CHAPTER II
Helen Blake was undeniably bored. The sultry afternoon was verylong--longer even than Berkeley Fresno's autobiography, and quiteas dry. It was too hot and dusty to ride, so she took refuge inthe latest "best seller," and sought out a hammock on the vine-shaded gallery, where Jean Chapin was writing letters, while thedisconsolate Fresno, banished, wandered at large, vaguely injuredat her lack of appreciation.
Absent-mindedly, the girls dipped into the box of bonbons betweenthem. Jean finished her correspondence and essayed conversation,but her companion's blond head was bowed over the book in herlap, and the effort met with no response. Lulled by thesomniferous droning of insects and lazy echoes from afar, MissChapin was on the verge of slumber, when she saw her guestrapidly turn the last pages of her novel, then, with a chocolatebetween her teeth, read wide-eyed to the finish. Miss Blakeclosed the book reluctantly, uncurled slowly, then stared outthrough the dancing heat-waves, her blue eyes shadowed withromance.
"Did she marry him?" queried Jean.
"No, no!" Helen Blake sighed, blissfully. "It was infinitelyfiner. She killed herself."
"I like to see them get married."
"Naturally. You are at that stage. But I think suicide is moreglorious, in many cases."
Miss Chapin yawned openly. "Speaking of suicides, isn't thisranch the deadest place?"
"Oh, I don't think so at all." Miss Blake picked her wayfastidiously through the bonbons, nibbling tentatively at severalbefore making her choice. "Oh yes, you do, and you needn't bepolite just because you're a guest." "Well, then, to be astruthful as a boarder, it _is_ a little dull. Not for ourchaperon, though. The time doesn't seem to drag on her hands.Jack certainly is making it pleasant for her."
"If you call taking her out to watch a lot of bellowing calvesget branded, entertainment," Miss Chapin sighed.
"I wonder what makes widows so fascinating?" observed theyouthful Miss Blake.
"I hope I never find out." Jean clutched nervously at the goldmedal on her dress. "Wouldn't that be dreadful!"
"My dear, Culver seems perfectly healthy. Why worry?"
"I--I wish he were here."
Miss Blake leaned forward and read the inscription on hercompanion's medal. "Oh, isn't it heavy!" feeling it reverently.
"Pure gold, like himself! You should have seen him when he wonit. Why, at the finish of that race all the men but Culver weremaking the most horrible faces. They were simply _dead_."
Miss Blake's hands were clasped in her lap. "They all makefaces," said she. "Have you told Roberta about your engagement?"
"No, she doesn't dream of it, and I don't want her to know. I'mso afraid she'll think, now that mother has gone, that I askedher here just as a chaperon. Perhaps I'll tell her when Culvercomes."
"I adore athletes. I wouldn't give a cent for a man who wasn'tathletic."
"Does Mr. Speed go in for that sort of thing?"
"Rather! The day we met at the Yale games he had medals all overhim, and that night at the dance he used the most wonderfulathletic language--we could scarcely understand him. Mr.Covington must have told you all about him; they are chums, youknow."
Miss Chapin furrowed her brows meditatively.
"I have heard Culver speak of him, but never as an athlete. Haveyou and Mr. Speed settled things between you, Helen? I mean, hashe--said anything?"
Miss Blake flushed.
"Not exactly." She adjusted a cushion to cover her confusion,then leaned back complacently. "But he has stuttered dangerouslyseveral times."
A musical tinkle of silver spurs sounded in the distance, andaround the corner of the cook-house opposite came Carara, theMexican, his wide, spangled sombrero tipped rakishly over oneear, a corn-husk cigarette drooping from his lips. Evidently hispresence was inspired by some special motive, for he glancedsharply about, and failing to detect the two girls behind thedistant screen of vines, removed his cigarette and whistledthrice, like a quail, then, leaning against the adobe wall,curled his black silken mustaches to needle-points.
"It's that romantic Spaniard!" whispered Helen. "What does hewant?"
"It's his afternoon call on Mariedetta, the maid," said Jean."They meet there twice a day, morning and afternoon."
"A lovers' tryst!" breathed Miss Blake, eagerly. "Isn't hegraceful and picturesque! Can we watch them?"
"'Sh-h! There she comes!"
From the opposite direction appeared a slim, swarthy Mexicangirl, an Indian water-jug balanced upon her shoulders. She wasclad in the straight-hanging native garment, belted in with asash; her feet were in sandals, and she moved as silently as ashadow.
During the four days since Miss Blake's arrival at the FlyingHeart Ranch she had seen Mariedetta flitting noiselessly here andthere, but had never heard her speak. The pretty, expressionlessface beneath its straight black hair had ever retained its woodenstolidity, the velvety eyes had not laughed nor frowned norsparkled. She seemed to be merely a part of this far southwesternpicture; a bit of inanimate yet breathing local color. Now,however, the girl dropped her jug, and with a low cry glided toher lover, who tossed aside his cigarette and took her in hisarms. From this distance their words were indistinguishable.
"How perfectly romantic," said the Eastern girl, breathlessly. "Ihad no idea Mariedetta could love anybody."
"She is a volcano," Jean answered.
"Why, it's like a play!"
"And it goes on all the time."
"How gentle and sweet he is! I think he is charming. He is not atall like the other cowboys, is he?"
While the two witnesses of the scene were eagerly discussing it,Joy, the Chinese cook, emerged from the kitchen bearing a bucketof water, his presence hidden from the lovers by the corner ofthe building. Carara languidly released his inamorata from hisembrace and lounged out of sight around the building, pausing atthe farther corner to waft her a graceful kiss from the ends ofhis fingers, as with a farewell flash of his white teeth hedisappeared. Mariedetta recovered her water-jug and glided onwardinto the court in front of the cook-house, her face masklike, hermovements deliberate as usual. Joy, spying the girl, grinned ather. She tossed her head coquettishly and her step slackened,whereupon the cook, with a sly glance around, tapped her gentlyon the arm, and said:
"Nice l'il gally."
"The idea!" indignantly exclaimed Miss Blake from her hammock.
But Mariedetta was not offended. Instead she smiled over hershoulder as she had smiled at her lover an instant before.
"Me like you fine. You like pie?" Joy nodded toward the door tothe culinary department, as if to make free of his hospitality,at the instant that Carara, who had circled the building, cameinto view from the opposite side, a fresh cigarette between hislips. His languor vanished at the first glimpse of the scene, andhe strode toward the white-clad Celestial, who dove through theopen door like a prairie dog into its hole. Carara followed athis heels.
"It serves him right!" cried Miss Blake, rising. "I hope Mr.Carara--"
A din of falling pots and pans issued from the cook-house,mingled with shrill cries and soft Spanish imprecations; then,with one long-drawn wail, the pandemonium ceased as suddenly asit had commenced, and Carara issued forth, black with anger.
"Ha!" said he, scowling at Mariedetta, who had retreated, herhand upon her bosom. He exhaled a lungful of cigarette smokethrough his nostrils fiercely. "You play wit' me, eh?"
"No! no!" Mariedetta ran to him, and, seizing his arm, cooedamorously in Spanish.
"Bah! _Vamos!"_ Carara flung her from him, and stalked away.
"Well, of all the outrageous things!" said Miss Blake. "Why, shewas actually flirting with that Chinaman."
"Mariedetta flirts with every man she can find," said Jean,calmly, "but she doesn't mean any harm. She'll marry Carara sometime--if he doesn't kill her."
"Kill her!" Miss Blake's eyes were round. "He wouldn't do_that!"_
"Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper."
Miss Blake sank back into the
hammock. "How perfectly dreadful!And yet--it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you."
Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver isalmost like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes ourforeman!"
Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzledmustache, came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beatenchaps were much too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar ofhis faded flannel shirt lacked an inch of meeting at the throat,its sleeves were shrunken until his hairy hands hung down liketassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered withthe slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave onethe impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. Hedusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.
"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"
"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I doanything for you?"
"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually intomotion again.
"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired MissChapin.
"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which hadnot yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "Ireckon my sperret's broke, that's all."
"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"
"I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipedeoutfit has got it on us."
"Nonsense, Stover!"
"What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven'theard about any foot-race."
"You tell her," said the man, with another sigh, and a hopelessgesture that told the depth of his feelings.
"Why, Stover hired a fellow a couple of months ago as ahorse-wrangler. The man said he was hungry, and made a good impression,so we put him on."
Here Stover slowly raised one booted foot and kicked his othercalf. "The boys nicknamed him Humpy Joe--"
"Why, poor thing! Was he humpbacked?" inquired Helen.
"No," answered Still Bill. "Humpback is lucky. We called himHumpy Joe because when it came to running he could sure get upand hump himself."
"Soon after Joseph went to work," Jean continued, "the Centipedeoutfit hired a new cook. You know the Centipede Ranch--the oneyou see over yonder by the foot-hills."
"It wasn't 'soon after,' it was simuletaneous," said Stover,darkly. "We're beginnin' to see plain at last." He went on as ifto air the injury that was gnawing him. "One day we hear thatthis grub-slinger over yonder thinks he can run, which same is aswelcome to us as the smell of flowers on a spring breeze, forHumpy Joe had amused us in his idle hours by running jack-rabbitsto earth--"
"Not really?" said Miss Blake.
"Well, no, but from what we see we judge he'd ought to limp ahundred yards in about nothing and three-fifths seconds, so weframe a race between him and the Centipede cook."
"As a matter of fact, there has been a feud for years between thetwo outfits," Jean offered.
"With tumulchous joy we bet our wages and all the loose gear wehave, and in a burst of childish enthusiasm we put up--thetalking-machine."
"A phonograph?"
"Yes. An Echo Phonograph," said Miss Chapin.
"Of New York and Paris," added Stover.
"Our boys won it from this very Centipede outfit at abronco-busting tournament in Cheyenne."
"Wyoming." Stover made the location definite.
"The Centipede crowd took their defeat badly on Frontier Day, andswore to get even."
"And was Humpy Joe defeated?" asked Helen.
"Was he?" Still Bill shook his head sadly, and sighed for a thirdtime. "It looked like he was running backward, miss."
"But really he was only beaten a foot. It was a wonderful race. Isaw it," said Jean. "It made me think of the races at college."
Miss Blake puckered her brows trying to think.
"Joseph," she said. "No, I don't think I have seen him."
Stover's lips met grimly. "I don't reckon you have, miss. Sincethat race he has been hard to descry. He passed from viewhurriedly, so to speak, headed toward the foot-hills, and leapingfrom crag to crag like the hardy shamrock of the Swiss Yelps."
Miss Blake giggled. "What made him hurry so?"
"Us!" Stover gazed at her solemnly. "We ain't none of us been thesame since that foot-race. You see, it ain't the financial valueof that Echo Phonograph, nor the 'double-cross' that hurts: it'sthe fact that the mangiest outfit in the Territory has trimmed usout of the one thing that stands for honor and excellence and'scientific attainment,' as the judge said when we won it. Thattalking-machine meant more to us than you Eastern folks canunderstand, I reckon."
"If I were you I would cheer up," said Miss Blake, kindly, andwith some importance. "Miss Chapin has a college friend comingthis week, and he can win back your trophy."
Stover glanced up at Jean quickly.
"Is that right, Miss Chapin?"
"He can if he will," Jean asserted.
"Can he run?"
"He is the intercollegiate champion," declared that young lady,with proud dignity.
"And do you reckon he'd run for us and the Echo Phonograph of NewYork and Paris, if we framed a race? It's an honor!"
But Miss Chapin suddenly recalled her brother's caution of theday before, and hesitated.
"I--I don't think he would. You see, he is an amateur--he mightbe out of training--"
"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Blake, indignantly. "If Culver won'trun, I know who will!" She closed her lips firmly, and turned tothe foreman. "You tell your friends that we'll see you get yourtrophy back."
"Helen, I--"
"I mean it!" declared Miss Blake, with spirit.
Stover bowed loosely. "Thank you, miss. The very thought of itwill cheer up the gang. Life 'round here is blacker 'n a spadeflush. I think I'll tell Willie." He shambled rapidly off aroundthe house.
"Helen dear, I don't want Culver to get mixed up in this affair,"explained Miss Chapin, as soon as they were alone. "It's allutterly foolish. Jack doesn't want him to, either."
"Very well. If Culver doesn't feel that he can beat that cookrunning, I know who will try. Mr. Speed will do anything I ask.It's a shame the way those men have been treated."
"But Mr. Speed isn't a sprinter."
"Indeed!" Miss Blake bridled. "Perhaps Culver Covington isn't theonly athlete in Yale College. I happen to know what I'm talkingabout. Naturally the two boys have never competed against eachother, because they are friends--Mr. Speed isn't the sort to racehis room-mate. Oh! he wouldn't tell me he could run if it werenot true."
"I don't think he will consent when he learns the truth."
"I assure you," said Miss Blake, sweetly, "he will be delighted."