Wildfire would take a bunch of grass from Lucy Bostil's hand.Slone's feelings had undergone some reaction, though he still loved the horse.But it was love mixed with bitterness.More than ever he made up his mind that Lucy should have Wildfire.Then he walked around his place, planning the work he meant to start at once.
Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew.
Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he went to bed early and slept like a log.If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing, in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember.
Almost at once he had become attached to his little home, and the more he labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his attachment.Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a loss of something vague and sweet.Many times he caught himself watching with eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among the cottonwoods.
Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place began to have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more.Then the view down the gray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable to Slone.It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life.His keen desert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, dark monument, gold-crowned, in the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speak words that had transformed life for him.He would ride out there some day.The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him.
One morning Slone had a visitor--old Brackton.Slone's cordiality died on his lips before it was half uttered.Brackton's former friendliness was not in evidence indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor "Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' up hyar," he said.
Slone spread his hands and explained in few words.
"So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet.But Vorhees was mum.
Fact is, he was sure mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with interest."Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said, bluntly.
"Is that so?"
"You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone.I kind of took a shine to you at first, an' thet's why I come up hyar to tell you it'd be wise fer you to vamoose.""What!" exclaimed Slone.
Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, continued: "I've no call to give you a hunch, but I'll do it jest because Idid like you fust off."
The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at once.
"What'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" demanded Brackton.
"He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper.
"Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you--fer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her the way Joel seen you.""D--n the loon!" muttered Slone, rising to pace the path.
"Wal, Joel's a bit off, but he's not loony all the time.He's seen you an'
he's tellin' it.When Bostil hears it you'd better be acrost the canyon!"Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and rage overtook him.
"Joel's down at my house.He had fits after you beat him, an' he 'ain't got over them yet.But he could blab to the riders.Van Sickle's lookin' fer you.
An' to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer things about you.I shut him up quick.But I ain't guaranteein' I can keep him shut up.""I'll bet you I shut him up," declared Slone."What more did the fool say?""Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts---down among the monuments --fer any considerable time?" queried Brackton.
"Yes, I have--several weeks out there, an' about ten days or so around the Ford.""Where was you the night of the flood?"
The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone.
"If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks.I heard that flood comin' down long before it got here," replied Slone, deliberately.
Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended.
"Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" he said, turning away.
"Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly."But I'll not take the hunch.""Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.
Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of cottonwoods.
"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone."Funny old man.Maybe Creech's not the only loony one hereabouts."Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and worried him all day.After supper he decided to walk down into the village, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path.
When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he became gloomy.Bostil's right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly reason.Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking.Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, which he had covered with goatskins.It struck him a little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached the porch.
"Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark."Sure makes--me--puff to climb--up this mountain."Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them.He was the more surprised to see Holley unmistakably amiable.
"Hello, Holley! How are you?" he replied."Have a seat.""Wal, I'm right spry fer an old bird.But I can't climb wuth a d--n....
Say, this here beats Bostil's view."
"Yes, it's fine," replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as he sat down on the porch step.What could Holley want with him? This old rider was above curiosity or gossip.
