Читать книгу Horse Heaven Hill - Zane Grey - Страница 8

Next morning Lark waited to be called to breakfast. She was usually up with the bird for which her father had named her. It seemed a long while until the breakfast hour, but at last she heard a bell. She encountered Marigold in a bright blue gown, which enhanced her blonde beauty.

“Hello, Lark. I forgot to tell you about breakfast hour,” she said. “It’s any time. Dad and El leave early for the store. Mom is seldom down and I never am. Cookie will give you eats any time.”

“Seems like I’ve been up hours,” rejoined Lark. “I didn’t sleep very well. Heard horses more than once.”

“Let’s go down. . . . Stan left last night in a rage. I went to town. Didn’t get back till late.”

They had breakfast alone, to Lark’s relief.

“Say, Lark, for heaven’s sake, throw away that gray dress, will you? It looks dreadful.”

“All right, I will—after this time. Marigold, can I see the horses and ride this morning?”

“Of course. Maybe I’ll go with you. What have I got to do, anyway? No, I can’t. . . . But you don’t need me. Put on your riding clothes and go out to the barn. Hurd won’t be there—he was drunk last night. . . . But some of the boys will be there. Tell them I said you could have any horse in the outfit. So you take your pick.”

“Oh, thank you, cousin. That will be grand,” cried Lark, thrilled at the prospect. “And where will I ride?”

“There’s a thousand miles of sage back of the ranch, more or less,” laughed Marigold. “Lark, I’m glad that makes you look happy. We’ve got horses and sage enough, Lord knows. And do I need to warn you against cowboys?”

“Hardly. I reckon cowboys are all alike.”

“They are, and no good on earth, except—well, so long, Lark. Don’t ride clear to Horse Heaven Hill.”

Lark ran upstairs and soon, in a delight that caused her a mild astonishment, she had donned her riding garb. She laughed at her image in the big mirror. She was a boy once more, in jeans, boots, spurs, blouse and all, even to a battered old sombrero, which she pulled down over her wavy locks. Then, gloves in hand, she went sideways down the stairs, careful not to tear the carpet with her long spurs, and slipping out the back way, much to Cookie’s amazement, she took the path that led to the barns.

She had seen them from a distance, and now, nearing them, she was to learn what a big ranch meant, in barns and corrals, sheds and cribs, with wide green pastures beyond, spotted with horses. For the first moment since Lark had left home she felt natural, sure of herself, and really happy. She did not show in the least her elation and surprise at the sight of a Western ranch. She reveled in the well-loved sounds and smells.

The main barn was a huge affair, with a wide lane through the center and numerous stalls on each side. A slanting runway led up to the level of the floor. Three cowboys were sitting there, indulging in some game. They wore the customary garb of riders, rough and worn, yet they did not, upon closer view, appear as tough as the cowboys around Batchford.

“Howdy, sonny, what you want?” asked one of them casually, after a glance at her.

“I want a horse,” replied Lark.

“You don’t say?” returned the rider, as he bent over the dice his companion was throwing. “What for do you want a horse?”

“To ride.”

“Got any dough?”

“Dough?—No, I haven’t.”

“Well, beat it then,” he said, snatching at the dice.

Lark sat down across the wide entrance, in such a way that she aided the deception she had begun unwittingly and now began to revel in. She watched them awhile unmolested, as evidently her interrogator had forgotten her. They threw dice, complained, swore mildly. The one who had spoken was bareheaded, a young fellow, clean-cut and smooth-faced, very nice-looking indeed. The second was redheaded and somewhat coarse. The third was older, in his late twenties, which meant maturity for a cowboy. He had strikingly handsome features. His eyes were cast down. There were blue circles under them. His lips and chin were boldly chiseled.

“Damn you, Hurd. Lucky in dice as lucky in women!” complained the cowboy next to him.

“It’s not luck; I’m smart,” replied the other, spreading the dice.

Here Lark pricked up her ears, even more interested. This one must be Hurd Blanding, the cowboy associated with Ellery Wade in the wild-horse drive. Marigold, too, had mentioned him.

“You won’t be smart at all if Stan Weston gets wise to you,” came the significant reply. Whereupon Blanding flung the dice at the other.

“Shut up. If you make another crack like that I’ll—”

He noticed Lark then and checked his speech. He had wonderful, hard, light eyes.

“Who the hell is this, Coil?” he asked, nudging the bareheaded cowboy, and indicating Lark.

“Some kid who came in here asking for a horse . . . Hey, didn’t I tell you to beat it?”

“Reckon you did,” replied Lark, almost giggling, as she sat, elbows on her knees, her hands at the flap of her sombrero. How she wished that the innocent deceit could be prolonged!

Blanding searched around with eye and hand, manifestly for something to throw at Lark. At that moment his look justified her intuition—he had an evil face, undeniably handsome though it was. He found a piece of wood, which he flung at Lark, accompanying the action with a harsh: “Get out!” The missile struck Lark on her right foot; a glancing blow, but it hurt. She stood up.

“My cousin Marigold sure has a fine lot of cowboys,” she said contemptuously.

Lark’s movement and change of tone were followed by a blank silence. Not until she stepped out where they could see her plainly did they accept her sex. Blanding was the first to recover. He rose to his superb height and doffed his sombrero.

“Miss, you can lay it to your ridin’ outfit,” he said, with a winning smile. “We wanted to give you a little fun, seein’ you looked like a boy. But I knew you all the time.”

The other cowboys leaped up, and, not to be outdone, the clean-cut youth, called Coil by his companions, stepped out.

“I’m sure awful sorry, Miss Burrell,” he apologized. And the redheaded fellow nodded and grinned sheepishly, as if to stand by his comrade.

“You’re all liars,” replied Lark coolly. “You didn’t know me from Adam.”

“Well, Red an’ I didn’t throw clubs at you, anyway,” returned Coil significantly.

“It was only in fun, Miss Lark,” protested Hurd, not in the least concerned. “And it didn’t hit you.”

“Like fun it didn’t,” retorted Lark indignantly. “It almost crippled me.” And she exaggerated a limp.

“Maybe you’re not as tough as you look,” remarked Blanding facetiously. “That outfit has had more than one bump, I’ll bet.”

Lark had to acknowledge to herself that Blanding had keen eyes. She did not care much for the look in them.

“Do I get a horse or must I go back to tell Marigold that I was insulted?”

“Aw, Miss Burrell, don’t be too hard on me an’ Red, anyway,” asked Coil appealingly. “I apologize for my part. Miss Wade would sure fire us.”

The emphasis on the us, which significantly eliminated Blanding, was not lost upon Lark. There was something here, almost dismaying, that stimulated her thought.

“In your case, then, I’ll believe you were only in fun,” replied Lark kindly.

“Thanks, miss. You can ride any horse,” began Coil, beaming, but Blanding thrust him and Red back.

“I’m boss here. Now, Miss Lark, what kind of a horse do you want?”

“Any kind that will go,” rejoined Lark slowly, as the two disgruntled cowboys walked out of the barn. Coil looked back at Blanding, a scowl marring his youthful face.

“Can you ride?” asked Blanding in a flattering tone. He stepped close to her, looking down. He was a superb animal and knew it.

“Oh, yes, tolerable.”

“You look like a cowgirl. I’ll bet you’ve ridden at rodeos.”

“No. I’ve just been a ranch hand.”

“Come here. Take a peep at Mari—Miss Wade’s horse,” said Blanding, and he circled his fingers around Lark’s elbow, leading her to a stall. It might have been nothing, this action, and then again it might have been a good deal. He kept his hand there while he showed Lark her cousin’s favorite, a dark bay mare with white feet. They went on to the next stall, and the next, down the line on that side of the stable. Lark had been used all her life to good horses. These fine animals of Mr. Wade’s scarcely needed Blanding’s eloquence. He wanted to talk. He wanted to impress Lark.

Across the aisle in the first stall a white-faced horse poked his head over the bars and whinnied. He took Lark’s eye.

“This here is Chaps,” went on Blanding. “He’s from Oregon, an’ I’ll say they sure raise horseflesh in that state.”

“They’re all wonderful,” burst out Lark in delight. “Saddle Chaps for me.”

“I knew he’d be the one. You’re a swell picker, Miss Lark. . . . An’ you’re goin’ to let me ride with you?” He squeezed her arm and drew her so that she rested against him and gazed down upon her in a bold and masterful way. It was new to Lark, though she had been importuned by cowboys, and it both excited and repelled her. But remembering Marigold’s hint, Lark kept her wits about her. “I reckon I got to see what you look like,” he went on coolly, and removed her sombrero.

“Do I look like a boy now?” asked Lark.

“Say, girl, it’s downright cruel an’ mean to hide your hair an’ face,” he exploded, bending lower. “Under a deceivin’ old slouch hat like this.”

“Why so?” rejoined Lark provocatively.

“Because you’re most awful pretty.

“Thank you. But that’s nothing. Give me my old slouch hat.”

Manifestly, Blanding did not require much time or opportunity to make advances toward a girl. Lark, owing to some vague subtle connection between her cousin and this cowboy which she had grasped, had not reacted immediately upon her instincts. Probably her apparent laxity had deceived him; more probably Blanding was not the kind of man to need encouragement. But when he deliberately bent lower, his face heating, she was sure of her suspicions and thrust him away with no light hand. Then she snatched her sombrero.

“Keep your paws off me, cowboy,” she said, in a tone only a conceited fool could have misunderstood.

“Wha-what?” he stammered, very certainly surprised.

“That’s what I said. Mr. Blanding, it doesn’t follow because you can get fresh with these girls around here that you can do it with a little country jake from down Idaho.”

Lark learned more from his suddenly flaming face than from any other circumstance that had occurred.

“Say, has Marigold been shootin’ off her chin to you?” he demanded, recovering. That question defined his status, as well as gave Lark a most decided concern. Could it be possible— She quelled the thought.

“No. My cousin did not mention you, if that is what you meant,” she replied haughtily.

“Oh . . . Well, I—you—it sure sounded as if somebody had put you against me,” he floundered, seeking a way out. He had no sense of shame.

“It wasn’t necessary. Any decent girl could figure you out in five minutes. Less time if she was alone with you!”

“Say, Lark—”

“What right have you to call me Lark?” she interrupted. “I’m Miss Burrell to you, or any other cowboy.”

“All right, Miss Burrell,” he said, forced to recognize something astounding. “But I didn’t mean any harm. I—”

“No, you didn’t,” retorted Lark scornfully. “You’re a fine gentlemanly cowboy! You threw a club at me—”

“I didn’t know you were a girl.”

“There! I’ve caught you in a lie. . . . You threw a club at me and two minutes afterward you’d have kissed me.”

“What’s a kiss, anyway?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.

“It’s a great deal to some girls.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s an insult to me anyhow. I—shall tell Marigold.”

This was an unconsidered random shot that found its mark. For the first time consternation and alarm appeared in his mobile face.

“Please, Miss Burrell, don’t do that,” he begged, suddenly sincere. And sincerity made him appealing. “Can’t you make allowance? You’ve a most awful pretty face. Red lips! . . . Seein’ them sudden like, without any warnin’—I—I lost my head. I get fool notions over girls. Maybe this was love at first sight.”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” drawled Lark, enjoying Blanding’s right-about-face.

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

“Sure, in the case of cowboys with any girl. But Mr. Blanding, I want a horse. I can’t stay here all day listening to you.”

“But please don’t tell her. She’d fire me.”

“I daresay that would be a calamity for Wade Ranch, in your opinion.”

“For me it would. You won’t tell her?”

“Unless I change my mind I certainly will,” returned Lark vehemently. “You’re not doing your cause any good by this talk. What kind of a man are you, anyway? I’m used to cowboys who do what they’re told to do. This is a funny kind of ranch.”

Lark felt that she was stretching the truth a bit, as far as her experience went, but it was logical. She saw that she had finally subdued Blanding. He led the horse out of the stall. Then Lark quite forgot everything else. Chaps was a beauty, a cream-colored mustang with white markings, and if he did not have a strain of wild blood, she was greatly mistaken. Evidently he did not like Blanding.

“Let me have him. You get a bridle and saddle. . . . Here, Chaps. That’s a poor name for you. Whoa now, White-face. I’ll call you that, or better—Cream Puff.”

It did not take a moment for Lark to make up with him. A horse that is spirited, and nervous with men, very often is easy to handle by women. Chaps had never been hurt by a woman.

“You sure have a way with horses,” remarked Blanding as he returned.

“Yes. But it’s not like yours with ladies, Mr. Blanding. . . . Thanks, but I’ll bridle him.”

Lark put the bridle on, then the blankets, which she smoothed and patted out. The saddle was not a light one by any means, but she swung it up with one hand, easily and sweepingly, in a manner to make the watching cowboy whistle.

“I hate a single cinch, but reckon—” she said, speaking to herself.

“We haven’t a double-cinch saddle on the ranch,” Blanding informed her.

Lark made no reply. The cowboy had ceased to exist for her just then. She pulled the cinch, lightly at first, watching the mustang, and then she tightened it. That done, she put on gloves and sombrero, which she had laid aside.

“Reckon the stirrups will be about right,” vouchsafed Blanding. “They have been lengthened since one of Miss Wade’s girl friends rode here last week.”

Lark measured them with her arm. Then gathering up the reins she grasped the pommel with both hands. Up she vaulted into the saddle, without ever touching the stirrup.

“Get out of here, Cream Puff,” Lark called gaily, and she was off. The barnyard gate stood ajar, and down the lane another gate was open, and two cowboys, probably the ones Blanding had driven off, stood by waiting. Lark touched the mustang with the spurs. He broke from a trot into a gallop. The cowboys waved their hats.

Lark found herself beyond the fences, out on an old sandy road, with the open sage ahead. She could have screamed her joy. On a horse again! The purple reaches calling! She asked no more. She left her problems behind and raced for the sage.