Part 6 (2/2)
”Good morning,” said the pretty girl, putting up a slim tanned hand and tucking in behind a well-set ear a strayed lock of black hair.
”Mornin',” said Racey, and decided then and there that he had never before seen eyes of such a deep, dark blue, or a mouth so alluringly red.
”What,” said the pretty girl, laying the banjo on the table and sliding down till her feet touched the floor, ”what can I do for you?”
”Nun-nothin',” stuttered the rattled Racey, clasping his hat to his bosom, so that he could b.u.t.ton unseen the top b.u.t.ton of his s.h.i.+rt, ”except cuc-can you find Miss Dale for me. Is she home?”
”Mother's out. So's Father, I'm the only one home.”
”It's yore sister I want, _Miss_ Dale--yore oldest sister.”
”You must mean Mrs. Morgan. She lives--”
”No, I don't mean her. Yore _oldest_ sister, Miss. Her whose hoss was taken by mistake in Farewell yesterday.”
”That was my horse.”
”Yores! But they said it was an _old_ lady's hoss! Are you sh.o.r.e it--”
”Of course I'm sure. Did you bring him back?... Where?... The corral?”
The girl walked swiftly to the window, took one glance at the bay horse tied to the corral gate, and returned to the table.
”Certainly that's _my_ horse,” she reiterated with the slightest of smiles.
Racey Dawson stared at her in horror. Her horse! He had actually run off with the horse of this beautiful being. He had thereby caused inconvenience to this angel. If he could only crawl off somewhere and pa.s.s away quietly. At the moment, by his own valuation, any one buying him for a nickel would have been liberally overcharged. Her horse!
”I--I took yore hoss,” he spoke up, desperately. ”I'm Racey Dawson.”
”So you're the man--” she began, and stopped.
He nodded miserably, his contrite eyes on the toes of her shoes. Small shoes they were. Cheerfully would he have lain down right there on the floor and let her wipe those selfsame shoes upon him. It would have been a positive pleasure. He felt so worm-like he almost wriggled.
Slowly, oh, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to her face.
”I--I was drunk,” he confessed, hoping that an honest confession would restrain her from casting him into outer darkness.
”I heard you were,” she admitted.
”I thought it was yore oldest sister's pony,” he b.u.mbled on, feeling it inc.u.mbent upon him to say something. ”They told me something about an old lady.”
”Jane Morgan's the only other sister I have. Who told you this wild tale?”
”Them,” was his vague reply. He was not the man to give away the jokers of Farewell. Old lady, indeed! Miss Blythe to the contrary notwithstanding this girl was not within sight of middle-age. ”Yeah,”
he went on, ”they sh.o.r.e fooled me. Told me I'd taken an old maid's hoss, and--”
”Oh, as far as that goes,” said the girl, her long eyelashes demurely drooping, ”they told you the truth. I'm an old maid.”
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