Part 2 (2/2)
Something in her voice made him almost sorry he had intervened; if she stood in need of help of any sort it was not apparent, and her gaze was confusing. He became conscious that he was at the worst for an inspection; his face felt streaky with smoke, his hat and s.h.i.+rt had suffered severely in directing the fire, and his hands were black. He said to himself in revenge that she was not pretty, despite the fact that she seemed completely to take away his consequence. He felt, while she inspected him, like a brakeman.
”I presume Mr. Sinclair is here?” she said presently.
”I am sorry to say he is not.”
”He usually has charge of the wrecks, I think. What a dreadful fire!”
she murmured, looking down the track. She stood beside the horse with one hand resting on her girdle. Around the hand that held the bridle her quirt lay coiled in the folds of her glove, and, though seemingly undecided as to what to do, her composure did not lessen. As she looked at the wreckage, a breath of wind lifted the hair that curled around her ear. The mountain wind playing on her neck had left it brown, and above, the pulse of her ride rose red in her cheek. ”Was it a pa.s.senger wreck?” She turned abruptly on McCloud to ask the question. Her eyes were brown, too, he saw, and a doubt a.s.sailed him.
Was she pretty?
”Only a freight wreck,” he answered.
”I thought if there were pa.s.sengers hurt I could send help from the ranch. Were you the conductor?”
”Fortunately not.”
”And no one was hurt?”
”Only a tramp. We are burning the wreck to clear the track.”
”From the divide it looked like a mountain on fire. I'm sorry Mr.
Sinclair is not here.”
”Why, indeed, yes, so am I.”
”Because I know him. You are one of his men, I presume.”
”Not exactly; but is there anything I can do----”
”Oh, thank you, nothing, except that you might tell him the pretty bay colt he sent over to us has sprung his shoulder.”
”He will be sorry to hear it, I'm sure.”
”But we are doing everything possible for him. He is going to make a perfectly lovely horse.”
”And whom may I say the message is from?” Though disconcerted, McCloud was regaining his wits. He felt perfectly certain there was no danger, if she knew Sinclair and lived in the mountains, but that she would sometime find out he was not a conductor. When he asked his question she appeared slightly surprised and answered easily, ”Mr. Sinclair will know it is from d.i.c.ksie Dunning.”
McCloud knew her then. Every one knew d.i.c.ksie Dunning in the high country. This was d.i.c.ksie Dunning of the great Crawling Stone ranch, most widely known of all the mountain ranches. While his stupidity in not guessing her ident.i.ty before overwhelmed him, he resolved to exhaust the last effort to win her interest.
”I don't know just when I shall see Mr. Sinclair,” he answered gravely, ”but he shall certainly have your message.”
A doubt seemed to steal over d.i.c.ksie at the change in McCloud's manner. ”Oh, pardon me--I thought you were working for the company.”
”You are quite right, I am; but Mr. Sinclair is not.”
Her eyebrows rose a little. ”I think you are mistaken, aren't you?”
”It is possible I am; but if he is working for the company, it is pretty certain that I am not,” he continued, heaping mystification on her. ”However, that will not prevent my delivering the message. By the way, may I ask which shoulder?”
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