Part 10 (2/2)

”Did I think that?” he questioned.

”Of course you did.”

”Well, now,” he drawled. ”An' so you took that much interest in what I was thinkin'! I reckon people who write must know a lot.”

Her face expressed absolute surprise. ”Why, who told you that I wrote?” she questioned.

”n.o.body told me, ma'am. I just heard it. I heard a man tell another man that you had threatened to make him a character in a book you was writin'.”

Her face was suddenly convulsed. ”I imagine I know whom you mean,” she said. ”A young cowboy from the Two Diamond used to annoy me quite a little, until one day I discouraged him.”

His smile grew broad at this answer. But he grew serious instantly.

”I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am,” he said.

”You don't? Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!”

”I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write. I've heard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' they just can't help writin'--any more'n I can help comin' over here to see your brother. You see, they like it a heap.”

They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turned the conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight. But she did purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so she adroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply his similitude.

”Some of that is true,” she returned, giving him a look on her own account; ”especially about a writer loving his work. But I don't think one needs to be a 'special' kind of person. One must be merely a keen observer.”

He shook his head doubtfully. ”I see everything that goes on around me,” he returned. ”Most of the time I can tell pretty near what sort a man is by lookin' at his face and watching the way he moves. But I reckon I'd never make a writer. Times when I look at this country--at a nice sunset, for instance, or think what a big place this country is--I feel like sayin' somethin' about it; somethin' inside of me seems kind of breathless-like--kind of scarin' me. But I couldn't write about it.”

She had felt it, too, and more than once had sat down with her pencil to transcribe her thoughts. She thought that it was not exactly fear, but an overpowering realization of her own atomity; a sort of cringing of the soul away from the utter vastness of the world; a growing consciousness of the unlimited bigness of things; an insight of the infinite power of G.o.d--the yearning of the soul for understanding of the mysteries of life and existence.

She could sympathize with him, for she knew exactly how he had felt.

She turned and looked toward the distant mountains, behind which the sun was just then swimming--a great ball of s.h.i.+mmering gold, which threw off an effulgent expanse of yellow light that was slowly turning into saffron and violet as it met the shadows below the hills.

”Whoever saw such colors?” she asked suddenly, her face transfixed with sheer delight.

”It's cert'nly pretty, ma'am.”

She clapped her hands. ”It is magnificent!” she declared enthusiastically. She came closer to him and stretched an arm toward the mountains. ”Look at that saffron shade which is just now blending with the streak of pearl striking the cleft between those hills! See the violet tinge that has come into that sea of orange, and the purple haze touching the snow-caps of the mountains. And now the flaming red, the deep yellow, the slate blue; and now that gauzy veil of lilac, rose, and amethyst, fading and dulling as the darker shadows rise from the valleys!”

Her flas.h.i.+ng eyes sought Ferguson's. Twilight had suddenly come.

”It is the most beautiful country in the world!” she said positively.

He was regarding her with gravely humorous eyes. ”It cert'nly is pretty, ma'am,” he returned. ”But you can't make a whole book out of one sunset.”

Her eyes flashed. ”No,” she returned. ”Nor can I make a whole book out of only one character. But I am going to try and draw a word picture of the West by writing of the things that I see. And I am going to try and have some real characters in it. I shall try to have them talk and act naturally.”

She smiled suddenly and looked at him with a significant expression.

”And the hero will not be an Easterner--to swagger through the pages of the book, scaring people into submission through the force of his compelling personality. He will be a cowboy who will do things after the manner of the country--a real, unaffected care-free puncher!”

”Have you got your eye on such a man?” he asked, a.s.suring himself that he knew of no man who would fill the requirements she had named.

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