Ben Blair Part 13

Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shaded lamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining of a headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even more p.r.o.nounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watching the door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloom formed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenly about his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek was laid against his own.

"Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice.

For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into the brown eyes. "Why?" he asked.

"Because,"--her voice was low, her answering look was steady,--"because it won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away--move back into civilization."

For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheek against her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair.

Scotty followed her with his eyes.

"Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked.

Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip of rice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of a peace-offering.

"No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can't change. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got to take her away--for good."

Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the flame had burned well along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned it to a stump.

"Aren't you happy here, Flossie?" he asked gently.

The girl's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked past him absently.

"Really, for once in my life," she answered seriously, "I spoke quite unselfishly. I was thinking only of mamma." There was a pause, and a deeper concentration in the brown eyes. "As for myself, I hardly know.

Yes, I do know. I'm happy now, but I wouldn't be long. The life here is too narrow; I'd lose interest in it. At last I'd have a frantic desire, one I couldn't resist, to peep just over the edge of the horizon and take part in whatever is going on beyond." She smiled. "I might run away, or marry an Indian, or do something shocking!"

Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger.

"Can't you think of anything that would interest you and broaden your life enough to make it pleasant?" he ventured.

This time mirth shone upon the girl's face, and a laugh sounded in her voice.

"Papa, papa," she said, "I didn't think that of you! Are you so anxious to get rid of your daughter?" As swiftly as it had come, the smile vanished, leaving in its place a softer and warmer color.

"I'm not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, "to pretend not to understand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the world I could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with him and be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrong disposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyes sparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I could care for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and did them better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where others are. No, I never could live here."

Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed a stray speck of dust from his sleeve.

"In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father," he remarked quietly.

The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up she threw her arms impulsively about her father's neck.

"Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world like you! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek again and again. But for the first time in her life that Florence could remember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself.

"Nevertheless," he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could never marry a man like your father,--one who had no desire to be known of men, but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make you happy. You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of his movements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into the wrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurt me, Florence."

The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. She dropped her face into her hands.

"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed, there was nothing to be said.

Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid face downward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to the floor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to his sleeping-room he paused.

"You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds, Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you have them." He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about our leaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped it wouldn't be necessary for a while yet." He paused, fingering the k.n.o.b absently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish."

This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, the girl sobbed as though her heart would break.

CHAPTER IX

A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE

Florence got her dogs promptly. They were two big mouse-colored grayhounds, with tails like rats and protruding ribs. They were named "Racer" and "Pacer," and were warranted by their late owner to out-distance any rabbit that ever drew breath. The girl felt that an event as important as a coursing should be the occasion of a gathering of the neighboring ranchers; but at the mere suggestion her conventional mother threw up her hands in horror. It was bad enough for her daughter to go out alone, but as the one woman among all that lot of cowboys--it was too much for her to endure. Finally, as a compromise, Florence agreed to invite only the people of the Box R Ranch to the first event.

So the invitations for a certain day, composed with fitting formality, were sent, and in due time were ceremoniously accepted.

The chase was scheduled to begin soon after daybreak, and before that time Rankin and Ben Blair were at the Baker house. They wore their ordinary clothes of wool and leather, but Scotty appeared in a wonderful red hunting-coat, which, though a bit moth-eaten in spots, nevertheless showed glaringly against the brown earth of the ranch-house yard.

With the exception of the dogs, which were kept properly hungry for the hunt, and Mollie, who had washed her hands of the whole affair, the party all had breakfast, Scotty himself serving the coffee with the skill of a head-waiter. Then the old buckboard, carefully oiled and tightened for the occasion, was gotten out, a team of the fastest, wiriest mustangs the Box R possessed was attached, and Rankin and Baker upon the seat, Florence and Ben, well-mounted, trailing behind, the party sallied forth. In order to avoid fences they had agreed to go ten miles to the south before beginning operations. There a great tract of government land, well grazed but untouched by the hand of man, gave all but unlimited room.

The morning was beautiful and clear beyond the comprehension of city dwellers, a typical day of prairie Dakota in late Fall. Far out over the broad expanse, indefinite as to distance, the rising sun seemed resting upon the very rim of the world. All about, near at hand, stretching into the horizon, glistening, sparkling, innumerable frost crystals, product of the past night, gleamed like scattered gems, showing in their coloring every blended shade of the rainbow. The glory of it all appealed to the girl, and throwing back her head she drew in deep breaths of the tonic air.

"I'm going to miss these mornings terribly when I'm gone," she said soberly.

Ben Blair scrutinized the backs of the two men in the buckboard with apparent interest.

"I didn't know you intended leaving," he said. "Where are you going?"

Florence regarded her companion from the corner of her eye.

"I'm going away for good," she said.

Ben s.h.i.+fted half around in the saddle and folded back the rim of his big sombrero.

"For good, you say?"

The girl's brown eyes were cast down demurely. "Yes, for good," she repeated.

They had been losing ground. Now in silence they galloped ahead, the regular m.u.f.fled patter of their horses' feet upon the frozen sod sounding like the distant rattle of a snare-drum. Once again even with the buckboard, they lapsed into a walk.

"You haven't told me where you're going," repeated Blair.

The question seemed to be of purest politeness, as a host inquires if his visitor has rested well; yet for a dozen years they two had lived nearest neighbors, and had grown to maturity side by side. She concluded there were some phases of this silent youth which she had not yet learned.

"We haven't decided where we're going yet," she replied. "Mamma wants to go to England, but papa and I refuse to leave this country. Then daddy wants to live in a small town, and I vote for a big one. Just now we're at deadlock."

A smile started in Ben's blue eyes and spread over his thin face.