Part 8 (1/2)

”Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we are never lonely.” She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement was charming. ”I hope you will like the horses,” she went on. ”Now that we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better.” She laughed musically, then explained. ”My husband has often refused to part with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago.

You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races.

And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!” Her blue eyes kindled.

”I should think your husband would try again,” said Ned.

”Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble.”

”Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them answered for the saddle--are not too wild,” Mrs. Doan added.

”Oh, no,” the young wife answered. ”Hawley would never consider selling Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go.” She flushed with her ingenuous confidence. ”Delia is named for me. A little romance in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our ranch.”

”Come with us in the machine,” said Mrs. Hartley. ”Do be good enough to show us 'Delia,'” said Mrs. Doan. ”We are now doubly interested in your husband's horses.”

Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity, and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham ap.r.o.n and entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained; and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of peppers to paddocks beyond.

”You never lock your door?” Mrs. Hartley questioned.

”No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors.”

”Of course,” said Isabel. ”How wonderful this upland country is; I envy you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!” She swept the range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks.

The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. ”Happy horses!” she exclaimed. ”I am not surprised they won the chariot races.”

The rancher's wife looked pleased. ”My husband is very proud of his stock,” she answered; ”and here he is.”

Cole met them, tall and sun browned.

Without further pleasantry the party plunged into business. The little woman who had brought the strangers thither realized an impending sacrifice. To part from any one of a noted ”four” was hardly to be borne. Then she remembered that Hawley needed money; that lithe, slender ”Delia” and her running mate were not to be sold. When a purchase price became definite she smiled, although she felt like crying. The trade a.s.sumed reality; and Ned Hartley, emerging from sulks, became interested. But his good nature did not last, for soon he understood that Isabel Doan was about to buy thoroughbred horses for the enjoyment of another man. The boy was mad with jealousy. He was sorry that he had urged the trip to the foothills. Then all at once he felt superior, very like a martyr, in view of all that he suffered and proposed to suffer for years to come. Meantime Cole put his horses through telling paces.

No points of the beautiful pair were overlooked. Mrs. Doan acknowledged her wish to close the bargain, but the rancher evinced no haste. Finally it was agreed that the span should go to town for a week. A friend of Cole's would take care of them, while Mrs. Doan might drive each day, with the privilege of returning them. In case the trade went through, a permanent coachman and a groom would be duly recommended. Isabel's appointments from her own stable had recently arrived and now she could hardly wait to try the thoroughbreds in different styles of vehicles.

”I shall accept your kind offer,” she declared, smiling. ”And you will remember the saddle horses? I wish for two beauties, as soon as possible.” She was radiant, thinking first of Philip, of all that she was making ready for his new life--a life which must be perfect.

”Automobiles shall never make me give up the joy of owning horses!” she declared.

Ned Hartley bit his lip and turned away. Down in the valley he saw emerald growth flas.h.i.+ng in suns.h.i.+ne. Spreading acres of orange orchard, trees always dressed in green swept onward from cleansed mountains and reviving foothills, to a distant line of blue--the ocean. The landscape was glorious, but the boy felt bitter and would not regard it. He joined the rancher's wife with pretext of renewed interest in her favorite.

Mrs. Cole was feeding ”Delia” sugar as Hartley approached. ”We call her our baby,” she explained. ”I never dare meet her without offering sugar; I always carry a few lumps with me.” To-day the high-spirited animal stood eating from the hand of her mistress, so gentle that Ned could hardly reconcile her present range with that of the track.

”Will she run in the chariot races the first of January?” he asked, not caring, yet wis.h.i.+ng to appear at ease.

Mrs. Cole shook her dark head. ”I think not,” she answered. ”My husband hardly expects to drive this year. Next season, with two young horses trained for running with Delia and her mate, he will try again. Last New Year's there was a great deal of trouble about prize money, in spite of the evident dishonorable driving of a certain man who fouled my husband's chariot. Oh, but it was exciting!”

Ned begged for the story. The rancher's wife went on.

”Hawley had virtually won the race; had taken the pole from his opponent on the first dash, just beyond the judge's stand; he was holding his advantage without difficulty, when beyond the second turn his right wheel was deliberately knocked off. Of course the big race of the day was ruined. The management of the tournament has done everything to induce Hawley to run his four this season, but he has refused.” Her cheeks flushed with the thought of her husband's humiliation.

”Will the man who fouled the chariot be permitted to drive again?”

Hartley asked, with interest in foothill scandal.

Mrs. Cole looked proudly away to the sun-browned man approaching.