Read it over. Maybe you’ll think of things I couldn’t. You see we’ll camp out while we’re throwing up our log cabin. We’ll live in my big canvas-covered wagon—a regular prairie-schooner, till we get the cabin up. We’ll have to hustle, too, to get that done before the snow flies. . . . It’s going to be fun—and heaps of work—this start of mine at ranching. Oh, but I’m glad you’re such a strapping girl! . . . Lucinda, I’m lucky. I mustn’t forget to tell you how happy you’ve made me. I’ll work for you. Some day I’ll be able to give you all your heart could desire.”
“So we spend our honeymoon in a prairie-schooner!” she exclaimed, with a weak laugh.
“Honeymoon?—So we do. I never thought of that. But many a pioneer girl has done so. . . . Lucinda, if I remember right you used to drive horses. Your Dad’s team?”
“Logan, I drove the buggy,” she rejoined, aghast at what she divined was coming.
“Same thing. You drove me home from church once. And I put my arm around you. Remember?”
“I must—since I am here.”
“You can watch me drive the oxen, and learn on the way to Mormon Lake. There I have to take to the saddle and rustle my cattle through. You’ll handle the wagon.”
“What!—Drive a yoke of oxen? Me!”
“Sure. Lucinda, you might as well start right in. You’ll be my partner. And I’ve a hunch no pioneer ever had a better one. We’ve got the wonderfullest range in Arizona. Wait till you see it! Some day we’ll run thirty thousand head of cattle there. . . . Ah, here’s the parson’s house. I darn near overrode! it. Come, Lucinda. If you don’t back out pronto it’ll be too late.”
“Logan—I’ll never—back out,” she whispered, huskily. She felt herself drawn into the presence of kindly people who made much over her, and before she could realize what was actually happening she was made the wife of Logan Huett. Then Logan, accompanied by the black-bearded blacksmith Hardy, dragged her away to see her prairie-schooner home. Lucinda recovered somewhat on the way. There would not have been any sense in rebelling even if she wanted to. Logan’s grave elation kept her from complete collapse. There was no denying his looks and actions of pride in his possession of her.
At sight of the canvas-covered wagon Lucinda shrieked with hysterical laughter, which Logan took for mirth. It looked like a collapsed circus-tent hooped over a long box on wheels. When she tiptoed to peep into the wagon a wave of strongly contrasted feeling flooded over her. The look, the smell of the jumbled wagonload brought Lucinda rudely and thrillingly to the other side of the question. That wagon reeked with an atmosphere of pioneer enterprise, of adventure, of struggle with the soil and the elements.
“How perfectly wonderful!” she cried, surrendering to that other self. “But Logan, after you pack my baggage in here—where will we sleep?”
“Doggone-it! We’ll sure be loaded, ’specially if you buy a lot more. But I’ll manage some way till we get into camp. Oh, I tell you, wife, nothing can stump me! . . . I’ll make room for you in there and I’ll sleep on the ground.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared the black-bearded giant. “Thet’s the pioneer spirit.”
“Logan, I daresay you’ll arrange it comfortably for me, at least,” said Lucinda, blushing. “I’ll run back to the store now. Will you pick me up there? You must give me plenty of time and be prepared to pack a lot more.”
“Better send it out here,” replied Logan, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“Mrs. Huett, you’ll change your clothes before you go?” inquired the blacksmith’s comely wife. “That dress won’t do for campin’ oot on this desert. You’ll spoil it, an’ freeze in the bargain.”
“You bet she’ll change,” interposed Logan, with a grin. “I’d never forget that. . . . Lucinda, dig out your old clothes before I pack these bags.”
“I didn’t bring any old clothes,” retorted Lucinda.
“And you going to drive oxen, cook over a wood fire, sleep on hay and a thousand other pioneer jobs? . . . Well, while you’re at that buying don’t forget jeans and socks and boots—a flannel shirt and heavy coat—and a sombrero to protect your pretty white face from the sun. And heavy gloves, my dear, and a silk scarf to keep the dust from choking you.”
“Oh, is that all?” queried Lucinda, soberly. “You may be sure I’ll get them.”
* * * *
Hours later Lucinda surveyed herself before Mrs. Hardy’s little mirror, and could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. But the blacksmith’s good wife expressed pleasure enough to assure Lucinda that from her own point of view she was a sight to behold. Yet when had she ever felt so comfortable as in this cowboy garb?
“How’ll I ever go out before those men?” exclaimed Lucinda, in dismay. A little crowd had collected round the prairie-schooner, to the back of which Logan appeared to be haltering his horses.
“My dear child, all women oot heah wear pants an’ ride straddle,” said Mrs. Hardy, with mild humor. “I’ll admit you look more fetchin’ than most gurls. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Fetching?” repeated Lucinda, dubiously. Then she packed away the traveling-dress, wondering if or when she would ever wear it again. The western woman read her mind.
“Settlers oot on the range don’t get to town often,” she vouchsafed, with a smile. “But they do come, an’ like it all the better. Be brave now, an’ take your medicine, as we westerners say. Yore man will make a great rancher, so Hardy says. Never forget thet the woman settler does the bigger share of the work, an’ never gets the credit due her.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hardy,” replied Lucinda, grateful for sympathy and advice. “I begin to get a glimmering. But I’ll go through with it. . . . Goodbye.”
Lucinda went out, carrying her bag, and she tried to walk naturally when she had a mad desire to run.
“Whoopee!” yelled Logan.
If they had been alone that startling tribute to her attire would have pleased Lucinda. Anything to rouse enthusiasm or excitement in this strange, serious husband! But to call attention to her before other men, and worse, before some wild, ragged little imps—that was signally embarrassing.
“Hey lady,” piped up one of the boys, “fer cripes’ sake, don’t ya stoop over in them pants!”
That sally elicited a yell of mirth from Logan. The other men turned their backs with hasty and suspicious convulsions. Lucinda hurried on with burning face.
“Jiminy, she’ll make a hot tenderfoot cowgirl,” called out another youngster.
Lucinda gained the wagon without loss of dignity, except for her blush, which she hoped the wide-brimmed sombrero would hide. She stowed her bag under the seat and stepped up on the hub of the wheel. When she essayed another hasty step, from the hub to the high rim of the wheel she failed and nearly fell. Her blue jeans were too tight. Then Logan gave her a tremendous boost. She landed on the high seat, awkwardly but safely, amid the cheers of the watchers. From this vantage point Lucinda’s adventurous spirit and sense of humor routed her confusion and fury. She looked down upon her glad-eyed husband
