Читать книгу Lost Pueblo - Zane Grey - Страница 5

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That evening a little before suppertime, when Randolph walked into the living room, Janey made it a point to be there. She had adorned herself with a gown calculated to make him gasp. She perceived that he had difficulty in concealing his dismay. The day of mental stress, without the usual exercise and contact with the open, had left her pale with faint purple shadows under her eyes. Janey thought she could take care of the rest.

“I’m sorry you were indisposed,” said Randolph, solicitously. “I see you haven’t been out today. That’s too bad.”

“It has been a lonely, awful day,” replied Janey, pathetically.

“I hope you haven’t been very ill. You looked so—so wonderful yesterday. You’re pale now. No doubt you’ve overdone this riding around with the cowboys.”

“I guess I’m not so strong as Dad thinks I am. But I’m really not tired—that is, physically.”

“No? What’s wrong then?”

Janey transfixed Randolph with great melancholy eyes. “I’m dying of homesickness. This place is dead. It’s a ruin. You could dig right here and find a million bones.”

“Dead! ... Oh, yes, indeed, it is rather quiet for a girl used to New York,” he returned, plainly disappointed. “I rather expected you would like it—for a while, and, really, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. I know your father thinks you’re having the time of your life.”

“I was. But it didn’t last. Nothing happens. I imagined there’d be some excitement. Why, I can’t even get a kick out of a horse,” complained Janey.

“Take care about that,” said Randolph, seriously. “Bennet has seen to it that you’ve had only gentle horses. I heard him rake the cowboys about this. None of their tricks!”

“Mr. Randolph,” returned Janey, sweetly explaining, “I didn’t mean that kind of a kick. I’d like a horse to run off with me—since there’s no man out here to do it.”

Janey was blandly innocent, and apparently unconscious of Randolph’s slight start and quick look. She was going to enjoy this better than she had expected.

“I—I daresay the cowboys—and all Westerners—couldn’t understand you, Miss Janey,” rejoined Randolph. “They will exert themselves to amuse you—take care of you. But never dream—of—how—”

“That a New York girl requires some stimulant,” interposed Janey. “Oh, I get that. These nice dumb cowboys! I thought they were going to be regular fellows. But, do you know, Mr. Randolph, not a single one of them has attempted to kiss me!”

“Indeed! From what I know of them I think that’d be the last thing they’d attempt. They are gentlemen, Miss Endicott,” said Randolph, rather stiffly.

“What’s that got to do with kissing a girl?” retorted Janey, hard put to restrain her laughter. “It’d be fun to see their line of work. And in the case of that handsome Zoroaster—well, I might let him get away with it.”

Randolph stared at her incredulously, with infinite disapproval.

“Outside of yourself, Mr. Zoroaster is the only good-looking man around the place. And as you don’t seem to be aware of my presence here, I’d rather welcome a little attention from him.”

“Miss Endicott!” ejaculated Randolph. “You are complimentary—and rather otherwise, all in one breath. It is you who have not been aware of my presence.”

“What could you expect?” queried Janey, with a bewildering confusion. “I might flirt with a cowboy. But I couldn’t—well—throw myself at a man of your intelligence and culture. All the same I’ve been hoping you’d take me around a little. To your ruins and interesting places. And maybe amuse me in the evenings, or at least do something to kill the awful monotony. In New York you seemed to like me. I daresay Dad has talked about me—queered me with you.”

Randolph had been reduced to a state of speechlessness. He actually blushed, and there leaped to his eyes a light that made them very warm and appealing. At this point Mr. Endicott came in. He looked unusually bright and cheerful, but at sight of Janey his smile faded.

“Janey, dear, you look sort of down,” he commiserated, kissing her. “I forgot you had a headache or something.”

“Dad, I’ve just been complaining to Phil. But he doesn’t care whether I’m sick or homesick, or what.”

“Phil!—Homesick?—Why Janey!” exclaimed Mr. Endicott, quite taken aback.

“Dad, will you let me go home?” she asked, mournfully.

“Janey!”

“Don’t look like that. What do you think anyway? You’ve dragged me out to this dead hole. Nothing happens. You said Phil would be tickled pink to run around with me.”

“I didn’t say anything of the kind,” declared her father, turning a little pink himself.

“Oh, I mean words to that effect,” replied Janey, airily. “But, as you’ve seen, he has studiously avoided me—as if I was a pestilence. Left me to the mercy of these cowboys!”

“I’m sure there is a misunderstanding,” returned Mr. Endicott, divided between doubt and exultation.

“There certainly is,” added Randolph, emphatically. “I hope it isn’t too late for me to correct it.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Janey, with eyes on him. “Else how could I ever have told you?”

“Nonsense,” spoke up her father. “Janey, you must be a little off your feed or something.”

“Dad, I’m not a horse or a cow—and I would like a little fruit salad or a lobster.” Suddenly she clapped her hands. “I’ve an idea. Perfectly delicious. Let me send for Bert?”

“What? That last faint gasp of the Durland family?”

“Dad, I’d have a perfectly glorious time riding around with him.”

“Humph! I don’t believe it. You don’t know what you do want.”

“Please, Daddy. Bert would at least amuse me.”

“He would. And us, too. But no, Janey. I can’t see it,” declared Endicott.

“Very well, Father,” agreed Janey. She never called him “Father” except in cases like this. “I’ve done my best to please you. The consequences will be upon your head.”

Endicott grunted, gave Janey a baffled glance and stepped out the open door to view the afterglow of the sunset. Randolph was perturbed. Janey enjoyed the assurance that her new line had been effective. No man could resist subtle flattery!

“Miss Janey—if you—if I—if there has been a misunderstanding—let me make it right,” began Randolph, with a sincerity that made Janey feel villainous. “Frankly, I—I didn’t think you cared two straws about my work, or the ruins—or me either. So I never asked you. You remember I used to try to interest you in the desert. Indeed there is much here to interest you—if you will only see. Suppose you ride out with me tomorrow.”

Janey fixed sad eyes upon his earnest face.

“No, Phil. I told you—it’s too late. You’d never have thought of it, if I hadn’t gone down and out. I’m sorry, but I can’t accept solicited attention.”

“You’re very unkind, at least,” rejoined Randolph, vexed and hurt. “You’ve scarcely looked at me, since your arrival. Now you complain of my—my neglect. I tell you—to accuse me of indifference is perfectly ridiculous.”

Then the little Indian maid called them to supper. When Endicott followed them in and caught a glimpse of Randolph’s face he threw up his hands, then he laughed heartily. Janey understood him. It was a return to good humor and the hopelessness of ever doing anything with her. His mirth, however, did not infect Randolph, who scarcely said another word, ate but little, and soon excused himself.

“Say, honey, what’d you do to Phil?” inquired Endicott, genially.

“Nothing.”

“Which means a whole lot. Well, tell me.”

“I let him know I did like him very much—that his indifference has hurt me deeply—and that now—”

“Ah! I see. Now, in the vernacular of your charming crowd there’s nothing doing,” interrupted her father. “Janey, dear, if I were Phil I’d be encouraged. I remember your mother. When I was most in despair my chances were brightest. Only I didn’t know it.”

“Dad, I did like Phil,” murmured Janey, dreamily.

“It’s too bad you don’t any more.... What are you going to do tomorrow?”

“Perhaps I will feel well enough to ride a little.”

“Good. I’m motoring to Flagerstown. I’ll be back before dark, I think. I’ve got important letters and telegrams to send.”

“You won’t let me wire for Bert Durland?” asked Janey.

“Janey, don’t always put me at a disadvantage,” returned Endicott, impatiently. “You know I’d let you have anyone or anything—if you convinced me of your need. But, darling, you know Durland would bore you to death. Be honest.”

“I suspect he might—after he got here,” acknowledged Janey, demurely. “But, Dad, just think of the fun the cowboys would have out of him. And he’d make Phil perfectly wild!”

“Aha! You’ve said it, my daughter,” declared Endicott, clapping his hands. “I had a hunch, as Bennet says.... Well, Janey, you must excuse me. I’ve got to spend the evening writing. You can have a nice quiet hour reading.”

“Hour! I can’t go to bed for hours.”

“Janey, you look perfectly wonderful, ravishing—and—well, indecent in that flimsy white gown. It’d make a first-rate handkerchief for one of these man-sized Westerners. But it’s wasted on the desert air.”

“Yes, I’m afraid my desire to look well for Phil was wasted,” returned Janey. “Men are no good. You can’t please them.”

“Perhaps the emancipation of women has peeved us,” remarked Endicott, slyly.

Janey was curious to see if Randolph would come back to the living room. She hoped he would not, for he appeared to be giving her a taste of something different in masculine reactions. She talked to the Bennets about the cowboys and Randolph, learning more and more for her amusement and interest. They regarded the archaeologist as one of the family and were immensely proud of his work. It might have been gold hunting, for all the store they put on it. Janey began to gather some inkling of the importance of Randolph’s discovery of the pueblo claimed by scientists to have existed there centuries past. She began to hope for his success.

Randolph did not appear again and the Bennets retired early. Janey was left to her thoughts, which she found pleasant. Soon she went to her room, and to bed. Though she would not admit it to her father, the quiet of the night, the comfortable feel of wool blankets, the black darkness appealed strongly to her.

What few words and glances it had taken to upset Phillip Randolph! If Janey had not been so outraged her conscience might have given her a twinge. Deep within her dwelt a respect for honesty and simplicity. The idea she had given Randolph—that she had expected and hoped for a little attention from him—had completely floored him. After all it was not much of a deceit. She had expected more than a little. There was something warm and sweet in the thought of his really caring for her like that. Janey believed that no real woman of the present or of the future would ever feel otherwise than stirred at a man’s honest love. It was in the race, and the race’s progress toward higher things depended upon it. Janey made the mental observation that the world had not progressed very much lately.

Next morning she again delayed going into breakfast purposely to miss Randolph and her father. Janey put on her riding clothes, taking her time about it.

After breakfast the only one of the cowboys around the corrals was Ray.

“Mornin’,” he greeted her. “When did you come back to life? Us boys figgered you was daid.”

“Me? Oh, I never let anybody get tired of me,” responded Janey. “Can I have Patter saddled?”

“I reckon, but I cain’t see what for. That cayuse is no good. He’s got a mean eye when he rolls it. Now my little roan—”

“Ray, you boys can’t fool me any longer about the horses. They’re all good. Please saddle Patter for me.”

While Ray went to fetch the horse Janey walked into the trading post, always and increasingly interesting to her. Bennet was selling supplies to the Indians. Janey liked to hear the low strange voices. One of the Indians was nothing if not frankly admiring. He was a tall, slim, loose-jointed individual, wearing corduroys and moccasins, a huge-buckled and silver-ornamented belt, a garnet-colored velveteen shirt, and a black sombrero with a bright-braided band. He had a lean face like a hawk, dark and clear, and piercing black eyes. Janey had been advised not to appear interested in the Indian men—that they misunderstood it, and had been known to give Eastern women some rude shocks. As usual Janey disregarded advice.

She noticed when she left the post that the Indian sauntered out to watch her. Janey thought if Phil Randolph would act that way, she would be highly gratified. Patter was saddled waiting for her, a fine little bay mustang.

“What’s Smoky followin’ you for?” queried Ray, gruffly.

“Smoky, who’s he?”

“Thet blamed Navvy.”

“Oh, I see. I don’t know, Ray. I certainly didn’t ask him to. It’s quite flattering, though. But not complimentary to you boys.”

“Wal, Miss, if you excuse me I’ll say thet’s not funny an’ you ain’t ridin’ out alone,” said Ray.

“Indeed. Ray, you can be most disagreeable at times. It spoils a perfectly wonderful man. I am going to ride alone.”

“Nope. If you won’t listen to me I’ll tell Bennet.”

“Aren’t you just inventing an opportunity to ride with me?”

“Reckon not. I don’t care particular aboot ridin’ with you, after the deal you gave me last time.”

“What was that, Ray? I forget.”

“Wal, never mind.... Now this Indian Smoky is a bad hombre an’ it’s really because he’s not all there. He’s not to be trusted. He might foller you around jes’ curious. But if you got too nice to him things might happen. If he annoys you he’ll be a daid redskin damn quick.”

“Thank you, Ray, I’ll say that’s talking,” responded Janey. “But tell me, what do you do to white men out here, when they insult Eastern girls?”

“Wal, Miss, white men—that is, Westerners don’t insult girls from anywhere,” returned Ray, forcefully.

“But they do. I’ve heard and read of lots of things—Suppose now just for example you were to kidnap me and pack me off into the desert. What would happen to you?”

“If I didn’t get strung up to a cottonwood I’d shore be beat till I was near daid.... But, Miss Janey, you needn’t worry none about me. I’ve learned to fight my natural instincts.”

Janey laughed merrily. Some of these cowboys were full of wit and humor.

“Ray, I’ll compromise this ride with you,” said Janey. “I want to surprise Mr. Randolph at his work. So you take me out and show me where he is. But you must wait some little distance away—But won’t I be taking you from your own work?”

“Boss’s orders are that I look after you, Miss Janey,” said Ray, with emphasis on the personal pronouns. “I’ll throw a saddle an’ be heah pronto.”

They rode out along the fenced ground, where Bennet kept stock at times, and came upon Tay-Tay, Diego and Zoroaster digging postholes. If there was anything a cowboy hated more than that, Ray declared he did not know what it was. The trio doffed their sombreros to Janey, and grinned because they could not help it, but they were galled at the situation.

“Reckon that’s fair to middlin’,” declared Ray, eying the postholes. “But you ain’t diggin’ them deep enough.”

Zoroaster glared at Ray and threw down the long-handled shovel. Diego wiped the sweat from his face.

“Say, are you foreman on this ranch?” he asked, scornfully.

“G-g-g-go along w-w-w-with you or you’ll g-get h-h-h-hurt,” stuttered Tay-Tay.

“Wal, as I don’t care to have Miss Endicott see you boys any wuss than you are now reckon I’ll move along,” drawled Ray.

Janey gave each in turn a ravishing smile, intended to convey the impression that she wished he were her escort rather than Ray. Then she trotted Patter out on the desert after Ray.

They climbed a gradual ascent to the level of the vast valley and faced the great red wall of rock that loomed a few miles westward. She rode abreast of Ray for a couple of miles, talking the while, then, reaching uneven ground, she had to fall behind on the rough trail. Ray halted at a clump of cedars.

“Reckon this is as far as you’ll want me to go,” he announced. “Follow the trail right to where it goes into the canyon. You’ll see a big cave in the wall. That’s the old cliff dwellin’ where Mr. Randolph is diggin’ around.”

“Thank you, Ray. Will you wait for me?”

“Wal, not if you’re ridin’ back with him,” returned Ray, reluctantly. “But I want to be shore aboot it.”

“I think you’d better wait. I’ll not be long.”

Janey had not ridden a hundred paces farther before she forgot all about Ray. The trail led down into a red-walled wash where muddy water flowed over quicksand, which she had to cross. She had already crossed this stream at a different point, though not alone. Here she had to use her own judgment. She made Patter trot across; even then he floundered in the quicksand and splashed muddy water all over Janey. Once he went in to his knees and Janey’s heart leaped to her throat. But he plowed out safely. It was this sort of thing that so excited and pleased Janey. All so new! And being alone made it tenfold more thrilling. The dusty trail, the zigzag climb, the winding in and out among rocks and through the cedars, with the great red wall looming higher and closer, the dry fragrance of desert and sage, the loneliness and wildness, meant more to Janey this day than ever before. Not for anything would she let Phil Randolph and her father into the secret that she was actually learning to love Arizona. The beauty and color and solitude, the vastness of it had called to something deep in her. First she had complained of the dust, the wind, the emptiness, the absence of people. But she had forgotten these. She was now not so sure but that she might like the hardship and primitiveness of the desert.

Presently she rode out of the straggling cedars so that she could fully see the great wall. Janey threw back her head to gaze upward.

“Oh—wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I thought the New York buildings were high. But this!”

It was a sheer red wall, rising with breaks and ledges to a cedar-fringed rampart high against the blue sky. The base was a slope of talus, where rocks of every size appeared about to totter and roll down upon her. Then Janey discovered the cave. It was the most enormous hole she had ever seen, and she calculated that Trinity Church would be lost in it. The upper part disappeared in shadow; the lower showed a steep slope and ruined rock walls, which Janey guessed were the remains of the cliff dwellers’ homes. She was being impressed by the weirdness of the scene when she heard a shout and then spotted a man standing at the foot of the cave. It was Randolph. He waved to her and began to descend the slide of weathered rock. As he drew nearer to her level Janey saw that he had indeed been working. How virile he looked! She quite forgot the object of her visit; and almost persuaded herself that if he was particularly nice she would climb up to see him at his work.

“Howdy, Phil,” she called, imitating the trader, as nearly as possible. It struck Janey then that Phil did not appear overjoyed to see her.

“Is your father with you?” he asked.

“No. He went to town.”

“I hope to goodness you didn’t ride up here alone,” he said.

“Sure I did. And a dandy ride it was.”

“Janey!” he ejaculated.

“Yes, Janey!” she returned.

He did not grasp any flippancy on her part.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, almost angrily.

“Well, come to think of it I guess I wanted to see you and your work,” she returned, innocently.

“But you’ve been told not to ride out alone—away from the post.”

“I know I have, and it makes me sick. Why not? I’m not a child, you know. Besides, there aren’t any kidnapers about, are there?”

“Yes. Kidnapers and worse.... Frankly, Miss Endicott, I think you ought to have a good stiff lecture.”

“I’m in a very good humor. So fire away.”

“You’re a headstrong, willful girl,” he declared, bluntly.

“Phillip, you’re not very kind, considering that, well—I relented a little, and rode out here to see you,” she replied, reproachfully.

“I am thinking of you. Somebody has to stop you from taking these risks. The cowboys let you do anything, though they have been ordered to watch you, guard you. If your father can’t make you behave somebody else must.”

“And you’ve got a hunch you’re the somebody?” inquired Janey, laconically.

“It seems presumptuous, absurd,” he answered, stubbornly. “But I really fear I am.”

“We’re both going to have a wonderful time,” said Janey, with a gay laugh. “But before you break loose on this reforming task let me confess I came alone only part way. I left Ray back down the trail at that gully.”

“You did! ... But you told me—you lied—”

“I wanted to see how you would take it,” she said, as he hesitated.

Randolph sat down on a slab of rock and regarded her as one baffled.

“That’s the worst of you,” he asserted. “A man can’t quite give you up in despair or disgust. There always seems to be something wholesome under this damned frivolity of yours.”

“I’m glad you are so optimistic,” returned Janey.

“No need to ask you how you are feeling,” Randolph observed. “Yesterday you were pale—drooping. Your father was really worried. And I ... But today you look like a sago lily.”

“Sago? That’s the name of your canyon, isn’t it? And what kind of a flower? Is it pretty?”

“I think it the most exquisite in the world. Rare, rich, vivid. It blooms in the deep canyons in summer. I daresay you’ll not stay long enough to see one.”

“Phil, I never guessed you could be eloquent, or so good at blarney,” she said, studying him gravely. “I’m beginning to believe there are unknown possibilities in you for good—and maybe evil, too.”

“Sure. You can never tell what a man may do—or be driven to.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to get down and come in?” she asked, archly.

“You must pardon my manners,” he said, rising.

Janey slipped out of the saddle without accepting the hand he offered, and leading Patter to a near-by cedar she tied the bridle to a branch.

“I want to see your cave.”

“It’s pretty much of a climb.”

“I suppose yesterday will stump you for some time,” she replied. “Can’t I have an off day once in a while without being considered a weakling? Come on, let’s go.”

Janey soon found that it was indeed a climb. Distances deceived her so strangely here in Arizona. There was a trail up to the cave, but it wound steep and rough, with many high steps from rock to rock. She was glad to accept Randolph’s hand; and when they surmounted the slope she was breathless and hot. Randolph held her hand longer than necessary.

“Oh-h—Gee!” panted Janey, flopping down on a rock in the shade. “Some—climb.”

“You made it without a stop,” returned Randolph, admiringly. “Your heart and lungs are sure all right—if your mind is gone.”

“Mr.—Randolph!”

“That’s your father’s assumption,” said Randolph, dryly. “I don’t exactly share it.”

“Maybe I am—just a healthy—moron,” laughed Janey, removing her sombrero. “Wouldn’t it be fine—if the desert and you—developed me into a real woman?”

“Morons don’t develop,” he replied, ignoring her intimation.

Janey now took stock of the archaeologist’s cave. It was an amazing cavern. She sat at the lower edge of the slope of its back wall, yet the vaulted roof, far overhead, reached out into the canyon. A dry, dusty, musty odor, not unpleasant, permeated the place. The debris from the walls and slopes was red and yellow. Far up Janey discerned the remains of walls. In the largest section a small black window, like a vacant eye, stared down at her. It gave her a queer sensation. Human eyes had gazed out of that window ages ago. She saw a trench near her, with pick and shovel lying where Randolph had thrown them.

“Mr. Randolph, were you in the war?” asked Janey, suddenly.

“Yes, a little while. Long enough to learn to dig. That’s about the only real good the service did me,” he replied, somewhat bitterly.

“You should be grateful. My friends who went to France came back no good. You certainly seem free of any injury.”

“I am, I guess, except a twist in my mind. I only knew of it recently—last winter in fact.”

“Indeed. And how does it affect you?” asked Janey, doubtfully.

“I think it developed a latent weakness for beauty.”

“In nature?”

“Oh, no. I always had that. It must be in—woman.”

“Any woman. Well, that is no weakness. It’s a very commendable thing, and gives you a kinship with most men.”

“Miss Endicott, I didn’t say in any woman,” returned Randolph, sharply.

“Didn’t you? Very well, it doesn’t matter.... Now, show me around the place and tell me all about your work.”

Randolph had something on his mind. He did not seem natural. It was as if he had been compelled to be someone he was not. Janey half regretted that she had not encouraged him to tell more about the woman he had a weakness for. So far she was inwardly elated with the success of her machinations.

“You wouldn’t make much of a hit as a guide for lady tourists,” remarked Janey, after Randolph had shown her the several trenches he had dug, some bits of pottery, dry as powder, and the ruined walls.

“On the contrary, I was a decided success for the party of schoolteachers who visited me here last summer,” declared Randolph.

“Oh. Then I have some inhibitory effect upon you,” remarked Janey.

“Probably. I don’t seem to care a—er—anything about archaeology, geology, theology, or any other kind of ology,” returned Randolph, ruefully.

“I’m sorry. I must not tax your mental powers so severely,” said Janey.

“You think you’re being sarcastic. But as a matter of fact you have taxed all my powers to the limit. Powers of patience, resistance, faith—and I don’t know what all—”

“What a dreadful person I am!” interposed Janey, really in earnest. “Please, if you can’t forget it, at least you needn’t rub it in.... Where do you expect to uncover this buried pueblo? Dad said you had set your heart on discovering it.”

“You don’t care two whoops for any ruin—unless it is the ruin of a man.”

“Maybe I didn’t at first. But I do now. Can’t you credit me with change or growth or something worth while?”

“I don’t know what to think about you,” he returned, almost dejectedly.

“Assuredly you don’t. Well, I’m quite capable of coming out here and finding that ruin for you.”

“Please don’t. I’m perfectly miserable now,” he retorted, grimly. But there was a light in his eyes that belied his words. Janey knew he was saying to himself he must not have faith in dreams.

“It would mean so much to you—finding this pueblo?”

“Yes. There’s only one thing that could mean more.”

“I don’t suppose I’d look very well digging around in this dirt,” mused Janey. “But as you haven’t any use for me in up-to-date evening clothes perhaps you might like me all dusty and red and hot. So here goes.”

Janey began to clamber down into the deepest trench, and when she got up to her shoulders she grasped the pick.

“Miss Endicott, can’t you be serious?” burst out Randolph. “You’re not a bit funny. And that talk about me—”

“I’m serious about making you admire me, at least,” laughed Janey, brandishing the pick.

“Please come out of there. You’re just soiling your clothes.”

“Nope. I’m going to dig,” rejoined Janey, nonchalantly. “Quién sabe? I may have to marry an archaeologist someday.”

“Come out of there,” called Randolph, peremptorily.

Janey began to dig in the red earth. She dragged up stones, and presently what looked very much like a human bone.

“Ugh! I declare. What’s that thing?” ejaculated Janey.

“It’s a legbone, of course. You’re digging in a grave. I told you that.”

“You didn’t,” retorted Janey.

“Never mind about that. You come out of there.”

“Mr. Randolph, you might send me to my own grave, but you can’t make me get out of this one.”

As she brandished the pick again he reached down to grasp it. Janey held on. Randolph slipped his grip down the handle until he caught her gloved hands. Whereupon he forced the pick from her and dragged her, not at all gently, up out of the trench.

He let go of her rather abruptly, probably because of the look she gave him; and Janey’s impetus, being considerable, caused her to stumble. It was a little downhill on that side. She fell right upon Randolph who caught her in his arms. The awkwardness of her action made Janey more indignant than ever. Her sombrero fell off and her hair covered her eyes. She raised her face from his shoulder and sought to catch her balance. Suddenly, Randolph bent to kiss her full on the lips.