The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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“Which merely shows, ma'am, what is possible when you give a sound man twenty-four hours a day in our hills for a few years,” he added. “Thanks to your nursing he's going to shave through by the narrowest margin possible. I told him to-day that he owed his life to you, Miss Messiter.”
“I don't think you need have told him that Doctor,” returned that young woman, not a little vexed at him, “especially since you have just been telling me that he owes it to Wyoming air and his own soundness of constitution.”
When she returned to the sickroom to give her patient his medicine he wanted to tell her what the doctor had said, but she cut him off ruthlessly and told him not to talk.
“Mayn't I even say 'Thank you?'” he wanted to know.
“No; you talk far too much as it is.”
He smiled “All right. Y'u sit there in that chair, where I can see y'u doing that fancywork and I'll not say a word. It'll keep, all right, what I want to say.”
“I notice you keep talking,” she told him, dryly.
“Yes, ma'am. Y'u had better have let me say what I wanted to, but I'll be good now.”
He fell asleep watching her, and when he awoke she was still sitting there, though it was beginning to grow dark. He spoke before she knew he was awake.
“I'm going to get well, the doctor thinks.”
“Yes, he told me,” she answered.
“Did he tell y'u it was your nursing saved me?”
“Please don't think about that.”
“What am I to think about? I owe y'u a heap, and it keeps piling up. I reckon y'u do it all because it's your Christian duty?” he demanded.
“It is my duty, isn't it?”
“I didn't say it wasn't, though I expaict Bighorn County will forget to give y'u a unanimous vote of thanks for doing it. I asked if y'u did it because it was your duty?”
“The reason doesn't matter so that I do it,” she answered, steadily.
“Reasons matter some, too, though they ain't as important as actions out in this country. Back in Boston they figure more, and since y'u used to go to school back there y'u hadn't ought to throw down your professor of ethics.”
“Don't you think you have talked enough for the present?” she smiled, and added: “If I make you talk whenever I sit beside you I shall have to stay away.”
“That's where y'u've ce'tainly got the drop on me, ma'am. I'm a clam till y'u give the word.”
Before a week he was able to sit up in a chair for an hour or two, and soon after could limp into the living room with the aid of a walking stick and his hostess. Under the tan he still wore an interesting pallor, but there could be no question that he was on the road to health.
“A man doesn't know what he's missing until he gets shot up and is brought to the Lazy D hospital, so as to let Miss Messiter exercise her Christian duty on him,” he drawled, cheerfully, observing the sudden glow on her cheek brought by the reference to his unanswered question.
He made the lounge in the big sunny window his headquarters. From it he could look out on some of the ranch activities when she was not with him, could watch the line riders as they passed to and fro and command a view of one of the corrals. There was always, too, the turquoise sky, out of which poured a flood of light on the roll of hilltops. Sometimes he read to himself, but he was still easily tired, and preferred usually to rest. More often she read aloud to him while he lay back with his leveled eyes gravely on her till the gentle, cool abstraction she affected was disturbed and her perplexed lashes rose to reproach the intensity of his gaze.
She was of those women who have the heavenborn faculty of making home of such fortuitous elements as are to their hands. Except her piano and such knickknacks as she had brought in a single trunk she had had to depend upon the resources of the establishment to which she had come, but it is wonderful how much can be done with some Navajo rugs, a bearskin, a few bits of Indian pottery and woven baskets and a judicious arrangement of scenic photographs. In a few days she would have her pictures from Kalamazoo, pending which her touch had transformed the big living room from a cheerless barn into a spot that was a comfort to the eye and heart. To the wounded man who lay there slowly renewing the blood he had lost the room was the apotheosis of home, less, perhaps, by reason of what it was in itself than because it was the setting for her presence—for her grave, sympathetic eyes, the sound of her clear voice, the light grace of her motion. He rejoiced in the delightful intimacy the circumstances made necessary. To hear snatches of joyous song and gay laughter even from a distance, to watch her as she came in and out on her daily tasks, to contest her opinions of books and life and see how eagerly she defended them; he wondered himself at the strength of the appeal these simple things made to him. Already he was dreading the day when he must mount his horse and ride back into the turbulent life from which she had for a time, snatched him.
“I'll hate to go back to sheepherding,” he told her one day at lunch, looking at her across a snow-white tablecloth upon which were a service of shining silver, fragile china teacups and plates stamped Limoges.
He was at the moment buttering a delicious French roll and she was daintily pouring tea from an old family heirloom. The contrast between this and the dust and the grease of a midday meal at the end of a “chuck wagon” lent accent to his smiling lamentation.
“A lot of sheepherding you do,” she derided.
“A shepherd has to look after his sheep, y'u know.”
“You herd sheep just about as much as I punch cows.”
“I have to herd my herders, anyhow, and that keeps me on the move.”
“I'm glad there isn't going to be any more trouble between you and the Lazy D. And that reminds me of another thing. I've often wonered who those men could have been that attacked you the day you were hurt.”
She had asked the question almost carelessly, without any thought that this might be something he wished to conceal, but she recognized her mistake by the wariness that filmed his eyes instantly.
“Room there for a right interesting guessing contest,” he replied.
“You wouldn't need to guess,” she charged, on swift impulse.
“Meaning that I know?”
“You do know. You can't deny that you now.”
“Well, say that I know?”
“Aren't you going to tell?”
He shook his head. “Not just yet. I've got private reasons for keeping it quiet a while.”
“I'm sure they are creditable to you,” came her swift ironic retort.
“Sure,” he agreed, whimsically. “I must live up to the professional standard. Honor among thieves, y'u know.”
Chapter 9.
Miss Darling Arrives
Miss Messiter clung to civilization enough, at least, to prefer that her chambermaid should be a woman rather than a Chinese. It did not suit her preconceived idea of the proper thing that Lee Ming should sweep floors, dust bric-a-brac, and make the beds. To see him slosh-sloshing around in his felt slippers made her homesick for Kalamazoo. There were other reasons why the proprieties would be better served by having another woman about the place; reasons that had to do with the chaperone system that even in the uncombed West make its claims upon unmarried young women of respectability. She had with her for the present fourteen-year-old Ida Henderson, but this arrangement was merely temporary.
Wherefore on the morning after her arrival