The Young Runaway, page 9
"You've got more, sir—and that is—a pair of enormous feet," retorted Martha, looking up from the huge dusty boots into the lean sharp face of a blond cowboy. He froze with sudden amazement.
"Smoky, you shore air clumsy," drawled a voice Martha recognized. "Let the lady pass."
A long arm shot out and dragged the stunned Smoky from in front of the door. Then Martha saw the second cowboy, and if sight of him did not petrify her in her tracks it was not because he was not the wildest and most magnificent human she had ever seen.
"Good mornin', Miss Dixon," said Mrs. Glemm, the proprietress, and she rescued Martha and led her to a small table near a window. "Hope you rested right well."
"I slept like a log. Don't believe I'd ever have awakened but for some terrible singing in the garden."
The dining room was small and Martha's high young voice carried well. From the hall came a sound of stamping boots and then a "Haw! Haw! Haw!"
"Meet my daughter, Nellie," continued Mrs. Glemm, as a buxom pleasant-faced girl entered the room. "This is Miss Dixon, daughter, who's come out West to visit an uncle...Now, Miss, Nellie will get you a nice breakfast, an' I'm at your service."
"Can you hire someone to drive me out to my Uncle's—Nicholas Bligh?" asked Martha Ann eagerly. "Yes, indeedie. We'll have a car all ready."
Martha enjoyed a western breakfast, as well as a chat with the Glemm girl. She had nice brown eyes and rosy cheeks. The city girl asked casual questions about the weather, the town, the cattle business, the movies, what kind of social life they had in Split Rock, to all of which she received very full and cheerful answers. Evidently Split Rock was an up-and-coming place.
After finishing breakfast and paying her bill, Martha Ann was informed that her car and driver were waiting. Mrs. Glemm carried her packsack out to a dilapidated Ford, the driver of which, a nice young boy, jumped out to assist.
"John, did you find out where Mr. Bligh's ranch is?"
"No, ma'am. He's new hereabouts. But Sam Johnson will know."
"Don't forget to have Sam fill up...Good-by, Miss. Hope you stay long an' have a fine visit. But you never will go back—east—not with them eyes of your' n."
The boy drove down a wide street, where red signs and garish fronts were conspicuous by their absence. Horses, vehicles, cars, dust and men were everywhere in evidence. Martha saw that Split Rock was a small place, but exciting. A halt was made at a service station.
"Sam, fill this bus up, an' tell me where to find Nicholas Bligh," said the young driver.
"Don't know, Sim, but I do know who does. Rustle down to Jed Price. He'll tell you."
No sooner had the boy left than from the little glass-windowed office stepped a lithe, tall young man. The instant Martha espied him she recognized him, and realized that he had been waiting there to waylay her. Her second glance, as he leisurely approached the car, appraised him more closely. His shapely feet were encased in high-top, decorated boots, much the worse for wear, and his spurs dragged in the gravel. He wore jeans, also stained and old, and above his narrow hips was a belt shiny with brass shells. A yellow scarf hung full and loose from his neck. He had a red face, clean as a baby's, eyes of intense, vivid blue, and hair as red as a flame. It stood up like a mane. In his hand he carried a huge old sombrero of a tan color.
"Mawnin', Miss Dixon," he drawled, with a smile that no girl, much less a western-struck maiden like Martha, could have found anything but agreeable.
"Good morning," she replied, a little coolly. It would never do to encourage this cowboy. But Martha wanted to.
"I shore hope thet clumsy cowpuncher didn't hurt you when he kicked you over heah at Glemm's."
"No, I guess I'm the one who did the kicking."
He leaned in at the window on the driver's side, and ringed the brim of his sombrero with strong brown fingers. His piercing eyes took Martha in from head to boots, and back again. But she liked his look, though it verged upon the audacious.
"Hitchhiker, I reckon, an' all alone. Doggone, but I like a girl who ain't afraid."
"What's there to be afraid of in Wyoming?"
"Wal, a lot, Miss. Tough lot of cowpunchers aboot heah."
"Indeed! I've only seen—two that I know of."
He never blinked one of those speculative eyes of his. "You shore need an escort, wherever you're goin' ."
"Isn't this young man trustworthy?"
"Aw, Sim is fine. But he's only a kid. You need a man."
"Yes? I'm afraid I'll have to take the risk. I've no money to waste."
"Shore, I wouldn't take no money from a lady."
"You are very kind, indeed. But I think I'll dispense with an escort. What can there be to be afraid of?"
"Wal, ootside of tough punchers, there's Injuns, hawse thieves, bootleggers, hijackers, a big stiff of a sheriff who thinks he's a lady killer—to name a few reasons why you shouldn't go alone."
"Oh, what a formidable list! How can I tell, Mr. Texas, that you don't belong to one of those classifications?"
"My Gawd, lady, do I look it?" he protested.
"No. You look very innocuous—not to say innocent."
"What's thet inno-yus?" he inquired, with his dazzling smile. "An' how'd you know I'm Texas Haynes?"
"I didn't. I only heard the prefix. You, of course, read my name on the ledger in the hotel?"
"Shore did, Miss Martha. Hope you ain't offended. You see only once in a life-time does a girl like you roll into this town."
"Is that a compliment?" asked Martha, archly.
"Wal, if you want it straight, no girl so purty ever did—"
"That'll do, thanks. It's a compliment."
He stared at her coolly.
"You don't get me. I'll bet you've been scared, bothered, insulted on yore long hitchhike? Haven't you?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to say."
"But by no Texan...Miss Martha, the cowboy from Texas who'd insult a girl ain't been born yet," he drawled with a slow, almost passionate, pride.
"That's something splendid to know. But aren't cowboys from Wyoming just as—as chivalrous?"
"I'll leave thet for you to find oot. An' you're liable to pronto if you don't let me go along with you."
"I'll risk it."
"Where air you haided for?"
"I don't know exactly. My uncle lives on the Sweetwater. The driver has gone to find out."
"Miss Dixon, if you don't reckon me too nosy, what's yore uncle's name?" queried Haynes. His flashing blue eyes seemed shadowed with his swift change of thought.
"It is Nicholas Bligh."
echoed the cowboy. He stepped back from the car to make her a gallant bow. "I've heahed of Nick Bligh, a new cattleman in these parts. Sorry I cain't tell you I've rode for him...Good day, Miss Dixon."
He put on his huge sombrero and strode across the street, a superb figure, and graceful save for the slightly bowed legs. He did not look back. Martha Ann, watching him, pondered over the sudden slight change in his demeanor and expression upon hearing her uncle's name.
Then the young man delegated to drive Martha carne running back and jumped into the car. "Found out, Miss. Aw, easy! An' not so fur. Take us mebbe three hours. We turn off at Sweetwater bridge. Only ranch down river, so we can't miss it."
"That's fine news. Is it safe?"
"Safe? You mean this Ford?"
"No, the road. That redheaded cowboy scared me."
"Tex Haynes? The son of a gun! What'd he tell you?" Martha repeated in full the dire list of calamities which Haynes had vowed would imperil her.
"I'll bet he wanted to drive you."
"Not exactly. He wanted to go along."
"Ahuh. Thet will be hittin' yore uncle for a job. I'll give you a hunch, Miss, but you mustn't squeal on me. Tell yore uncle not to hire Tex."
"Thank you. And why?"
"Aw, Tex is gittin' a bad name. He's crippled a couple of cowboys. Been in jail for fightin'. But it's not thet. There are hints out about him. I don't know what they are. Darn shame, too. Tex is a wonderful puncher. Wins all the rodeos at Cheyenne. An' you can't help likin' him."
Martha feared that all her driver had succeeded in doing was to increase her interest in Texas Haynes. Her insurgent mind always veered to the underdog. Moreover, he had not looked down upon her scornfully because she was a hitchhiker.
"Who is Smoky?" asked the Chicago girl, as they drove out of town.
"Smoky Reed? He's a sure 'nough bad egg of a cowpuncher. Sweet on Nell Glemm. An' Nell is loony over Tex. Smoky lost his job, I heerd. An' Tex ain't had a job for ages. He could get one, though. Any cattleman would be glad to have Tex."
"Tell me all about this country. Range, you Westerners call it. Oh, I can't see a thing but these scaly hills."
"Sorta shet in here, for a spell, Miss. But you jest wait till we come to the Sweetwater."
"I'm waiting...You didn't tell me your name."
"Sim Glemm. Sim is nickname for Simpson. I'm Mrs. Glemm's nephew."
Martha Ann loosed the battery of her inquisitive mind, and as there was nothing pretty or unusual to look at in the scenery, she plied her loquacious driver with question after question. Driving the two hours required to reach a point where they could see the river she came into possession of a vast store of Wyoming lore, concerning the history, people and gossip, some of which she accepted with a grain of salt. Sim had the kind of narrative mind that always tried and usually succeeded in amplifying the truth.
But when they drove around a curve that brought them out from the shelter of a drab range which like a wall had hidden the view to the south and west, Martha Ann sat up with eyes wide open.
"Here's the river," pointed the lad. "Shines like a ribbon, don't it? Good fishin' along here, too. An' see the green willows winding down from thet blue range. It ain't the sky you're lookin' at, Miss, but Wyomin' range land. See them round pink an' red things standin' up? Row of little mountains called the Antelope Hills. Yore uncle's ranch is right under them. An' shore you're missin' them white saw teeth way yonder...Way high, Miss. Them's the snow-tipped Rockies... what do you say about Wyomin'?"
"Wonderful!" cried Martha.
"I'll tell the world," sang out the western youth proudly.
During the descent toward the river and bridge Martha Ann soon lost the far-flung view which had made her imagine that she was looking through colored glasses that magnified and glorified everything she saw. Across the Sweetwater, however, she had an unobstructed vision for leagues and leagues. There was nothing over there—nothing but endless land of many hues dominated by a hazy purple, countless acres of level land, rolling ridges, dark valleys, on and on to the shimmering horizon. She felt that to understand this amazing country, to appreciate it, she must begin with separate parts, first those that lay close at hand and intimate, and by studying them, graduate one day to some semblance of grasp of the vast infinitude that lay beyond.
The river came first. It was indeed a bright ribbon, and in places, several ribbons, flowing between islands of sand and green cottonwoods. But it struck her that there was very little water for so wide a river bottom. From bank to bank the bed was wide. In times of flood the Sweetwater must be truly awe inspiring. The verdant banks and islands, the sparkling white and amber water, presented a vivid contrast to the somber range of grass and sage. Martha Ann gave this lonely river its proper place in the scene as the life and vitality of that magnificent range.
"But I don't see a single living creature!" she burst out.
"Say, Miss Tenderfoot, you oughta fetched a spyglass," replied the driver. "See them tiny little specks yonder?"
"Ye-es, I guess so."
"Cattle," he said, with finality. Cattle were the aim and end of this vast country.
Sim turned off the road to the left just before reaching the bridge, and Martha Ann soon lost sight of all the open country. The bumpy road necessitated slow driving along the river bank. Groves of cottonwoods and patches of willow filled the river bottom.
"See thet big tree down thar?" queried her guide, pointing to a huge round-foliaged cottonwood, with wide-spreading branches. "My dad has helped hang rustlers on thet tree."
"Oh, how dreadful!...What are rustlers?"
"Fellars who rustle cattle."
"How do they rustle them? Make noises to frighten them?"
"Whoopee!" roared Sim, and then gave way to mirth. "I dare say I'm very much a tenderfoot. But how can I learn if I am not told?"
"You're gonna be a circus for the cowpunchers. But come to think of it you'll have the best of them right off pronto."
"That's good news, anyway. How will I?"
"'Cause you're so durn pretty thet they won't dare—not even Tex Haynes—to torment you an' play tricks."
"I fail to see why my—why that will protect me?"
"Shucks! You jest wait."
"I'll wait patiently, young man. But tell me, what does 'rustle' really mean?"
"Rustle means to rustle off with cattle. To them. Calves, cows, yearlin's, two-year olds, all kinds of cattle. An' there are rustlers workin' yet on this range. Only two-bit stuff, sure. But my dad says there always has been rustlers in Wyomin' an' always will be."
"'Two-bit stuff.' What's that?"
"Two bits is twenty-five cents."
A long stretch of better road put a different face on the last lap of the approach to Bligh's Ranch. The land to the left began to slope gradually upward toward the beautiful bare colored hills. And suddenly Martha Ann became conscious of a nearer view of the grand panorama which had so enraptured her more than twenty miles back. Here it was clearer, closer, more eye filling and breath-taking. But the near approach to the ranch drew and held the young girl's gaze. She saw a long low squat building without a vestige of green about it, and beyond it stood sheds and pens and fences, all sadly in need of repair. And then as the car advanced farther she caught view of a gray old log cabin, picturesque in its isolation and ruin, situated on the river bank, facing the west.
Martha's mounting excitement left her with a sudden constriction of her throat. She swallowed hard and found breathing oppressive. If she had been mad with yearning for Wyoming, with the sacrifices this trip had cost, she now realized how true her instinct had been. The solitude of the scene drew her, the wildness of the view called to something deep and instinctive within her, the beauty made her soul ache with sadness.
But she must not give way to her emotions now that she was here, or present herself to Uncle Nick as a maudlin, sentimental girl. The driver was babbling on, but Martha could not attend to him. She saw a colt sticking a curious lean head over a fence, she saw two busy little puppies that could scarcely waddle, then a big yellow-haired, fierce-eyed dog. Suddenly she realized that the car had come to a stop.
"Hi! Anybody home?" yelled the driver, with the lusty voice of youth.
"Don't shout. I-I'll go in."
"Nix. Not with thet yaller dawg eyin' us."
Trepidation vied in Martha's breast with a bursting joyous expectancy as she espied a man, little and lean and gray, fit habitant for that dwelling, come ambling around a corner of the house. When he aimed a gentle kick at the yellow dog she saw that he was bowlegged. But all Westerners had legs more or less bowed. Already she had the door of the car open, and now she leaped out to run up to the little man.
"Uncle Nick—I'm—your niece—come to—" she cried, and failing of voice threw her arms around him and quickly kissed his cheek.
"For the land's sakes!" he ejaculated mildly, as he gently released himself. "Lass, I'm plumb sorry, but I jest don't happen to be yore Uncle Nick."
"Oh-h!...Ex-cuse me. You must think I'm crazy...But I never saw him," burst out the fair visitor, adding confusion to her agitation.
"Hey Nick, come a-runnin'," yelled the little man.
The door opened to reveal a tall man, gray-haired, weather-beaten of face standing in the doorway. The instant his astonished blue eyes saw the girl he ejaculated: "Martha Dixon!"
"Yes," cried Martha, running to him. "Martha Ann...Your niece."
A swift change from amazement to unmistakable gladness, and the quick embrace, relieved the girl, not only of her strength, but of the overwhelming dread that had consumed her. Uncle Nick resembled her grandmother. He had kind keen blue eyes that were filling with tears.
"My niece? Bless your heart! Child, I'm plumb buffaloed...Who's with you? How'd you come? What—"
"I'm alone. Walked a lot of the way. Begged rides—to save my money...And here I am—to stay."
"Martha, did you run away from home?"
"So did you, Uncle Nick...I—I wanted to help you."
He held her in his arms a little closer and bent his lined face close to hers.
"I never expected to see any of my kin again," he said, with a voice that trembled. "Much less havin' Martha Dixon's daughter run away from home on my account."
"It wasn't, Uncle—all on your account. I was crazy to see the West."
"You must have been. Never heard of such a thing. Trampin' alone an' stealin' rides! Jim, what do you think of thet?"
"Wal, Nick, I reckon I'm loco," grinned the little man.
"Come in, Martha. You can tell us all about it," said her uncle. "Jim, fetch in her packs."
"Oh, I mustn't forget to pay Sim," cried Martha, running back to the car.
"I'm tellin' you, Miss. It won't be very long till you're gettin' all the free rides you want," said Sim, pocketing his fee.
Martha's uncle led her into the house, apologizing for his humble abode, which he had not expected to be graced by such a fair guest. Martha's quick survey was much at variance with her preconceived idea of the interior of this rude house. She saw a fairly large room, consisting of roughly plastered walls covered with skins and Indian ornaments, guns lying across the horns of a deer head over the open fireplace, a wooden floor, bare except for a couple of Indian rugs, table and oil lamp, an old rocker and a couch. There was only one window, which was large enough to let in the western light.
"Come in, Mrs. Fenner. See who's here," called Bligh through an open door.
"I been lookin'," replied a feminine voice, and a little woman hopped in like a bird. She had the brightest of dark eyes shining out from a small face, pleasant despite the havoc wrought by a hard, lonely life.
