Part 37 (2/2)
When the outburst of mirth subsided Dorothy turned her big, dilated eyes upon Florence.
”Do these cowboys really take advantage of a girl when she's helpless and in the dark?”
”Of course they do,” replied Florence, with her frank smile.
”Dot, what in the world could you expect?” asked Helen. ”Haven't you been dying to be kissed?”
”No.”
”Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you in a rage over being kissed.”
”I--I wouldn't care so much if the brute hadn't scoured the skin off my face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked away he rubbed my cheek with them.”
This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost prostrated her friends with glee.
”Dot, I agree with you; it's one thing to be kissed, and quite another to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, presently. ”Who was this particular savage?”
”I don't know!” burst out Dorothy. ”If I did I'd--I'd--”
Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak.
”Honestly now, Dot, haven't you the least idea who did it?” questioned Helen.
”I hope--I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy.
”Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I'm sorry to riddle your little romance. Stewart did not--could not have been the offender or hero.”
”How do you know he couldn't?” demanded Dorothy, flus.h.i.+ng.
”Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before we rode out. I remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked.”
”Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can tell me which one of these cowboys wasn't clean-shaven.”
”Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, merrily. ”It was not Nick; it was not Nels; it was not Frankie. There was only one other cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much like that cactus we pa.s.sed on the trail.”
”Oh, I was afraid of it,” moaned Dorothy. ”I knew he was going to do it.
That horrible little smiling demon, Monty Price!”
A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline's was a shaded niche under the lee of crags facing the east. Here the outlook was entirely different from that on the western side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so changeable that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one of the mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there were arid patches; but the restful green of pine and fir was there, and the cool gray of crags.
Bold and rugged indeed were these mountain features, yet they were companionably close, not immeasurably distant and unattainable like the desert. Here in the shade of afternoon Madeline and Edith would often lounge under a low-branched tree. Seldom they talked much, for it was afternoon and dreamy with the strange spell of this mountain fastness.
There was smoky haze in the valleys, a fleecy cloud resting over the peaks, a sailing eagle in the blue sky, silence that was the unbroken silence of the wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine.
One afternoon, however, Edith appeared p.r.o.ne to talk seriously.
”Majesty, I must go home soon. I cannot stay out here forever. Are you going back with me?”
”Well, maybe,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. ”I have considered it.
I shall have to visit home some time. But this summer mother and father are going to Europe.”
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