She sighed heavily, but her eyes were literally dancing.

"But it's kind of nice that boys act that way," she went on. "It does give a girl a chance to think him all sorts of a god for—a while. Say, if she knew things just as they are, where'd she find that scrap of romance which makes life all sunshine and storm clouds, instead of the monotonous gray it really is?"

She pointed at the snowy bed laden with the precious costumes she must use before the night was out.

"Say, wouldn't it be just awful if every girl knew that the man she'd—marked down for her own, worried around with things like that before every party he was to take her to, same as she does? I guess she'll learn it all later when she marries him, and has two folks to worry for instead of one. But, meanwhile, she just dreams that he's dreaming those 'big thinks' that's going, some time, to set a dreaming world wide awake to the mighty 'thinks' she dreams into her beau's head."

Then she began to laugh, and the infection of it caught her father, who gurgled heavily in chorus.

"Say, wouldn't it be a real circus if a big, strong man had to act the same as us poor women? I mean when we're scheming to stir up a sensation in the hearts of men, and in the envy depot of other girls, when we enter the portals of a swell social gathering. Now Jeff. Say, my Daddy, can you see him sort of mincing across the floor," she cried, springing from her seat and pantomiming across the room, "smiling, and smirking and bowing, this way and that, all done up in fancy bows, and sheeny satins, and—and with combs in his sleek hair to hold it in place, and with a jeweled tiara set on top of it? And then—yes, just a teeny tiny touch of powder on his nose? My word!"

A happy chorus of laughter rang through the room as she returned to her seat, Bud's coming in great unrestrained gusts. They were like two irresponsible children rather than father and daughter.

"Oh, dear. And you, too," laughed Nan. "We can't leave you out of the picture. Being of more mature years I guess you'd sweep in—that's the way—sweep in gowned—at your age you don't dance around in 'frocks'—in something swell, and rich, and of sober hue. Oh, dear, oh, dear. Guess we'd have to match your mahogany face. Wine color, eh? No 'cute little bows for you. Just beads and bugles, whatever they are. But we'd let you play around with some tinted mixing of powder for your nose, or—or we'd sure spoil the picture to death. My, I'd die laughing."

Bud's amusement threatened to burst the white bonds which held his vast neck.

"Oh, quit it, Nan," he cried, with his beaming face rapidly purpling. Then he struggled for seriousness. "I didn't get around to listen to your foolin', child." Then he bestirred himself to a great display of parental admonishment. "Now, see right here, Nan, I'll get back in an hour. Maybe Jeff's fixin' himself the way you said. I can't jest say. But anyways he's the big feller to-night, an' it's up to you to worry out so you can be a credit to him, an' me, an' the 'Obar.'" Then he came across to her and took her affectionately by the shoulders, and gazed down into her face with twinkling, kindly eyes. "Say, you got more to work on than most gals. You sure have, Nan. Yep. Your poor ma was a pictur', an' you're a pictur'. An' I ain't goin' to say which of you had claim for the best framing. Anyway, what you have in your pretty face you owe to the dear woman who never had a chance of the framing you can have. So jest remember it, Nan—and thank her."

Nan's eyes had completely sobered at the mention of her dead mother, whom she scarcely remembered, and earnestness and affection replaced all her mirth.

"Maybe I owe it her," she said, suddenly releasing herself from the heavy hands, and rising from her seat. Then she reached up and slipped her soft arms about the man's neck. "And what do I owe to you? Nothing? Ah, my Daddy, I guess you can shake your funny head till you muss up its contents to an addle. I'll not forget what I owe my momma, and just thank her all I know, but I'm thanking you too—just as hard."

She tiptoed until she was able to kiss him on the cheek. Then her ready smile broke out afresh, and she gently pushed him toward the door.

"Who is it wasting my time? There," she cried, as she opened the door, and her father vanished through it, "get right out, and don't you dare come back for an hour."

The ranchman's laugh echoed down the corridor as he moved away. Then Nan, practical and sober once more, closed the door and rang for the chambermaid.

* * * * * *

Whatever success could be claimed for the men who had founded and built up the "Obar" Ranch, and it was more than considerable, the triumph of that night was in no small measure to the credit of Nan Tristram.

But when it was all over, when the last of the three beautiful gowns had been tucked tenderly away in the drawers which were their temporary home, and Nan was left to the night solitude in which to go over once more in her secret thoughts each keenly vivid detail of the kaleidoscopic play of events as they had swept past her during the evening, they found her soberly wondering if, after all, the anticipated delight had been realized. Was it possible in all that unquestioned success there had been no delight, no real enjoyment at all? It seemed impossible. It was impossible, and she tried to put the thought out of her mind. But it refused to be banished. It returned again—and again, and, in desperation, not untouched with panic, she assured herself that she was tired—very tired, and this silly feeling was the result. Then, too, her humor was summoned, and it warned her of the quantity of ice cream she had devoured at the ball. It told her her digestion had suffered in consequence. And this she thought was a pity, because she loved ice cream.

But humor was swept aside by a far keener emotion. She scorned the idea of indigestion. She had no pain there. But there was pain, a silly ache about her heart which robbed her of all desire for sleep.

She tried to console herself by recalling her father's quaintly expressed admiration of her, when he first beheld her in her new and costly gown. What was it?

"Why, say, Nan, when I look at you I sort o' feel as if two fellers had bin at work fixin' you, a po't an' a painter, Seems as if they'd set their mushy heads together, an' each had doped out what the other couldn't, till ther' ain't a thing left fer the fancy of plain mule-headed sort o' bussocks like me."

Curious as his method of expression had been she had understood and thrilled with delight. But almost at once her thoughts flew on to much later when she was gliding through the dancing crowd at the ball. His eyes had followed her everywhere. But there was a change in their expression. To her it was a complete change. To her the simple approval had been replaced by a gleam of sympathetic concern. But this was after—after the first cloud had settled upon her hope of unalloyed enjoyment. Perhaps the look had not been there at all. Perhaps it was simply her own feelings finding reflection for her where none existed.

She became impatient with herself and grasped at the memory of Jeff's greeting when she had first appeared in the hotel parlor, equipped for the reception.

He had not said much. But that was always Jeff's way. But there had been his quick smile of unusual satisfaction. And the words of greeting had sprung quite spontaneously to his lips.

"Say, Nan, you're—you're just great."

The hesitation in the middle of it had told her even more than his smiling admiration. It was almost like—and she thrilled as she thought it—a gasp for breath.

She strove hard to support herself with these memories, out even as she considered them her mind passed on to the reception, and that stupid ache supervened once more. Instantly her focus narrowed down. There were only two figures in it. The rest merely provided a setting for these two. All the lights, the decorations, the beautiful costumes and smiling faces, these became an indistinct blurr, leaving the image of Mrs. Elvine van Blooren and a man standing vividly out.

What a wonderful, wonderful picture of radiant womanhood Mrs. Van Blooren had made! Even in her trouble Nan was generous. The woman was beautiful in a way that poor Nan had only dreamed of. The Madonna-like features, calm, perfect. The dark hair, superb in the simplicity of its dressing. She remembered that at the first glance it had suggested to her the sheen of a cloudless summer night. And her gown, and her figure. The gown must have cost—ah, Nan could not appraise its cost. She had had insufficient experience. Her own maximum had been reached only now, and the sum seemed to her as paltry as her father had made it appear. The one certainty that remained with her, however, was that the taste displayed in Mrs. Van Blooren's gown had placed it beyond such a thing as mere material value.

And then her heart had seemed to stand still. It appeared that Jeff, who was talking to some other people, and she had become aware of Mrs. Van Blooren's presence at the same moment. For when Nan glanced in his direction he was gazing fixedly at the newcomer with a look in his steady blue eyes which she had never beheld in them before. Oh, yes, there had been no mistaking that look. She knew she was not clever, but she was a woman, and no woman could ever mistake such a look in the eyes of a man.

But worse was to follow. There was a respite for her in the activities of the reception. For Jeff was as busily occupied as she was. Then, too, at the banquet she had ample time to recover from the shock. But the ball came, and they were both released from their duties, and everybody was left free to dance as only the western people love to dance.

It was then that her bitter cup was filled to overflowing. Jeff danced six times with Mrs. Van Blooren. Six times, and one supper extra, while she had to content herself with a miserable two dances with the one man who, to her stood out foremost among all men.

It was during the long hours of that dreary ball that she had encountered her father's curious regard, and now she wondered if he had seen what she had seen. If he had understood as she understood.

Nan wanted to cry. As she lay there on her snowy bed, restless, and wakeful, and troubled, there were certainly moments when her tired eyes filled with tears. But she did not, would not cry. She smiled to herself, and even laughed. She ridiculed herself and made jest of her absurd pretensions. She told herself a hundred times she had no claim upon Jeff. He was free to do as he chose, to dance all night with any Mrs. Van Blooren.

But when, at last, the first beam of daylight penetrated the light material of the window blinds, and slowly flooded the room, it found Nan in a troubled sleep with two great unshed tears slowly welling in the corners of her eyes, and ready to fall heavily and sadly down the perfect moulding of her softly rounded cheeks.



CHAPTER X

THE POLO CLUB RACES

The race-track at Calthorpe was a matter of no small pride to its citizens. Any western city could possess broad and beautiful avenues. Any city might well boast hotels of six, eight, or even ten floors, and express elevators, and things of that sort. A cathedral was not unknown even, and electric surface cars. But a race-track—a recognized race-track—which was included in the official western circuit of race meetings, was certainly a matter for more than ordinary pride.

Such regard was undoubtedly meted out to it, and as a corollary there were prophets in the city who foresaw the later development of a Country Club, with a golf course, and the provision for every other outdoor sport under its luxurious administration. Those who could afford such luxuries pretended to look upon these things as indispensable, and those who couldn't regarded them with simple pride, and lived in the glamour of their reflected glory, and told each other how such things should be administered.

Such developments, however, were for the future. The race-track existed, and, amongst its many other delights, it supplied the cranks with a text for frequent sermons.

It was set in a luxurious woodland dip, well beyond the town limits, and occupied a small flat of rich grass through which a mountain creek wound its ridiculously tortuous course. Thus it was provided with the natural resources demanded by a steeplechase course as well as the "flat."

It was a toy which the wealth of the neighborhood had been poured out upon with no niggard hand, till it found itself possessed of a miniature grand stand, a paddock and loose boxes, for the use of many a pony whose normal days were spent roaming wild upon the plains. Then there was the Polo Club House and ground, where many of the city's social functions were held. The whole thing was as pretentious as money could make it, and in due proportion it was attractive to the minds of those who believed themselves leaders in their social world.

Nan Tristram understood all this and smiled at it, just as she understood that to absent oneself from the Polo Club Races in Cattle Week would be to send in one's resignation from the exclusive social circles to which she belonged, a position quite unthinkable for one who sought only the mild excitements which pertain to early youth.

The noon following the ball, and all the disturbed moments which it inspired, found Nan on the way to the Polo Club Races. Her party was riding, and it was an extensive party. There were some twenty and more saddles. Luncheon had been sent on ahead, catered for by Aston's Hotel at Jeffrey Masters' expense, one of the many social duties which his election to the Presidency of the Western Union Cattle Breeders' Association entitled him to undertake during the Cattle Week.

It was a gay party, mostly made up of young and prosperous ranchmen, and the girls belonging to their little world. Nor among them could have been found any one more brightly debonair and attractive than Nan Tristram.

There was never a sign about her of the disquieting thoughts of overnight. Such things might never have been. Her eyes, so soft and brown, were sparkling with that joy of life which never fails in its attraction even for the most serious mind. She sat her brown mare astride with the easy grace of a born horsewoman. Her equipment lacked no detail in its comparison with that of the other women. Bud's warning on this point had fallen upon willing and attentive ears when he had handed the girl a signed blank check. And the old man had found ample reward for his generosity in the rivalry amongst the men for his "gal's" escort.

The only shadow which fell across his enjoyment had occurred when he beheld Jeff leading the cavalcade at the side of Mrs. Van Blooren. But in Nan's case it seemed to give not the smallest qualm. Her one single purpose seemed to be to obtain a maximum of enjoyment at the side of young Bill Dugdale, a college-bred youth of more than ordinary repute as a prosperous cattleman.

The day was fresh for midsummer. The sky was ruffled with great billowing white summer clouds, and a cool northwest breeze was coming off the mountain tops. The whole world about them was assuming that tawny green of the ripening season, and the trail was sufficiently dusty for its abandonment in favor of the bordering grass. But if midsummer reigned over Nature, Spring, fresh, radiant Spring was in the hearts of those seeking the mild excitement of Calthorpe's race-track.

Nan and young Dugdale laughed and chattered their way in the wake of the several couples ahead. Dugdale's desire to please was more than evident. And Nan was at no time difficult. Just now she seemed to enter into the spirit of everything with a zest which sent the man's hopes soaring skyward.

Once only during the brief ride did the girl give the least sign that her interest lay on anything but her good-looking escort. It was at a moment when Dugdale was pointing out to her the humorous inspiration of his own registered cattle brand.

"You see, 'B.B.' don't sound much of a scream, Miss Tristram," he said, in great seriousness. "I don't guess it's likely to set you falling out of your saddle in one wild hysterical whoop of unrestrained mirth. Course I'm known by it, same as you're known by the 'Obar,' but some of the language the boys fix to my brand 'ud set a Baptist minister hollerin' help. Say, I can't hand you it all. I just can't, that's all. 'Bill's Bughouse' is sort of skimmed milk to pea soup. Then there's 'Bill's Boneyard.' That wouldn't offend any one but my foreman. 'Busy Bee' kind of hands me a credit I don't guess I'm entitled to. But there's others smack of the intelligence of badly raised hogs." Then he laughed. "The truth is, when I first pitched camp on Lime Creek I wasn't as wise to things ranching as a Sunday-school committee. I lived mostly on beans an' bacon, and when the boys fell in at night, why, I don't guess there was much beside beans and bacon to keep 'em from falling into a state of coma on my blankets. It generally fixed them right, and I'm bound to say they never seemed to find they couldn't sit a saddle after it. Yes, and hit the trail for fifty miles, if there was fresh meat at the end of it. I sort of got known around as 'Beans and Bacon.' Then it was abbreviated to B.B. And so when I registered my brand it just seemed natural to set down B.B."

Nan's laugh was very genuine. Dugdale's ingenuous manner always pleased her.

"You hadn't learned prairie hospitality," she said. "You surely were committing a grave offense."

The man was full of pretended penitence.

"I don't guess that needed learning!" he said, with a wry smile. "The boys just handed it to me same as a parson hands a heart-to-heart talk on things you're hatin' to hear about. Oh, I was put wise quick. But when you've got just about ten thousand dollars that's telling you you're all sorts of a fool, and you're yearning for 'em to believe you're a twin brother to Pierpont Morgan, why, you don't feel your hide's made of gossamer, and don't care a cuss if folks start right in to hammer tacks into it for shoe leather."

"And the dollars? You convinced them?" Nan's eyes were full of humor.

"Convinced 'em?" The man's eyes opened wide. "Say, Miss Tristram, it was a mighty big argument. Oh, yes, and I guess there were times when we come near bein' such bad friends that I wanted to hand 'em right on to the nearest saloon-keeper I could find. But in the end I won. Oh, I won. I just told 'em right out what I thought of 'em, and their parents, and their ancestors, and their forthcoming progeny, and—that, seemed to fix things. They got civil then. Sort of raised their hats, and—got busy. You'd be astonished if you saw the way they hatched out—after that. You see," he added whimsically, "there's just about only one way of makin' life act the way you need it. Set your back teeth into the seat of things, and—hang on."

But Nan's reply was slow in coming, and her usually ready laugh was not in evidence. His final remark had brought very near the surface all those feelings and thoughts she had striven so hard to bury where they could no longer offend. It seemed to the man that her eyes had grown unnecessarily serious. But then he did not know that there was any unusual interest for her in the fact that Jeff Masters was escorting Mrs. Van Blooren.

When she did speak it was with her gaze fixed upon the couple ahead.

"Yes, that's it," she said. "Hang on. Hang on with every ounce of courage and strength you've got. And if you've got to go under, why, I guess it's best done with a smile, eh?" Quite abruptly she indicated the woman in front. "I do think she's real beautiful, don't you?"

"Who?" The man had no concern for anybody at that moment but the girl at his side.

"Who? Say, aren't you just foolish. I was thinking of Mrs. Van Blooren."

The man laughed.

"I surely am," he declared. "And I've won prizes for thought-reading at parlor games, too."

They both laughed. Then Nan went on with a persistence which was quite lost upon the thought-reader.

"Who is she? Mrs. Van Blooren?" she demanded.

"Why, you met her, sure?" Then the man added with some significance: "She's riding with Jeff Masters."

"Oh, yes. I've met her. I met her last night, and I've seen her many times before." Then she added with a shadow of coldness in her manner: "But she doesn't belong to the cattle folk."

The man's eyes were following the direction of Nan's.

"No-o," he said seriously. "Guess I'm not wise. They say her husband was a rancher—before he acted foolish an' died."

Nan's laugh came readily.

"That's bright. I don't guess he started running cattle—after."

Dugdale chuckled explosively.

"Who's to say?" he cried. Then he went on with enthusiasm: "Say, wouldn't it be bully to think of? Just get a thought of it. Flapping around with elegant store wings, rounding up golden steers trimmed with fancy halos, and with jeweled eyes. Branding calves of silver with flaming irons and turning 'em out to feed on a pasture of purple grass with emeralds and sapphires for blossoms all growing around. And then——"

"Think again. Say, your taste's just—cheap. But we're talking of Mrs. Van Blooren."

"I'm sorry. Why, I guess she's daughter to the Carruthers's. John D. Carruthers. He was principal at St. Bude's College. Pensioned. Guess it's five years since she handed us boys the G. B. and hooked up with a white-gilled hoodlum from down East. He got around here with a wad he'd raised from his father. Can't say who his father was. Folks guessed he was some millionaire. I don't just know the rights of it. Anyway, he left her well enough fixed. Gee! Fancy a feller acting that way—dying, with a wife like that. Wonder what sort of mush he kept in his thinking depot? I'd say folks with sense have to live on the chances fools can't just kick to death. Anyway, seeing she's started right in to set her wings rustling again I guess some feller with hoss sense'll be getting busy. They'd make a swell couple," he added with a grin. "Jeff's a good-looker."

Nan nodded.

But she made no answer. Had the man been less concerned with his match-making suggestions he must have observed the effect of his careless words. Nan had paled under the pretty tanning of her rounded cheeks. She was hurt, hurt beyond words, and though she could willingly have cried out she was forced to smother her feelings. The panic of the moment passed, however, and, with a great effort, she was able to give her suggestion its proper value. But somehow, for the rest of the ride, it seemed to her that the sun was less bright, the wind even had become chilly, and altogether there was a curious, enervating world-weariness hanging over everything.

By the time they reached the race-track she felt in her simple heart she ought to apologize for having spoiled her escort's ride. But the inclination was only the result of her depression. She even told herself, with a gleam of humor, that if she attempted it she would have to burst into tears.

However, the later excitement of the racing helped to revive Nan's drooping spirits. The scene was irresistible. The atmosphere. The happy buoyant enjoyment on every side could not long be denied whatever the troubles awaiting more sober moments. There were the sleek and glossy horses. There were the brilliant colors of the jockey's silks. There was the babel of excited voices, the shouting as the horses rushed down the picturesque "straight." Then the betting. The lunching. The sun. The blessed sun and gracious woodland slopes shutting in this happy playground of men and women become children again at the touch of pleasure's magic wand. No, for all her anxiety, Nan had no power to withstand the charm and delirium of it all. And, for a while, she flung herself into it with an abandon which matched the most reckless.

Twice she found herself in financial difficulties through reckless betting, and twice the open-handed Bud had to come to her assistance. Each time his comment was characteristic, and Nan laughed at him with the irresponsibility of a child who tastes the delight of gambling for the first time.

"Say, little gal," Bud admonished her, the second time he unrolled his "wad" of bills. "Makin' dollars on a race-track's jest about as easy as makin' ice-cream. Ther's jest one way of doing it. Ast yourself which hoss you're craziest to dope out your money on, an' when you're plumb sure then get right along an' bet on the other feller. Meanwhiles think in dollars an' play in cents."

And Nan's answer reflected her feelings of the moment.

"You can't play in cents, my Daddy, when it's time to play in dollars. You never know when the time's coming along when even cents are denied you."

Then before the worshipping parent could add to his advice the girl darted off with her hands full of outspread bills seeking the pool rooms.

She had seen the horses cantering over to the post for the half-mile dash. It was a race for legitimate cow-ponies and she knew Jeff's "Sassafras" was running in it. She meant to bet on Jeff's horse. It mattered nothing to her what other horses were running. She knew little enough of their claims. She had one thought in life. Anything to do with Jeff Masters, anything of his was good enough for her to gamble on—even with her life. This was the real, all unconscious Nan. It was not in her to give half measure. She had no idea of what she was doing. She had no subtlety or calculation of anything where her love was concerned. She would back Jeff to the limit, and stand or fall by it. It was the simple loyalty and devotion which only a woman can yield.

On her way to the pool room she encountered Jeff himself, and, in the excitement of the moment, clasping her money in both hands, she thrust them out toward him.

"Say, Jeff," she cried, "I'm just crazy. The horses have gone right out to the start now, and—and I'm gasping to put my dollars on Sassafras."

The man's quiet smile was good to see. And Nan warmed under its influence. This was the Jeff she had known so long and loved so well. There was no other woman near to have provoked that smile. It was hers. She felt it was all hers, and her eyes shone up into the depths of blue she so loved.

"Why, Nan, I just hate to disappoint you," he said, in a gentle fashion. "But you'll surely be crazy to back my plug with Tommy Cleveden's 'Jack Rabbit' in the race. It's a cinch for him. It is so."

Nan laughed a glad buoyant laugh.

"Jack Rabbit?" she echoed scornfully. "Why, he points the toe. Guess he'd outrun Sassafras if he kept his feet, but he'll never do it. He'll peck. Then he'll change his stride. No, Jeff. Sassafras goes with me."

The smile in the man's eyes faded out. He hated the thought of Nan losing her money on what he considered a foolish bet. His practical mind could not see under her purpose.

"Say, Nan, just don't you do it," he said persuasively. "We aren't. We're backing Jack Rabbit for a big roll."

"We?"

"Mrs. Van Blooren and me."

Jeff's manner was quite unconcerned. At that instant he had no thought of anything but to dissuade Nan from throwing her money away uselessly. And Nan. Her eyes never wavered for an instant in their regard. Their warmth of expression remained. Yet it was a cruel blow. Perhaps the cruelest that could have been inflicted at such a moment. Jeff had inflicted it—Jeff of all men.

She smiled up at him. Oh, how she smiled. Her eyes shone like two superb brown diamonds as she forced her money upon him with even greater determination.

"Take it, Jeff. Take it," she cried urgently. "Say, if you never, never do another thing for me—ever. Take it, and, why, I guess every cent of it says Sassafras wins. Sassafras is your pony, Jeff, and I'd back him if he'd only three legs and a fence post." Then just the smallest gleam of the woman peeped through. "Maybe Mrs. Van Blooren's a pretty bright woman. But I guess I'm wise to horses."

Jeff hurried away. There was no time to waste. The horses had already assembled at the start. Nan watched him go with eyes that had lost their last gleam of sunshine. The mask she had set up before the man had completely fallen. Jeff was—was betting for Mrs. Van Blooren! He was betting with her! Maybe even they were pooling their bets! Oh!

For some moments she stood alone where Jeff had left her. Everybody had rushed to the fence of the enclosure, crowding to witness the race. Nan seemed to have forgotten it. It was Bud's voice that finally claimed her, and she tried to pull her scattered faculties together.

She reached Bud's side amongst the crowd, and the old man's shrewd eyes searched her troubled face.

"What's amiss, Nan?" he demanded, in a tone almost brusque.

And the girl responded with a wistful smile.

"Why, Daddy, I've bet all your money on Jeff's Sassafras, and—and I want him to win more than anything—anything in the world."

Bud's reply was lost in the sudden shout that went up. It was the start. Some one made way for Nan, and gently pushed her to a place against the railings. The winning-post was directly in front of her. The full breadth of the track was in her view. She gazed out with eyes that were very near tears. She saw a vista of green and many figures moving beyond the track. She heard the hoarse cries of men, whose desires exceeded their veracity as they shouted the progress of the race. But nothing of what she heard or beheld conveyed anything to her. Her heart was aching once more, and her thoughts were heavily oppressed, and all the joy of the day had suddenly been banished.

Then of a sudden came that greatest of all tonics. That irresistible sensation so powerfully stimulating that no trouble can resist it. The racing horses leaped into her view, and the disjointed shouts welded into one steady roar. Nan was caught in the tide of it all. The blood seemed to rush to her head like full rich wine. She added her light cries to the general tumult.

"Sassafras! Sassafras!" she cried, with eyes blind to all but the indistinct cluster of the straining horses.

Then in her ears rang a cry:

"A hundred dollars Jack Rabbit! A thousand! Jack Rabbit! Jack Rabbit!"

It was like a douche of cold water. The girl's heart sank. She felt, she knew that Jack Rabbit had won. Then into her ears poured a babel of voices. The roar had died out, and the crowd were waiting for the numbers to go up.

Nan had no further interest. She turned to seek her father. He was there, not far behind her, and she pushed her way toward him. She smiled bravely as she came up, but the pathos of it was lost on Bud. He was craning, and his eyes were on the number board. He did not even see her.

"I'm—I'm sort of tired, Daddy," she began.

But Bud held up his hand. There was a rattle at the number board. Nan understood. She waited. Then it seemed as if the crowd had timed itself for one unanimous shout.

"Sassafras!"

It came with a sort of electric thrill for the girl. In one wild moment all her shadows seemed to clear.

"Sassafras!" she cried.

And her father's deep gray eyes beamed down upon her

"You've sure guessed right, little gal," he said. "An' I—hope it was dollar time."

At that instant Jeff thrust his way through the crowd, and the warmth of his smile flooded the girl's heart with happiness.

"Say, Nan," he cried, holding out his hand with an enthusiasm that was hardly to be expected in one who has lost, "you got us all beat a mile. You surely have. Sassafras. My old Sassafras. Say, who'd 'a' thought it?" Nan's hand remained clasped in his, and she seemed to have no desire to withdraw it. Jeff looked round into Bud's face. "Do you know what she's won? Do you, Nan?" he went on to the girl again.

Nan laughed. It was all she wanted to do.

"Not a notion, Jeff. I handed you all Daddy gave me. How much was it, Daddy?"

"Five hundred."

Nan's eyes widened in alarm.

"Five hundred? And I bet it all on—Sassafras!"

"And you've won nearly five thousand," cried Jeff, stirred completely out of himself at the girl's success.

"I—I must have been—crazy," she declared, in an awed voice.

Bud laughed, but his eyes were full of a sympathy that had no meaning for the others.

"Not crazy, little Nan. Jest good grit. Guess Jeff didn't see the pool waitin' around for him to pick up. Wal, guess ther's a heap o' folk like him. You played right out for a win, an' you won—by a head."



CHAPTER XI

ELVINE VAN BLOOREN

It was the last day of the Cattle Week. A week which, for at least three people, was fraught with something in the nature of epoch-making events. All that the simple heart of Nan Tristram had looked forward to, yearned for, had been denied her from the first moment she had beheld that unmistakable lightening up of Jeff's eyes on his meeting with Elvine van Blooren. It had been a revelation of dread. Her own secret hopes had been set shaking to their very foundations. And from that moment on, during the rest of the week, brick by brick the whole edifice of them had been set tumbling. By the last day nothing but a pile of debris remained.

Holiday! It had been a good deal less than holiday. She had looked forward to one all too brief succession of days of delight. Jeff, who had been honored by his fellows in the world which was theirs. Jeff, the leader in the great industry which absorbed them all. Jeff, the man by his very temperament marked out for a worldly success only bounded by the limitations of his personal ambitions. She had been so proud of him. She had been so thankful to be allowed to share in his triumphs. She had shared in them, too—up till that meeting with Elvine van Blooren at the reception. After that—ah, well, there had been very little after for Nan.

And the man himself. Four days had sufficed to reduce Jeff's feelings to a condition of love-sickness such as is best associated with extreme youth. Furthermore its hold upon him was deeper, more lasting by reason of the innate strength of his character.

As for Elvine van Blooren it would be less easy to say. Her beauty was of a darkly reticent order. Hers was the face, the eyes, the manner yielding up few secrets. She rarely imparted confidence even to her mother. And a woman who denies her mother rarely yields confidence to any other human creature.

Perhaps in her case, however, she had good reason. Mrs. John D. Carruthers, who possessed a simple erudite professor for a husband, a man who possessed no worldly ambitions of any sort, and who readily accepted his pension from the trustees of St. Bude's College at the earliest date, so that he might devote all his riper years to the prosecution of his passion for classical research, was a painful example of worldliness, and a woman who regarded position and wealth before all things. There was little enough sympathy between mother and daughter. Mrs. John D. Carruthers only saw in Elvine's unusual beauty an asset in her schemes of advancement. While Elvine displayed a cold disregard for the older woman's efforts, and went her own way.

Elvine was strong, even as Jeffrey Masters was strong. But while the man's strength lay in the single purpose of achievement, Elvine looked for the ease and luxury which life could legitimately afford her. Elvine and her mother possessed far too much in common ever to have sympathy for one another.

It was this very attitude which inspired an acrimonious half hour in the somewhat pretentious parlor on Maple Avenue just before Jeff was to pay his farewell call at the close of the Cattle Week.

Elvine was occupied with a small note-book on the pages of which there were many figures. With a small gold pencil she was working out sums, which, apparently, were solely for her own edification. She communicated nothing to her mother, who covertly glanced over at her from the fancy work she was engaged upon at the far side of the room.

The room was such as might be found in any of the better middle-class houses in a western city. Its furnishing was a trifle ornate. Comfortable chairs predominated, and their woodwork shone with an extreme lustre, or were equally aggressive in their modern fictitious Mission House style. The carpet and rugs were broadly floral and bright. There was altogether a modernity about the character of it which decidedly belonged to the gray-haired showiness of the wife of John Carruthers. For all that, there was nothing absolutely untasteful about Elvine's surroundings. The daughter would never have permitted such a thing. It was only modern, extremely modern. That type of modern which belongs to those homes where money is a careful consideration.

At last Elvine closed her note-book and returned it to the rather large pocketbook which was lying in her lap. Her fine eyes were half smiling, and a faint tinge of color deepened her perfect cheeks. She sighed.

"We didn't do so badly at the races, Momma," she said, more for her own satisfaction than her mother's information. "Guess I've got most all of it in and—I'm satisfied."

"Maybe you are, my dear," came the ungracious response.

Her mother was bending over her work, nor did she trouble to raise her eyes in her daughter's direction.

"That sounds as if somebody else wasn't."

Elvine raised a pair of beautifully rounded arms above her head and rested the back of her neck upon her clasped hands.

The gray head was lifted sharply. A pair of brilliant black eyes shot a disapproving glance across the room. Then the mother continued her work, shaking her head emphatically.

"What's the use of a few dollars? He's going back to his ranch to-morrow, and—nothing's happened."

There was something crude, almost brutal in the manner of it. There was something which on a woman's lips might well have revolted any man. But it was an attitude to which the daughter was used. Besides, it saved her any qualms she might otherwise have had in pursuing her own way under the shelter of her mother's roof.

"I really can't see what you've to complain of, Momma," Elvine laughed, without any display of mirth. "I guess if you wanted to marry a man you'd leave him about as much chance as he'd have with a wildcat." Then her smile died out. "Anyway it doesn't seem to be a matter for other folk to concern themselves with. I'm not a child."

"No. But you're going to throw away the chance of a lifetime if you don't act right now. Why, girl, Jeff Masters is the pick of the whole bunch of cattlemen around this district. He's going to be one of the cattle kings of the country, or I don't guess I know a thing. He's right here to your hand, and as tame as a lap-dog. To-morrow he's off again to the ranch, and that girl of his partner's will have him to herself for a year. Why, you're crazy to let him go. Four years you've lived here since—since——"

"I wish you'd stop worrying, Momma—and," the girl added with unconcealed resentment, "get on with your knitting."

Elvine had risen to her feet. She moved swiftly over to the window which gave on to a wide stoop, the roof of which was supported on well-built rag stone columns. She was more angry than her words admitted. Her fine eyes were sparkling, her delicately penciled brows were slightly knitted.

She made a handsome picture. Her wealth of dark hair was carefully dressed, but with the usual consummate simplicity. Her figure was superb, with all the ripeness of maturity, but without the smallest inclination toward any gross development. She was statuesque, with all the perfect cunning of Nature's art. She was a woman to find favor in any eyes, man's or woman's, and to perform that dual feat was a test which few women could hope to survive.

The mother's reply came sharply and without yielding.

"It's just four years since you came back to home. Five or more since you first married. Anyway, you've sat around here for four years having a good time without a thought of the future. You're spending your money, which didn't amount to——"

The girl flashed round.

"I won't tolerate it. I just won't, Momma," she cried, with an energy which brought the other's eyes swiftly to her face. "You've talked of four years wasted, but you don't say a word of the other year, the fifth. It's taken me all that time to—forget what your judgment might have saved me from. Oh, yes. You know it just as well as I do. Don't blind yourself. I was foolish then, I thought I was in love, and it was the moment when the advice of a woman worth having might have helped me. You urged me in my folly to marry then, the same as you're urging me now. You saw everything you hoped for in that marriage, and you let me plunge myself into a living hell without a single qualm. The result. Oh, I've tried to forget. But I can't I haven't forgotten. I never shall forget. But I've learned. I certainly have. I've learned to think wholly for myself—of myself. I don't need advice now. I don't need a thing. You'll never see things my way, and I don't fancy to see them yours. I shall marry. And when I marry again I promise you I'll marry right, and," she laughed bitterly, "I guess I'll hand you the rake off which you're looking for. But," she went on, with a swift, ruthless candor which stung even the worldly heart of the older woman, "I'll make no experimental practice. I'll marry the man I want to, first because I like him, and second, because he's a right man, and can hand me the life I need. Maybe that's pretty hard sounding, but I tell you, Momma, it's nothing to the hardness that makes you talk the way you do. Anyway, I want you to get it fixed in your mind right now I'm no priceless gem in a jewelry store that you're going to sell at the price you figure. I'll dispose of myself when, and to whom, I choose, and my motives will be my own. Now we'll quit it, once for all. Jeffrey Masters is coming right along down the sidewalk."

The mother's black eyes snapped angrily.

"Very well," she exclaimed sharply. "See to it you make good. Your father's pension isn't even sufficient for two, and your own money is limited. Meanwhile, don't forget the Tristram girl's just as pretty as a picture."

But Elvine's exasperation had passed. There was a slight softening in her eyes as they surveyed the handsome, elaborately dressed gray head and the careful toilet of her unlovely mother. She understood the bitter carping of this disappointed woman. Her spirit soared far beyond the lot of the wife of a pensioned school-teacher. She knew, too, that somewhere, lost in some dim recess of a coldly calculating nature, there was a tiny, glowing spot which burned wholly for her.

There was an unusual softness in her tone when she replied.

"But she needs framing, Momma," she said lightly. "And anyway, a girl who lives more or less on the premises with a man for five years or so, and hasn't married him—well, I guess she never will."

* * * * * *

The whole method of Jeff's life was rapidity of thought and swift execution supported by a perfect genius for clear thinking. It was these characteristics which had lifted him so rapidly in the world of cattle he had made his own. It was these which had shown him the possibilities of the now great Obar Ranch.

It might have been claimed for him that he lacked many of the lovable weaknesses of human nature. It might have been said that he was hard, cold. Yet such was his passionate ambition beneath a cool, deliberate exterior that it would have been foolish to believe that his outward display was the real man. He was perhaps a powerfully controlled fire, but the hot tide ran strong within him, and the right torch at the right moment might easily stir the depths of him and bring their fiery display to the surface.

Bud knew him. Bud understood something of the deep human tide flowing through his strong veins. Once he had seen that tide at the surface, and it had left an impression not easily forgettable. Nan, too, was not without understanding of him. But hers was the understanding of her sex for an idol she had set up in her heart. Her knowledge of his shortcomings and his best characteristics was perhaps the reflection of her feelings for him, feelings which make it possible for a woman to endow any object of her profound regard with the virtues she would have it possess. To her there was nothing of the iron, relentless, purposeful soul about him. He was just "Honest Jeff," as she loved to call him. A creature full of kindly thought for others as well as strong in his own personal attitude toward life.

For himself Jeff knew nothing of the emotions lying dormant within him until some chance happening stirred them from their slumbers and sent them pulsating through his senses. He accepted the tide of life as he found it, and only on his journey, swimming down its many currents, he endeavored by skilful pilotship to avoid the shoals, and seek the beneficent backwaters so that his muscles and courage might be strengthened for the completion of the task he had still before him.

Elvine van Blooren had held the right torch at their first meeting during the Cattle Week. One look into her beautiful eyes had set his soul aflame, as all the years of his life spent in association with Nan Tristram had failed to do. Did she only know it, the first waltz with him at the subsequent ball had completely made her mistress of his destiny.

Again with his rapid, clear-thinking mind he had not only promptly admitted this truth to himself, but he reveled in the enchantment of the thought it inspired. He desired it. He regretted only that fortune had so long denied him the contemplation of such delights. He felt he had never before lived. He had merely existed, something more than a physical and mental machine, something less than a man.

Something of all this stimulated his sensations during that ostensible farewell call upon the woman who had inspired the change. And, as his hungry eyes dwelt upon her great beauty, he became a prey to an impulse that was irresistible. Why should this be a farewell? Why should there ever be a farewell between them? There could be none. Then, to his support came that steady determination which never failed him in crises. There should be no farewell.

He was clad in sober conventional garb. There was only the bronzing upon his fair brow and firm cheeks to suggest the open air life that was his. His slim, powerful figure was full of an ease which caught and held, and pleased Elvine van Blooren's fancy, and awoke in her more material mind something of the dreams which had driven her almost unthinkingly into the arms of her first husband. His fine blue eyes were alight with possibilities which came near to overbalancing the calculations of her mature mind. But, even so, she felt that the ground was so safe under her feet that, even with the background of the past ever in her memory, she could safely indulge her warmth of fancy to its full.

They were alone in the little modern parlor. At another time Jeff must have observed its atmosphere without enthusiasm, just now he welcomed it. It represented the intimate background of a beautiful woman's life. This was the shrine of the goddess whom he had set up for his own worship. Again there was no half measure.

They were talking in that intimate fashion which belongs to the period when a man and a woman have made up their minds that there remains no obstacle to the admission of mutual regard.

"It's just wonderful to have done it all in so short a time," Elvine said in her low even tones.

Jeff had been talking of the Obar Ranch which was more precious to him than a schoolboy's first big achievement in the playing fields. He had been talking of it, not in the spirit of vain glory, but out of the deep affection of a strong heart for the child of his own creation.

"Oh, I guess it would have been wonderful with any other feller for a partner than Bud Tristram," Jeff responded promptly. "As an enterprise, why, I guess it's my thought. As a success, it's Bud's genius for setting cattle prospering. Say, you can't handle a wide proposition right by reckoning up figures and fixing deeds of sale and partnership. I allow you need to do some thinking that way. But when it's all figgered right, why, the real practical man needs to get busy or the figgers aren't worth the ink an' paper you've used to make 'em. Bud's the feller of the Obars. I just sit around and talk wise when he needs talk, which I don't guess is frequent."

Jeff's smile was genuine. There was no false modesty that made him place the credit of the Obar's success at Bud's door. The credit was Bud's. He knew it. And, with frank honesty, was only too ready to admit it, and even advertise it.

Elvine nodded. Her dark eyes were warmly returning his smile.

"I like that," she said simply. And she meant it.

The blood mounted to the man's brow. He felt that he had forced her to make the admission, and regarded his act with some shame.

"Say, don't feel you've got to say that," he said earnestly. "You mustn't just think I'm asking your applause. These are simple facts which I can't deny. I'd like to feel the sun just rises and sets around my work, but if I did I'd be the same sort of fool as those Pharisee fellers in the Bible. Bud's a bully feller, and I'll owe him more than I can ever hand him back just as long as I live."

Elvine was comparing this man's big generosity with her understanding of most of the men she had ever known. She was thinking, too, of days long since passed, and events which even a wide distance of time had not succeeded in rendering mellow.

She sighed. Somehow "Honest Jeff" was hurting her in a way she would never have believed any man could hurt her—now.

"This Bud Tristram's daughter—Nan. She's a pretty creature," Elvine went on, feeling their topic needed changing.

Jeff's smile deepened.

"She's pretty—right through to her soul," came his prompt and earnest response.

Elvine's eyes observed him closely. She laughed in a challenging fashion.

"And she is still her father's daughter?"

Jeff flushed. Her meaning could not be mistaken. His impulse was to speak out of the depth of a strong abiding regard for his friend's "little gal." But he rejected the impulse. Time and his own desires were pressing.

"Oh, I guess she'll marry some fellow some day. Maybe he'll be good enough——"

"And more than likely he won't." Elvine's reply was emphatic. She suddenly sat forward in the deep rocker, and a great earnestness shone in her eyes. "I tell you no woman in this life has a right to be as 'pretty' as you believe her to be," she said with intense bitterness. "If I had my way every girl would be taught to reason for herself on those things in life which make for her well-being. I'd make her think that way before everything else. To me it is the direst cruelty of Providence that we should be left to become the prey of our own emotions, and at the mercy of any man of whatever quality who can sufficiently stir them. Maybe you do not agree to that. But just think of the awful position that every wretched, physically feeble woman stands in in the life about her. I tell you no girl on her own resources has much better than a dog's chance of getting through life without disaster. Our emotions are the most absurdly foolish type it is possible to think of. I guess we can do things with our normal reason which would shame a whole asylum of crazy folk who can't be let run around free. Oh, I'd like to know her better, to tell her, to warn her. I don't guess I've ever done good in the world, but I'd like to. If I could save one of my sex from some of the pitfalls lying around, maybe I'd feel I'd been some use."

"Why not know her better? Say, Nan's no end of a good sort. She'd be real glad."

Jeff's invitation sounded lame, even to himself. But he was struggling under an emotion that made words difficult.

Elvine laughed.

"Would she? I wonder."

Then she hurried on lest her observation should be interpreted.

"And you're going to quit our city to-morrow for your wonderful ranch. I guess the Cattle Week's liable to bore folks who've real work in the world—like you. It's just a week of show, and glitter, and ceremony, all those things which have no real place in the world of things that matter. But there, after all, I wonder what are the things that matter. And do they matter anyway? We have no guide. We're just left to grope around and search for ourselves, and every folk's ideas are different from every other folk's. I'm restless. I sort of feel there's so much to be done in the world—if we only knew how, and what."

The half-bantering manner of the woman did not disguise her earnestness. Jeff shook his head.

"Guess I can't say. Guess none of us can—rightly. But why not come around to the ranch and see things? See if you can worry out an answer. See if you think the work we're doing matters. It certainly does matter to me, to us. But in the world. I don't know. Just now I sort of feel it don't. Just now I'm wondering whether I'll go back there to-morrow. What do you say?"

"I? How can I say?"

Jeff laughed.

"I don't guess there's a thing easier." His eyes were shining as he took in the girl's dark beauty. "Seems to me I'm beginning to wonder about the things that matter myself. It's been a bully week. The sort of week some folks would write about in their secret diary. Guess I don't keep a secret diary—except somewhere right in here." He tapped his breast. "I don't seem to feel I've ever had such a time, or ever will again, unless——"

"Unless?" Elvine was caught in the mood of the moment. This man was exercising a fascination over her which had nothing to do with the calculations she had laid down for the guidance of her sex.

"Why, unless I add another week to it."

"D'you think you could duplicate it then?"

"That just depends on—you."

Elvine rose from her chair and moved toward the window. Jeff, too, left his chair. He stood tall and straight—waiting.

Her back was turned to him.

"It is not for me to say," she replied without turning.

"Why not?"

"Your work—in the world."

"Can wait. There's always—Bud Tristram."

Suddenly Elvine turned about. Her eyes were smiling, and full of a light which had not lived in them for several years. There was not a shadow of calculation in them now.

She held out her hand in token of dismissal.

"We had some fine rides—together," she said.

"My horses are still here."

"And—the dances. They were—very pleasant."

"Maybe they can be danced—again."

"Good-bye," she said, her beautiful hand lingering in his for a moment.

"For the present," Jeff added with decision.

Then he mechanically glanced at his timepiece. His "farewell" call had lasted over two hours. But even so it had been all too short for him.



CHAPTER XII

THE TEMPERING

Bud was packing in his rooms at Aston's Hotel. It was late at night. Late as it was, however, he had only left Nan, engaged at a similar occupation, less than half an hour ago. He had sat talking to her, and watching her with eyes of deep concern while, with infinite care, she bestowed those beautiful gowns which mean so much in a woman's life.

His visit to her had not been one of mere companionship. It had been inspired by a sympathy he had no other means of displaying. He had talked to her; by every means in his power he had endeavored to interest her in reminiscence of the week's doings. She listened patiently, almost submissively, for she understood the promptings of his endeavor. But she was too deeply plunged in her own discouragement to display real interest, and it had required every ounce of courage she possessed to prevent herself falling to weeping.

Nor was Bud at fault for a moment. He recognized the trouble lurking in the sweet brown eyes. And with all his might he pretended not to see. So, when his last effort to cheer had proved unavailing, he took his departure under the excuse of his own packing.

He knew. Of course he knew. Had he not watched the progress of events throughout the week? Had he not seen for himself how Jeff's fancy had been caught? And she was very beautiful, this town-bred woman, beautiful with that healthy, downy complexion which Bud found did not fit with his idea of city "raised" women. He almost felt he hated her, yet he knew he had no right to his antagonism. Jeff was unpledged, he was free. No woman had any claim on him. Not even Nan. Poor Nan. He had hoped to give her seven long days of unalloyed delight. He had only given her seven days of bitter disappointment and disillusion.

He set about his packing with furious zest. In a moment, it seemed, his room was in a state of chaos. And all the while, as he bundled garments together and flung them into his grips, his busy thought went on in the only direction in which it seemed capable of moving just now.

His mind had gone back to the days before their visit to Calthorpe. He remembered the delighted anticipation which Nan had displayed. Her displays of happy affection for himself in the midst of her own great looking forward. The ravishing hours she had spent in choosing patterns of material, and styles of gown. He remembered the bright sparkling eyes shining, it seemed to him, at all times. That wonderful looking forward. Oh, the holiday of it had been nothing. There was only one thing, one thought, which had inspired the child. It was Jeff. It was a week that was to see honor done him, and she—she was to join in honoring him. Jeff was the whole hub about which her happiness revolved.

He was pained. He was angry. And the vision of Elvine van Blooren's dark beauty haunted him. He admitted it—her beauty. And for all his disquiet, his bitter feeling, he found it impossible to blame the man.

Yes, for all his exasperation. For all he regarded Jeff as a "fool man," he was just enough to remember that Nan was his own little daughter, a pretty prairie girl, with nothing of the showy attraction of this city woman. Then Jeff's attitude toward her. It had never been more than the sheerest friendliness. He reflected bitterly, even, that they might have been simply brother and sister. While the dream of his life was some day to be able to pour out the wealth he was storing up into the out-stretched palms of their children.

Well, it was a dream. And now it had come tumbling about his feet, and it almost looked to him as if poor little Nan's heart was to be buried beneath the debris.

He flung his evening suit, which Nan had so much admired, into the gaping jaws of a large leather grip, with a disregard that more than illustrated his feelings. Then he strove to close the grip tucking in the projecting oddments of silk-lined cloth without the least consideration for their well-being. He felt he never wanted to wear such things again, never wanted even to see them. He and Nan belonged to the prairie, not to a city. That was good enough for them. What was the use——?

But his reflections were interrupted by the abrupt appearance of Jeff himself. Bud looked up as the door was unceremoniously thrust open, and his regard was quite unshaken by the depths of his feelings. It displayed a mute question, however.

Jeff began at once.

"I saw the light through your transom, Bud, so I just came right in."

Jeff was a shade paler than usual. There was a look of some doubt in his blue eyes. And his manner hinted at a decision taken. A decision that had not been arrived at without some considerable exercise of mind.

Slowly, as he regarded him, all Bud's bitterness subsided. If Nan were his daughter, this man was almost a son to him.

"Say, old friend, I'm—I'm not going back home with you to-morrow," Jeff went on. He stirred with a suggestion of nervousness, and then flung himself upon the old man's littered-up bed. "I just can't, an' that's a fact. I want to stop around here for a while. I got to."

He paused as though awaiting an answer, but none was forthcoming. Only was there that steady regard from the man beyond the still open grip.

Bud was not thinking of the announcement. Jeff was certainly a "good-looker," and he was beginning to understand something of the attraction he must have for a woman like Elvine van Blooren. He was slim and muscular, with a keen face of decision and strength. Then, was he not on the rising wave which must ever appeal to the maturer mind of a widow, however young? His disappointment rose again and threatened to find expression. But he thrust it aside and struggled to remember only his regard for the man.

"D'you mind?" Jeff's question came nervously.

Did he mind? It was a weak question. Coming from Jeff it sounded foolish. Bud smiled, and his quiet sense of humor saved him from himself.

"Why, if you feel that way I don't guess you need worry a thing, Jeff." Then he added: "Guess Nan an' me'll get right along home. But it don't need to cut no ice. I take it you're askin' me to fix things right at the Obars till you get around. That so?"

Jeff nodded. He was feeling that he was doing something mean, even brutal. He knew that what he contemplated must result in the bitterest disappointment to his old friend. He had well enough known throughout their partnership Bud's yearning desire that he should marry Nan. Well, such a course was unthinkable now. Somehow it had never seemed really possible. He was troubled, grievously troubled, but he was determined now to act in the only honest way. He was determined that Bud should know the truth—at all costs.

"I'd be thankful to you, Bud."

"You don't need to say a word. It's fixed."

For some moments no other word was spoken. There was awkwardness. But it was with Jeff alone. He feared the result of what he must tell.

"You're—packing?" he said presently.

Bud sat himself heavily into a rocker.

"Yep. Lestways I don't guess Nan 'ud call it that way." He raked his curly iron-gray hair with his strong fingers, and gazed ruefully at the chaos.

"Maybe I can help some."

Bud shook his head, and his smile was good.

"Guess one darn fool's enough playin' this game. When're you coming along to—home?"

"Maybe a week."

The reply was prompt.

"An'—you'll bring her along with you?"

The eyes of the two men met. Each was reading the other like an open book.

Jeff shook his head. Somehow there was nothing absurd to him in Bud's suggestion. There was nothing startling even in the probing of his secret with so much directness.

"I haven't asked her—yet."

Then it was that the big heart of the friend, who was almost a father, made itself apparent.

"But you're goin' to, Jeff. An' she's goin' to take you. Say, Jeff, she's one lucky woman."

In a moment the tide of the younger man's feelings was set flowing. In a moment the egoism of the lover made a generous nature forget all else but the passion that absorbed him. In a moment the thought that this man was Nan's father, and that the dearest wish of his life was that he, Jeff, should marry his daughter, was forgotten.

"Lucky? But you got it wrong, Bud," Jeff cried, sitting erect, his face flushed with the passionate stirring of Ills strong heart. "It's I who'll be lucky, if she don't turn me down. Man, I'm not worth the dust on her shoes. I'm not fit to lackey for her. Nor—nor is any other feller. Say, Bud," he went on, leaning impressively forward, his eyes shining with his passion, "I'm just crazy to death for her. And—and I can't just help it. I'd go through hell's flames for her, man, I'd——"

"Say, boy, don't worry that-a-way. Jest marry her instead," Bud broke in with his gentlest smile. "You're all sorts of a boy, Jeff, and I don't figger you got call to talk about the dust of any woman's shoes. But I guess ther's times when it's good fer a man to feel he ain't as big as he's told. Anyways, you get right ahead, and leave me to the Obars. I ain't goin' to fail you now, any more than any other time." Then he rumpled his stubbly hair again, and it was an action that suggested heavy thought. "Say," he went on, a moment later, his eyes looking squarely into the face of the other, "we're hittin' the trail good an' early to-morrow. Guess you best let me say 'good-bye' to Nan for you. That so?"

Jeff nodded. He understood. And somehow the bigness of this man made him almost despise himself.

"Then I guess I'll get right on with my—packin'."

* * * * * *

They were standing on the stoop of Aston's Hotel. In front of them the broad Avenue opened out with its central walk, between an aisle of wide-spreading maple trees bathed in the early morning sun. A spring wagon was already moving away, piled up with baggage. The saddle horses were ready, held by one of the hotel servants. Nan, in her riding costume, was waiting while her father exchanged a few parting words with the hotel manager.

"Guess you're right. It's been a darn good week this year. The best in my memory. I'd say the Conference was a heap better attended, an' the weather's been just great. We got through a deal o' legislation, too. Guess things are goin' to hum, with the Obars at the head of 'em this year. Our big play is to be dealin' with rustlers. We got a hell of a piece o' leeway to make up. Four years ago we guessed we'd got 'em fixed where we wanted 'em. But they hatched out since like a brood o' wolf cubs. So long."

"Mr. Masters is stopping on for a while," the manager observed, with that intimate touch which he always practiced with his more influential customers of the cattle world.

"Why, yes." Bud's eyes were watching Nan as she mounted her pony, carefully held by a solicitous barn-hand. Under other circumstances the man's attention would have afforded him amusement. Just now he was regretting the manager's remark. "Y'see, ther's a deal to fix. Seein' he's president this year, why, I guess it's up to him to kep his ladle busy in the soup."

He moved off the stoop and took his horse from the waiting man. He swung himself into the saddle with an agility which belied his years.

He waved one great hand in response to the manager's deferential bow, and turned his horse away. In a moment Bud and Nan were riding side by side down the wide Avenue.

It was a long time before either attempted to break the silence between them. They had even reached the outskirts of the city before Nan broached the subject from which her father admittedly shrank.

"I'm glad Jeff didn't get up to see us off," she said imply. Then she laughed softly. "Y'see, Daddy, there's times for most things; and 'good-byes' in the early morning are a bit like cold baths in winter."

Bud eyed his daughter with a quick sidelong glance, and then continued his survey of the trail ahead as it lifted over a gentle grassy slope. They were passing the last houses of the town, and ahead lay the tawny fields which made the country one of the greatest pastures in the world.

"Ther'd been no sort o' sense his turning out around sun-up to see us folks off. It ain't goin' to be weeks before he gets back home."

"No."

Nan's smile remained, and Bud, for all his avoidance of it, was aware that was so. It was a smile that cut him to the heart, and yet he was simple man enough to find relief in it.

"There'll be a deal for him to fix before he gets back home," Nan went on.

She spoke in the earnest fashion of deep consideration. Bud glanced round at her again, steadying his powerful horse to permit her pony to push its nose ahead. Her manner had startled him. But he refrained from the folly of replying. He had that in his mind to impart the thought of which nearly broke his heart. But it must be told, and by him. And a passionate desire to lighten the blow made him watch desperately for the best opportunity.

But he was dealing with a nature stronger, deeper, more honest and clear-sighted than he knew. He was dealing with a woman who could sacrifice all to the well-being and happiness of those she loved. With Nan self held a particularly subservient place to every other emotion. And when it did manage to obtrude itself it was her way to fight her battle alone, at a time when no prying eyes were there to witness her sufferings. To the daylight she presented a pair of sweet brown smiling eyes, and lips as full, and ripe, and firm as though no shadow of doubt and unhappiness had ever crossed her path.

She went on rapidly, speaking as though the matter under consideration were fully accepted between them.

"It's queer how things fix themselves the way you don't guess," she said reflectively. "Just one week, and they're changed around in a way that makes you wonder if you aren't dreaming. It's sort of like the Indian summer, isn't it? There's the beautiful light of the full sun on colors that set you 'most crazy with delight. Pictures that make you feel Providence is just the biggest painter ever set brush to canvas. Then, with a shiver of wind from the north, down the leaves tumble, and right on top of 'em comes the snow, and then you're moving around in a sort of crystal fairy web, and wonder when you'll wake up. A week ago Jeff didn't even know her; she wasn't in the world so far as he knew. Now he's going to marry her."

Nan stated the fact without a tremor of voice, without a shadow of hesitation. The sunny smile was entirely without a cloud. Her father stared down at her from his superior height with eyes wide with astonishment and something of alarm.

"Say, did Jeff tell you?" he asked sharply.

Nan shook her head.

"Then how in hell d'you know it all? Say——"

"How d'you know anything that affects you here, Daddy?" the girl retorted, gently indicating her soft rounded bosom with one gauntleted hand.

Then her smile broke out again, and the man's trouble was further increased.

"Y'see, I don't mind saying things to you. You're my Daddy and Momma all rolled into one. And there's sure a heap of you for two," she smiled up at him. "Maybe you don't always say all the things you feel, but it don't keep me guessing long. You'd a heap of terr'ble, terr'ble things on your mind to say to me on this ride. Oh, and they weighed heavy. Your poor worried face had lost all its smile, and your eyes just looked as if you'd been lying awake nights an' nights, an' you'd seen every sort of nightmare ever thought of in the world of dreams. It made me kind of sorry, and I just couldn't wait for you to make that big talk you figgered on."

Bud was gazing far out ahead at the brilliant sky-line where the crests of grass-land cut the line in perfect undulations. Nan's gently drawn sigh was like the stab of a knife in his heart. His feelings at that moment were too deep for words. And so the girl went on in a voice that struck fresh chords of sympathy in the soul of the man who idolized her.

"It seems to me, my Daddy, that we often think things that a great big Someone don't guess are good for us to think. We sort of set up hopes we've no right to. An' when we do, why, we've got to be handed our lessons. Sometimes the lesson is pretty tough, sometimes I don't guess it's a deal worse than a pin-prick. Anyway, lessons aren't joyous things at best, not even pin-pricks. Well, if folks are right they'll just learn their lessons all they can without kicking, and if they get a hunch on, why, I don't figger it's likely to make 'em harder. I've been learning my lesson a whole week now, and, yes, I've got it right. Oh, I've had to work. It hasn't been easy. And somehow, my Daddy, all these lovely, lovely gowns, and the thought of the generous hands that gave them to me, have helped me to learn quicker, and—better."

She paused again. Their horses were ambling leisurely along over the sandy trail. They moved together, side by side, in a closeness of companionship which perhaps symbolized that of their riders.

"I jest don't know what to say, Nan. I surely don't," Bud lumbered at last with a half-bewildered drawing together of his heavy brows. "It don't seem I ken even think right—about it."

Nan gazed up into his big troubled face with the frank eyes that looked wholly untroubled.

"Don't try, my Daddy. Guess I've done all that's necessary that way. Maybe I know just how you're feeling, because I know how I'm feeling. God's been good to me all my years. He's given me a Daddy who's the best in the world. A Daddy who's taught me by his own example how to be strong and fight the little battles I guess it's meant for us to fight. Oh, I won't say it hasn't hurt," she went on, with a catch in her voice. "You see, I loved Jeff. I love him now, and I'll go right on loving him to the end. And it's because I love him I want to help him now—and always. You won't think me a fool girl, my Daddy, will you, but—but—I won't hate Elvine van Blooren. I'm—I'm going to try so hard to like her, and—and anyway, with all my might, I'm going to help them both. D'you guess Jeff would let me get his house ready for—his wife?"

The father's reply came with a violence which he calculated should conceal an emotion which his manhood forbade, but which only helped to reveal it the more surely to the clear eyes of the girl at his side.

"Hell take the bunch—the whole of 'em!" he cried fiercely. Then he added weakly: "You're nigh breakin' my heart all to pieces."

But Nan's smile suddenly became radiant, as she turned her brown eyes away from the spectacle of her father's trouble to the distant horizon ahead.

She shook her head.

"No, my Daddy. I allow it feels that way just now. I've felt that way, too. But it's just God's tempering. And when it's through, why I guess our hearts'll be made of good metal, strong and steady to do the work He'd have us do. And that's just all we can ask, isn't it?"



CHAPTER XIII

THE NEWS

Nan rode up to the veranda of the ranch house and sprang lightly from the saddle. Her pony's flanks were caked with sweat. The days now, as they approached July, were blistering, and the work of the great ranch was heavy for everybody. Nan had constituted herself Jeff's substitute during his absence, and performed his share of the labor with a skill and efficiency which astonished even her father.

She was a little weary just now. The heat was trying. Four weeks of continuous effort, four weeks of day-long saddle work, superintending the distant out-stations, the pasture fencing, the re-branding, which never seemed to come to an end, the hundred and one little duties which always cropped up unexpectedly; these things, in conjunction with the intense heat and the constant trouble which she held safely screened behind her smiling eyes, were not without effect upon her, although display was only permitted when no other eyes were present to witness her weakness.

It was the ranch house dinner time. Bud was due, as was the return of the men who belonged to the home station.

Nan released the cinchas of her saddle and removed her pony's bridle. Then, with a sharp pat upon the creature's quarters, she sent it strolling off toward the open pasture, in which the windmill pump kept the string of watering tubs ready for the thirsty world about it.

She watched the animal as it flung itself down for a roll. Its ungainly, thrusting legs held her interest. Then, as it scrambled to its feet and shook itself, and headed for the water, she seated herself in a low wicker chair and wiped the dust from her long riding boots with the silk handkerchief she wore loosely tied about her neck. A few moments later her brown eyes were gazing fixedly out at the shimmer of heat which hovered low over the distant horizon.

She was meditating deeply, her tired body yielding to the greater activity of her thought. The scene was lost to her. Her gaze sped beyond the maze of corrals, and the more distant patchwork of fenced pastures to the western boundary of her beloved Rainbow Hill Valley. There was nothing but grass, endless grass, until the purple line of the wood-clad mountains was reached. And here it was that her regard found a resting place. But even so she was unaware of it, for her thoughts were miles away in another direction.

Her courage had reaped its natural harvest. Her labors had yielded her a peace of mind which at one time had seemed impossible. She could reflect calmly now, if not without a world of regret and sadness. Just now, in the brief interval of waiting for her father for their midday meal, her relaxed body permitted her thoughts to wander toward the city where Jeff was still held captive by toils she herself had been unable to weave about him.

She had had her desire. She had pressed her less willing father into her service, and through him she had obtained the right to see that Jeff's house was made ready. It had been a labor of love in its highest sense, for not one single detail of her efforts but had been a fresh laceration of her loyal soul. In her mind it was never possible to shut out the memory that everything that was for Jeff was also for a woman who had plucked the only fruit she had ever coveted with her whole heart. There had been moments of reward, however, a reward which perhaps a lesser spirit might never have known. It was the passionate satisfaction that her hands, her love, were able to minister to the well-being of the man she loved, for all that another woman occupied her place in his heart.

Feelings such as these filled her heart now. They had so filled it that morning during her hour of superintending the work of the builders engaged upon the reconstruction of Jeff's house. This was nearly completed, and somehow she felt when all the preparations were finished the last support must be banished forever. Then there would be nothing left her but to watch, perhaps from afar, the happiness of the other woman basking in the love for which she would willingly have given her life.

There were moments when her spirit furiously rebelled, when she felt that the sacrifice was too great, when the limits of human endurance forbade submission to her lot. They were moments when mad jealousy rose up and threatened her bulwark of spiritual resistance. And at such time her battle was furious and hard, and she emerged therefrom scarred and suffering, but with a spirit unbroken and even strengthened.

Then her pride, a small gentle thing, added its quota to her support. No one should pity her, no one should ever, ever know anything of the sufferings she endured. No, not even her beloved father. So her smile, even her ready laughter, was enlisted in her support, and the manner of her discussion of the work on Jeff's house was an education in courageous acting.

But her father remained wholly undeceived. He saw with a vision rendered doubly acute by perfect sympathy. He read through every smile to the tears lying behind it. He noted the change in the tone of the laugh. He missed nothing of the painful abstraction at odd moments when Nan believed she was wholly unobserved. Nor did he misinterpret the language these things expressed. But for all his heart bled for the girl—and in his moments of solitude he bitterly cursed the woman who had robbed him of a son, and heaped every scathing epithet of his rough vocabulary upon the head of the man himself—he gave no sign that the fair world about them concealed shadowed corners, or that the life which was theirs was not one triumph of eternal delight. Thus was Nan helped, all unconscious of the help so given. So she was able to play the part her courage and gentleness of spirit had assigned to her.

Presently a horseman came within sight, out of the northwest. It was the direction of Jeff's ranch house. A moment of deliberate scrutiny revealed the man's identity. It was Lal Hobhouse, second foreman of the Obar, the man who, before the amalgamation, was Jeff's foreman.

Nan wondered what was bringing him in at this hour. Usually his visits to their headquarters were made in the evening when the work of the day was completed.

The man rode up and found Nan interestedly waiting to receive him. There was a touch of anxiety in her tone as she greeted him.

"No trouble, Lal?" she demanded, as the man reined up his pony. The direct manner of the girl was largely the result of her new responsibilities.

Lal Hobhouse was a lean-faced specimen of sun-dried manhood. His appearance suggested all wires and indifference to the nicenesses of life. His long moustache drooped mournfully below his square chin. And his fierce black eyes were full of a violent heat, rendered more savage for its bottling up during his long ride.

"Trouble?" Then he exploded with a furious oath, and his volcanic temper drowned the sunburn of his cheek under a living heat. "Them rustlers. Them lousy bums," he cried almost choking. "That bunch o' yearlings—Shorthorn yearlings, Miss. Thirty of 'em—picked right out of the bush corrals where we'd got 'em for re-brandin'. Say, Bud—your father, Miss," he corrected himself. "He ain't around?"

But Nan's interest was in the work of the rustlers. Not in his final inquiry. Her pretty eyes were wide and hard with the anger his news had inspired.

"The Shorthorn yearlings, Lal?" she demanded. "Our prize stock?"

"Sure, Miss. Them. That's them. God blister their filthy carkises! May they stew in hell!"

He spat over his horse's shoulder as though to emphasize his furious disgust But his forcefulness was displeasing.

"Guess you best off-saddle," Nan said coolly. "Father'll be along right now. You'll need food. Say, what boys you got out there?" she inquired as the man slipped out of the saddle and began to unfasten the cinchas.

"Why, just the same four damn fools, an'—Sikkem."

"And they're following up the trail?"

"Sure." The man flung off the saddle and his horse mouched away.

"Psha!" he cried, turning his fierce eyes upon Nan. "What's the use anyway?" His gesture was one of helpless disgust. "They're out. Bin out since daylight. An' I guess they've as much chance roundin' that crowd up as they would huntin' bugs in a hundred acre pasture. Sikkem's about the brightest. But he ain't no sort o' good after a bunch of rustlers. I wouldn't trust him with a dead mule o' mine anyway. The boss hangs to him as if he was the on'y blamed cowpuncher east o' the mountains because he's handy. I don't like him, Miss, an'—— Say, how did them rustlers know 'bout them calves? Ther's two hundred head o' beeves out there, an' they passed 'em right over fer the Shorthorns."

The man's argument and distrust of the man Sikkem made a deep impression on Nan. She had listened to some of the latter before. But Jeff's predilection for the dark-faced half Greaser had left her sceptical of Lal's opinion. Now, however, she was seriously impressed.

At that moment Bud himself rode up at a gallop, and behind him rode four of the home station boys. The pace at which he came was unusual, and Nan's troubled eyes promptly sought his face.

Instantly her greeting died upon her lips, which tightened ominously. His usually steady gray eyes were hot and fierce, and his face was set. The comfortable lines about his mouth were drawn hard and deep. She needed no word to tell her that further trouble was abroad.

He scarcely waited for his horse to come to a halt. He was out of the saddle in a moment, and his great figure towered before the foreman, whom he took in with an angry stare.

"What's brought you in?" he demanded, with a dangerous calm. Then the calm broke before his storm of feeling. "Don't tell me ther's trouble around your layout, too," he cried, without waiting for reply. Then he turned on Nan, who was still on the veranda. "Say, Nan, they done it. The rotten swines have done it. They shot 'Jock' up!"

"The Highland bull?" Nan gasped.

"Yes. That's it." Bud laughed furiously. "That bull I imported last fall for three thousand dollars," he went on, turning back to the foreman. "They shot him up and drove off his twenty-five cows from the Coyote Bluff pastures. Dirty spite an' meanness. The white-livered scum!" Then with a fierce oath the usually even-tempered Bud hurled his wrath upon the waiting man. "Gorl darn it, you're standin' around like a barbed wire fence post. What in hell's brought you around now? What they done your way?"