Part 30 (1/2)

With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas Valley.

True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable.

Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with eyes hungry for the sympathetic companions.h.i.+p of youth, especially feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate.

In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friends.h.i.+p could become anything more than friends.h.i.+p. And it was upon that understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.

Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon.

Bartley was at once invited to partic.i.p.ate in the hunt, and he could think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.

Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. ”Got both hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She promised to be here right after dinner.”

”Was Miss Dorry going with you?”

Jimmy nodded. ”You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only a single-shot,” added Jimmy scornfully. ”But it's good enough for a girl.”

”Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?” queried Bartley.

”Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow.”

But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned with a n.o.ble buck deer hanging across the saddle.

It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the desert.

Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. ”Cheyenne?”

she queried, smiling.

”I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--”

Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.

”Then you know?”

”Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas.”

”Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is,” a.s.serted Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. ”I don't think Cheyenne will ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of course, if anything happens to Sears--”

Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to address her. ”Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the trail.”

”Don't be silly, Jimmy,” laughed Dorothy.

”Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once.”

”We'll behave,” said Bartley. ”But can't we ride toward the foothills and get in the shade?”

”You just follow me,” said Little Jim. ”I know this country.”

It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim a.s.sured his charges that all was safe, and he suggested that they ”light down and rest a spell.”

The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond them stretched the valley floor, s.h.i.+mmering in the sun. Behind them the hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber showed against the eastern sky.

”Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there,” a.s.serted Jimmy, pointing toward the distant ridge. ”I been up there.”