was made—long ago. I hate cities. I don’t care for crowds—or relatives, either. I was cooped up in school. I am free now—free! . . . I was unhappy there—I love it here. . . . Dad, I will never, never leave.”
Britt saw the long, dusky lashes close over tear-filled eyes. Ripple bent over to kiss the lustrous dark hair. Under his tan a pallor showed and his jaw quivered. Britt turned away to gaze down the valley. Holly had seen through her father’s attempt to disguise the truth.
“Then—that is your choice—Holly?” the rancher resumed, presently.
“Dad, there never was any choice. There was only—home. My West! I have never forgotten a single thing.”
“My beloved—I am ashamed,” returned the Colonel, with agitation. “I should have known you would be like Carlotta. I imagined you might. . . . Well, never mind what, since it can never be. . . . Holly, in the days to come you will learn how I run my ranch—how I keep open house for all. Never have I turned away anyone from Don Carlos’ Rancho. Indians, outlaws, wanderers, travellers, all have been welcome heah. That is why no white or red hand has ever been against me yet. . . . When the time comes, Holly, will you preserve my open hand to all?”
“I will, Dad.”
Ripple clasped her in a close embrace, then turned a working visage and beaming eye upon his foreman.
“Britt, you old rebel, you know my child. And I’m thankin’ God that when I have to go you will look after her. . . . There, Holly. Our serious talk is over.”
“Not yet, Dad,” she murmured. “I have my turn. There are some questions I want to ask you.”
“Ah!—Fire away, daughter,” he replied, gayly, but it was easy for Britt to see his perturbation.
“Dad, I know hardly a word of Spanish,” said Holly, softly, with her eyes downcast. “It was forbidden me at school. I did not realize until I got home. Your Mexicans speak Spanish to me. The living-room I remembered so well has all been done over, refurnished. The beautiful rooms you have given me—the same. Everything new, beautiful, costly. But not a trace of Spanish color or design.”
“Holly, that is easy to explain,” returned her father, frankly. “I wanted you to be American. That is why I kept you away at school so many years. If I had brought you up heah, in the Spanish environment which pertained until recently, you would have been all Valverde. I had the greatest respect for your mother. You know that. But I wanted you to grow up as a true American in education, speech and spirit.”
“Dad, was that any reflection upon Don Carlos Valverde?” queried Holly, with proud, dark eyes upon him. There was something passionate and alien in her that could never be wholly eradicated. And Britt, who loved her as his own, felt glad this was so.
“No. I had a high regard for Don Carlos, and these early Spanish families. Both Kit Carson and Lucien Maxwell married into them.”
“Were you ashamed of my—mother?”
“Absolutely no, my child. I was proud of her beauty and quality.”
“Did you love her?”
“Holly, I think I may say yes with an honest heart. But, dear, when I met Carlotta I was a wild young Texan, a gay blade in love with every pretty face I saw. It is hard to confess to you that when I became infatuated with your mother, I did not go to Don Carlos honorably and ask for her hand. I knew only too well that he would have raged and thrown me out. Carlotta was hardly more than fifteen. . . . I—I ran off with her. But I married her in San Antonio. As I grew to love her more I regretted havin’ been the cause of estrangement between Carlotta and Don Carlos. She was an only child. In time he forgave her. You were born soon after that. Then followed the happiest years of our lives. Don Carlos left Carlotta this ranch. After the war I drove a cattle herd up from Texas, and have prospered ever since.”
Britt liked that frank confession of the Colonel’s, and when he saw Holly’s reaction he thought it was well. If there had ever been any brooding doubts in the girl’s mind, they were dispelled then and forever. She embraced her father.
“Thank you, Dad,” she whispered. “It’s all right now—except you mustn’t frighten me again.”
The moment seemed sweet and far-reaching for Britt. All was well that ended well. This home-coming of Holly Ripple had been fraught with dismay as well as dread. She had been an unknown factor. But now the old ranger revelled in the faith he had doggedly held in the girl he himself had named.
“Lass, I never told you how I come to call you Holly,” he said, as the girl sat up again, to smile with wet eyes. “I had a sweetheart once an’ thet was her name.”
“Sweetheart?—Cappy, you used to call me that when I was little. I’m horribly jealous. What was she like? Did you—run off with her as Dad did with my mother? Please tell me.”
“Some day,” replied Britt, rising, and he patted the glossy head. “Kurnel, I’ve seen a few happier days than this, far away an’ long ago. But not many. Shore you will be long heah with us. What fun you’ll have teachin’ this big-eyed lass to handle hawses, to shoot an’ rope, to run the cowboy ootfits ragged, to be mistress of this great house an’ do honor to yore name! An’ I—wal, I’ll go ahaid with my plans.”
“Plans! What plans, Cappy?” queried the girl. “You began that speech sadly. You grew really eloquent. Then you end with that hawk-eye glinting and with news of plans. If I am to become mistress of Don Carlos’ Rancho, I shall be your boss. Oh, what a dance I’ll lead you! . . . But come, tell me. Do your plans include a party to celebrate my return?”
“Holly, that shall be my job,” interrupted her father. “I will give such a party as was never seen heah in New Mexico. And every year thereafter, on the anniversary of that date, you must repeat it.”
“Oh, glorious!” she cried, rapturously. “My first party.”
“Britt, bring on your wild outfits!” sang the Colonel, keen and glad-eyed. “Bring on your riders, rangers, cowboys, outlaws, desperadoes, gunmen, and killers! Don Carlos’ Rancho shall flourish many a year!”
“Wild outfits!—Cowboys—desperadoes—killers?” echoed Holly, mystified, her great eyes like dark, glowing stars.
“Holly, it is Britt’s plan to surround you with the wildest and most dangerous outfit of men ever gathered on a western ranch,” announced the Colonel.
“Oh-h!—But why?”
“Wal, lass, the idee is to save you an’ yore cattle when the times grow bad,” interposed Britt.
“How perfectly wonderful! . . . Don Carlos’ Rancho! Holly Ripple’s outfit! . . . Dad, I shall fall in love with every single one of them. That is the penalty you must suffer for penning me up with books. Nine long years! And I was born on the range! . . . Cappy Britt, henceforth Old Hawk-eye, you will need your keen sight. Bring on your wild cowboys!”
* * * *
Britt paced his slow, clinking way down the flowered path toward the bunk-house. Hard upon his excitation followed a pensive sadness. Only he realized what lay in store for Holly Ripple. Let her enjoy the girlish freedom she had been denied. Let her ride and laugh while her father was with her and the days burned with all the glamour of a New Mexican
