opinion.”
“For me it would. You won’t tell her?”
“Unless I change my mind I certainly will,” returned Lark vehemently. “You’re not doing your cause any good by this talk. What kind of a man are you, anyway? I’m used to cowboys who do what they’re told to do. This is a funny kind of ranch.”
Lark felt that she was stretching the truth a bit, as far as her experience went, but it was logical. She saw that she had finally subdued Blanding. He led the horse out of the stall. Then Lark quite forgot everything else. Chaps was a beauty, a cream-colored mustang with white markings, and if he did not have a strain of wild blood, she was greatly mistaken. Evidently he did not like Blanding.
“Let me have him. You get a bridle and saddle. . . . Here, Chaps. That’s a poor name for you. Whoa now, White-face. I’ll call you that, or better—Cream Puff.”
It did not take a moment for Lark to make up with him. A horse that is spirited, and nervous with men, very often is easy to handle by women. Chaps had never been hurt by a woman.
“You sure have a way with horses,” remarked Blanding as he returned.
“Yes. But it’s not like yours with ladies, Mr. Blanding. . . . Thanks, but I’ll bridle him.”
Lark put the bridle on, then the blankets, which she smoothed and patted out. The saddle was not a light one by any means, but she swung it up with one hand, easily and sweepingly, in a manner to make the watching cowboy whistle.
“I hate a single cinch, but reckon—” she said, speaking to herself.
“We haven’t a double-cinch saddle on the ranch,” Blanding informed her.
Lark made no reply. The cowboy had ceased to exist for her just then. She pulled the cinch, lightly at first, watching the mustang, and then she tightened it. That done, she put on gloves and sombrero, which she had laid aside.
“Reckon the stirrups will be about right,” vouchsafed Blanding. “They have been lengthened since one of Miss Wade’s girl friends rode here last week.”
Lark measured them with her arm. Then gathering up the reins she grasped the pommel with both hands. Up she vaulted into the saddle, without ever touching the stirrup.
“Get out of here, Cream Puff,” Lark called gaily, and she was off. The barnyard gate stood ajar, and down the lane another gate was open, and two cowboys, probably the ones Blanding had driven off, stood by waiting. Lark touched the mustang with the spurs. He broke from a trot into a gallop. The cowboys waved their hats.
Lark found herself beyond the fences, out on an old sandy road, with the open sage ahead. She could have screamed her joy. On a horse again! The purple reaches calling! She asked no more. She
