Part 8 (1/2)
This morning she had plaited her hair in two long, heavy braids that hung to the bottom of her saddle skirts on either side.
Oliver's gaze at her was one of frank admiration.
”How do you do it?” he laughed.
”Do what?”
”Make yourself so spectacular and--er--outstanding, without leaving any traces of art?”
”Am I spectacular?”
”Rather. Different, anyway--to use a badly overworked expression. But what puzzles me is what makes you look like that. You seem perfectly normal, and nothing could be plainer than the clothes you wear. You're not beautiful, and you're too big both physically and mentally to be pretty. But I'll bet my hat you're the most popular young woman in this section!”
She regarded him soberly. ”Are you through?” she asked.
”I've exhausted my stock of descriptive words, anyway,” he told her.
”Then we'd better be riding,” she said.
He swung Poche to the side of White Ann, and they moved off along the road, knee and knee.
”You're not offended?” he asked.
She threw back her head and laughed till Oliver thought of meadow larks, and robins calling before a shower.
”Offended! You must think me some sort of freak. Who ever heard of a woman being offended when a man admires her? I like it immensely, Mr.
Oliver Drew. And if you can beat that for square shooting, there's no truth in me. But if you'll a.n.a.lyse my 'difference' you'll find it's only because I'm big and strong and healthy, and try always to shoot straight from the shoulder and look folks straight in the eye. That's all. Let's let 'em out!”
They broke into a smart gallop, and continued it up and down pine-toothed hills till they clattered into Halfmoon Flat.
Curious eyes met them, old men stopped in their tracks and leaned on their canes to watch, and folks came to windows and doors as they loped through the village.
”'Whispering tongues can poison truth,'” Jessamy quoted as they turned a corner and cantered up a hill toward a grove of pines on the outskirts of the town. ”It seems odd that Adam Selden has not mentioned you to me.
Surely some one has seen us together who would tell some one else who would tell Old Man Selden all about it. But not a cheep from him as yet.”
”Have you any bosom friends in the Clinker Creek district?” he asked, not altogether irrelevantly.
”No, none at all. But I'm friends with everybody, though I have nothing in common with any one. I don't consider myself superior to the natives here about, but, just the same, they don't interest me. I'm speaking of the women. I like most of the men. I guess I'm what they call a man's woman. I can't sit and talk about clothes and dances, and gossip, and what one did on one's vacation last summer. It all bores me stiff, so I don't pretend it doesn't. Men, now--they can talk about horses and saddles and cows and cutting wood and prizefights and poker games and election--”
”And women and Fords,” he interrupted.
She laughed and led the way into a little trail that snaked on up the hill between lilacs and buckeye trees to a little cabin half-hidden in the foliage.
They dismounted at the door and loosed their horses. Jessamy tapped vigorously on the panels. Again and again--and then there was heard a shuffling, unsteady step inside, and a cane thumped hollowly. Presently the door opened, and Old Dad Sloan bleared out at them from behind his flaring, mattress-stuffing hair and whiskers.
”How do you do, Mr. Sloan!” cried Jessamy almost at the top of her voice.
A veined hand shook its way to form a cup behind the ancient's ear.
”Hey?” he squealed.