Marianne stepped back from the window with the blood
tingling in her face. She was terribly ashamed,
for some reason, because she knew the words of that
song.
“A cowpuncher—actually whistling
at me!” she muttered, “I’ve never
known a red-headed man who wasn’t insolent!”
The whistling died out, a clear-ringing baritone began
a new air:
“Oh, father, father William, I’ve
seen your daughter dear.
Will you trade her for the brindled cow
and the yellow steer?
And I’ll throw in my riding boots
and....”
Marianne slammed down the window. A moment later
she was horrified to find herself smiling.
CONCERNING FIGHTERS
The race-track had come into existence by grace of
accident for it happened that a lane ran a ragged
course about a big field taking the corners without
pretense of making true curves, with almost an elbow-turn
into the straightaway; but since the total distance
around was over a mile it was called the “track.”
The sprints were run on the straightaway which was
more than the necessary quarter of a mile but occasionally
there was a longer race and then the field had to take
that dangerous circuit, sloppy and slippery with dust.
The land enclosed was used for the bucking contest,
for the two crowning events of the Glosterville fiesta,
the race and the horse-breaking, had been saved for
this last day. Marianne Jordan gladly would have
missed the latter event. “Because it sickens
me to see a man fight with a horse,” she often
explained. But she forced herself to go.
She was in the Rocky Mountains, now, not on the Blue
Grass. Here riding bucking horses was the order
of the day. It might be rough, but this was a
rough country.
It was a day of undue humidity—and the
Eagle Mountains were pyramids of blue smoke.
Closer at hand the roofs of Glosterville shone in the
fierce sun and between the village and the mountains
the open fields shimmered with rising heat waves.
A hardy landscape meant only for a hardy people.
“One can’t adopt a country,” thought
Marianne, “it’s the country that does
the adopting. If I’m not pleased by what
pleases other people in the West, I’d better
leave the ranch to Lew Hervey and go back East.”
This was extraordinarily straight-from-the-shoulder
thinking but all the way out to the scene of the festivities
she pondered quietly. The episode of the mares
was growing in importance. So far she had been
able to do nothing of importance on the ranch; if
this scheme fell through also it would be the proverbial
last straw.
In spite of her intentions, she had delayed so long
that the riding was very nearly ended before she arrived.
Buckboards and automobiles lined the edges of the
field in ragged lines, but these did not supply enough
seats and many were standing. They weaved with
a continual life; now and again the rider of one of
the pitching horses bobbed above the crowd, and the
rattle of voices sharpened, with piercing single calls.
Always the dust of battle rose in shining wisps against
the sun and Marianne approached with a sinking heart,
for as she crossed the track and climbed through the
fence she heard the snort and squeal of an angry,
fear-tormented horse. The crying of a child could
not have affected her so deeply.
