CHAPTER III
When the first faint edges of light outlined the coming day, she sat boltupright and stared about her. As far as eye could see was the tortuoustrail leading up sculptured hills that were the preface to the mothermountains of the West.
The wonder-stare in her eyes gradually disappeared as memory awakened.Down beyond the trees in a little valley the sheriff was attending to afire he had built.
She arose, cramped and unrefreshed, and hastened toward the welcomeblaze.
"Good morning. Any gasoline yet?"
"No; not an automobile passed during the night."
"How do you know? Didn't you sleep?"
"No."
"Guarding your car and me? No!" she added quickly. "That wasn't thereason. I had all the robes and your coat. You had to stay awake to keepwarm."
He smiled slightly and spoke in the hushed voice that seems in keepingwith the dawn.
"I've been used to night watches--tending sheep and cattle on the plains.What's the difference whether it's night or day so long as you sleepsomewhere in the twenty-four hour zone?"
"I never was up ahead of the sun before," she said with a little shiver,as she came close to the fire.
"I am heating over the coffee that was left. That will make you feelbetter."
"I suppose there isn't any water hereabouts to wash in. You know theyteach us to be sanitary in the reformatories."
He pointed to a jar.
"I always carry some in the car. Help yourself."
"Arctic ablutions never appeal to me," she said when she had used the coldwater freely and returned to the fire. "I found another left-over in theshape of a sandwich minus the pork, so we can each have a slice of toastwith our coffee."
She put a piece of bread on a forked stick and held it out to the blaze.He did the same with the other half of the sandwich. Then they partook ofa meagre but welcome breakfast.
"Look!" he said presently in an awed voice.
The sun was sending a glorious searchlight of gold over the highesthill-line.
"Swell, isn't it?" she commented cheerily.
Her choice of adjectives repelled any further comments on Nature by him.
"I'm not used to sleeping out," she said, as he carefully raked over theremains of the fire, "and it didn't seem to rest me. Thank you for makingme so comfortable, Mr. Walters."
She spoke gently; altogether her manner was so much more subdued thismorning that he felt the same wave of pity he had felt when Bender hadfirst mentioned her case to him.
"I am sorry," he said, "that you had to stay out here all night. It was myfault; but you will have a more comfortable resting place to-night."
A sound was heard: a modern, welcome sound, breaking in distractingly onthe primeval silence. Kurt hastened to the road and saw the encouragingprelude of dust. The passing tourist gave him the requisite supply ofgasoline and continued on his way.
"Come on, Pen!" called the sheriff.
She suppressed a smile as she followed.
"You called me by my first name," she couldn't resist reminding him.
"I didn't know your last one," he responded quickly and resentfully as hehelped her into the car.
"Let me think. I've had so many aliases--suppose I make out a list and letyou take your choice. Most of my pals call me 'The Thief.'"
The look of yesterday came back to his eyes at her flippant tone andwords.
"Don't!" he said harshly. "This morning I had forgotten what you were."
"I wish I could," she said forlornly. "We won't talk about it any more.Play I am pink perfect until we get to this 'first lady of the land' up atTop Hill. Oh, but motoring in the dawn is shivery! I loathe early morningwhen you get up to it. If you _stay up_ for it, it's different."
He looked down at her quickly.
In the crisp morning air, her little figure was shaking as if with achill. Her face was very white, and there was a bluish look about hermouth.
He stopped the car suddenly.
She smiled faintly at his look of concern.
"I'm all right," she said reassuringly, a spark of raillery again showingin her eyes before they closed, and she fell limply against him.
When she had recovered the consciousness she had lost but momentarily, hewas vigorously rubbing her hands.
"How warm and strong your hands feel," she said with a little sigh ofcontent. "I never did anything so out of date before. I couldn't helpit."
"You are nearly frozen," he said brusquely. "Why don't you wear moreclothes?"
"I am wearing all I have," she said plaintively, with an attempt at agiggle.
A sudden recollection came to him. From under the seat he brought forth aheavy, gray sweater.
"I forgot I had this with me. Put it on."
"It's a slip-on. I'll have to take off my hat and coat to get into it."
When she removed her soft, shabby, battered hat which she had worn welldown over her eyes even while she slept, her hair, rippling bronze andgolden lights, fell about her face and shoulders in semi-curls.
He helped her into the sweater.
"It's sure snug and warm," she said approvingly, as her head came out ofthe opening. "I won't need my coat."
"No; there's no warmth in it," he said, looking disdainfully at the thin,cheap garment. "Throw it away."
"With pleasure," she replied gaily. "Here's to my winter garment ofrepentance."
She flung the coat out on the road.
"What did you say?" he asked perplexedly.
"Nothing original. Just some words I st-t--I mean, borrowed."
She fastened back her hair and picked up her hat.
"Don't put that on!" he exclaimed, making another search under the seatand bringing forth a soft cap. She set it jauntily on her curls.
"How do you feel now? Well enough to ride on?"
"Yes; I am feeling 'fair and warmer' every minute."
When the car started, she relapsed into silence. The sunshine was floodingthe treeless hills and mellowing the cool, clean air. Up and down, as faras the eye could follow, which was very far in this land of greatdistances, the trail sought the big dominant hills that broke the sky-linebefore them. The outlook was restful, hopeful, fortifying.
"How are you--all right?" he asked presently.
"Perfectly all right. It's grand up here in all these high spots."
"Wait until we reach the hills around our ranch," he boasted. Then helaughed shortly. "I say 'our.' I'm only the foreman."
"What are you going to tell _her_ about me?" she asked curiously, afteranother silence.
He slackened the pace and looked at her closely. The sweater and thesunshine had brought a faint tinge of wild-rose color to the transparencyof her skin. The flippancy and boldness so prominent in her eyes the daybefore had disappeared. She looked more as she had when she was asleep inthe moonlight. A wave of kindness and brotherliness swept over him.
"I am going to tell her," he said gently, "that you are a poor little girlwho needs a friend."
"Is that all you will tell her?"
"You may tell her as much or as little of your story as you think youshould."
"You are a good man, but," she added thoughtfully, "the best of men don'tunderstand women's ways toward each other. If I tell her my sordid littlestory, she may not want to help me--at least, not want to keep me up herein her home. I've not found women very helpful."
"She will help you and keep you, because--" he hesitated, and thencontinued earnestly, "before she was married, she was a settlement workerin a large city and she understood such--"
"As I," she finished. "I know the settlement workers. They write youup--or down--in a sort of a Rogue Record, and you are classified, indexed,filed and treated by a system."
"She isn't that kind!" he protested indignantly. "She does her work by herheart, not by system. Have you ever really tried to reform?"
"Yes," she exclaimed eagerly. "I left Chicago for that purpose. I couldn'tfind work. I was cold and hungr
y; pawned everything they would take andgot shabby like this," looking down disdainfully at herself, "but I didn'tsteal, not even food. I would have starved first. Then I was arrested uphere for stealing. I wasn't guilty. Bender had no case, really; but hewouldn't give me a square deal or listen to anything in my favor, becausemy record was against me. You can't live down a record. There is no usetrying."
"Yes, there is!" he declared emphatically. "I have always thought a thiefincurable, but I believe _she_ could perform the miracle."
"How old is she?" demanded Pen suddenly.
"I don't know," he answered vaguely, as if her age had never occurred tohim before. "She has been married ten years."
"Oh! Did she marry the right man?"
"She certainly did. Kingdon is a prince."
"Any children?"
"Three; two little fellows as fine as are made, and a girl."
"I adore children."
"I am glad to hear you say that. Every good woman loves children."
"And you really think there's the makings of a good woman in me?"
"Yes; I think so," he answered earnestly, "and if there's but a spark ofgoodness in you, she will find it and fan it to a glow."
She made a wry little grimace which fortunately he did not see.
"This goodness is nauseating me," she thought. "I shall beat it back aboutto-morrow."
"Look!" he cried, as the road made a sharp curve. "There it is!"
"You can lift your eyes to the hills! What a love of a place--way up ontiptoes. I'll be the little fish out of water up there!"
Top Hill Tavern was on a small plateau at the summit of one of the hills.The ranch-house, long, low and fanciful in design, connected by a coveredportico with the kitchen, dairies and buildings, was misleading in name,for a succession of higher hills was in sight. A vined pergola, flowergardens, swings, tennis courts and croquet grounds gave the place a mostunranch-like appearance.
As they rode up to the entrance porch, a woman came out of the house, andinstantly the big, appraising eyes of the little newcomer felt that herewas a type unknown to her. She was slender, not very tall, but with apoise and dignity of manner that compelled attention. Her eyes were gray;her lashes, brows and hair quite dark. There was a serenity and repose ofmanner about her--the Madonna expression of gentleness--but with an addedforce.
"We looked for you last night, Kurt," she said in a voice, low andwinning.
"Ran out of gasoline and had to spend the night on the road," heexplained. "Mrs. Kingdon, this is a little girl--"
She didn't give him the opportunity to finish.
"Come in out of the sun," she urged.
Pen stepped from the car. There was no consciousness in the beautiful eyesof the "best woman in the world" that she was aware of the shabby, tanshoes, the cheap, faded and worn skirt, or the man's sweater and cap.
Pen's eyes had grown dark and thoughtful.
"Before I go in," she said turning to Kurt, "you must tell her who I am.Not what you said you were going to tell her, but where you found me andfrom what you saved me."
His face flushed.
"My dear little girl," said the woman quickly, "I don't care to know--yet.It is enough that Kurt brought you."
"Mrs. Kingdon," said Kurt awkwardly but earnestly, "she is a poor girl whoneeds a friend."
"We all need a friend some time or other. Come in with me."
She led her up the steps. On the top one, the girl halted.
"He found me," she told Mrs. Kingdon, "in the custody of--Bender, forstealing, and he took me away to save me from jail, to bring me up here tothe 'best woman in the world,' he said, and I made light of what he haddone all the way up the trail. And he was so kind to me--me, a pickpocket.I think I should go back--to Bender."
She spoke with the impetuosity of a child, and turned to go down thesteps.
Kurt looked on helplessly, perplexed by this last mood of his prismaticyoung prisoner.
Mrs. Kingdon took the girl's arm again.
"You are going to have a bed and bath before you leave, anyway. Come withme. Kurt, you look as if you had best go to cover, too."
Pen's outbreak had evidently spent her last drop of reserve force. Shesubmitted meekly to guidance through a long room with low-set windows. Shenoted a tiled floor with soft rugs, a fireplace and a certain pervadinghome-sense before they turned into a little hallway. Again she faintlyprotested.
"I am worse than a thief," she said. "I am a liar. I haven't toldhim--all."
"Never mind that now," said Mrs. Kingdon soothingly. "You've been illrecently, haven't you?"
"Yes; I was just about at the end of--"
"You're at the end of the trail now--the trail to Top Hill. You shall havea bath, a long sleep and something to eat before you try to tell meanything more."
Pen went on into a sunward room generously supplied with casement windows.A few rugs, a small but billowy bed, a chair and a table comprised thefurnishings, but an open door disclosed a bathroom and beyond that adressing room most adequately equipped.
"This is clover," she thought presently, when she slipped into a warmbath.
"And this is some more clover," she murmured later, as, robed in a littlenainsook gown, she stretched out luxuriously between lavender scentedsheets. "I don't care what may come later. I know that I am going to havea real sleep."
It was five o'clock in the afternoon when she awoke. On the chair by herbed was a change of clothing, a pair of white tennis shoes, a dark blueskirt, a white middy and a red tie.
"Oh!" she thought. "The kind of clothes I love."
She hastened to dress partially, then slipped on a little negligee andbegan to do her hair.
"I wish it would sometimes go twice in the same place," she thoughtruefully. "I never can fix it as I like. It's the only thing that ever gotthe better of me except Kind Kurt. Well!" with an impatient shake of herrebellious locks, "go crop-cut, if you insist. I can't help it."
Mrs. Kingdon smiled when the little girlish figure opened the door inresponse to her knock.
"I felt sure that that outfit, which was left here by my fifteen-year-oldniece when she last visited us, would fit you, though Kurt insists thatyou are twenty. You had a nice sleep, didn't you?"
"I think I never really slept before. Such a bed, and such heavenly quiet!So different from street-car racket."
"My husband and the boys have been away all day, or there wouldn't havebeen such quiet. Dinner is ready. Kurt didn't tell me your name."
"Penelope Lamont. My first name is always shortened to Pen or Penny."
Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr.Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist.Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and sevenyears respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnlyand surveyingly while she was presented to their father.
"Can you skin a weasel?" asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned tohim.
"Mother said you were a young lady," said Billy. "You're just a littlegirl like Doris was."
"And you've got on her clothes," declared Betty sagely.
"Now you surely should feel at home," declared Mrs. Kingdon.
"Margaret," commented her husband whimsically, "our children seem to bequite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in theirremarks, don't you think?"
"We so seldom have visitors up here, you know," defended the mother,smiling at Pen the while. "We will go into the dining room now."
Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a mostwilling welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that thevacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified byBetty who asked with a pout:
"Why don't we wait for Uncle Kurt?"
"He dined an hour ago and rode away," explained Mrs. Kingdon. "He will beback before your bedtime."
Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by oneor more of the
children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive totheir advances.
"You've had your innings, Francis," the father finally declared. "Thatwill be the last from you."
"There's one thing more I want to know," he pleaded. "Miss Lamont, docolored people ever have--what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamonthad, mother?"
"Oh, Francis!" exclaimed his mother. "I said," looking at Pen, "that Ifeared you were anemic, and then I had to describe the word minutely."
"Are they ever that, Miss Lamont?" insisted the boy.
"I never thought of it before," answered Pen after a moment's reflection,"but I don't see why they couldn't be so, same as white people."
"Then how could they tell they had it. They wouldn't look white, wouldthey?"
"Suppose," interceded Kingdon, "we try to find a less colorful topic. Imove we adjourn to the library for coffee."
"We stay up an hour after dinner," said Billy, when they were gatheredabout the welcome open fire, "but when we have company, it's an hour and ahalf."
"I should think that rule would be reversed," replied Kingdon humorously.
"Then, aren't you glad I'm here?" Pen asked Billy.
"Sure!" came in hearty assurance. "You can stay up a long time, can't you,because you slept all day?"
"Play with us," besought Betty.
"Yes; play rough," demanded Billy.
Mrs. Kingdon interposed. "She's too tired to do that," she admonished thechildren.
Betty came forward with a box of paper and a pair of scissors.
"You can cut me some paper dolls. That won't tire you."
"I don't want dolls!" scoffed Francis.
Pen was already using the articles Betty had furnished.
"Not if we call them circus ladies and I cut horses for them to ride on?"she asked him.
"Can you do that?" he inquired unbelievingly.
"Certainly. Dashing horses that will stand up," she boasted, and inanother moment a perfectly correct horse was laid before the delightedboys.
A few more rapid snips and a short-skirted lady was handed to Betty.
"Now, make a clown, a lion, a tiger, an elephant," came in quick, shortorders which were readily filled.
"My dear young lady," exclaimed Kingdon. "You are really talented. It isso seldom an artist can do anything but draw."
"I can't draw. I am just a cutter," she corrected. "I can't do anythingwith a pencil."
They were all so absorbed in the paper products that Kurt's entrancepassed unnoted.
"Betty," he said imploringly, after waiting a moment without recognition,"you can't guess what's in my pocket?"
Pen looked up unbelievingly. The caressing, winning note had utterlydisguised his voice. As he handed the delighted Betty a satisfactorilyshaped parcel, his glance rested upon his prisoner, bringing a quick gleamof surprise to his eyes.
"I am taking out my first papers, you see," she announced, pointing to theminiature menagerie.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.
"A man showed me," she said noncommittally.
"What else can you cut?" demanded Francis.
"I can cut an airship."
"Cut me one."
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Kingdon. "The time limit is up."
"Did you ever go up in an airship?" asked Billy eagerly.
"No; but I know a man who flies," she boasted.
"Come upstairs and tell us about him," demanded Billy.
As his mother cordially seconded the invitation, Pen accompanied them tothe nursery. When the last "good nights" had been said to the children,Mrs. Kingdon led the way to her room.
"The moon shouldn't seem so far away," declared Pen, looking out of thebroad window. "We are up so high."
"I haven't yet ceased to wonder at these hills," rejoined Mrs. Kingdon."We bought this ranch merely for a vacation place, but three-fourths ofour time is spent up here, as we have become so attached to it. Mr.Kingdon is an artist, so he never tires of watching the hills and the sky.Sometimes we feel selfish with so much happiness--when there isn't enoughto go around."
"I know you take but a small percentage of what you give. Shall I tell mystory now?"
"I think I know it--or some of it, at least," replied Mrs. Kingdon,looking at her intently.
Pen looked up with a startled gesture.
"You do! How--"
"When I was in your room just before dinner, it came to me where I hadseen you before. It was about a year ago--in San Francisco--in a policestation. I made inquiries; was interested in you and tried to see you, butwe were suddenly called home. I should like to hear more about your lifeand what brought you to these hills."
"I wish no one else need know it," she said entreatingly, when she hadtold her story in detail.
"Kurt is surely entitled to know it _all_," replied Mrs. Kingdon.
"I suppose he is; though I wish he didn't know as much as he already does.It isn't necessary to tell him to-night, is it? I am still tired in spiteof my long rest."
"To-morrow will do. If you like, I will tell him, and I wish you and hewould leave the entire matter--about Jo and all--in my hands."
"Most gladly," assented Pen. "But where is Jo?"
"He is on a neighboring ranch--temporarily, only."
"There is something else I should like to know. Why is Kurt so differentfrom most men? Doesn't he ever look pleasant, or was his gloom all on myaccount?"
"His life hasn't been exactly conducive to jollity. He was born in NewEngland and brought up on pie and Presbyterianism by a spinstered aunt whodidn't understand boys. He ran away and came to the West. He has beencattle-herder, cowboy and everything else typical of the hill country. Wecame here, tenderfooted, and were most fortunate in finding a foreman likeKurt Walters. He has a wonderful way of handling men. He is of goodhabits, forceful, keen; very gentle to old people and most adorable withchildren. We make him one of our household. There is the fortunate flawthat keeps him from being super-excellent; he is not merciful towrongdoers and, as you say, he is too serious--almost moody. That isaccounted for by the long night vigils of the cattlemen. They get a habitof inhibition that they never lose. I think the men find him very goodcompany at times. There is one splendid thing about him. In spite of hisrough life and the many years in which he has had opportunity to meet onlythe--misguided kind of women, he has never lost faith in his ideals ofwomanhood."
"I certainly rubbed him the wrong way," said Pen comprehendingly. "Helooked upon me as if there were no place on his map for my kind, and yethe struggled hard to be good to me when I was suffering from cold andhunger. I never met his sort of a man before. The men I have been thrownwith think goodness stupid. No matter what crime a girl commits, providingshe is attractive in any way, they applaud and call her a 'littledevil.'"
"He talked of you a great deal to-day, and about your chances forreformation."
Pen smiled enigmatically.
"He said he would have felt more sympathy for me if I had not beeneducated and knew the enormity of my sins. If he knew more of the world,he would know that the intelligent criminal has the least chance toreform. When he took me so unexpectedly from Bender, I wanted to see whathe was going to do with me. When I found he was bringing me out here, Icould have easily given him the slip and escaped, but I was curious to seethe 'best woman in the world.' I never had faith in a man's estimate of awoman, but as soon as I saw you, I knew he was right. May I stay? Will youreally let me?"
"I quite insist upon your staying. We will go downstairs for a littlewhile now."
Below, Mrs. Kingdon lingered to give some directions to a servant and Penwent on to the library.
Kurt was standing there alone. She stood small and straight before herwarden, looking squarely into his eyes.
"You needn't," she said, "put any locks on valuables here--not on myaccount. The crookedest crook in the world wouldn't steal from _her_."
"I am glad you recognize a true woman," he said earnestly.
"Thank you
for bringing me here. I feel it's the turning point in mylife."
"Then," he said earnestly, "I feel I have done something worth while. Youshall not leave here until--you see I am speaking plainly--you haveovercome all desire to steal."
"Not a severe penalty, O Sheriff Man!" she thought as she replied meekly:"To-night I feel as if I could never do anything wrong; but you know thestrongest of us have our lapses."
"I know that too well," he said gravely, "but--you'll try?"
"I'll try. Good-night, Mr. Walters."
In the doorway she paused and looked back. He was gazing meditatively intothe flames of the open fire. She shook a little defiant fist at him andmade a childish grimace, both of which actions were witnessed by Kingdonas he entered the room.
"Do you know," he confided later to his wife, with a chuckle ofreminiscence, "as fine a fellow as Kurt is, I sometimes feel like shakinga fist at him myself."