them toward the
wall. Slender and supple and strong, it was still only the size of her
boots and her hands that would make one look at her twice and then
guess that this was a woman, for she was dressed, from trousers even
to the bright bandanna knotted around her throat, like any prosperous
range rider.
Now, to be sure, the thick coils of black hair told her sex, but when
the broad-brimmed sombrero was pulled well down on her head, when the
cartridge-belt and the six-gun were slung about her waist, and most of
all when she spurred her mount recklessly across the hills no one
could have suspected that this was not some graceful boy born and bred
in the mountain-desert, willful as a young mountain lion, and as
dangerous.
"Sleepy?" called Wilbur.
She waited a moment and then queried with exaggerated impudence:
"Well?"
Ennui unspeakable was in that drawling monotone.
"Brace up; I've got news for you. And I've brought Pierre along to
tell you about it."
"Oh!"
And she sat bolt upright with shining eyes. Instantly she remembered
to yawn again, but her glance smiled on them above her hand.
She apologized. "Awfully sleepy, Dick."
But he was not deceived. He said: "There's a dance down near the
Barnes place, and Pierre wants you to go with him."
"Pierre! A dance?"
He explained: "Dick's lost his head over a girl with yellow hair, and
he wants me to go down and see her. He thought you might want to go
along." Her face changed like the moon when a cloud blows across it.
She answered with another slow, insolent yawn: "Thanks! I'm staying
home tonight."
Wilbur glared his rage covertly at Pierre, but the latter was blandly
unconscious that he had made any
faux pas
.
He said carelessly: "Too bad. It might be interesting. Jack?"
At his voice she looked up—a sharp and graceful toss of her head.
"What?"
"The girl with the yellow hair."
"Then go ahead and see her. I won't keep you. You don't mind if I go
on sleeping? Sit down and be at home."
With this she calmly turned her back again and seemed thoroughly
disposed to carry out her word.
Red Pierre flushed a little, watching her, and he spoke his anger
outright: "You're acting like a sulky kid, Jack, not like a man."
It was a habit of his to forget that she was a woman. Without turning
her head she answered: "Do you want to know why?"
"You're like a cat showing your claws. Go on! Tell me what the reason
is."
"Because I get tired of you."
In all his life he had never been so scorned. He did not see the
covert grin of Wilbur in the background. He blurted: "Tired?"
"Awfully. You don't mind me being frank, do you, Pierre?"
He could only stammer: "Sometimes I wish to God you
were
a man,
Jack!"
"You don't often remember that I'm a woman."
"Do you mean that I'm rude or rough with you, Jacqueline?" Still the
silence, but Wilbur was grinning broader than ever. "Answer me!"
She started up and faced him, her face convulsed with rage.
"What do you want me to say? Yes, you are rude—I hate you and your
lot. Go away from me; I don't want you; I hate you all."
And she would have said more, but furious sobs swelled her throat and
she could not speak, but dropped, face down, on the bunk and gripped
the blankets in each hardset hand. Over her Pierre leaned, utterly
bewildered, found nothing that he could say, and then turned and
strode, frowning, from the room. Wilbur hastened after him and caught
him just as the door was closing.
"Come back," he pleaded. "This is the best game I've ever seen. Come
back, Pierre! You've made a wonderful start."
Pierre le Rouge shook off the detaining hand and glared up at Wilbur.
"Don't try irony, Dick. I feel like murder. Think of it! All this time
she's been hating me; and now it's making her weep; think of
it—Jack—weeping!"
"Why, you're a child, Pierre. She's in love with you."
"With me?"
"With Red Pierre."
"You can't make a joke out of Jack with me. You ought to know that."
"Pierre, I'd as soon make a joke out of a
wall. Slender and supple and strong, it was still only the size of her
boots and her hands that would make one look at her twice and then
guess that this was a woman, for she was dressed, from trousers even
to the bright bandanna knotted around her throat, like any prosperous
range rider.
Now, to be sure, the thick coils of black hair told her sex, but when
the broad-brimmed sombrero was pulled well down on her head, when the
cartridge-belt and the six-gun were slung about her waist, and most of
all when she spurred her mount recklessly across the hills no one
could have suspected that this was not some graceful boy born and bred
in the mountain-desert, willful as a young mountain lion, and as
dangerous.
"Sleepy?" called Wilbur.
She waited a moment and then queried with exaggerated impudence:
"Well?"
Ennui unspeakable was in that drawling monotone.
"Brace up; I've got news for you. And I've brought Pierre along to
tell you about it."
"Oh!"
And she sat bolt upright with shining eyes. Instantly she remembered
to yawn again, but her glance smiled on them above her hand.
She apologized. "Awfully sleepy, Dick."
But he was not deceived. He said: "There's a dance down near the
Barnes place, and Pierre wants you to go with him."
"Pierre! A dance?"
He explained: "Dick's lost his head over a girl with yellow hair, and
he wants me to go down and see her. He thought you might want to go
along." Her face changed like the moon when a cloud blows across it.
She answered with another slow, insolent yawn: "Thanks! I'm staying
home tonight."
Wilbur glared his rage covertly at Pierre, but the latter was blandly
unconscious that he had made any
faux pas
.
He said carelessly: "Too bad. It might be interesting. Jack?"
At his voice she looked up—a sharp and graceful toss of her head.
"What?"
"The girl with the yellow hair."
"Then go ahead and see her. I won't keep you. You don't mind if I go
on sleeping? Sit down and be at home."
With this she calmly turned her back again and seemed thoroughly
disposed to carry out her word.
Red Pierre flushed a little, watching her, and he spoke his anger
outright: "You're acting like a sulky kid, Jack, not like a man."
It was a habit of his to forget that she was a woman. Without turning
her head she answered: "Do you want to know why?"
"You're like a cat showing your claws. Go on! Tell me what the reason
is."
"Because I get tired of you."
In all his life he had never been so scorned. He did not see the
covert grin of Wilbur in the background. He blurted: "Tired?"
"Awfully. You don't mind me being frank, do you, Pierre?"
He could only stammer: "Sometimes I wish to God you
were
a man,
Jack!"
"You don't often remember that I'm a woman."
"Do you mean that I'm rude or rough with you, Jacqueline?" Still the
silence, but Wilbur was grinning broader than ever. "Answer me!"
She started up and faced him, her face convulsed with rage.
"What do you want me to say? Yes, you are rude—I hate you and your
lot. Go away from me; I don't want you; I hate you all."
And she would have said more, but furious sobs swelled her throat and
she could not speak, but dropped, face down, on the bunk and gripped
the blankets in each hardset hand. Over her Pierre leaned, utterly
bewildered, found nothing that he could say, and then turned and
strode, frowning, from the room. Wilbur hastened after him and caught
him just as the door was closing.
"Come back," he pleaded. "This is the best game I've ever seen. Come
back, Pierre! You've made a wonderful start."
Pierre le Rouge shook off the detaining hand and glared up at Wilbur.
"Don't try irony, Dick. I feel like murder. Think of it! All this time
she's been hating me; and now it's making her weep; think of
it—Jack—weeping!"
"Why, you're a child, Pierre. She's in love with you."
"With me?"
"With Red Pierre."
"You can't make a joke out of Jack with me. You ought to know that."
"Pierre, I'd as soon make a joke out of a
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