Part 17 (1/2)

Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song ceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse and rider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps, and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. ”It's--'The Bishop of All Outdoors',” she smiled, as she returned to the stove.

”He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazy about him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too.”

A hearty ”Good morning” brought her once more to the door.

”Just in time for breakfast,” she smiled up into the eyes of the man on the pinto.

”Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured on breakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge.”

”The Villain?”

”Vil Holland,” laughed the man. ”His name, I believe is, Villiers. I shortened it to Villain, and the natives hereabouts have bobbed it down to Vil. But he'll have to breakfast alone this morning, as usual. I've changed my mind. You see, I share the proverbial weakness of the clergy for a good meal. And against so charming a hostess, old Vil hasn't a chance in the world.” Dismounting, the Reverend Len Christie removed his saddle and bridle and, with a resounding slap on the flank turned the pinto loose. ”Get along, old Paint, and lay in some of this good gra.s.s!” he laughed as the pinto, cavorting like a colt, galloped across the creek to join Patty's hobbled cayuse.

”My, that bacon smells good,” he said, a moment later, as he stood in the doorway and watched the girl turn the thin strips in the pan. ”Do let me furnish part of the breakfast,” he cried, eagerly and began swiftly to loosen from behind the cantle of his saddle a slender case, from which he produced and fitted together a two-ounce rod. ”I'll take it right from your own dooryard in just about two jiffies.” He affixed a reel, threaded a cobweb line, and selected a fly. ”Just save that bacon fry for a few minutes and we'll have some speckled beauties in the pan before you know it.”

Pus.h.i.+ng the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied him to the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, one after another, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.

”That's enough,” he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon the gra.s.s. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he had them cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them he busied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returning it to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments later the two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, and trout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.

”You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early,”

ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.

”No,” laughed Christie, ”I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had some drawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've a notion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing.

Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch and shows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a piece of flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins to talk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasm as he points out the good points of some of his creations, and the defects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorial efforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I can see a flash of real genius.”

”Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!”

exclaimed the girl. ”And wouldn't you feel proud of having discovered him? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromising parentage.”

”It wouldn't be so remarkable,” smiled the man. ”Watts, himself is a genius--for inventing excuses to rest.”

”How is the sick man?” asked Patty. ”The one you went to see, over on Big Porcupine, wasn't it?”

”Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow--Samuelson. I sure hope he'll pull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he's got a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that old fellow asks--even against pneumonia. He's a man!”

”I wonder if there is anything I could do?” asked the girl.

Christie's face brightened. ”Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ride from here--thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them, they're very well fixed--capital Chinese cook and all that. But I've an idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely.

They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think.

They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where they can't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people a world of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from----”

”Ma Watts?” interrupted Patty.

The man laughed, ”Yes, from Ma Watts. Although she's a well meaning soul. She's going over and 'stay a spell' with the Samuelsons, just as soon as she can 'fix to go.' Mrs. Samuelson is a really superior old lady, refined and lovable in every way. You'll like her immensely. I'm sure. And I know she will enjoy you.”

”Thank you,” Patty bowed elaborately. ”Poor thing, she must be frightfully lonely.”

”Yes. Of course, the neighbors do all they can. But neighbors are few and far between. Vil Holland has been over a couple of times, and Jack Pierce stopped work right in the middle of his upland haying to go to town for some medicine. I tell you, Miss Sinclair, a person soon learns who's who in the mountains.”

Christie pushed back his chair. ”I must be going. I hate to hurry off, but I want to see Vil and caution him to have an eye on the old man's stock--you see, there are some shady characters in the hills, and old man Samuelson runs horses as well as cattle. It is very possible they may decide to get busy while he is laid up.

”By the way, Miss Sinclair, may I ask if you are making satisfactory headway in your own enterprise?”