CHAPTER X.
_The Day We Celebrate._
The days that followed were to Billy much like a delicious dream.Sometimes he stopped short and wondered uneasily if he would wake uppretty soon to find that he was still an exile from the Double-Crank,wandering with Dill over the country in search of a location.Sometimes he laughed aloud unexpectedly, and said, "Hell!" in achuckling undertone when came fresh realization of the miracle. Butmostly he was an exceedingly busy young man, with hands and brain toofull of the stress of business to do much wondering.
They were in possession of the Double-Crank, now--he in fullcharge, walking the path which his own feet, when he was merelya "forty-dollar puncher," had helped wear deep to the stable andcorrals; giving orders where he had been wont to receive them; ridinghorses which he had long completed, but which had heretofore beenkept sacred to the use of Jawbreaker and old Brown himself; eating andsleeping in the house with Dill instead of making one of the crowd inthe bunk-house; ordering the coming and going of the round-up crew andtasting to the full the joys--and the sorrows--of being "head push"where he had for long been content to serve. Truly, the world hadchanged amazingly for one Charming Billy Boyle.
Most of the men he had kept on, for he liked them well and they hadfaith to believe that success would not spoil him. The Pilgrim he hadpromised himself the pleasure of firing bodily off the ranch within anhour of his first taking control--but the Pilgrim had not waited.He had left the ranch with the Old Man and where he had gone did notconcern Billy at the time. For there was the shipment of young stockfrom the South to meet and drive up to the home range, and there wasthe calf round-up to start on time, and after all the red tape ofbuying the outfit and turning over the stock had been properly woundup, time was precious in the extreme through May and June and wellinto July.
But habit is strong upon a man even after the conditions which bredthe habit have utterly changed. One privilege had been always keptinviolate at the Double-Crank, until it had come to be looked upon asan inalienable right. The Glorious Fourth had been celebrated, comerain, come shine. Usually the celebration was so generous that itdid not stop at midnight; anywhere within a week was consideredpermissible, a gradual tapering off--not to say sobering up--being thecustom with the more hilarious souls.
When Dill with much solemnity tore off June from the calendar in thedining room--the calendar with Custer's Last Charge rioting redlyabove the dates--Billy, home for a day from the roundup, realizedsuddenly that time was on the high lope; at least, that is how he putit to Dill.
"Say, Dilly, we sure got to jar loose from getting rich long enoughto take in that picnic over to Bluebell Grove. Didn't know there wasa picnic or a Bluebell Grove? Well now, there is. Over on Horned-ToadCreek--nice, pretty name to go with the grove, ain't it?--they've gota patch uh shade big over as my hat. Right back up on the hill is theschoolhouse where they do their dancing, and they've got a table ortwo and a swing for the kids to fall outa--and they call it BluebellGrove because yuh never saw a bluebell within ten mile uh the place.That's where the general round-up for the Fourth is pulled off thisyear--so Jim Bleeker was telling me this morning. We sure got to bepresent, Dilly."
"I'm afraid I'm not the sort of man to shine in society, William,"dissented the other modestly. "You can go, and--"
"Don't yuh never _dance_?" Billy eyed him speculatively. A man underfifty--and Dill might be anywhere between thirty and forty--who hadtwo sound legs and yet did not dance!
"Oh, I used to, after a fashion. But my feet are so far off that Ifind communication with them necessarily slow, and they have a habitof embarking in wild ventures of their own. I do not believe theyare really popular with the feminine element, William. And so I'drather--"
"Aw, you'll have to go and try it a whirl, anyhow. We ain't any of usexperts. Yuh see, the boys have been accustomed to having the wheelsof industry stop revolving on the Fourth, and turning kinda wobbly forfour or five days after. I don't feel like trying to break 'em in tokeep on working--do you?"
"To use your own term," said Dill, suddenly reckless of his diction,"you're sure the doctor."
"Well, then, the proper dope for this case is, all hands show up atthe picnic." He picked up his hat from the floor, slapped it twiceagainst his leg to remove the dust, pinched the crown into four dents,set it upon his head at a jaunty angle and went out, singing softly:
"She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother."
Dill, looking after him, puckered his face into what passed with himfor a smile. "I wonder now," he meditated aloud, "if William is notthinking of some particular young lady who--er--who 'cannot leave hermother'." If he had only known it, William was; he was also wonderingwhether she would be at the picnic. And if she were at the picnic,would she remember him? He had only seen her that one night--and tohim it seemed a very long while ago. He thought, however, thathe might be able to recall himself to her mind--supposing she hadforgotten. It was a long time ago, he kept reminding himself, andthe light was poor and he hadn't shaved for a week--he had alwaysafterward realized that with much mental discomfort--and he really didlook a lot different when he had on his "war-togs," by which he meanthis best clothes. He wouldn't blame her at all if she passed him upfor a stranger, just at first. A great deal more he thought on thesame subject, and quite as foolishly.
Because of much thinking on the subject, when he and Dill rode downthe trail which much recent passing had made unusually dusty, with thehot sunlight of the Fourth making the air quiver palpably around them;with the cloudless blue arching hotly over their heads and with thefour by six cotton flag flying an involuntary signal of distress--onaccount of its being hastily raised bottom-side-up and left thatway--and beckoning them from the little clump of shade below, theheart of Charming Billy Boyle beat unsteadily under the left pocket ofhis soft, cream-colored silk shirt, and the cheeks of him glowed redunder the coppery tan. Dill was not the sort of man who loves fastriding and they ambled along quite decorously--"like we was headedfor prayer-meeting with a singing-book under each elbow," thoughtBilly, secretly resentful of the pace.
"I reckon there'll be quite a crowd," he remarked wistfully. "I see agood many horses staked out already."
Dill nodded absently, and Billy took to singing his pet ditty; onemust do something when one is covering the last mile of a journeytoward a place full of all sorts of delightful possibilities--andcovering that mile at a shambling trot which is truly maddening.
"She can make a punkin pie quick's a cat can wink her eye, She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother!"
"But, of course," observed Mr. Dill quite unexpectedly, "you know,William, time will remedy that drawback."
Billy started, looked suspiciously at the other, grew rather red andshut up like a clam. He did more; he put the spurs to his horse andspeedily hid himself in a dust-cloud, so that Dill, dutifully keepingpace with him, made a rather spectacular arrival whether he would orno.
Charming Billy, his hat carefully dimpled, his blue tie fastidiouslyknotted and pierced with the Klondyke nugget-pin which was his onlyornament, wandered hastily through the assembled groups andslapped viciously at mosquitoes. Twice he shied at a flutter ofwoman-garments, retreated to a respectable distance and reconnoitredwith a fine air of indifference, to find that the flutter accompaniedthe movements of some girl for whom he cared not at all.
In his nostrils was the indefinable, unmistakable picnic odor--theodor of crushed grasses and damp leaf-mould stirred by the passing ofmany feet, the mingling of cheap perfumes and starched muslin and icedlemonade and sandwiches; in his ears the jumble of laughter and ofholiday speech, the squealing of children in a mob around the swing,the protesting squeak of the ropes as they swung high, the snortingof horses tied just outside the enchanted ground. And through thetree-tops he could glimpse the range-land lying asleep in the hotsunlight, unchanged, uncaring, with the wild range-cattle feedingleisurely upon the slopes and lifting heads occasionally to snuffsuspiciously the unwonted soun
ds and smells that drifted up to them onvagrant breezes.
He introduced Dill to four or five men whom he thought mightbe congenial, left him talking solemnly with a man who at somehalf-forgotten period had come from Michigan, and wandered aimlesslyon through the grove. Fellows there were in plenty whom he knew, buthe passed them with a brief word or two. Truth to tell, for the mostpart they were otherwise occupied and had no time for him.
He loitered over to the swing, saw that the enthusiasts who weremaking so much noise were all youngsters under fifteen or so and thatthey hailed his coming with a joy tinged with self-interest. He roseto the bait of one dark-eyed miss who had her hair done in two braidscrossed and tied close to her head with red-white-and-blue ribbon, andwho smiled alluringly and somewhat toothlessly and remarked that sheliked to go 'way, '_way_ up till it most turned over, and thatit didn't scare her a bit. He swung her almost into hystericsand straightway found himself exceedingly popular with otherbraided-and-tied young misses. Charming Billy never could tellafterward how long or how many he swung 'way, '_way_ up; he knew thathe pushed and pushed until his arms ached and the hair on his foreheadbecame unpleasantly damp under his hat.
"That'll just about have to do yuh, kids," he rebelled suddenly andleft them, anxiously patting his hair and generally resettling himselfas he went. Once more in a dispirited fashion he threaded the crowd,which had grown somewhat larger, side-stepped a group which calledafter him, and went on down to the creek.
"I'm about the limit, I guess," he told himself irritably. "Why thedickens didn't I have the sense and nerve to ride over and ask herstraight out if she was coming? I coulda drove her over, maybe--ifshe'd come with me. I coulda took the bay team and top-buggy, and donethe thing right. I coulda--hell, there's a _heap_ uh things I couldadone that would uh been a lot more wise than what I did do! Maybe sheain't coming at all, and--"
On the heels of that he saw a spring-wagon, come rattling down thetrail across the creek. There were two seats full, and two parasolswere bobbing seductively, and one of them was blue. "I'll bet a dollarthat's them now," murmured Billy, and once more felt anxiously of hishair where it had gone limp under his hat. "Darned kids--they'd uh keptme there till I looked like I'd been wrassling calves half a day,"went with the patting. He turned and went briskly through an emptyand untrampled part of the grove to the place where the wagon would bemost likely to stop. "I'm sure going to make good to-day or--" And alittle farther--"What if it ain't _them_?"
Speedily he discovered that it was "them," and at the same time hediscovered something else which pleased him not at all. Dressed withmuch care, so that even Billy must reluctantly own him good-lookingenough, and riding so close to the blue parasol that his horse barelyescaped grazing a wheel, was the Pilgrim. He glared at Billy inunfriendly fashion and would have shut him off completely fromapproach to the wagon; but a shining milk can, left carelessly by abush, caught the eye of his horse, and after that the Pilgrim was verybusy riding erratically in circles and trying to keep in touch withhis saddle.
Billy, grown surprisingly bold, went straight to where the blueparasol was being closed with dainty deliberation. "A little more, andyou'd have been late for dinner," he announced, smiling up at her, andheld out his eager arms. Diplomacy, perhaps, should have urged him toassist the other lady first--but Billy Boyle was quite too directto be diplomatic and besides, the other lady was on the opposite sidefrom him.
Miss Bridger may have been surprised, and she may or may not have beenpleased; Billy could only guess at her emotions--granting she feltany. But she smiled down at him and permitted the arms to receive her,and she also permitted--though with some hesitation--Billy to lead herstraight away from the wagon and its occupants and from the gyratingPilgrim to the deep delights of the grove.
"Mr. Walland is a good rider, don't you think?" murmured Miss Bridger,gazing over her shoulder.
"He's a bird," said Billy evenly, and was polite enough not to mentionwhat kind of bird. He was wondering what on earth had brought thosetwo together and why, after that night, Miss Bridger should befriendly with the Pilgrim; but of these things he said nothing, thoughhe did find a good deal to say upon pleasanter subjects.
So far as any one knew, Charming Billy Boyle, while he had done manythings, had never before walked boldly into a picnic crowd carrying ablue parasol as if it were a rifle and keeping step as best he mightover the humps and hollows of the grove with a young woman. Many therewere who turned and looked again--and these were the men who knew himbest. As for Billy, his whole attitude was one of determination; hewas not particularly lover-like--had he wanted to be, he would nothave known how. He was resolved to make the most of his opportunities,because they were likely to be few and because he had an instinct thathe should know the girl better--he had even dreamed foolishly, once ortwice, of some day marrying her. But to clinch all, he had no notionof letting the Pilgrim offend her by his presence.
So he somehow got her wedged between two fat women at one of thetables, and stood behind and passed things impartially and ate hamsandwiches and other indigestibles during the intervals. He had thesatisfaction of seeing the Pilgrim come within ten feet of them, hoverthere scowling for a minute or two and then retreat. "He ain't forgotthe licking I gave him," thought Billy vaingloriously, and hid a smilein the delectable softness of a wedge of cake with some kind of creamyfilling.
"_I_ made that cake," announced Miss Bridger over her shoulder whenshe saw what he was eating. "Do you like it as well as--chicken stew?"
Whereupon Billy murmured incoherently and wished the two fat women tenmiles away. He had not dared--he would never have dared--refer to thatnight, or mention chicken stew or prune pies or even dried apricots inher presence; but with her own hand she had brushed aside the veil ofconstraint that had hung between them.
"I wish I'd thought to bring a prune pie," he told her daringly, inhis eagerness half strangling over a crumb of cake.
"Nobody wants prune pie at a picnic," declared one of the fat womensententiously. "You might as well bring fried bacon and done with it."
"Picnics," added the other and fatter woman, "iss for gettingsomet'ings t' eat yuh don'd haff every day at home." To point themoral she reached for a plate of fluted and iced molasses cakes.
"I _love_ prune pies," asserted Miss Bridger, and laughed at thesnorts which came from either side.
Billy felt himself four inches taller just then. "Give me stewedprairie-chicken," he stooped to murmur in her ear--or, to be exact, inthe blue bow on her hat.
"Ach, you folks didn'd ought to come to a picnic!" grunted the fatterwoman in disgust.
The two who had the secret between them laughed confidentially, andMiss Bridger even turned her head away around so that their eyes couldmeet and emphasize the joke.
Billy looked down at the big, blue bow and at the soft, blue rufflystuff on her shoulders--stuff that was just thin enough so that onecaught elusive suggestions of the soft, pinky flesh beneath--andwondered vaguely why he had never noticed the beating in his throatbefore--and what would happen if he reached around and tilted back herchin and--"Thunder! I guess I've sure got 'em, all right!" he broughthimself up angrily, and refrained from carrying the subject farther.
It was rumored that the dancing would shortly begin in the schoolhouseup the hill, and Billy realized suddenly with some compunction that hehad forgotten all about Dill. "I want to introduce my new boss toyuh, Miss Bridger," he said when they had left the table and she wassmoothing down the ruffly blue stuff in an adorably feminine way. "Heisn't much just to look at, but he's the whitest man I ever knew. Youwait here a minute and I'll go find him"--which was a foolish thingfor him to do, as he afterward found out.
For when he had hunted the whole length of the grove, he foundDill standing like a blasted pine tree in the middle of a circle ofmen--men who were married, and so were not wholly taken up withthe feminine element--and he was discoursing to them earnestly andgrammatically upon the capitalistic tendencies of modern politics.Billy s
tood and listened long enough to see that there was no hope ofweaning his interest immediately, and then went back to where he hadleft Miss Bridger. She was not there. He looked through the nearestgroups, approached one of the fat women, who was industriouslysorting the remains of the feast and depositing the largest and mostattractive pieces of cake in her own basket, and made bold to inquireif she knew where Miss Bridger had gone.
"Gone home after some prune pie, I guess maybe," she retortedquellingly, and Billy asked no farther.
Later he caught sight of a blue flutter in the swing; investigated andsaw that it was Miss Bridger, and that the Pilgrim, smiling and withhis hat set jauntily back on his head, was pushing the swing. They didnot catch sight of Billy for he did not linger there. He turned shortaround, walked purposefully out to the edge of the grove where hishorse was feeding at the end of his rope, picked up the rope and ledthe horse over to where his saddle lay on its side, the neatly foldedsaddle-blanket laid across it. "Darn it, stand still!" he growledunjustly, when the horse merely took the liberty of switching a flyoff his rump. Billy picked up the blanket, shook the wrinkles outmechanically, held it before him ready to lay across the waiting backof Barney; shook it again, hesitated and threw it violently back uponthe saddle.
"Go on off--I don't want nothing of yuh," he admonished the horse,which turned and looked at him inquiringly. "I ain't through yet--Igot another chip to put up." He made him a cigarette, lighted it andstrolled nonchalantly back to the grove.