Читать книгу The Untamed Ben Ide - Zane Grey - Страница 11

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For Ina Blaine the early summer weeks were full and sweet, despite the slow tangling of threads that bade fair to grow into an inextricable knot.

It became a certainty that she was helping her mother. Her merry presence, her patience and tact, her affection were making life easier for that perplexed woman. And Ina saw how greatly she was influencing Dall and Marvie in a situation their youthful minds could not have encompassed. Then she had become an intimate friend of Hettie Ide, to their mutual benefit. The more she saw of Hettie the more she found her to be good and lovable, the comfort and stay of a broken-hearted mother.

Over against these happy facts were arrayed others fraught with bitterness. Ina’s father, finding that he could not dominate her, had become harsh and hard, unyielding to the genuine love he bore her. The older brothers did not understand her. Kate from being covertly jealous had grown openly hostile which situation, however, had been relieved by her marriage and consequent absence from home. Sewell McAdam had in no wise been discouraged by her indifference. Every Sunday he went regularly to church with the family, and spent the rest of the day with them, complacently vain in the position gossip gave him as Ina’s suitor. On these occasions he was her shadow, until Ina could scarcely conceal her disgust and chagrin. Her resentment had grown to the proportions of a revolt. The last time her father had broached the subject of marriage with McAdam he had intimated an obligation to the McAdams that was beginning to be serious. Ina had refused, appealed, protested, argued, all to no avail. She began to be afraid he might marry her to McAdam against her will, though she did not see how that could be possible.

Lastly, and most disturbing, her father had become deeply involved with Less Setter in horse dealing on a large scale, in land and cattle deals, in the foreclosing of mortgages on small ranchers forced to the wall by the unprecedented drought. Ina’s keen ears had heard a good deal not intended for her. Less Setter was the big factor in these deals, but her father furnished the money. Several worthy ranchers had been ruined by Setter’s drastic measures. To be sure, the law was on Blaine’s side, but the consensus of opinion around Hammell appeared to be that Blaine had not gained any liking or respect through his partner’s high-handed methods. Added to all this there was a personal implication for Ina, inasmuch as Setter had been making preposterous and offensive advances to her. Ina had not told her father, because she had sensed veiled threat and power in this man’s talk. She exercised all her wits to keep out of his way, but sometimes it was impossible.

One day, early in June, Blaine announced to his family that he would close the house at Tule Lake Ranch for the summer.

“I’ve got hold of a place on Wild Goose Lake,” he said. “It’s all run down an’ cabins ain’t fit for women folks. But we’ll put up some tents for you an’ the kids.”

Marvie and Dall, who happened at the time to be in the good graces of their father, let out yelps of joy. Ina was taken aback, but she managed otherwise to hide her own amaze and delight. Mrs. Blaine did not evince any regrets at the idea of closing the big house for the summer.

“Sort of summer outin’, as they call it in town,” went on Blaine, blandly. “Lots of families with means do this nowadays. The McAdams go to Upper Klamath Lake. . . . Now as I expect to have large interests around Wild Goose Lake an’ up Forlorn River, we may just as well start developin’ a summer place up there. Reckon it’s about forty miles, considerable higher an’ cooler. There’s a fine grove of trees a little ways from the cabins, an’ I aim to put up the tents in it. The problem is water. But that’s a terrible problem everywhere this year. I’ve sent well-diggers. If they fail to reach water Setter has a plan he thinks will work. So I reckon you can all pack up an’ get ready to move.”

Whereupon there followed considerable excitement and bustle in the Blaine household. Marvie’s first statement to Ina, when they were alone, proved the predominance of his ruling passion.

“Sis, the fishin’ in Forlorn River is grand. Only ten miles across the lake,” he whispered, with wide bright eyes.

“But, Marvie, the lake and river are drying up, I hear,” replied Ina, who was conscious of disturbing and not unpleasant emotions on her own behalf.

“There’re spring holes in Forlorn River an’ the trout will collect there,” asserted the boy. “Ben Ide will show us.”

Ina found herself blushing, and consciousness of the fact brought an added wave of scarlet.

“Say, Sis, you’re as red as a beet,” declared Marvie, wonderingly.

“Am I? . . . Oh, it’s nothing,” replied Ina, feeling her hot cheeks. But she knew it was a great deal.

Marvie leaned close to her and his loyal eyes pierced her. “Ben lives across the lake, at the mouth of the river. We can see his home from where we’ll be campin’.”

“Well, what of that?” queried Ina, smiling at him.

“Why, nothin’ much, except you can bet I’ll slip over there to see Ben, an’ take you along if you want to go.”

“Marvie, you think I’ll want to?” went on Ina, composedly. Marvie was showing depths hitherto unsuspected.

“I’ve a hunch you will,” declared the boy, bluntly. “Outside of ridin’ an’ fishin’! . . . Now listen, Sis. I knew about this plan of dad’s before he sprung it on us. I heard him an’ Less Setter talkin’ out by the barn. They were talkin’ about gettin’ hold of Ben Ide’s water an’ land. Dad wanted to buy from Ben, but Setter swore he was goin’ to run Ben out of the country. An’, Ina, after that I heard one of our cowboys say Setter had dad buffaloed.”

“Well!” ejaculated Ina, with difficulty controlling the flash of resentment that swept over her. “Marvie, I don’t like that,” she added, deliberating.

“Neither do I,” rejoined the lad, stoutly. “An’ worse than that I hate the way Setter looks at you, Ina. Goodness knows I thought that McAdam fellar was hard enough to stand. But Setter’s different. . . . I wish I was older an’ bigger.”

“Marvie, you’re fine, just as you are,” said Ina, sweetly. “We’ve a secret between us. I—almost hate Mr. Setter myself. I’m afraid he is not what dad thinks. And between them they are going to injure Ben Ide. . . . Marvie, Ben was—is a dear old friend. I don’t believe what they say about him.”

“Ina, I’m for Ben any day, an’ you can bet on that,” replied Marvie.

“That’s fine, Marvie. I don’t believe you will be sorry. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open. It’s not dishonest, considering what we believe is injustice to Ben Ide. Let’s play a game, Marvie.”

Ina did not explain just what kind of a game she meant; nevertheless Marvie fell into it with an air of intense eagerness and importance.

“Don’t tell Dall nothin’,” he said, finally. “She’s only a girl an’ can’t be trusted. An’ she’s afraid of dad.”

At the end of this little conversation Ina found that, no matter what had heretofore been the state of her mind regarding Mr. Setter, she was now convinced of his crookedness. This related to his business relations with her father; she had long been satisfied that both she and Hettie Ide were objects of Less Setter’s dishonest intentions.

Ina spent the day packing, with frequent periods of abstraction, part of which were so dreamy and pleasant that she felt guilty of being very happy over this summer-camp plan.

Next morning before sunrise she and Marvie were off on horseback at the head of a string of pack horses and wagons. Marvie was not only good company, but also served somewhat to embarrass the several ambitious cowboys who approached Ina on every possible occasion. Ina liked them, and liked their company, except when they got what Marvie called “sweet on her.”

Riding in the early morning was delightful, and the long winding dusty road toward the sage hills was not formidable. But when the flat country lay behind and the ascent of the great basin slope began and the sun grew hot, then it was different. It became work, yet not without satisfying sense of achievement. At noon the cavalcade had crossed the divide between two of the huge sage hills and found easier travel downward. Presently Blaine ordered a halt at the last ranch on the north side of Wild Goose Lake. The owner’s name was Blake, and like all poor ranchers in that country he was, as a cowboy tersely put it, “holdin’ on heah by the skin of her teeth.” They rested and had lunch in the shade. Ina was pleased with Marvie’s keenness when the boy whispered to her: “Did you see we wasn’t very welcome? This fellar Blake is scared of dad.” For her own observation tallied exactly with Marvie’s.

For two hours following that noonday rest the ride was most uncomfortable, hot, dusty, slow, over a rough road, from which nothing but bleached and sear grass slopes could be seen. But at last, when they emerged on the outlook above Wild Goose Lake, Ina suddenly felt rejuvenated.

A breeze which was hot, but still a breeze, swept up from the vast gray-and-black basin. The slope was long, rolling, somehow beautiful despite the aridity. At a distance the sage appeared softly gray, merging into purple. Wild Goose Lake was an immense round body of muddy water, surrounded by mile-wide shore lines, denuded, stark in the sunlight. The sage hills now appeared to rise to the dignity of mountains, long-sloping, domelike. A cowboy called Marvie’s attention to black and white dots on the far high slope. Wild horses! How Ina thrilled to the words and the sight! Yet this feeling was slight to that which gripped her when Marvie pointed across the great open space of land and water to a winding pale ribbon—Forlorn River. Could a more felicitous name have been given it? Dim and almost indistinct was the mouth of the river. It looked as if it sank into the sands. And scarcely clearer was the point of land, with its dark blur of trees, that marked the wild and lonely homestead of Ben Ide.

Ina’s heart swelled into her throat. No wonder he loved that place. She loved it herself, at first sight; and a vague sweet emotion attended the assurance. Far across and above the gray monotony where Forlorn River wound its way climbed the black ranges into the sky. These, a cowboy said, were the mountains of Nevada.

The hours of riding that followed did not wear on Ina’s spirit, though at the last she suffered in flesh and bone. She had an ever-changing, ever-wonderful prospect to gaze upon, and always a feeling of some intimate connection with it. She did not trouble to explain this latter complex assumption. But she thought once—what extraordinary good luck for her that Hart Blaine and Less Setter should have chosen Wild Goose Lake and Forlorn River for their field of operations this summer! Almost she laughed aloud in a strange exultation, totally foreign to her. But deep in her there had been born a rankling strife. Here, approaching an environment she had cherished in her thoughts, she was conscious of roused and accepted conflict. And like a lightning flash came the query—why? Ina dared not answer it with her mind. Involuntarily her pulse, her blood, the leap of flesh answered it physically.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the Blaine party arrived at the deserted ranch. Ina had never seen such a squalid place. Dilapidated sheds, fences rotting on the ground, mummified remains of dead cattle, two old flat black log cabins, patched with yellow boards and sheets of tin, dust and dirt and rocks everywhere, with not a blade of grass or living shrub of green—these were the dominant characteristics of the latest acquisition of Hart Blaine.

To Ina’s great relief one of the wagons and some of the pack mules were driven on past the ranch to a grove of scattered junipers on a high bench facing a deep brushy canyon that opened out into the lake basin. This location afforded a wonderful view of the sage mountains that towered above, and the great round bowl below. The ground was carpeted with bleached grass and brown mats from the junipers. In the shade of these bushy trees there was retreat from the hot sun. What a dry, fragrant spot! It was somewhat removed from the bare open ranch, and far enough from the lake basin for distance to lend enchantment. Ina calculated that as a crow flies it was ten miles across to Ben Ide’s homestead. She could see the little gray cabin facing the west.

Half a dozen lusty cowboys made short work of unpacking the horses and wagon and pitching a few tents for temporary use. Marvie and Dall were in a seventh heaven of youthful experience. The forty-mile ride had only served to liberate their exuberance. Ina, however, had made the whole distance in the saddle, and she was tired. Her mother showed a surprising alacrity and pleasure. Ina reflected that her mother, as a young woman, had spent a good deal of her time on the open cattle ranges.

That night Ina went to bed with Dall under a juniper tree with no covering except blanket and tarpaulin. It was really her first experience of the kind and she shared Dall’s excitement. The night was dark, with only flickering lights from a camp fire. The wind swept over their bed, tugged at their hair, and rustled through the junipers. Coyotes barked from the black mountain slope. Where was the heat that had made the nights uncomfortable at Tule Lake? Ina saw white stars crowning the black dome of the looming mountain. Dall nestled close to her, whispering her wonder and delight and, as well, a fear of crawling things and prowling animals. Presently it seemed to Ina as if a ponderous sticky weight had closed her eyelids. How restful, languid, sweet the sensation! And that was her last conscious thought.

She awakened at sunrise, to become aware that Marvie was poking at her with a fishing pole.

“Sleepyhead!” he called, derisively. “What kinder ranchman’s wife are you goin’ to make, anyhow? . . . Somethin’ to tell you, Sis.” And he winked mysteriously at her.

Ina felt stiff and sore from the long ride, and found it hard to arise and begin the day. A little exercise, however, rendered her more fit for the multiplicity of tasks. Marvie vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp, and that added to Ina’s curiosity. She went with her mother and Dall to get breakfast at the chuck wagon, which had been stationed halfway between the two cabins on the ranch. Ina did not linger long at that meal, and she shared her mother’s express wish to have a cook tent of their own over at their camp. This her father promised would be put up that very day. Indeed, he was unusually jovial, energetic, and forceful. Ina felt a strengthening of her conviction that he had considerable on his mind regarding this Wild Goose Lake country. He had started his army of cowboys to work cleaning up the squalid ranch. The stench of burning carcasses, rotten wood, rubbish, and what not assailed Ina’s nostrils. She saw cowboys tearing out the insides of the cabins, demolishing the old sheds and fences, digging and raking and hauling. Manifestly her father meant to make this ranch livable. Water had been brought in barrels from Tule Lake. She heard her father complain because the well-diggers had not arrived.

Upon returning to the grove, Ina found several of the cowboys there with tents, lumber, tools, all eager to set to work, and incidentally to make sheep’s-eyes at her. Presently her father and mother arrived and the task of making a comfortable summer camp began.

“Daughter, show us where you want your tent,” he said, “an’ I’ll set these lazy boys to work.”

Ina chose a spot beside the large juniper under which she had slept. By the magic of swift cowboy hands a floor of boards was quickly erected high off the ground, with a skeleton framework over which the tent was stretched. And over this they put up a wide canvas fly that projected out in front, serving as a roof for a porch.

For the present Ina and Dall decided to sleep out in the open, under the spreading juniper, and use their tent for all other purposes. To which end they carried their numerous bags and boxes into the tent, where they proceeded to unpack them. While they were thus engaged two cowboys appeared at the tent door, one with hammer and nails, and the other with a huge pine box into which shelves had been built.

“Wal now, Miss Ina, I reckon you’ll need somethin’ to hang things on,” said one, proceeding to hammer nails into the wooden crossbeam of the framework.

“Heah’s a box I fixed for a washstand,” offered the other cowboy. “It ain’t very good, but I couldn’t find no better. An’ I spotted a big new water pail down by the chuck wagon. I’ll fetch it up full of water, if I don’t happen to run into your dad.”

“Why, what difference would that make?” laughed Ina, looking up.

The cowboy, a fine-faced, square-jawed young fellow, stood bareheaded and respectful, but he was all eyes.

“Wal, he says go slow on the water we fetched from Tule, an’ if we have to wash, to use the lake water heah.”

“But, my gracious! we have to wash—and that muddy water is impossible!” protested Ina.

“Shore. We told him so. But you know your dad. He didn’t say just us cowboys, so he might have meant everybody.”

Ina knew full well that her father was quite capable of including his women folk in an order forbidding the use of water.

“Why in the world did dad buy this place?” she queried, blankly.

“He got it for nothin’, Miss Ina. An’ he has his eye on Forlorn River. We shore tried to persuade him not to come heah, this awful dry time, anyhow. There ain’t any water. It’s all dried up. Diggin’ wells won’t do no good. An’ we’d have talked him into waitin’ till the rains come if it hadn’t been for Mr. Setter. He shore was set on comin’.”

“Well . . . thank you, boys,” replied Ina, thoughtfully. “Fetch a bucket of water, anyway. I’ll take the responsibility.”

Ina almost yielded to the temptation to ask a pertinent question about Mr. Setter. Upon reflection, however, she felt that the frank cowboy’s tone had intimated a dislike for her father’s partner. At former times she had received impressions as to the regard in which some of the cowboys held Less Setter. The sum of these impressions added weight to her own, and she had an inkling that the next few weeks would be prolific of most interesting developments.

The day passed so quickly that Ina could not realize what had become of the hours. There had been no noon meal to mark the flight of time. Her father had placed the summer camp under the same rule that prevailed among his cowboys’ outfits when on the open range—two meals a day.

Ina’s appetite this evening was not a thing to be denied, and she had the pleasure of helping her mother in the little cook tent of their own. Supper time brought Marvie, muddy and disheveled, wearing a long weary face.

“Aw, there ain’t any fish,” he burst out in reply to Ina’s solicitude. “I rode an’ walked about nine hundred miles. Nothin’ but mud. Nothin’ but tadpoles in that darned lake.”

“Did you get as—as far as Forlorn River?” asked Ina, experiencing a strange little thrill at the spoken words.

“Yep, but not very far up. I went to Ben Ide’s place. Doggone it, he wasn’t home! Looks like he’s been gone a long time. An’ I was just bankin’ on Ben.”

“Surely he will return soon,” said Ina, encouragingly, while she wondered on her own behalf. No doubt Ben was away on one of his wild-horse jaunts.

Marvie was not to be consoled, and his misfortunes of the day were brought to a climax when his father saw him.

“Where you been?” was the demand.

“Fishin’,” replied Marvie.

“Do you have to get dirty like that when you fish?”

“ ‘Course. I’m no city fisherman.”

“Marvin, I’ve a hunch you are a lazy good-for-nothin’ boy who hates work,” declared Mr. Blaine, severely.

“It ain’t so,” retorted Marvie, hotly. “You said I could fish all I wanted. This here is vacation time. I passed high in all my studies.”

“Yes, I know. An’ I’m not goin’ back on what I said. I was just thinkin’ how maybe this fishin’ an’ huntin’ might make you turn out like young Ben Ide.”

Marvie flushed red over all his dirty face, and manifestly there was an angry retort on his lips, but he caught Ina’s quick glance and held his tongue. He appeared at supper with clean blouse, shining face and hair, tactful improvement not lost upon the head of the family. Later Marvie came to Ina as she lay in her hammock watching the sunset, and he said with a thoughtfulness beyond his years:

“Sis, dad’s got Ben Ide on the brain. It’s funny, an’ I’d like to know why. Now what’s dad goin’ to say when it comes out that Ben isn’t what they make him?”

“Marvie, I wonder about that, too,” murmured Ina, with dimming eyes. She wanted to kiss Marvie for his boyish simplicity and faith.

Several days sped by, at once busy and restful for Ina, and altogether happy. The best development of this summer-camp plan was the improved mental condition of her mother. Mrs. Blaine had fallen upon old tasks, the habits of a lifetime that sudden wealth had denied her, and she became another woman. Ina noted with eager curiosity how her father was struck by the change, and thereby rendered thoughtful. At heart he was good and loving; and if an idea only pierced his dense brain it lodged there to become productive.

Saturday found the old worn-out ranch vastly renewed. All the débris had been burned; new fences, sheds, corrals, newly shingled roofs, shone in the sun; a large barn was under course of construction; and other improvements attested to Hart Blaine’s energy and management.

The end of this eventful week brought two other circumstances, both disturbing to Ina. The first was the arrival of Less Setter, subtly more forceful and bold than ever, showing in his sleek blond features and suave tones something of hidden power and confidence that heretofore had been veiled. He presented himself before Ina with all the assurance of Sewell McAdam, as an equal, as one who always got what he wanted. Ina saw that her father was as blind as a bat where this man was concerned. And for the few moments before she could escape, when she had to be courteous, she raged in impotent fury.

The other circumstance affected Ina quite as powerfully but in an immeasurably different way. Marvie was her informant and his jubilance permeated her like a breath of fresh air. “Gee, Ina—whatju think?” he panted, evidently having run to her with the news. “Ben Ide come home—to-day. Bill Sneed rode in—just now—an’ I heard him tell dad. Bill said Ben an’ his Modoc Indian—drove a bunch of wild horses—into Ben’s river pasture. An’ Bill was sure spoutin’. ‘Dingest purtiest lot of hosses I ever seen in my life. One was a black stallion an’ he shore hit me as hard as California Red.’ . . . There, Ina, that’s what Bill Sneed said.”

Ina was glad the dusk hid her face from this keen little brother. She felt concerned about it and the strange rioting thrill that coursed through her.

“An’, Ina,” went on the lad, “Less Setter heard Bill tell dad. I was keepin’ my eyes an’ ears peeled, you can bet. An’ I wish you could have seen Setter look at dad. But all he said was, ‘Blaine, I’ll take some boys an’ ride over there to-morrow.’ Dad pulled him in the cabin an’ shut the door. I listened by the window, but couldn’t hear nothin’. Now I’m goin’ back an’ hang around.”

“Marvie, be very careful,” whispered Ina, trembling for she knew not what.

“I’ll be like an Indian,” asserted Marvie, loftily. “Less Setter doesn’t dream I’m anythin’ but a stupid kid. Neither does dad.”

Then he darted off, leaving Ina a prey to conflicting thoughts. She went to sleep, however, before Marvie returned from the ranch; and next morning he was gone with the cowboys before she awoke.

Ina was destined to miss Marvie for quite another reason, which presented itself in the shape of Sewell McAdam on his regular Sunday visit. Now Marvie had always been her ally in extricating her from embarrassing situations, and he had deserted her to go fishing. Ina had depended upon being free from McAdam’s attentions during the summer months. It was too exasperating. She had reached the end of her patience. An instant decision to tell him flatly that she would not waste any more precious time listening to his inane conceited talk acquainted Ina with the development of her revolt.

McAdam arrived early, in a light buggy, drawn by a team of spirited horses. Their heaving dust-lathered flanks attested to the manner in which they had been driven. One of the cowboys unhitched the horses, while the stylishly groomed young man strolled, whip in hand, toward the cabin, where her father was breaking his Sunday rule by working. Ina saw distinctly from her hammock, and precisely what she expected happened. McAdam at once came out of the cabin and headed toward the grove. Ina watched him coming with mingled contempt and disgust. Even Less Setter struck her as being more of a man. At least she could feel fear of him.

When McAdam had approached within a few rods Ina pretended to be asleep, in the hope that he might show something of the instinct of a gentleman. But as he drew near he began to tiptoe, and he came so softly that Ina could scarcely hear him. She regretted her pretense, but she meant to stick it out as long as possible. Suddenly she felt him close—caught the odor of liquor. And she opened her eyes and violently swerved in the hammock just in time to avoid being kissed. Then she sat up. Anger would have consumed her, but for the flashing thought that at last he had given her real offense. She was almost glad to see him.

“Hod do, Ina! Thought you were asleep,” he greeted her, in no wise discomfited.

“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. McAdam,” replied Ina, pertly. “But I wasn’t asleep.”

“What’d you lay that way for?” he demanded, his eyes losing their smile. His face was slightly heated, but he did not appear under the influence of drink.

“I wanted to see what you’d do if I had been asleep. I found out.”

“Well, I was only going to kiss you. What of that?”

“You insulting cad!” retorted Ina, rising to her feet. Even on the moment she was struck by something in McAdam very similar to what she had noted in Setter. These men had returned to the Blaine environment with singular suppositions.

“It’s no insult for a fellow to try to kiss his girl, is it?” he asked, with the most amazing effrontery.

“I’m not your girl,” returned Ina, icily.

“Well, if you’re honest about it, and you’re not, then my dad and me are getting a rotten deal,” he said, bluntly. But he doubted her honesty. The half smile on his smug face attested to his half-won conquest.

“Mr. McAdam, you amaze me. If you and your father are getting a rotten deal, or any kind of a deal, it is absolutely without my knowledge. I’ve been perfectly honest with you. I never liked you. I despise you now. You never struck me as particularly bright. Besides, your enormous conceit makes you blind to the truth. But do you understand me now? If not—”

“Yes, that’s enough, Ina Blaine,” he returned, hoarsely, his face growing darkly red, and he shook a gloved fist in her face. “Your father let us think you were as good as engaged to me. On the strength of that my dad went thousands of dollars into cattle and ranch deals. And more—he got all balled up with that damned slick Less Setter. You——”

Ina silenced him with a raised hand. She felt her face growing white.

“I won’t hear any more,” she said, ringingly. “I know nothing of the deals you mention. If my father really did what you claim—it—it was doing me a terrible wrong. Now all that remains for me to say is this. I wouldn’t marry you to save my father from ruin—or even my own life.”

“You’ve changed some since I last saw you, Ina Blaine,” declared McAdam, with the studious bitter acumen of jealousy. “I haven’t forgotten the way you greeted Ben Ide that day in Hammell. If I have to lay this throw-down to that lousy wild-horse hunter it’ll be bad for him.”

Ina checked on the tips of her opening lips a flippant retort that he was precisely right in his suspicions.

“You wouldn’t dare say that to Ben Ide’s face,” she blazed, instead.

“Now I’ve got you straight,” he hissed. “I see it in your face. You pretty lying cat! Coming home with all your education and style to take up with that horse thief!”

There were, it seemed, limits to Ina’s endurance. She gave McAdam a stinging slap across his sneering mouth. The blow brought the blood.

“I’ll tell Ben Ide what you’ve said,” she cried, passionately. “And I hope I’m around when he meets you. That, Mr. McAdam, is the last word I’ll ever speak to you.”

Whereupon Ina went into her tent, shut and hooked the screen door, and pulled down the blind. She heard McAdam stride away, cursing, striking the junipers with his whip. Then she sank into a chair, suddenly limp and weak.

“Whew! All in a minute! Something’s got into me, surely. . . . But he was insufferably rude. I’m glad it happened just that way. . . . Now for dad! He’ll come like a mad bull. . . . Well, I’ll just settle him, too.”

Ina did not have long to wait, certainly not long enough to cool off or lose her nerve. She heard the stamp of his heavy boots.

“Ina!” he called, stridently.

She waited until he called again, louder this time. Then she answered:

“Dad, I’m in my tent.”

“Wal, come out.”

“But I’m not coming out just yet.”

“Wha-at?” he roared, stamping to the front of her tent.

“I’m expecting to feel very bad—pretty soon—so I don’t want to come out.” How cool and audacious she felt! Almost she could have laughed. But at the depths of her feeling there was a new and cold emotion, sterner than any she had ever felt.

“You come hyar an’ apologize to young McAdam,” shouted her father.

“I won’t do anything of the kind,” flashed Ina, in a voice her father had certainly never heard. Nor had she ever heard it! Still, she was frightened.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Mr. McAdam insulted me.”

“He did, now!—an’ how?”

“He tried to kiss me. Then after a few pretty plain words from me he insulted me again. So I slapped his face. And I ended by saying I’d never speak to him again.”

“But, Ina, you will? This is serious business for me,” implored her father, hoarsely.

“I’m sorry, Dad. You were wrong to encourage him,” replied Ina, softening for an instant. “For I absolutely will never look at him again.”

“Girl, who are you to cross me this way? I’ll have obedience,” he went on, in low-voiced fury. “Come out hyar, before I break down that door.”

He laid a heavy hand on the knob and shook it violently. Ina stood up to face him, and she paused before answering. This was the crucial moment. Alas! She felt sick at heart. But it was her life, her happiness at stake, and she knew he was hard, ignorant, intolerant, if not worse. Then she heard herself speaking coldly, clearly:

“Father, if you break in here and drag me out in front of that cur, I’ll go to Hammell if I have to walk—and I’ll get a job if I have to be waitress in the hotel.”

She heard his choking, husky ejaculation. Then silence ensued for a long moment. The handle of the door turned, but it was only with release. Her father’s step sounded heavily, backing away. Then her mother’s voice broke the silence: “Hart, I couldn’t help but hear. Don’t be mad at Ina.”

“Mad? Haw, haw, haw!” he rejoined, harshly. “Reckon I was mad, but she licked me—that college daughter of yours—by Gawd! she’s licked me.”