Читать книгу The Rim of the Desert - Ada Woodruff Anderson - Страница 15

Bailey was right; the colts were beauties. But at the time Tisdale arrived at the Kittitas stables, Lighter, having decided to drive them to North Yakima, was putting the pair to a smart buggy. They were not for hire at double or treble the usual day rate.

"I want to sell this team," the trader repeated flatly. "I don't want to winter 'em again, and my best chance to show 'em is now, down at the fair. I can keep 'em in good shape, making it in two stages and resting 'em over night on the road, and be there by noon to-morrow."

One of the horses reared, lifting the stable-boy off his feet, and Lighter sprang to take the bit in his powerful grasp. "Steady, Tuck, steady! Whoa, whoa, back now, back, steady, whoa!" The animal stood, frothing a little, his beautiful coat moist, every muscle tense. "See there, now! Ain't he peaceable? Nothing mean under his whole hide; just wants to go. The other one will nip your fingers once in a while, if you don't watch out, but he don't mean anything, either; it's all in fun."

He gave his place to the boy again and stepped back to Tisdale's side, still watching his team, while a second stableman hurried to fasten the traces. "The fact is," he went on, dropping his voice confidentially, "I've got wind of a customer. He's driving through from the Sound to the races in his machine. A friend of mine wired me. Mebbe you know him. It's one of those Morgansteins of Seattle; the young feller. He saw these bays last year when they took the blue ribbon and said he'd keep an eye on 'em. They were most too fly then for crowded streets and spinning around the boulevard 'mongst the automobiles, but they're pretty well broke now. Steady, Nip, whoa there!"

"But," said Tisdale quietly, "young Morganstein met with an accident this morning in Snoqualmie Pass. An axle was broken, and he was thrown out of his machine. His leg was injured, and he took the train back to Seattle. I happened to be on the eastbound at the siding where it all occurred."

Lighter gave him a skeptical glance between narrowed lids. "Then, if he can't come himself, I guess he'll send his man. He told that friend of mine he counted on having another look at this team."

Tisdale's brows contracted. "See here, I want to drive to Wenatchee; what is the best you can do for me?"

"Why, let's see. My best livery rig is on the Wenatchee road now. One of them High Line fellers hired the outfit with a driver to take him through to the valley. If you'd be'n here when they started, likely they'd be'n glad to accommodate you. And the sorrels is out with a picnic to Nanum canyon. That leaves the roans. They come in half an hour ago. A couple of traveling salesmen had 'em out all the forenoon, and these drummers drive like blue blazes; and it's a mean pull through to Wenatchee. But wait till to-morrow and, with an early start, you can make it all right with the roans. That's the best I can do, unless you want a saddle-horse."

Tisdale walked back to the stalls and, convinced at a glance the jaded roans were impossible for that day, at least, stopped to look over the saddle animals. He saw that there were two promising travelers, but it would be necessary to impress an indifferent third to carry the baggage. Besides, judging from all he had seen, the resources of Kittitas did not include a ready-made lady's habit. He returned and stood another silent moment watching the lithe, impatient bays. Finally his eyes moved to the entrance and down the road to the railroad station where Miss Armitage was waiting. She was seated on a bench near the door. He could distinguish her gray figure in relief against the reddish-brown wall.

Directly he swung around. "What is your price?" he asked.

Lighter's hand dropped from the edge of the buggy seat. He stepped back to the heads of his team. "You get in, Harry," he said. "Drive 'em five or six blocks. Keep your eyes open."

Harry gathered the reins warily and sprang in; Lighter released his hold, then hurried forward to the driveway and stood with Tisdale watching the team. "Ain't they a sight?" he said.

And they were. Their coats shone like satin in the sun; they stepped airily, spurning the dust of Kittitas, and blew the ashen powder from their nostrils; then without warning the splendid span was away.

Tisdale repeated: "What is your price?"

Lighter's shrewd eyes swept his new customer over; it was as though he made an estimate of how much Tisdale could pay. "Five hundred dollars," he said. "Five hundred—if it's spot cash."

"And the outfit?"

"Let me see. Harness is practically new; buggy first-class. I'll make it an even seven hundred for the whole business; outfit and team."

There was a brief silence. As a rule, a man drawing the salary of the Geological Survey does not spend seven hundred dollars lightly. He bridles his impulses to own fine driving-horses until at least he has tried them. And this sum, just at that time, meant something of a drain on Tisdale's bank account. He knew if he bought the Weatherbee tract and reclaimed it, he must hedge on his personal expenses for a year or two; he had even talked with Banks a little about a loan to open the project and keep it moving until the next season's clean-up, when the Aurora should make good. He stirred, with a quick upward lift of his head, and looked once more in the direction of the station.

The girl rose and began to walk the platform.

Tisdale swung back and met the trader's calculating gaze. "Where is your bank?" he asked.

The business was quickly transacted and, when Lighter and his customer stepped out of the bank, Harry was there, driving the bays slowly up and down the street. In the moment they waited for him to draw up, the trader looked Tisdale over again. "Your easiest way to get this team over to the Sound is to drive through Snoqualmie Pass, the way you came."

"But," said Tisdale, knitting his brows, "I told you I wanted this team to drive to the Wenatchee valley."

"You can't drive on through the Cascades from there and, if you try to ship these colts aboard a Great Northern train, you'll have trouble."

"I shall probably leave them to winter in the valley. Unless"—Tisdale paused, smiling at the afterthought—"I decide to sell them to young Morganstein when I get back to Seattle."

Lighter laughed dryly. "I thought so. I sized you up all right at the start. I says to myself: 'He don't look like a feller to run a bluff,' and I says: 'Young Morganstein ain't the sort to pick up any second-hand outfit,' but I thought all along you was his man."

"I see." The humor played softly in Tisdale's face. "I see. But you thought wrong."

Lighter's lids narrowed again skeptically. "Those letters you showed to identify yourself cinched it. Why, one was signed by his brother-in-law, Miles Feversham, and your draft was on the Seattle National where the Morgansteins bank. But it's all right; I got my price." He nudged Tisdale slyly and, laughing again, moved to the heads of the team. "Now, sir, watch your chance; they're chain lightning the minute you touch the seat."

Tisdale was ready. At last he felt the tug of the lines in his grasp, the hot wind stung his face, and he was speeding back in the direction of the station. The girl came to the edge of the platform as he approached, and while the solitary man from the freight office caught the first opportunity to store the baggage under the seat, and the second to lift in the basket of samples from Bailey's orchard, she tied her veil more snugly under her chin and stood measuring the team with the sparkles breaking in her eyes. Then she gathered her skirts in one hand and laid the other lightly on the seat.

"Don't try to help me," she said breathlessly. "Just hold them." And the next instant she was up beside him, and her laugh fluted in exhilaration as they whirled away.

Kittitas fell far behind. They were racing directly across the seven miles of level towards a pass in a lofty range that marked the road to Wenatchee. Far to the left lines of poplars showed where the irrigating canals below Ellensburg watered the plain, and on the right the dunes and bluffs of the unseen Columbia broke the horizon. But the girl was watching Tisdale's management of the horses. "What beauties!" she exclaimed. "And Nip and Tuck!" Her lips rippled merriment. "How well named. Wait, be—care—ful—they are going to take that ho-le. Oh, would you mind giving those reins to me?"

"I wish I could." He shook his head, while the amusement played gently at the corners of his mouth. "I know all about a team of huskies, and it doesn't make much difference what I have under a saddle, but these kittens in harness are rather out of my line."

"Then trust yourself to me; please do. I used to drive just such a pair."

"Oh, but your hands couldn't stand this, and those gloves would be ribbons in half an hour."

"They are heavier than they look; besides, there are the shops at Wenatchee!" As if this settled the matter she said: "But we must change places. Now." She slipped into his seat as he rose, and took the reins dexterously, with a tightening grip, in her hands. "Whoa, whoa, Nip!" Her voice deepened a little. "Steady, Tuck, steady! That's right; be a man." There was another silent interval while he watched her handling of the team, then, "I did not know there could be a pair in all the world so like Pedro and Don José," she said, and the exhilaration softened in her face. "They were my ponies given me the birthday I was seventeen. A long time ago—" she sighed and flashed him a side-glance, shaking her head—"but I shall never forget. We lived in San Francisco, and my father and I tried them that morning in Golden Gate park. The roads were simply perfect, and the sea beach at low tide was like a hardwood floor. After that we drove for the week-end to Monterey, then through the redwoods to Santa Cruz and everywhere." She paused reminiscently. "Those California hotels are fine. They pride themselves on their orchestras, and wherever we went, we found friends to enjoy the dancing evenings after table d'hôte. That was in the winter, but it was more delightful in the spring. We drove far south then, through Menlo Park and Palo Alto, where the great meadows were vivid with alfalfa, and fields on fields were yellow with poppies or blue with lupine; on and on into the peach and almond country. I can see those blossoming orchards now; the air was flooded with perfume."

Her glance moved from the horses out over the sage-covered levels, and the contrast must have dropped like a curtain on her picture, for the light in her face died. Tisdale's look followed the road up from the plain and rested on the higher country; his eyes gathered their far-seeing gaze. He had been suddenly reminded of Weatherbee. It was in those California orchards he had spent his early life. He had known that scent of the blossoming almond; those fields of poppies and lupine had been his playground when he was a child. It was at the university at Palo Alto that he had taken his engineering course; and it was at one of those gay hotels, on a holiday and through some fellow student, he had met the woman who had spoiled his life.

The moment passed. One of the horses broke, and instantly the driver was alert. And while she alternately admonished and upbraided, with a firm manipulation of the reins, the humor began to play again in Tisdale's face. They were approaching the point where the road met the highway from Ellensburg, and in the irrigated sections that began to divide the unreclaimed land, harvesters were reaping and binding; from a farther field came the noise of a threshing machine; presently, as the bays turned into the thoroughfare, the way was blocked by a great flock of sheep.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "there must be thousands of them; how can the ones in the center breathe? Whoa, Nip, whoa now! Do you think you are one of those lambs? And there's no chance to go around; it is fenced with barbed wire on both sides; we simply must drive through, No, let me, please. Steady, now, Tuck, steady, whoa."

They had passed the mounted herders, and the colts broke their way playfully, dancing, curveting with bowing necks, into the midst of the flock. Soon the figures of the advance shepherds loomed through the dust. They were turning the sheep into a harvested field. They rolled in over the yellow stubble like a foaming sea. Far away, outlined like a sail against an island rick, the night tent of these nomads was already pitched.

Tisdale laughed softly. "Well, madam, that was skilful piloting. A bidarka couldn't have been safer riding in a skiddery sea."

"A bidarka?" she questioned, ruffling her brows.

Tisdale nodded. "One of those small skin canoes the Alaskan natives use. And it's touchy as a duck; comes bobbing up here and there, but right-side up every time. And it's frail looking, frail as an eggshell, yet I would stake a bidarka against a lifeboat in a surf. Do you know?"—he went on after a moment—"I would like to see you in one, racing out with the whitecaps up there in Bering Sea; your face all wet with spray, and your hair tucked away in the hood of a gray fox parka. Nothing else would show; the rest of you would be stowed below in a wonderful little water-tight compartment."

"It sounds delightful," she said, and the sparkles broke in her eyes.

After that there was a long silence. The bays fell into an even trot. The mountains loomed near, then before them, on the limits of the plain, a mighty herd of cattle closed the road. The girl rose a little in her place and looked over that moving sea of backs. "We must drive through again," she said. "It's going to be stifling but there's no possible way around. No," she protested, when he would have taken the reins, "I'm able. I learned once, years ago, on a great ranch in southern California. I'd rather." She settled in her seat smiling a little. "It's in the blood."

Tisdale reached and took the whip. They had passed the drivers and were pushing into the herd. Sometimes a red-eyed brute turned with lowered horns and dripping mouth, then backed slowly out of the way of the team. Sometimes, in a thicker press, an animal wheeled close to the tires and, stemming the current, sounded a protest. But the young horses, less playful now, divided the great herd and came at last safely out of the smother. The road began to lift, as they rounded the first rampart of the range, and Tisdale's glance fell to her hands. "Those gloves are done for, as I expected," he exclaimed. "I'll wager your palms are blistered. Come, own they hurt."

She nodded. "But it was worth it, though you may drive now, if you wish. It's my wrists; they have been so long out of practice. You don't know how they a—che."

"So," he said, when he had taken the reins, "so you are as fond of horses as this."

"Horses like these, yes. I haven't felt as happy and young since I gave up

Pedro and Don José."

Tisdale turned a little to look in her face. She had said "young" with the tone of one whose youth is past, yet the most conservative judge could not place her age a day over twenty-five. And she was so buoyant, so vibrant. His pulses quickened. It was as though currents of her vitality were being continually transmitted through his veins.

As they ascended, the plain unfolded like a map below; harvest fields, pastures of feeding cattle or sheep, meadows of alfalfa, unreclaimed reaches of sage-brush, and, far off among her shade-trees, the roofs of Ellensburg reflecting the late sun. Above the opposite range that hemmed the valley southward some thunder-heads crowded fast towards a loftier snow-peak. Far away across the divide, white, symmetrical, wrought of alabaster, inlaid with opal, lifted a peerless dome.

"Mount Rainier!" exclaimed Tisdale.

"I knew it." Her voice vibrated softly. "Even at this distance I knew. It was like seeing unexpectedly, in an unfamiliar country, the head of a noble friend lifting above the crowd."

Tisdale's glance returned to her face. Surprise and understanding shone softly in his own. She turned, and met the look with a smile. It was then, for the first time, he discovered unsounded depths through the subdued lights of her eyes. "You must have known old Rainier intimately," he said.

She shook her head. "Not nearer than Puget Sound. But I have a marvelous view from my hotel windows in Seattle, and often in long summer twilights from the deck of Mr. Morganstein's yacht, I've watched the changing Alpine glow on the mountain. I always draw my south curtains first, at Vivian Court, to see whether the dome is clear or promises a wet day. I've learned a mountain, surely as a person, has individuality; every cloud effect is to me a different mood, and sometimes, when I've been most unhappy or hard-pressed, the sight of Rainier rising so serene, so pure, so high above the fretting clouds, has given me new courage. Can you understand that, Mr. Tisdale? How a mountain can become an influence, an inspiration, in a life?"

"I think so, yes." Tisdale paused, then added quietly: "But I would like to be the first to show you old Rainier at close range."

At this she moved a little; he felt the invisible barrier stiffen between them. "Mr. Morganstein promised to motor us through to the National Park Inn when the new Government road was finished, but we've been waiting for the heavy summer travel to be over. It has been like the road to Mecca since the foot of the mountain has been accessible."

There was a silence, during which Tisdale watched the pulling team. Her manner of reminding him of his position was unmistakable, but it was her frequent reference to young Morganstein that began to nettle him. Why should she wish specially to motor to Rainier with that black-browed, querulous nabob? Why had she so often sailed on his yacht? And why should she ever have been unhappy and hard-pressed, as she had confessed? She who was so clearly created for happiness. But to Tisdale her camaraderie with Nature was charming. It was so very rare. A few of the women he had known hitherto had been capable of it, but they had lived rugged lives; the wilderness gave them little else. And of all the men whom he had made his friends through an eventful career, there was only Foster who sometimes felt the magnitude of high places—and there had been David Weatherbee. At this thought of Weatherbee his brows clouded, and that last letter, the one that had reached him at Nome and which he still carried in his breast pocket, seemed suddenly to gather a vital quality. It was as though it cried out: "I can't stand these everlasting ice peaks, Hollis; they crowd me so."

Miss Armitage sat obliviously looking off once more across the valley. The thunder-heads, denser now and driving in legions along the opposite heights, stormed over the snow peak and assailed the far, shining dome.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "see Rainier now! That blackest cloud is lifting over the summit. Rain is streaming from it like a veil of gauze; but the dome still shines through like a transfigured face!"

Tisdale's glance rested a moment on the wonder. His face cleared. "If we were on the other side of the Cascades," he said, "that weather-cap would mean a storm before many hours; but here, in this country of little rain, I presume it is only a threat."

The bays began to round a curve and presently Rainier, the lesser heights, all the valley of Kittitas, closed from sight. They had reached the timber belt; poplars threaded the parks of pine, and young growths of fir, like the stiff groves of a toy village, gathered hold on the sharp mountain slopes. Sometimes the voice of a creek, hurrying down the canyon to join the Yakima, broke the stillness, or a desert wind found its way in and went wailing up the water-course. And sometimes in a rocky place, the hoof-beats of the horses, the noise of the wheels, struck an echo from spur to spur. Then Tisdale commenced to whistle cautiously, in fragments at first, with his glance on the playing ears of the colts, until satisfied they rather liked it, he settled into a definite tune, but with the flutelike intonations of one who loves and is accustomed to make his own melody.

He knew that this woman beside him, since they had left the civilization of the valley behind, half repented her adventure. He felt the barrier strengthen to a wall, over which, uncertain, a little afraid, she watched him. At last, having finished the tune, he turned and surprised the covert look from under her curling black lashes.

"I hope," he said, and the amusement broke softly in his face, "all this appraisal is showing a little to my credit."