The Ranchman Part 12

"Squint was sayin' you didn't expect him to be here, an' that I'd have to do the explainin'. He couldn't come, you see."

"Ashamed, I suppose," she said coldly.

She was facing the puncher now, and she saw him grin.

"Why, no, ma'am; I don't reckon he's a heap ashamed. But it'd be mighty inconvenient for him. You see, ma'am, this mornin', when he was gittin'

ready to ride to the south line, his cayuse got an ornery streak an'

throwed him, sprainin' Squint's ankle."

The girl's emotions suddenly reacted; the resentment she had yielded to became self-reproach. For she had judged hastily, and she had always felt that one had no right to judge hastily.

And Taylor had been remarkably considerate; for he had not even permitted her to know of the accident until after noon. That indicated that he had no intention of forcing himself on her.

She hesitated, saw Martha grinning into a hand, looked at the puncher's expressionless face, and felt that she had been rather prudish. Her cheeks flushed with color.

Taylor had actually been a martyr on a small scale in confining himself to the bunkhouse, when he could have enjoyed the comforts and s.p.a.ciousness of the ranchhouse if it had not been for her own presence.

"Is-is his ankle badly sprained?" she hesitatingly asked the now sober-faced puncher.

"Kind of bad, ma'am; he ain't been able to do no walkin' on it. Been hobblin' an' swearin', mostly, ma'am. It's sure a trial to be near him."

"And it is warm here; it must be terribly hot in that little place!"

She was at the edge of the porch now, her face radiating sympathy.

"I am not surprised that he should swear!" she told the puncher, who grinned and muttered:

"He's sure first cla.s.s at it, ma'am."

"Why," she said, paying no attention to the puncher's compliment of his employer, "he is hurt, and I have been depriving him of his house. You tell him to come right out of that stuffy place! Help him to come here!"

And without waiting to watch the puncher depart, she darted into the house, pulled a big rocker out on the porch, got a pillow and arranged it so that it would form a resting-place for the injured man's head-providing he decided to occupy the chair, which she doubted-and then stood on the edge of the porch, awaiting his appearance.

Inside the bunkhouse the puncher was grinning at Taylor, who, with his right foot swathed in bandages, was sitting on a bench, anxiously awaiting the delivery of the puncher's message.

"Well, talk, you d.a.m.ned grinning inquisitor!" was Taylor's greeting to the puncher. "What did she say?"

"At first she didn't seem to be a heap overjoyed to know that you was in this country," said the other; "but when she heard you'd been hurt she sort of stampeded, invitin' you to come an' set on the porch with her."

Taylor got up and started for the door, the bandaged foot dragging clumsily.

"Shucks," drawled the puncher; "if you go to _runnin'_ to her she'll have suspicions. Accordin' to my notion, she expects you to come a hobblin', same as though your leg was broke. 'Help him to come,' she told me. An' you're goin' that way-you hear me! I'll bust your ankle with a club before I'll have her think I'm a liar!"

"Maybe I _was_ a little eager," grinned Taylor.

An instant later he stepped out of the bunkhouse door, leaning heavily on the puncher's shoulder.

The two made slow progress to the porch; and Taylor's ascent to the porch and his final achievement of the rocking-chair were accomplished slowly, with the a.s.sistance of Miss Harlan.

Then, with a face almost the color of the scarlet neckerchief he wore, Taylor watched the retreat of the puncher.

His face became redder when Miss Harlan drew another rocker close to his and demanded to be told the story of the accident.

"My own fault," declared Taylor. "I was in a hurry. Accidents always happen that way, don't they? Slipped trying to swing on my horse, with him running. Missed the stirrup. Clumsy, wasn't it?"

Eager to keep his word, of course, Marion reasoned. She had insisted that he be gone when she arrived, and he had injured himself hurrying.

She watched him as he talked of the accident. And now for the first time she understood why he had acquired the nickname Squint.

His eyes were deep-set, though not small. He did not really squint, for there was plenty of room between the eyelids-which, by the way, were fringed with lashes that might have been the envy of any woman; but there were many little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which spread fanwise toward cheek and brow, and these created the illusion of squinting.

Also, he had a habit of partially closing his eyes when looking directly at one; and at such times they held a twinkling glint that caused one to speculate over their meaning.

Miss Harlan was certain the twinkle meant humor. But other persons had been equally sure the twinkle meant other emotions, or pa.s.sion. Looking into Taylor's eyes in the dining-car, Carrington had decided they were filled with cold, implacable hostility, with the promise of violence, to himself. And yet the squint had not been absent.

Whatever had been expressed in the eyes had been sufficient to deter Carrington from his announced purpose to "knock h.e.l.l out of" their owner.

The girl was aware that Taylor was not handsome; that his attractions were not of a surface character. Something about him struck deeper than that. A subtle magnetism gripped her-the magnetism of strength, moral and mental. In his eyes she could see the signs of it; in the lines of his jaw and the set of his lips were suggestions of indomitability and force.

All the visible signs were, however, glossed over with the deep, slow humor that radiated from him, that glowed in his eyes.

It all made her conscious of a great similarity between them; for despite the doubts and suspicions of the people of Westwood, she had been able to survive-and humor had been the grace that had saved her from disappointment and pessimism. Those other traits in Taylor-visible to one who studied him-she knew for her own; and her spirits now responded to his.

Her cheeks were glowing as she looked at him, and her eyes, half veiled by the drooping lashes, were dancing with mischief.

"You were in that hot bunkhouse all morning," she said. "Why didn't you send word before?"

"You were careful to tell me that you didn't want me around when you came."

There was a gleam of reproach in his eyes.

"But you were injured!"

"Look how things go in the world," he invited, narrowing his eyes at her. "It's almost enough to make a man let go all holds and just drift along. Maybe a man would be just as well off.

"Early this morning I knew I had to light out for the day, and I didn't want to go any more than a gopher wants to go into a rattlesnake's den.

But I had to keep my word. Then Spotted Tail gets notions--"

"Spotted Tail?" she interrupted.

"My horse," he grinned at her. "He gets notions. Maybe he wants to get away as much as I want to stay. Anyhow, he was in a hurry; and things shape up so that I've got to stay.

"And then, when I hang around the bunkhouse all morning, worrying because I'm afraid you'll find out that I didn't keep my word, and that I'm still here, you send word that you'll not object to me coming on the porch with you. I'd call that a misjudgment all around-on my part."

"Yes-it was that," she told him. "You certainly are ent.i.tled to the comforts of your own house-especially when you are hurt. But are you sure you _worried_ because you were afraid I would discover you were here?"

"I expect you can prove that by looking at me, Miss Harlan-noticing that I've got thin and pale-looking since you saw me last?"

She threw a demure glance at him. "I am afraid you are in great danger; you do not look nearly as well as when I saw you, the first time, on the train."