Part 4 (1/2)

”I don' know nothin' about the justice of G.o.d,” he answered, bitterly.

”All I know is the crittur 't can't run gets caught.”

There was a long pause. ”It doesn't seem right,” she said at length.

”It ain't right,” he agreed. ”But I guess it's life. I see it here on the prairies with every living thing. Everything is a victim, some way or other. Even the wolves 'at tore this little beast 'll go down to some rancher's rifle, maybe, although they were only doing what nature said . . . I guess it's the same way in the cities; the innocent bein'

hunted, an' the innocenter they are the easier they're caught. An'

then the wolves beggin' off, an' sayin' it was only nature.”

The girl had no answer. No one had ever talked to her like this. What did this country boy know? And yet it was plain he did know. He had lived among the fundamentals.

”I guess I was like that, some,” he went on. ”I've been caught. I guess a baby ain't responsible for anything, is it? I didn't pick my father or my mother, did I? But I got to bear it.”

There was something near a break in his voice on the last words. She felt she must speak.

”I think your father is a wonderful old man,” she said, ”and your mother must have been wonderful, too. You should be proud of them both.”

”Reenie, do you mean that?” he demanded. His eyes were looking straight into hers. Once before he had faced her with that question, and she had not forgotten.

”Absolutely,” she answered. ”Absolutely, I mean it.”

”Then I'm goin' to say some more things to you,” he went on, rapidly.

”Things 'at I didn't know whether to say or not, but now they've got to be said, whatever happens. Reenie, I haven't ever been to school, or learned lots of things I should 'a' learned, but I ain't a fool, neither. I know 'at when you're home you live thousands of miles from me, but I know 'at in your mind you live further away than that. I know it's like all the prairies an' all the oceans were between us.

But I know, too, that people cross prairies an' oceans, an' I'm wantin'

to cross. I know it takes time, an' I'll be a slow traveller, but I'm a mighty persistent crittur when I start out. I didn't learn to break all those bottles in a day. Well, I can learn other things, too, an' I will, if only it will take me across. I'm goin' to leave this old ranch, someway, jus' as soon as it can be arranged. I'm goin' to town, an' work. I'm strong; I can get pretty good wages. I've been thinkin'

it all over, and was askin' some questions in town to-day. I can work days and go to school nights. An' I'll do it if--if it'll get me across. You know what I mean. I ain't askin' no pledges, Reenie, but what's the chance? I know I don't talk right, an' I don't eat right--you tried not to notice, but you couldn't help--but Reenie, I think right, an' I guess with a girl like you that counts more than eatin' and talkin'.”

She had thought she could say yes or no to any question he could ask, but as he poured forth these plain pa.s.sionate words she found herself enveloped in a flame that found no expression in speech. She had no words. She was glad when he went on.

”I know I'm only a boy, an' you're only a girl. That's why I don' ask no pledge. I leave you free, only I want you to stay free until I have my chance. Will you promise that?”

She tried to pull herself together. ”You know I've had a good time with you, Dave,” she said, ”and I've gone with you everywhere, like I would not have gone with any other boy I ever knew, and I've talked and let you talk about things I never talked about before, and I believe you're true and clean, and--and--”

”Yes,” he said. ”What's your answer?”

”I know you're true and clean,” she repeated. ”Come to me--like that--when I'm a woman and you're a man, and then--then we'll know.”

He was tall and straight, and his shadow fell across her face, as though even the moon must not see. ”Reenie,” he said, ”kiss me.”

For one moment she thought of her mother. She knew she stood at the parting of the ways; that all life for her was being moulded in that moment. Then she put both her arms about his neck and drew his lips to hers.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dave's opportunity came sooner than he expected. After the departure of the Hardys things at the old ranch were as both father and son had predicted, very different. They found themselves on a sort of good behaviour; a behaviour which, unhappily excited in each other grave suspicions as to purpose. Between these two men rude courtesies or considerations of any kind had been so long forgotten that attempts to reintroduce them resulted in a sort of estrangement more dangerous than the old open hostility. The tension steadily increased, and both looked forward to the moment when something must give way.

For several weeks the old man remained entirely sober, but the call of the appet.i.te in him grew more and more insistent as the days went by, and at last came the morning when Dave awoke to find him gone. He needed no second guess; the craving had become irresistible and his father had ridden to town for the means to satisfy it. The pa.s.sing days did not bring his return, but this occasioned no anxiety to Dave.

In the course of a carouse his father frequently remained away for weeks at a stretch, and at such times it was Dave's custom to visit the boys on a ranch a dozen miles over the foothills to the southward.

These boys had a sister, and what was more natural than that Dave should drown his loneliness in such company?