Title: From Missouri
Author: Grey, Zane
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "From Missouri" ***


                            From Missouri

                A Compelling Novelette of Far Western
                     Life Complete in this Issue

                             by Zane Grey

                      Paintings by Frank Street
                       Drawings by Oscar Howard

[Illustration: “The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place
since you came,” went on Texas.]

With jingling spurs a tall cowboy stalked out of the post-office to
confront his three comrades crossing the wide street from the saloon
opposite. “Look heah,” he said, shoving a letter under their noses.
“Which one of you long-horns has wrote her again?”

From a gay, careless trio his listeners suddenly grew blank, then
intensely curious. They stared at the handwriting on the letter. “Tex,
I’m a son-of-a-gun if it ain’t from Missouri!” ejaculated Andy Smith,
his lean, red face bursting into a smile.

“It shore is,” declared Nevada.

“From Missouri!” echoed Panhandle Ames.

“Wal?” queried Tex, almost with a snort.

The three cowboys jerked up to look from Tex to one another, and then
back at Tex.

“It’s from _her_,” went on Tex, his voice hushing on the pronoun. “You
all know thet handwritin’. Now how aboot this deal? We swore none of
us would write again to this heah schoolmarm. Some one of you has
double-crossed the outfit.” Loud and unified protestations of
innocence emanated from his comrades. But it was evident Tex did not
trust them, and that they did not trust him or each other. “Say,
boys,” said Panhandle, suddenly. “I see Beady in there lookin’ darn
sharp at us. Let’s get off in the woods somewhere.”

“Back to the bar,” replied Nevada. “I reckon we’ll all need
stimulants.”

“Beady!” ejaculated Tex, as they turned across the street. “He could
be to blame as much as any of us.”

“Shore. It’d be more like Beady,” replied Nevada. “But Tex, yore mind
ain’t workin’. Our lady friend from Missouri has wrote before without
gettin’ any letter from us.”

“How do we know thet?” demanded Tex, suspiciously. “Shore the boss’
typewriter is a puzzle, but it could hide tracks. Savvy, pards?”

“Gee, Tex, you need a drink,” returned Panhandle, peevishly.

They entered the saloon and strode to the bar, where from all
appearances Tex was not the only one to seek artificial strength. Then
they repaired to a corner, where they took seats and stared at the
letter Tex threw down before them. “From Missouri, all right,” averred
Panhandle, studying the postmark. “Kansas City, Missouri.”

“It’s her writin’,” added Nevada, in awe. “Shore I’d know thet out of
a million letters.”

“Ain’t you goin’ to read it to us?” queried Andy Smith.

“Mister Frank Owens,” replied Tex, reading from the address on the
letter. “Springer’s Ranch. Beacon, Arizona.... Boys, this heah Frank
Owens is all of us.”

“Huh! Mebbe he’s a darn sight more,” added Andy.

“Looks like a low-down trick we’re to blame for,” resumed Tex,
seriously shaking his hawk-like head. “Heah we reads in a Kansas City
paper aboot a school teacher wantin’ a job out in dry Arizonie. An’ we
ups an’ writes her an’ gets her ararin’ to come. Then when she writes
and tells us she’s _not over forty_—then we quits like yellow coyotes.
An’ we four anyhow shook hands on never writin’ her again. Wal,
somebody did, an’ I reckon you-all think me as big a liar as I think
you. But thet ain’t the point. Heah’s another letter to Mister Owens
an’ I’ll bet my saddle it means trouble. Shore I’m plumb afraid to
read it.”

“Say, give it to me,” demanded Andy. “I ain’t afraid of any woman.”

Tex snatched the letter out of Andy’s hand. “Cowboy, you’re too poor
educated to read letters from ladies,” observed Tex. “Gimme a knife,
somebody ... Say, it’s all perfumed.”

Tex impressively spread out the letter and read laboriously:

                                              Kansas City, Mo.,
                                                  June 15.
  Dear Mr. Owens:

  Your last letter has explained away much that was vague and
  perplexing in your other letters. It has inspired me with hope
  and anticipation. I shall not take time now to express my thanks,
  but hasten to get ready to go West. I shall leave tomorrow and
  arrive at Beacon on June 19, at 4:30 P.M. You see I have studied
  the time-table.

                                            Yours very truly,
                                                Jane Stacey.

Profound silence followed Tex’s perusal of the letter. The cowboys
were struck dumb. But suddenly Nevada exploded: “My Gawd, fellars,
today’s the nineteenth!”

“Wal, Springer needs a schoolmarm at the ranch,” finally spoke up the
practical Andy. “There’s half a dozen kids growin’ up without any
schoolin’, not to talk about other ranches. I heard the boss say this
hisself.”

“Who the mischief did it?” demanded Tex, in a rage with himself and
his accomplices.

“What’s the sense in hollerin’ aboot thet now?” returned Nevada. “It’s
done. She’s comin’. She’ll be on the Limited. Reckon we’ve got five
hours. It ain’t enough. What’ll we _do_?”

“I can get awful drunk in thet time,” contributed Panhandle,
nonchalantly.

“Ahuh! An’ leave it all to us,” retorted Tex, scornfully. “But we got
to stand pat on this heah deal. Don’t you know this is Saturday an’
thet Springer will be in town?”

“Aw, confound it! We’re all goin’ to get fired,” declared Panhandle.
“Serves us right for listenin’ to you, Tex. We can all gamble this
trick hatched in your head.”

“Not my haid more’n yours or anybody,” returned Tex, hotly.

“Say, you locoed cow-punchers,” interposed Nevada. “What’ll we do?”

“We’ll have to tell Springer.”

“But Tex, the boss’d never believe us about not follerin’ the letters
up. He’ll fire the whole outfit.”

“But he’ll have to be told somethin’,” returned Panhandle stoutly.

“Shore he will,” went on Tex. “I’ve an idea. It’s too late now to turn
this poor schoolmarm back. An’ somebody’ll have to meet her.
Somebody’s got to borrow a buckboard an’ drive her out to the ranch.”

“Excuse me!” replied Andy. And Panhandle and Nevada echoed him.

“I’ll ride over on my hoss, an’ see you all meet the lady,” added
Andy.

Tex had lost his scowl, but he did not look as if he favorably
regarded Andy’s idea. “Hang it all!” he burst out, hotly. “Can’t some
of you gents look at it from her side of the fence? Nice fix for any
woman, I say. Somebody ought to get it good for this mess. If I ever
find out—”

“Go on with your grand idea,” interposed Nevada.

“You all come with me. I’ll get a buckboard. I’ll meet the lady an’ do
the talkin’. I’ll let her down easy. An’ if I cain’t head her back to
Missouri we’ll fetch her out to the ranch an’ then leave it up to
Springer. Only we won’t tell her or him or anybody who’s the real
Frank Owens.”

“Tex, that ain’t so plumb bad,” declared Andy, admiringly. “What _I_
want to know is who’s goin’ to do the talkin’ to the boss?” queried
Panhandle. “It mightn’t be so hard to explain now. But after drivin’
up to the ranch with a woman! You all know Springer’s shy. Young an’
rich, like he is, an’ a bachelor—he’s been fussed over so he’s plumb
afraid of girls. An’ here you’re fetchin’ a middle-aged schoolmarm
who’s romantic an’ mushy! Shucks! .... I say send her home on the next
train.”

“Pan, you’re wise on hosses an’ cattle, but you don’t know human
nature, an’ you’re daid wrong about the boss,” rejoined Tex. “We’re in
a bad fix, I’ll admit. But I lean more to fetchin’ the lady up than
sendin’ her back. Somebody down Beacon way would get wise. Mebbe the
schoolmarm might talk. She’d shore have cause. An’ suppose Springer
hears aboot it—that some of us or all of us played a low-down trick on
a woman. He’d be madder at that than if we fetched her up. Likely
he’ll try to make amends. The boss may be shy on girls but he’s the
squarest man in Arizonie. My idea is we’ll deny any of us is Frank
Owens, an’ we’ll meet Miss—Miss—what was that there name? ... Miss
Jane Stacey and fetch her up to the ranch, an’ let _her_ do the
talkin’ to Springer.”

During the next several hours, while Tex searched the town for a
buckboard and team he could borrow, the other cowboys wandered from
the saloon to the post-office and back again, and then to the store,
the restaurant and all around. The town had gradually filled up with
Saturday visitors. “Boys, there’s the boss,” suddenly broke out Andy,
pointing; and he ducked into the nearest doorway, which happened to be
that of another saloon. It was half full of cowboys, ranchers,
Mexicans, tobacco smoke and noise. Andy’s companions had rushed
pell-mell after him; and not until they all got inside did they
realize that this saloon was a rendezvous for cowboys decidedly not on
friendly terms with Springer’s outfit. Nevada was the only one of the
trio who took the situation nonchalantly.

“Wal, we’re in, an’ what the mischief do we care for Beady Jones, an’
his outfit?” remarked Nevada, quite loud enough to be heard by others
beside his friends.

Naturally they lined up at the bar, and this was not a good thing for
young men who had an important engagement and who must preserve
sobriety.

After several rounds of drinks they began to whisper and snicker over
the possibility of Tex meeting the boss.

“If only it doesn’t come off until Tex gets our forty-year-old
schoolmarm from Missourie with him in the buckboard!” exclaimed
Panhandle, in huge glee.

“Shore. Tex, the handsome galoot, is most to blame for this mess,”
added Nevada. “Thet cowboy won’t be above makin’ love to Jane, if he
thinks we’re not around. But, fellars, we want to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss seein’ the boss meet Tex for a million!” said Andy.

Presently a tall, striking-looking cowboy, with dark face and small
bright eyes like black beads, detached himself from a group of noisy
companions, and confronted the trio, more particularly Nevada. “Howdy,
men,” he greeted them, “what you-all doin’ in here?”

He was coolly impertinent, and his action and query noticeably stilled
the room. Andy and Panhandle leaned back against the bar. They had
been in such situations before and knew who would do the talking for
them. “Howdy, Jones,” replied Nevada, coolly and carelessly. “We
happened to bust in here by accident. Reckon we’re usually more
particular what kind of company we mix with.”

“Ahuh! Springer’s outfit is shore a stuck-up one,” sneered Jones, in a
loud tone. “So stuck-up they won’t even ride around drift-fences.”

Nevada slightly changed his position. “Beady, I’ve had a couple of
drinks an’ ain’t very clear-headed,” drawled Nevada. “Would you mind
talkin’ so I can understand you?”

“Bah! You savvy all right,” declared Jones, sarcastically. “I’m
tellin’ you straight what I’ve been layin’ to tell your yaller-headed
Texas pard.”

“Now you’re speakin’ English, Beady. Tex an’ me are pards, shore. An’
I’ll take it kind of you to get this talk out of your system. You seem
to be chock full.”

“You bet I’m full an’ I’m goin’ to bust,” shouted Jones, whose temper
evidently could not abide the slow, cool speech with which he had been
answered.

“Wal, before you bust, explain what you mean by Springer’s outfit not
ridin’ around drift-fences.”

“Easy. You just cut through wire-fences,” retorted Jones.

“Beady, I hate to call you a low-down liar, but that’s what you are.”

“You’re another,” yelled Jones. “I seen your Texas Jack cut our
drift-fence.” Nevada struck out with remarkable swiftness and force.
He knocked Jones over upon a card-table, with which he crashed to the
floor. Jones was so stunned that he did not recover before some of his
comrades rushed to him, and helped him up. Then, black in the face and
cursing savagely, he jerked for his gun. He got it out, but before he
could level it, two of his friends seized him, and wrestled with him,
talking in earnest alarm. But Jones fought them.

“You blame fool,” finally yelled one of them. “He’s not packin’ a gun.
It’d be murder.”

That brought Jones to his senses, though certainly not to calmness.
“Mister Nevada—next time you hit town you’d better come heeled,” he
hissed between his teeth.

“Shore. An’ thet’ll be bad for you, Beady,” replied Nevada, curtly.
Panhandle and Andy drew Nevada out to the street, where they burst
into mingled excitement and anger. Their swift strides gravitated
toward the saloon across from the post-office. When they emerged
sometime later they were arm in arm, and far from steady on their
feet. They paraded up the one main street of Beacon, not in the least
conspicuous on a Saturday afternoon. As they were neither hilarious
nor dangerous, nobody paid any particular attention to them. Springer,
their boss, met them, gazed at them casually, and passed without sign
of recognition. If he had studied the boys closely he might have
received an impression that they were hugging a secret, as well as
each other. In due time the trio presented themselves at the railroad
station. Tex was there, nervously striding up and down the platform,
now and then looking at his watch. The afternoon train was nearly due.
At the hitching-rail below the platform stood a new buckboard and a
rather spirited team of horses.

The boys, coming across the wide square, encountered this evidence of
Tex’s extremity, and struck a posture before it. “Livery shable
outfit, by gosh,” said Andy.

“Thish here Tex spendin’ his money royal,” agreed Nevada.

Then Tex espied them. He stared. Suddenly he jumped straight up.
Striding to the edge of the platform, with face as red as a beet, he
began to curse them. “Whash masher, ole pard?” asked Andy, who
appeared a little less stable than his comrades.

Tex’s reply was another volley of expressive profanity. And he ended
with: “—you—all yellow quitters to get drunk an’ leave me in the
lurch. But you gotta get away from heah. I shore won’t have you about
when thet train comes.”

“Tex, yore boss is in town lookin’ for you,” said Nevada.

“Tex, he jest ambled past us like we wasn’t gennelmen,” added
Panhandle. “Never sheen us atall.”

“No wonder, you drunken cow-punchers,” declared Tex, in disgust. “Now
I tell you to clear out of heah.”

“But pard, we just want shee you meet our Jane from Missouri,” replied
Andy.

Just then a shrill whistle announced the train. “You can sneak off
now,” he went on, “an’ leave me to face the music. I always knew I was
the only gentleman in Springer’s outfit.”

The three cowboys did not act upon Tex’s sarcastic suggestion, but
they hung back, looking at once excited and sheepish and hugely
delighted. The long gray dusty train pulled into the station and
stopped. There was only one passenger for Springer—a woman—and she
alighted from the coach near where the cowboys stood waiting. She wore
a long linen coat and a brown veil that completely hid her face. She
was not tall and she was much too slight for the heavy valise the
porter handed to her.

Tex strode grandly toward her. “Miss—Miss Stacey, ma’am?” he asked,
removing his sombrero.

“Yes,” she replied. “Are you Mr. Owens?”

Evidently the voice was not what Tex had expected and it disconcerted
him. “No ma’am I—I’m not Mister Owens,” he said. “Please let me take
your bag ... I’m Tex Dillon, one of Springer’s cowboys. An’ I’ve come
to meet you—an’ fetch you out to the ranch.”

“Thank you, but I—I expected to be met by Mr. Owens,” she replied.

“Ma’am, there’s been a mistake—I’ve got to tell you—there ain’t any
Mister Owens,” blurted out Tex, manfully.

“Oh!” she said, with a little start.

“You see, it was this way,” went on the confused cowboy. “One of
Springer’s cowboys—not _me_—wrote them letters to you, signin’ his
name Owens. There ain’t no such named cowboy in this county. Your last
letter—an’ here it is—fell into my hands—all by accident. Ma’am, it
sure was. I took my three friends heah—I took them into my confidence.
An’ we all came down to meet you.” She moved her head and evidently
looked at the strange trio of cowboys Tex had pointed out as his
friends. They came forward then, but not eagerly, and they still held
to each other. Their condition, not to consider their immense
excitement, could not have been lost even upon a tenderfoot from
Missouri.

“Please return my—my letter,” she said, turning again to Tex, and she
put out a small gloved hand to take it from him. “Then—there is no Mr.
Frank Owens?”

“No Ma’am, there isn’t,” replied Tex miserably, and waited for her to
speak.

“Is there—no—no truth in his—is there no school teacher wanted here?”
she faltered.

“I think so, Ma’am,” he replied. “Springer said he needed one. That’s
what started the advertisement an’ the letters to you. You can see the
boss an’—an’ explain. I’m sure it will be all right. He’s the grandest
fellow. He won’t stand for no joke on a poor old schoolmarm.” In his
bewilderment Tex had spoken his thoughts, and that last slip made him
look more miserable than ever, and made the boys appear ready to
burst.

“‘Poor old schoolmarm!’” echoed Miss Stacey. “Perhaps the deceit has
not been wholly on one side.” Whereupon she swept aside the enveloping
veil to reveal a pale and pretty face. She was young. She had clear
gray eyes and a sweet, sensitive mouth. Little curls of chestnut hair
straggled from under her veil. And she had tiny freckles.

Tex stared at this apparition. “But you—you—the letter says she wasn’t
over forty,” he ejaculated.

“She’s not,” rejoined Miss Stacey, curtly.

Then there were visible and remarkable indications of a transformation
in the attitude of the cowboy. But the approach of a stranger suddenly
seemed to paralyze him. This fellow was very tall. He strolled up to
them. He was booted and spurred. He had halted before the group and
looked expectantly from the boys to the young woman and back again.
But on the moment the four cowboys appeared dumb. “Are—are you Mr.
Springer?” asked Miss Stacey.

“Yes,” he replied, and he took off his sombrero. He had a dark, frank
face and keen eyes.

“I am Jane Stacey,” she explained hurriedly. “I’m a school teacher. I
answered an advertisement. And I’ve come from Missouri because of
letters I received from a Mr. Frank Owens, of Springer’s Ranch. This
young man met me. He has not been very—explicit. I gather that there
is no Mr. Owens—that I’m the victim of a cowboy joke ... But he said
that Mr. Springer won’t stand for a joke on a poor old schoolmarm.”

“I sure am glad to meet you, Miss Stacey,” responded the rancher, with
the easy western courtesy that must have been comforting to her.
“Please let me see the letters.” She opened a hand-bag, and searching
in it presently held out several letters. Springer never even glanced
at his stricken cowboys. He took the letters.

“No, not that one,” said Miss Stacey, blushing scarlet. “That’s one I
wrote to Mr. Owens, but didn’t mail. It’s—hardly necessary to read
that.” While Springer read the others she looked at him. Presently he
asked for the letter she had taken back. Miss Stacey hesitated, then
refused. He looked cool, serious, business-like. Then his keen eyes
swept over the four cowboys.

“Tex, are you Mister Frank Owens?” he queried sharply.

“I—shore—ain’t,” gasped Tex.

Springer asked each of the other boys the same question and received
decidedly maudlin but negative answers. Then he turned again to the
girl. “Miss Stacey, I regret to say that you are indeed the victim of
a low-down cowboy trick,” he said. “I’d apologize for such heathen if
I knew how. All I can say is I’m sorry.”

“Then—then there isn’t any school to teach—any place for me—out here?”
she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.

“That’s another matter,” he replied, with a winning smile. “Of course
there’s a place for you. I’ve wanted a school teacher for a long time.
Some of the men out at the ranch have kids an’ they sure need a
teacher.”

“Oh, I’m—so glad,” she murmured, in great relief. “I was afraid I’d
have to go—all the way back. You see I’m not so strong as I used to
be—and my doctor advised a change of climate—dry western air. I can’t
go back now.”

“You don’t look sick,” he said, with the keen eyes on her. “You look
very well to me.”

“Oh, indeed, I’m not very strong,” she returned, quickly. “But I must
confess I wasn’t altogether truthful about my age.”

“I was wondering about that,” he said, gravely. There seemed just a
glint of a twinkle in his eye. “Not over forty.”

Again she blushed and this time with confusion. “It wasn’t altogether
a lie. I was afraid to mention I was only—young. And I wanted to get
the position so much ... I’m a good—a competent teacher, unless the
scholars are too grown-up.”

“The scholars you’ll have at my ranch are children,” he replied.
“Well, we’d better be starting if we are to get there before dark.
It’s a long ride. Is this all your baggage?”

Springer led her over to the buckboard and helped her in, then stowed
the valise under the back seat. “Here, let me put this robe over you,”
he said. “It’ll be dusty. And when we’get up on the ridge it’s cold.”
At this juncture Tex came to life and he started forward. But Andy and
Nevada and Panhandle stood motionless, staring at the fresh and now
flushed face of the young school teacher. Tex untied the halter of the
spirited team and they began to prance. He gathered up the reins as if
about to mount the buckboard.

“I’ve got all the supplies an’ the mail, Mr. Springer,” he said,
cheerfully, “an’ I can be startin’ at once.”

“I’ll drive Miss Stacey,” replied Springer, dryly.

Tex looked blank for a moment. Then Miss Stacey’s clear gray eyes
seemed to embarrass him. A tinge of red came into his tanned cheek.
“Tex, you can ride my horse home,” said the rancher.

“That wild stallion of yours!” expostulated the cowboy. “Now Mr.
Springer. I shore am afraid of him.” This from the best horseman on
the whole range!

Apparently the rancher took Tex seriously.

“He sure is wild, Tex, and I know you’re a poor hand with a horse. If
he throws you, why you’ll have your own horse.” Miss Stacey turned
away her eyes. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. Springer got
in beside her and, taking the reins without another glance at his
discomfited cowboys, he drove away.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A few weeks altered many things at Springer’s Ranch.

There was a marvelous change in the dress and deportment of cowboys
off duty. There were some clean and happy and interested children.
There was a rather taciturn and lonely young rancher who was given to
thoughtful dreams and whose keen eyes watched the little adobe
schoolhouse under the cottonwoods. And in Jane Stacey’s face a rich
bloom and tan had begun to warm out the paleness. It was not often
that Jane left the schoolhouse without meeting one of Springer’s
cowboys. She met Tex most frequently and, according to Andy, that fact
was because Tex was foreman and could send the boys off to the ends of
the range. And this afternoon Jane encountered the foreman. He was
clean-shaven, bright and eager, a superb figure. Tex had been lucky
enough to have a gun with him one day when a rattlesnake frightened
the school teacher and he had shot the reptile. Miss Stacey had leaned
against him in her fright; she had been grateful; she had admired his
wonderful skill with a gun and had murmured that a woman always would
be safe with such a man. Thereafter Tex packed his gun unmindful of
the ridicule of his rivals. “Miss Stacey, come, for a little ride,
won’t you?” he asked, eagerly.

The cowboys had already taught her how to handle a horse and to ride;
and if all they said of her appearance and accomplishment were true
she was indeed worth watching. “I’m sorry,” replied Jane. “I promised
Nevada I’d ride with him today.”

“I reckon Nevada is miles an’ miles up the valley by now,” replied
Tex. “He won’t be back till long after dark.”

“But he made an engagement with me,” protested the school mistress.

“An’ shore he has to work. He’s ridin’ for Springer, an’ I’m foreman
of this ranch,” said Tex.

“You sent him off on some long chase,” averred Jane severely. “Now
didn’t you? Tell me the truth.”

“I shore did. He comes crowin’ down to the bunk-house—about how he’s
goin’ to ride with you an’ how we-all are not in the runnin’. I says,
‘Nevada, I reckon there’s a steer mired in the sand up in Cedar Wash.
You ride up there an’ pull him out.’”

“And then what did he say?” inquired Jane, curiously.

“Why, Miss Stacey, shore I hate to tell you. I didn’t think he was
so—so bad. He just used the most awful language as was ever heard on
this heah ranch. Then he rode off.”

“But _was_ there a steer mired up in the Wash?”

“I reckon so,” replied Tex, rather shamefacedly. “Most always is one.”

Jane let scornful eyes rest upon the foreman. “That was a mean trick,”
she said.

“There’s been worse done to me by him, an’ all of them. An’ all’s fair
in love an’ war.... Will you ride with me?”

“No. I think I’ll ride off alone up Cedar Wash and help Nevada find
that mired steer.”

“Miss Stacey, you’re shore not goin’ to ride off alone. Savvy that?”

“Who’ll keep me from it?” demanded Jane, with spirit.

“I will. Or any of the boys, for thet matter. Springer’s orders.” Jane
started with surprise and then blushed rosy red. Tex, also, appeared
confused at his disclosure. “Miss Stacey, I oughtn’t have said that.
It slipped out. The boss said we needn’t tell you, but you were to be
watched an’ taken care of. It’s a wild range. You could get lost or
thrown from a horse.”

“Mr. Springer is very kind and thoughtful,” murmured Jane.

“The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place since you came,”
went on Tex as if emboldened. “An’ this beatin’ around the bush
doesn’t suit me. All the boys have lost their haids over you.”

“Indeed? How flattering,” replied Jane, with just a hint of mockery.
She was fond of all her admirers, but there were four of them she had
not yet forgiven.

The tall foreman was not without spirit.

“It’s true all right, as you’ll find out pretty quick,” he replied.
“If you had any eyes you’d see that cattle raisin’ on this heah ranch
is about to halt till somethin’ is decided. Why, even Springer himself
is sweet on you.”

“How dare you!” flashed Jane, suddenly aghast.

“I ain’t afraid to tell the truth,” declared Tex, stoutly. “He is. The
boys all say so. He’s grouchier than ever. He’s jealous. He watches
you—”

“Suppose I told him you had dared to say such things?” interrupted
Jane, trembling on the verge of strange emotion.

“Why, he’d be tickled to death. He hasn’t got nerve enough to tell you
himself.”

This cowboy, like all his comrades, was hopeless. She was about to
attempt to change the conversation when Tex took her into his arms.
She struggled—and fought with all her might. But he succeeded in
kissing her cheek and then the tip of her ear. Finally she broke away
from him. “Now—” she panted. “You’ve done it—you’ve insulted me. Now
I’ll never ride with you again—even speak to you.”

“Shore I didn’t insult you,” replied Tex. “Jane—won’t you marry me?”

“No.”

“Won’t you be my sweetheart—till you care enough to—to—”

“No.”

“But, Jane, you’ll forgive me, an’ be good friends again?”

“Never!” Jane did not mean all she said. She had come to understand
these men of the ranges—their loneliness—their hunger for love. But in
spite of her sympathy and affection she needed sometimes to be cold
and severe.

“Jane, you owe me a good deal—more than you’ve any idea,” said Tex,
seriously. “You’d never have been here but for me,” he said, solemnly.

Jane could only stare at him.

“I meant to tell you long ago. But I shore didn’t have nerve. Jane,
I—I was that there letter writin’ fellar. I wrote them letters you
got. I am Frank Owens.”

“No!” exclaimed Jane. She was startled. That matter of Frank Owens had
never been cleared up. It had ceased to rankle within her breast, but
it had never been forgotten. She looked up earnestly into the big
fellow’s face. It was like a mask. But she saw through it. He was
lying. He was brazen. Almost she thought she saw a laugh deep in his
eyes.

“I shore am thet lucky man who found you a job when you was sick an’
needed a change ... An’ thet you’ve grown so pretty an’ so well you
owe all to me.”

“Tex, if you really were Frank Owens, _that_ would make a great
difference. I owe him everything. I would—but I don’t believe you are
he.”

“It’s a sure honest gospel fact,” declared Tex. “I hope to die if it
ain’t!”

Jane shook her head sadly at his monstrous prevarication. “I don’t
believe you,” she said, and left him standing there.

It might have been mere coincidence that during the next few days both
Nevada and Panhandle waylaid and conveyed to her intelligence by
divers and pathetic arguments the astounding fact that each was Mr.
Frank Owens. More likely, however, was it the unerring instinct of
lovers who had sensed the importance and significance of this
mysterious correspondent’s part in bringing health and happiness into
Jane Stacey’s life. She listened to them with anger and sadness and
amusement at their deceit, and she had the same answer for both: “I
don’t believe you.”

And through these machinations of the cowboys, Jane had begun to have
vague and sweet and disturbing suspicions of her own as to the real
identity of that mysterious cowboy, Frank Owens. Andy had originality
as well as daring. He would have completely deceived Jane if she had
not happened, by the merest accident, to discover the relation between
him and certain love letters she had begun to find in her desk. She
was deceived at first, for the typewriting of these was precisely like
that in the letters by Frank Owens. She had been suddenly aware of a
wild start of rapture. That had given place to a shameful, open-eyed
realization of the serious condition of her own heart. But she
happened to discover in Andy the writer of these missives, and her
dream was shattered, if not forgotten. Andy certainly would not carry
love letters to her that he did not write. He had merely learned to
use the same typewriter, and at opportune times he had slipped the
letters into her desk. Jane now began to have her own little aching,
haunting secret which was so hard to put out of her mind. Every letter
and every hint of Frank Owens made her remember. Therefore she decided
to put a check to Andy’s sly double-dealing. She addressed a note to
him and wrote: “Dear Andy:—That day at the train when you thought I
was a poor old schoolmarm you swore you were not Frank Owens. Now you
swear you are! If you were a man who knew what truth is you’d have a
chance. But now—No! You are a monster of iniquity. I don’t believe
you.” She left the note in plain sight where she always found his
letters in her desk. The next morning the note was gone. And so was
Andy. She did not see him for three days.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It came about that a dance was to be held at Beacon during the late
summer. Jane was wild to go. But it developed that she could not
accept the escort of any one of her cowboy admirers without alienating
the others. And she began to see the visions of this wonderful dance
fade away when Springer accosted her. “Who’s the lucky cowboy to take
you to our dance?”

“He’s as mysterious and doubtful as Mr. Frank Owens,” replied Jane.

“You don’t mean you haven’t been asked to go?”

“They’ve all asked me. That’s the trouble.”

“I see. But you mustn’t miss it. It’d be pleasant for you to meet some
of the ranchers and their wives. Suppose you go with me?”

“Oh, Mr. Springer, I—I’d be delighted,” replied Jane.

“Thank you. Then it’s settled. I must be in town all that day on
cattle business—next Friday. I’ll ask the Hartwells to stop here for
you, an’ drive you in.” He seemed gravely, kindly interested as
always, yet there was something in his eyes that interfered with the
regular beating of Jane’s heart.

Jane spent much of the remaining leisure hours on a gown to wear at
this dance which promised so much. The Hartwells turned out to be nice
people whose little girl was one of Jane’s pupils. On the drive
townward, through the crisp fall gloaming, while listening to the
chatter of the children, and the talk of the elder Hartwells’, she
could not help wondering what Springer would think of her in the new
gown.

They arrived late. “Reckon it’s just as well for you an’ the
children,” said Mrs. Hartwell to Jane. “These dances last from seven
to seven.”

“Well, I am a tenderfoot from Missouri. But that’s not going to keep
me from having a wonderful time.”

“You will, dear, unless the cowboys fight over you, which is likely.
But at least there won’t be any shootin’. My husband an’ Springer are
both on the committee an’ they won’t admit any gun-totin’ cowpuncher.”
Here Jane had concrete evidence of something she had begun to suspect.
These careless, love-making cowboys might be dangerous.

Jane’s first sight of that dance hall astonished her. It was a big
barn-like room, roughly raftered and sided, decorated enough with
colored bunting to take away the bareness. The volume of sound amazed
her. Music and trample of boots, gay laughter, deep voices of men, all
seemed to merge into a loud hum. A swaying, wheeling horde of dancers
circled past her. No more time, then, was accorded her to clarify the
spectacle, for Springer suddenly confronted her. If Jane needed
assurance of what she had dreamed of and hoped for she had it in his
frank admiration. “Sure it’s somethin’ fine for Bill Springer to have
the prettiest girl here,” he said.

“Thank you—but, Mr. Springer—I sadly fear you were a cowboy before you
became a rancher,” she replied archly.

“Sure I was. An’ that you may find out,” he laughed. “Of course, I
could never come up to—say—Frank Owens. But let’s dance. I shall have
little enough of you in this outfit.”

So he swung her into the circle of dancers. Jane found him easy to
dance with, though he was far from expert. Jane felt strange and
uncertain with him. Then soon she became aware of the cessation of hum
and movement.

“Sure that was the best dance I ever had,” said Springer, with
something of radiance in his dark face. “An’ now I must lose you to
this outfit comin’.” Manifestly he meant his cowboys Tex, Nevada,
Panhandle and Andy, who presented themselves four abreast, shiny of
hair and face.

“Good luck,” he whispered. “If you get into trouble let me know.”

What he meant quickly dawned upon Jane. Right then it began. She saw
there was absolutely no use in trying to avoid or refuse these young
men. The wisest and safest course was to surrender, which she did.
“Boys, don’t all talk at once. I can dance with only one of you at a
time. So I’ll take you in alphabetical order. I’m a poor old
schoolmarm from Missouri. It’ll be Andy, Nevada, Panhandle and Tex.”

Despite their protests she held rigidly to this rule. Each one of the
cowboys took shameless advantage of his opportunity. Outrageously as
they all hugged her, Tex was the worst offender. She tried to stop
dancing, but he carried her along as if she had been a child. He was
rapt, and yet there seemed an imp of mischief in him.

“Tex—how dare—you!” panted Jane, when at last the dance ended. “You
ought to be—ashamed. I’ll not dance with you again.”

“Aw, now,” he pleaded.

“I won’t, Tex, so there. You’re no gentleman.”

“Ahuh!” he ejaculated, drawing himself up stiffly. “All right, I’ll go
out an’ get drunk, an’ when I come back I’ll clean out this heah
hall.”

“Tex! Don’t go,” she called, hurriedly, as he started to stride away.
“I’ll take that back. I will give you another dance—if you promise
to—to behave.” Thus she got rid of him, and was carried off by Mrs.
Hartwell to be introduced to ranchers and their wives, to girls and
their escorts. Her next partner was a tall, handsome cowboy named
Jones. She did not know quite what to make of him. He talked all the
time. He was witty and engaging, and he had a most subtly flattering
tongue. Jane could not fail to grasp that he might even be worse than
Tex, but at least he did not make love to her with physical violence.
She enjoyed that dance and admitted the singular, forceful charm about
this man. Jones demanded, rather than begged, for another dance, and
though she laughingly explained her predicament in regard to partners,
he said he would come after her anyhow. Then followed several dances
with new partners, between which Jane became more than ever the centre
of attraction. It all went to her head like wine. She was having a
perfectly wonderful time. Jones claimed her again, in fact whirled her
out on the floor; and it seemed then that the irresistible rush of the
dances was similar to her sensations. Twice again before the supper
hour at midnight she found herself dancing with Jones. How he managed
it she did not know. He just took her, carried her off by storm. Jane
did not awaken to this unpardonable conduct of hers until she
discovered that a little while before she had promised Tex his second
dance, and then she had given it to Jones.

[Illustration: Twice again ... she found herself dancing with
Jones.... He just took her, carried her off by storm.]

Then came the supper hour. It was a gala occasion, for which,
evidently, the children had heroically kept awake. Jane enjoyed the
children immensely. She sat with the numerous Hartwells, all of whom
were most kindly attentive to her. Jane wondered why Mr. Springer did
not put in an appearance, but considered his absence due to numerous
duties. When the supper hour ended Jane caught sight of Andy.

“Andy, please find Tex for me. I owe him a dance, and I’ll give him
the very first, unless Mr. Springer comes for it.”

Andy regarded her with an aloofness totally new to her. “Wal, I’ll
tell him. But I reckon Tex ain’t presentable just now. An’ all of us
are through dancin’ tonight. There’s been a little fight.”

“Oh, no!” cried Jane. “Who?”

“Wal, when you cut Tex’s dance for Beady Jones, you sure put our
outfit in bad,” replied Andy coldly. “At thet, there wouldn’t have
been anythin’ come of it here if Beady Jones hadn’t got to shootin’
off his chin. Tex slapped his face an’ thet sure started a fight.
Beady licked Tex, too, I’m sorry to say. Wal, we had a dickens of a
time keepin’ Nevada out of it. But we kept them apart till Springer
come out. An’ what the boss said to thet outfit was sure aplenty.
Beady Jones kept talkin’ back, nasty like—you know he was once foreman
for us—till Springer got good an’ mad. An’ he said: ‘Jones, I fired
you once because you was a little too slick for our outfit, an’ I’ll
tell you this, if it comes to a pinch I’ll give you the blamest
thrashin’ any smart-aleck cowboy ever got.’ You can bet that shut
Beady Jones’ loud mouth.”

After that rather lengthy speech, Andy left her unceremoniously
standing there alone. Jane looked for Springer, hoping yet fearing he
would come to her. But he did not. She had another uninterrupted dizzy
round of dancing until her strength failed. At four o’clock she was
scarcely able to walk. Her pretty dress was torn and mussed; her
slippers were worn ragged. And her feet were dead. From that time she
sat with Mrs. Hartwell looking on, and trying to keep awake.

At length the exodus began. Jane went out with the Hartwells, to be
received by Springer, who was decidedly cool to Jane. All through the
long ride out to the ranch he never addressed her. Springer’s sister,
and the matronly housekeeper were waiting for them, with cheery
welcome, and invitation to a hot breakfast.

Presently Jane found herself momentarily alone with the rancher. “Miss
Stacey,” he said, in a voice she had never heard, “your flirtin’ with
Beady Jones made trouble for the Springer outfit.”

“_Mr. Springer!_” she exclaimed, her head going up.

“Excuse me,” he returned, in cutting, dry tone that recalled Tex.
Indeed, this westerner was a cowboy, the same as those who rode for
him, only a little older, and therefore more reserved and careful of
speech. “If it wasn’t that—then you sure were much taken with Mr.
Beady Jones.”

“If that was anybody’s business it might have appeared so,” she
retorted, tingling all over with some feeling she could not control.
“He was a splendid dancer. He did not maul me like a bear. I really
had a chance to breathe during my dances with him. Then, too, he could
talk.”

Springer bowed with dignity. His dark face paled. It dawned upon Jane
that there was something intense in the moment. She began to repent of
her hasty pride.

“Thanks,” he said. “Please excuse my impertinence. I see you have
found your Mr. Frank Owens in this cowboy Jones, an’ it sure is not my
place to say any more.”

“But—but—Mr.—Springer—” faltered Jane, quite unstrung by that amazing
speech. The rancher, however, bowed again and left her. Jane felt too
miserable and weary for anything but rest.

About mid-afternoon Jane awakened greatly refreshed and relieved, and
strangely repentant. She dressed prettily and went out into the
courtyard, and naturally, as always, gravitated toward the corrals and
barns. Springer appeared, in company with a rancher Jane did not know.
She expected Springer to stop her for a few pleasant words as was his
wont. This time, however, he merely touched his sombrero and passed
on.

Then she went on down the lane, very thoughtful. Jane’s sharp eyes
caught sight of the boys before they espied her. And when she looked
up again every lithe back was turned.

She went back to her room, meaning to read or sew, or do school work.
But instead she cried.

Next day was Sunday. Heretofore every Sunday had been a full day for
Jane. This one bade fair to be empty.

Her attention was attracted by sight of a superb horseman riding up
the lane to the ranch-house. He seemed familiar, but she could not
place him. What a picture he made as he dismounted, slick and shiny,
booted and spurred, to doff his huge sombrero! Jane heard him ask for
Miss Stacey. Then she recognized him. Beady Jones! She was at once
horrified, and something else she could not name. She remembered now
he had asked if he might call Sunday and she had certainly not
refused. But for him to come after the fight with Tex and the bitter
scene with Springer! What manner of man was this cowboy Jones? He
certainly did not lack courage. But more to the point—what idea had he
of her? Jane rose to the occasion. She had let herself in for this,
and she would see it through. She would let Springer see she indeed
had taken Beady Jones for Mr. Frank Owens.

To that end Jane made her way down the porch to greet her cowboy
visitor. She made herself charming and gracious, and carried off the
embarrassing situation—for Springer was present—as if it were
perfectly natural. And she led Jones to one of the rustic benches down
the porch.

Manifest, indeed, was it that young Jones felt he had made a conquest.
He was the most forceful and bold person Jane had ever met. Soon he
waxed ardent. Jane was accustomed to the sentimental talk of cowboys,
but this fellow was neither amusing nor interesting. He was dangerous.
When Jane pulled her hand, by main force, free from his, and said she
was not accustomed to allow men such privileges, he grinned at her.
“Sure, sweetheart, you have missed a heap of fun,” he said. “An’ I
reckon I’ll have to break you in.”

Jane could not feel insulted at this brazen lout, but she certainly
raged at herself. Her instant impulse was to excuse herself and
abruptly leave him. But Springer was close by. She had caught his
dark, wondering, covert glances. And the cowboys were at the other end
of the long porch. Jane feared another fight. She had brought this
upon herself, and she must stick it out. The ensuing hour was an
increasing torment. At last it seemed she could not bear the false
situation any longer. And when Jones again importuned her to meet him
out on horseback she stooped to deception to end the interview. She
really did not concentrate her attention on his plan or take stock of
what she agreed to, but she got rid of him with ease and dignity
before Springer. After that she did not have the courage to stay out
and face them. Jane stole off to the darkness and loneliness of her
room.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The school teaching went on just the same, and the cowboys thawed out
and Springer returned somewhat to his kindliness, but Jane missed
something from her work and in them. At heart she grieved. Would it
ever be the same again?

There came a day when Jane rode off alone towards the hills. She
forgot the risk and the admonitions of the cowboys. She wanted to be
alone to think. Her happiness had sustained a subtle change. Her work,
the children, the friends she had made, even the horse she loved, were
no longer all-sufficient. Something had come over her. It was late
fall, but the sun was warm that afternoon. Before her lay the valley
range, and beyond it the foothills rose, and above them loomed the
dark beckoning mountains.

She rode fast until her horse was hot and she was out of breath. Then
she slowed down and for the first time she looked back toward the
ranch. It was a long way off—ten miles—a mere green spot in the gray.
And there was a horseman coming. As usual, some one of the cowboys had
observed her, let her think she had slipped away, and was now
following her. Today it angered Jane. She wanted to be alone. She
could take care of herself. And as was unusual with her, she used her
quirt on the horse. He broke into a gallop. She did not look back
again for a long time. When she did it was to discover that the
horseman had not only gained, but was now quite close to her. Jane
looked hard, but she could not recognize the rider. Once she imagined
it was Tex and again Andy.

[Illustration: Jane looked hard, but she could not recognize the
rider. Once she imagined it was Tex and again Andy. It did not make
any difference.]

Jane rode the longest and fastest race she had ever ridden. She
reached the low foothills and, without heeding the fact that she would
at once become lost, she entered the cedars and began to climb. At
times her horse had to walk and then she heard her pursuer breaking
through the cedars. He had to trail her by her horse’s tracks, and so
she was able to keep in the lead. It was not long until Jane realized
she was lost, but she did not care. She rode up and down and around
for an hour, until she was thoroughly tired out, and then up on top of
a foothill she reined in her horse and waited to give this pursuer a
piece of her mind.

What was her amaze, when she heard a thud of hoofs and cracking of
branches in the opposite direction from which she expected her
pursuer, to see a rider emerge from the cedars and trot his horse
toward her. Jane needed only a second glance to recognize Beady Jones.
Suddenly she knew that he was not the pursuer she had been so angrily
aware of. Jones’ horse was white. That checked her mounting anger.

Jones rode straight at her, and as he came close Jane saw his bold,
dark face and gleaming eyes. “Howdy, sweetheart,” sang out Jones, in
his cool devil-may-care way. “Reckon it took you a long time to meet
me as you promised.”

“I didn’t ride out to meet you, Mr. Jones,” replied Jane, spiritedly.
“I know I agreed to something or other, but even then I didn’t mean
it.”

“Yes, I had a hunch you was playin’ with me,” he returned, darkly.

He reached out a long gloved hand and grasped her arm. “What do you
mean, sir?” demanded Jane, trying to wrench free.

“Sure I mean a lot,” he said, grimly. “You stood for the love-makin’
of that Springer outfit. Now you’re goin’ to get a taste of somethin’
not so mushy.”

“Let go of me—you—you ruffian!” cried Jane, struggling fiercely. She
was both furious and terrified.

“Shucks! Your fightin’ will only make it interestin’. Come here, you
deceitful little cat.” And he lifted her out of her saddle over in
front of him. Jones’ horse, that had been frightened and plunging, ran
away into the cedars. Then Jones proceeded to embrace Jane. She
managed to keep her mouth from contact with his, but he kissed her
face and neck, kisses that seemed to pollute her.

“Jane, I’m ridin’ out of this country for good,” he said. “An’ I’ve
just been waitin’ for this chance. You bet you’ll remember Beady
Jones.”

Jane realized that Jones would stop at nothing. Frantically she fought
to get away from him, and to pitch herself to the ground. She
screamed. She beat and tore at him. She scratched his face till the
blood flowed. And as her struggles increased with her fright, she
gradually slipped down between him and the pommel of his saddle, with
head hanging down on one side and her feet on the other. This was
awkward and painful, but infinitely preferable to being crushed in his
arms. He was riding off with her as if she had been an empty sack.
Suddenly Jane’s hands, while trying to hold on to something to lessen
the severe jolt of her position, came in contact with Jones’ gun. Dare
she draw it and shoot him? Then all at once her ears filled with the
tearing gallop of another horse. Inverted as she was, she was able to
see and recognize Springer ride right at Jones and yell piercingly.
Next she felt Jones’ hard jerk at his gun. But, Jane had hold of it,
and suddenly she had her little hands like steel. The fierce energy
with which Jones wrestled to draw his gun threw Jane from the saddle.
And when she dropped clear of the horse the gun came with her.

“Hands up, Beady!” she heard Springer call out, as she lay momentarily
face down in the dust. Then she struggled to her knees, and crawled to
get away from proximity to the horses. She still clung to the heavy
gun. And when, breathless and almost collapsing, she fell back on the
ground she saw Jones with his hands above his head and Springer on
foot with levelled gun.

“Sit tight, cowboy,” ordered the rancher, in a hard tone. “It’ll take
mighty little to make me bore you.”

Then, while still covering Jones, evidently ready for any sudden move,
Springer spoke again. “Jane, did you come out to meet this cowboy?” he
asked.

“Oh, no! How can you ask that?” cried Jane, almost sobbing.

“She’s a liar, boss,” spoke up Jones, coolly. “She let me make love to
her. An’ she agreed to ride out an’ meet me. Wal, it sure took her a
spell, an’ when she did come she was shy on the love-makin’. I was
packin’ her off to scare some sense into her when you rode in.”

“Beady, I know your way with women. You can save your breath, for I’ve
a hunch you’re goin’ to need it.”

“Mr. Springer,” faltered Jane, getting to her knees. “I—I was
foolishly taken with this cowboy—at first. Then—that Sunday after the
dance when he called on me at the ranch—I saw through him then. I
heartily despised him. To get rid of him I did say I’d meet him. But I
never meant to. Then I forgot it. Today I rode for the first time. I
saw some one following me and thought it must be Tex or one of the
boys. Finally I waited and presently Jones rode up to me ... And Mr.
Springer he—he grabbed me off my horse—and handled me most
brutally—shamefully. I fought him with all my might, but what could I
do?”

Springer’s face changed markedly during Jane’s long explanation. Then
he threw his gun on the ground in front of Jane. “Jones, I’m goin’ to
beat you half to death,” he said grimly, and, leaping at the cowboy,
he jerked him out of the saddle sprawling on the ground. Next Springer
threw aside his sombrero, his vest, his spurs. But he kept on his
gloves. The cowboy rose to one knee, and he measured the distance
between him and Springer, and then the gun on the ground. Suddenly he
sprang toward it. But Springer intercepted him with a powerful kick
that tripped Jones and laid him flat.

“Jones, you’re sure about as low-down as they come,” he said, in dark
scorn. “I’ve got to be satisfied with beatin’ you when I ought to kill
you.”

“Ahuh! Wal, boss, it ain’t any safe bet thet you can beat me,”
returned Jones, sullenly, as he got up. As they rushed together Jane
had wit enough to pick up the gun, and then with it and Jones’, to get
back to a safe distance. She wanted to run away out of sight. But she
could neither do that nor keep her fascinated gaze from the
combatants. Even in her distraught condition she could see that the
cowboy, fierce and active and strong as he was, could not hold his own
with Springer. They fought over all the open space, and crashed into
the cedars and out again. The time came when Jones was on the ground
as much as he was erect. Bloody, dishevelled, beaten, he kept on
trying to stem the onslaught of blows.

Suddenly he broke off a dead branch of cedar, and brandishing it
rushed at the rancher. Jane uttered a cry, closed her eyes and sank
down. She heard fierce imprecations and sodden blows. When at length
she opened her eyes in terror, fearing something dreadful, she saw
Springer erect, wiping his face, and Jones lying prone on the ground.

Then Jane saw him go to his horse, untie a canteen from the saddle,
remove his bloody gloves and wash his face with a wet scarf. Next he
poured some water on Jones’ face. “Come on, Jane,” he called. “Reckon
it’s all over.”

He tied the bridle of Jones’ horse to a cedar, and leading his own
animal turned to meet Jane. “I want to compliment you on gettin’ that
cowboy’s gun,” he said, warmly. “But for that they’d sure have been
somethin’ bad. I’d have had to kill him, Jane.... Here, give me the
guns.... You poor little tenderfoot from Missouri. No, not tenderfoot
any longer. You became a westerner today.”

His face was bruised and cut, his dress dirty and bloody, but he did
not appear the worse for that fight. Jane found her legs scarcely able
to support her, and she had apparently lost her voice. “Let me put you
on my saddle till we find your horse,” he said, and lifted her lightly
as a feather to a seat crosswise. Then he walked with a hand on the
bridle.

Jane saw him examining the ground, evidently searching for horse
tracks. “Ha! here we are.” And he led off in another direction through
the cedars. Soon Jane espied her horse, calmly nibbling at the
bleached grass. In a few moments she was back in her own saddle,
beginning to recover somewhat from her distress. But she divined that
as fast as she recovered from one set of emotions she was going to be
tormented by another. “There’s a good cold spring down here in the
rocks,” remarked Springer. “I think you need a drink, an’ so do I.”

They rode down the sunny cedar slopes, into a shady ravine, and up to
some mossy cliffs from which a spring gushed.

Jane was now in the throes of thrilling, bewildering conjectures and
fears. Why had Springer followed her? Why had he not sent one of the
cowboys? Why did she feel so afraid and foolish? He had always been
courteous and kind and thoughtful, at least until she had offended so
egregiously. And here he was now. He had fought for her. Would she
ever forget? Her heart began to pound. And when he dismounted to take
her off her horse she knew it was to see a scarlet and tell-tale face,
“Mr. Springer, I—I thought you were Tex—or somebody,” she said.

He laughed as he took off his sombrero. His face was warm, and the
cuts were still bleeeding a little. “You sure can ride,” he replied.
“And that’s a good little pony.”

He loosened the cinches on the horses. “Won’t you walk around a
little? It’ll rest you. We are fifteen miles from home.”

“So far?” Then presently he lifted her up and stood beside her with a
hand on her horse. He looked up frankly into her face. The keen eyes
were softer than usual. He seemed so fine and strong and splendid. She
was afraid of her eyes and looked away. “When the boys found you were
gone they all saddled up to find you,” he said. “But I asked them if
they didn’t think the boss ought to have one chance. So they let me
come.”

Something terrible happened to Jane’s heart just then. She was
overwhelmed by a strange happiness that she must hide, but could not.
It seemed there was a long silence. She felt Springer there, but she
could not look at him. “Do you like it out here in the west?” he
asked, presently.

“Oh, I love it! I’ll never want to leave it,” she replied,
impulsively.

“I reckon I’m glad to hear that.” Then there fell another silence. He
pressed closer to her and seemed now to be leaning on the horse. She
wondered if he heard the weird knocking of her heart against her side.

“Will you be my wife an’ stay here always?” he asked, simply. “I’m in
love with you. I’ve been lonely since my mother died.... You’ll sure
have to marry some one of us. Because, as Tex says, if you don’t,
ranchin’ can’t go on much longer. These boys don’t seem to get
anywhere with you. Have I any chance—Jane—?”

He possessed himself of her gloved hand and gave her a gentle pull.
Jane knew it was gentle because she scarcely felt it. Yet it had
irresistible power. She was swayed by that gentle pull. She was
slipping sidewise in her saddle. She was sliding into his arms. A
little later he smiled up at her and said: “Jane, they call me Bill
for short. Same as they call me Boss. But my two front names are Frank
Owens.”

“Oh!” cried Jane, startled. “Then you—you—”

“Yes, I’m the guilty one,” he replied happily. “It happened this way.
My bedroom, you know, is next to my office. I often heard the boys
poundin’ the typewriter. I had a hunch they were up to some trick. So
I spied upon them—heard about Frank Owens an’ the letters to the
little schoolmarm. At Beacon I got the postmistress to give me your
address. An’ of course I intercepted some of your letters. It sure has
turned out great.”

“I—I don’t know about you or those terrible cowboys,” replied Jane,
dubiously. “How did _they_ happen on the name Frank Owens?”

“Sure that’s a stumper. I reckon they put a job up on me.”

“Frank—tell me—did _you_ write the—the love letters?” she asked,
appealingly. “There were two kinds of letters. That’s what I could
never understand.”

“Jane, I reckon I did,” he confessed. “Somethin’ about your little
notes just won me. Does that make it all right?”

“Yes, Frank, I reckon it does,” she returned, leaning down to kiss
him.

“Let’s ride back home an’ tell the boys,” said Springer, gayly. “The
joke’s sure on them. I’ve corralled the little schoolmarm from
Missouri.”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1926 issue
of McCalls magazine.]



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