The Rider of Golden Bar Part 19

"What's a few years between man and wife? Besides, I ain't so old. I ain't forty yet."

"You will be next year, and I'll bet she ain't twenty yet."

"She'll last all the longer."

It was mid-morning next day, when Hazel was making b.u.t.ter, that a rap sounded on the kitchen door.

"Come in," she called continuing to turn steadily the handle of her box churn.

It was Rafe Tuckleton who opened the door and walked in. Hazel's eyes narrowed at sight of the man. Rafe Tuckleton! What on earth did he want?

"Uncle's out," she said shortly.

"I didn't come to see him," explained Rafe, with a smile he strove to make ingratiating. "I came to see you."

"I don't know what you can want to see me about."

"I have my reasons," said Rafe vaguely.

Hat in hand, he started to sidle to a chair.

"Don't they have any doors where you live?" Hazel inquired sharply.

"Oh," Rafe wheeled hastily and closed the door. He set a trifle to the young lady's account. He was not accustomed to being talked to this way. The snip!

He gained the chair at last, sat down, crossed his legs and crowned a sharp and bony knee with his hat.

"Yeah," he intoned, pulling one horn of his crescent-shaped mustache.

"I come to see you." It never occurred to him to offer to turn the churn-handle for her. In his estimation women were made for the especial comfort and delectation of men. Why put oneself out? Quite so.

Hazel continued to turn the handle in silence.

"Makin' b.u.t.ter?" was Rafe's next remark.

"Not at all," Hazel replied sweetly. "I'm was.h.i.+ng blankets."

As humor it was not subtle. But neither was the man subtle. He laughed aloud and slapped his knee.

"Pretty good. Got a tongue in your head, ain't you?"

Again he pulled his mustache and favored her with what he conceived to be a most fetching leer. He succeeded in making her yearn to hurl the churn at him.

"You've seen me," she said suddenly, raising her dark eyes to his face.

"Why not move right along?"

"That's all right," he said easily. "You're only mad at me account of that business the other day. Nothing at all, that wasn't. Just a li'l mistake. We all make them. You mustn't hold it against me."

"But I do hold it against you!" she cried vehemently. "You tried to murder him!"

Rafe raised a bland hand, palm outward. "Not a-tall. You've got it all wrong. I might have known you would. Women never do get things straight."

"I got this straight all right, and you might as well know I haven't a bit of use for you, and I don't want you in my kitchen. So there!"

"Now listen, li'l girl," he said persuasively. "You don't understand me a-tall, I tell you. I may look hard--a rough diamond but I'm the pure quill underneath, and I like you."

Hazel was so surprised that she stopped churning. She stared at him, saucer-eyed, her mouth open.

Rafe nodded his head at her. "Yeah, I like you. I have liked you a-uh-long time. And I've got a proposition to make you. How'd you like to marry me?"

Hazel's expression registered immediate distaste. "I wouldn't like.

Not for a minute. No."

Rafe considered it necessary to explain matters more fully. "I mean marry me all regular and go to live at my ranch. You wouldn't have to work hard. You could have the was.h.i.+n' done and have help in the kitchen. I'm a mighty easy feller to get along with too, once you get to know me."

"I don't want to get to know you!" Hazel had resumed her churning, but her negation was no less decisive.

"I'd be good to you. Give you all the dresses and fixings you want--in reason. Say, I'd even have one of these cabinet organs packed in for you. New furniture, too--in reason. I'll be generous. I've got money, and I'd sure be willing to spend it on a girl like you."

"You needn't bother."

He removed his, hat from his knee, uncrossed his legs and dropped the hat on the floor. He propped his hands on his knees and surveyed her, his head on one side.

"You don't know what you're refusing," he told her. "Marry me and you won't have to work like this. Nawsir. I'm a rich man, I am. Here, let's talk it over."

He rose to his feet and came toward her. She promptly reached behind her and possessed herself of the singing kettle.

"If you touch me," she said hysterically, "I'll douse you with boiling water!"

"There, there," he said, with a light laugh, "I didn't mean to scare you. Set the kettle down, there's a good girl."

But the good girl had other ideas. "You get out of here. I don't want you around."

Her show of temper caused his own to flare up. "There's no use for you to get mad. None a-tall. You act like I'd insulted you instead of doing you a honor."

At which her sense of humor came to her rescue and she laughed in his face. He picked up his hat and faced her, scowling.

"I ain't mad," he told her. "Not a bit. It don't pay to get mad with a woman. But I want you to know I'm comin' back for another answer. I ain't satisfied you mean 'no.' And, anyway, I want you, and I'm gonna have you. That's all there is to it. You think it over."

He nodded stiffly, still scowling, and started toward the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. When he turned and came back to the table, she instantly retreated to the stove and laid her hand on the kettle.

"You needn't go to pick up that thing," he said, both fists clenched on the tabletop. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I want to know something.

Billy Wingo comes here, doesn't he?"

"He comes--yes. Why not?"

"You like him?"

"What's that to you?"