Bat Wing Bowles Part 25

"Yes, Mother!" replied a dutiful voice from within.

"Come out on the gallery--Mr. Bowles is here. But she met some very nice people there--some of the real old families, you know--and I thought----"

The door opened at this point, and Bowles leapt to his feet in astonishment. It was a different Dixie that appeared before him--the same bewitching creature who had dazzled his eyes at the Wordsworth Club, and she wore the very same gown. And what a wonderful transformation it seemed to make in her--she was so quiet and demure now, and she greeted him in quite the proper manner.

"I was just telling Mr. Bowles, Dixie," continued Mrs. Lee, still holding to her fixed idea, "that you went out quite a little in New York--and perhaps you might have met back there."

For a moment the two eyed each other shrewdly, each guessing how much the other had said, and then Bowles opened up the way.

"Why, really, Miss Lee," he exclaimed, still gazing at her with admiring eyes, "you do look familiar in that dress! Perhaps we have met in a crush, like s.h.i.+ps that pa.s.s in the night? May I ask at what function you wore this charming gown?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Bowles," returned Dixie May; "but, rather than run over the whole list and recall a winter's agony, let's take it for granted that we met. It's a fine, large place to come away from, isn't it--dear old New York? Wasn't the slush of those sidewalks something elegant? And that steam heat! My! It never gets as hot as that out here.

Yes, indeed, Mother, I'm sure Mr. Bowles and I have met before; but,"

she added, and here her voice changed, "since he's traveling incognito, changing his name as a garment and not getting any letters from home, perhaps it's just as well not to dwell upon the matter."

"Why, Dixie, child!" protested Mrs. Lee. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Nothing at all, Mother, except that he is our guest. Shall we go in now to dinner?"

They went in, and throughout the rest of the evening Bowles was guiltily conscious of a startled mother's eyes which regarded him with anxious scrutiny at first and then became very resolute and stern. Mrs. Lee had solved her problem, whatever it was, and settled upon her duty. Bowles felt a social chill creep into the air as he rose to go, and he braced himself for some ultimatum; but his hostess did not speak her thoughts.

There was no further allusion to New York, or his alias, or the fact that he had acted a lie. All those things were taken for granted, and he left with a balked feeling, as if he had failed of some purpose. Her very silence clutched at his heart, and her pa.s.sive hand-touch as they parted. Dixie, too, seemed to share in the general aloofness. She had said good-night without any friendly grip of the fingers, looking at him very straight, as if to fathom his deceit.

Bowles lay awake that night and thought it out, and he saw where he had made his mistake. From the first his manner had been evasive almost to mendacity, and, with both Dixie and her mother, he had made a mystery of his past. Now the time for explanations was gone, and he was reaping his just reward. He should have taken Dixie into his confidence when they were alone beneath the cedars; he should have answered that question of hers when she asked it--but now it was too late.

"Mr. Bowles," she had said, "who are you, anyway?"

And when he had evaded her, she had never asked again. And now, through the same d.a.m.nable inept.i.tude, he had estranged her mother and lost his welcome at the big house. All the explanations in the world would not square him now, for one deceit follows another and his second word was no better than his first. He could see with half an eye that Mrs. Lee distrusted him. He must seem to her candid mind no less than a polite adventurer, a ne'er-do-weel young profligate from the East with intentions as dark as his past. Nor could he bring himself to blame her, for the inference was logical--if a man conceals his ident.i.ty and denies his acquaintances and friends, surely there must be something shameful that he is at such pains to hide.

But the way out? That was what kept Bowles awake. Certainly, if he were a gentleman, he would stay away from the house. Nor would it be wholly honorable to waylay Dixie May and explain. And, besides, there was nothing to explain. He had references, of course, but if he gave them, his aunt would discover his whereabouts and summon him home--and then there was Christabel!

The memory of those prearranged meetings at his aunt's swept over him, and he shuddered where he lay. Dear, pretty, patient Christabel! What if she should sense this conspiracy to make him marry her and lose that friendly smile? What if she should blush as he had blushed at each chance tete-a-tete, gazing nervously into his eyes to guess if he would yield? And to wonder if that was love! Ah no, he could never do that!

Rather than inflict such torture upon her he would flee to the depths of the wilderness and hide until she was married. But his safety lay only in flight, for his aunt was a resolute woman, with tears and sighs at her command, if all else failed. Yes, he must run away--that was the way out.

And it would solve all his problems at once. There would be no lame explanations to make at the house, no cheap jealousies with Hardy Atkins, no breaking of his cherished dream of seeing the West. He would move on into the White Mountains and explore their fastnesses with Brigham. Or, lacking Brigham, he would plunge into that wilderness alone.

The harsh clangor of Gloomy Gus's dishpan cut short his fitful sleep, and he rolled out of bed with his mind made up to quit. At breakfast he said nothing, bolting his food with the rest of them, and followed on to the horse corral for a private word with Brig. But right there fate played him a scurvy trick, and disrupted all his schemes, for as he stepped around behind the corral Hardy Atkins strode in upon him and made signs to certain of his friends.

"Now, lookee here, Mr. Man," he said, and he said it quietly for once, "you been four-flus.h.i.+n' around hyer long enough, and we give you warnin'

to git. We got yore record and we know what you're after, so don't hand us out any bull. Yore name ain't Bowles and you're aimin' at Dix, but she's got too many good friends. Now we've let you off easy, so far, but Gawd he'p you if we come ag'in. Ain't that so, boys?"

"You bet it is!" answered three or four, and the rest of them looked their disdain.

But an unreasoning anger swept over Bowles at the very first word, and he returned the sneer with interest.

"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you have threatened me before, but I am not afraid of you. You cannot frighten me away."

"Oh, I cain't, cain't I?" jeered Hardy Atkins, while his friends rumbled threats from behind. "Well, _poco p.r.o.nto_ you're liable to change yore mind. You come into this country on a Hinglish trot and we thought you was a sport, but now that we know better, you got to make good or git.

Ain't that so, boys?"

"You bet it is!" roared the bunch, and Atkins. .h.i.tched up his shaps.

"All right," he said. "You got a job with this outfit by claimin' that you could ride. _Now_--you're so brave--either you ride that Dunbar hawse the way you said or we kick you out o' camp! You can take yore choice."

"Very well," said Bowles; "I'll ride the horse."

"Like h.e.l.l you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not heed their words.

"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."

At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up on Dunbar!

"Come on--let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix you good and plenty--the first time the folks leave the house. And meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."

"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on the low ground.

CHAPTER XXII

THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR

In the Homeric simplicity of the cow camps, where the primitive emotions still rule, any soul-stirring which cannot find its expression in curses is pretty sure to seek the level of laughter. The boys were profoundly moved by Bowles' declaration of intention, but after gazing upon him for a spell in mingled incredulity and awe, their lips began to curl.

"Aw--_him_!" they said. "Him ride Dunbar? Umph-umm! We'll wake up some mornin' and find him gone!"

Then, as a morning or two pa.s.sed and Bowles was still in his place, they began to lapse into jest.

"Old Henry will sh.o.r.e be s'prised when he comes back from town,"

observed blithesome Happy Jack. "He'll find Bowles ridin' Dunbar with a hackamore and feedin' him sugar from his hand. Big doin's soon to come, boys--boss and family goin' down to Chula Vista to-morrer."

"Well, we better hog-tie Hinglish, then," grumbled Buck Buchanan; "he'll never last till mornin'. Gittin' right close on to that time!"

"Never you mind about Hinglish," retorted Brigham Clark, whose loyalty had been fanned to a flame. "If it was you, Buck Buchanan, we couldn't see you fer dust right now. They ain't a man of ye dares to _say_ he'd ride Dunbar, let alone the doin' of it. Will you ride him second if he throws Bowles off? Well, keep yore face shut, then! The whole bunch of ye ought to be canned fer tryin' to git 'im killed!"

"Well, let 'im go on away, then!" burst out Hardy Atkins. "_We_ never told 'im to ride Dunbar--we told 'im to quit his four-flus.h.i.+n' and either make good or git. There's the road down there--let 'im take to it!"

He jerked an imperious hand at Bowles, who answered him with a scowl.

"If you will kindly mind your own business, Mr. Atkins," he purled, "I shall certainly be greatly obliged."

He gave each word the Harvard accent and tipped it off with venom, for Bowles was losing his repose. In fact, he was mad, mad all over, and at every remark he bristled like a dog. A concatenation of circ.u.mstances had thrown him into the company of these Texas brawlers, but he aimed to show by every means in his power his absolute contempt for their trickery and his determination to stand on his rights. He had said he would ride Dunbar, and that was enough--he had given his word as a gentleman. Therefore, he resented their insinuations and desired only to be left alone. Certainly he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied without responding to ill-natured remarks.

Fate was piling things up on poor Bowles, and he earnestly longed for the end. There is a cynic's saying that every time a man gets into trouble his girl goes back on him, just to carry out the run of luck; and while of course it isn't true, it seemed that way to Bowles. Perhaps his own manner had had something to do with it, but, the morning after his rebuff, Dixie greeted him almost as a stranger, and, falling back shortly afterward into her old carefree way of talking, she began to josh with the boys. Then she took a long ride with Brigham, a ride that left him all lit up with enthusiasm and made him want to talk about love. As a matter of fact, Dixie had sensed something big in the air and was anxiously ferreting it out, but Bowles did not know about that. All he knew was that he disapproved of her conduct, and wondered vaguely what her mother would say. Not that it was any of his business, but he wondered all the same; and, wondering, shook his head and sighed.

But three days of flirting and sleuthing brought nothing to Dixie's net.

From the cook down, the outfit was a solid phalanx against her--they would talk and smile but they never showed their hand. One clue and only one she had--there seemed to be an unusual interest in when she was going to town. First on one pretext and then on another they inquired casually about the date, and if her folks were going along too. So, whatever the deviltry was, it was something that called for secrecy--and it was due on the day they left home. She looked them over as they gathered about the evening fire, and smoothed her hair down thoughtfully--and the next morning she started for town.