The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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good. It's Bucky to the bat and he's bound to make a hit or strike out.”
“I think I hear Mr. Henderson coming,” murmured Frances, for lack of something more effective to say.
“Not him. He's hogtied to the scenery long enough to do my business. Now, it won't take me long if I get off right foot first. You read my letter, you said?”
“Which letter?” She was examining attentively the fringe of the sash she wore.
“Why, honey, that love-letter I wrote you. If there was more than one it must have been wrote in my sleep, for I ce'tainly disremember it.”
He could just hear her confused answer: “Oh, yes, I read that. I told you that before.”
“What did you think? Tell me again.”
“I thought you misspelled feelings.”
“You don't say. Now, ain't that too bad? But, girl o' mine, I expect you were able to make it out, even if I did get the letters to milling around wrong. I meant them feelings all right. Outside of the spelling, did you have any objections to them,
“How can I remember what you wrote in that letter several days ago?”
“I'll bet you know it by heart, honey, and, if you don't, you'll find it in your inside vest pocket, tucked away right close to your heart.”
“It isn't,” she denied, with a blush.
“Sho! Pinned to your shirt then, little pardner. I ain't particular which. Point is, if you need to refresh that ailin' memory of yours, the document is—right handy. But you don't need to. It just says one little sentence over and over again. All you have got to do is to say one little word, and you don't have to say it but once.”
“I don't understand you,” her lips voiced.
“You understand me all right. What my letter said was 'I love you,' and what you have got to say is: 'Yes'.”
“But that doesn't mean anything.”
“I'll make out the meaning when you say it.”
“Do I have to say it?”
“You have to if you feel it.”
Slowly the big brown eyes came up to meet his bravely. “Yes, Bucky.”
He caught her hands and looked down into her pure, sweet soul.
“I'm in luck,” he breathed deeply. “In golden luck to have you look at me twice. Are you sure?”
“Sure. I loved you that first day I met you. I've loved you every day since,” she confessed simply.
Full on the lips he kissed her.
“Then we'll be married as soon as we reach the Rocking Chair.”
“But you once said you didn't want to be my husband,” she taunted sweetly. “Don't you remember? In the days when we were gipsies.”
“I've changed my mind. I want to, and I'm in a hurry.”
She shook her head. “No, dear. We shall have to wait. It wouldn't be fair to my mother to lose me just as soon as she finds me. It is her right to get acquainted with me just as if I belonged to her alone. You understand what I mean, Bucky. She must not feel as if she never had found me, as if she never had been first with me. We can love each other more simply if she doesn't know about you. We'll have it for a secret for a month or two.”
She put her little hand on his arm appealingly to win his consent. His eyes rested on it curiously, Then he took it in his big brown one and turned it palm up. Its delicacy and perfect finish moved him, for it seemed to him that in the contrast between the two hands he saw in miniature the difference of sex. His showed strength and competency and the roughness that comes of the struggle of life. But hers was strangely tender and confiding, compact of the qualities that go to make up the strength of the weak. Surely he deserved the worst if he was not good to her, a shield and buckler against the storms that must beat against them in the great adventure they were soon to begin together.
Reverently he raised the little hand and kissed its palm.
“Sure, sweetheart I had forgotten about your mother's claim. We can wait, I reckon,” he added with a smile. “You must always set me straight when I lose the trail of what's right, Curly Haid. You are to be a guiding-star to me.”
“And you to me. Oh, Bucky, isn't it good?”
He kissed her again hurriedly, for the train was jarring to a halt. Before he could answer in words, O'Halloran burst into the coach, at the head of his little company.
“All serene, Bucky. This is the last scene, and the show went without a hitch in the performance anywhere.”
Bucky smiled at Frances as he answered his enthusiastic friend:
“That's right. Not a hitch anywhere.”
“And say, Bucky, who do you think is in the other coach dressed as one of the guards?”
“Colonel Roosevelt,” the ranger guessed promptly.
“Our friend Chaves. He's escaping because he thinks we'll have him assassinated in revenge,” the big Irishman returned gleefully. “You should have seen his color, me bye, when he caught sight of me. I asked him if he'd been reduced to the ranks, and he begged me not to tell you he was here. Go in and devil him.”
Bucky glanced at his lover. “No, I'm so plumb contented I haven't the heart.”
* * * * *
At the Rocking Chair Ranch there was bustle and excitement. Mexicans scrubbed and scoured under the direction of Alice and Mrs. Mackenzie, and vaqueros rode hither and thither on bootless errands devised by their nervous master. For late that morning a telephone call from Aravaipa had brought Webb to the receiver to listen to a telegram. The message was from Bucky, then on the train on his way home.
“The best of news. Reach the Rocking Chair tonight.”
That was the message which had disturbed the serenity of big Webb Mackenzie and had given to the motherly heart of his wife an unusual flutter. The best of news it could not be, for the ranger had already written them of the confession of Anderson, which included the statement of the death of their little daughter. But at least he might bring the next best news, information that David Henderson was free at last and his long martyrdom ended.
So all day hurried preparations were being made to receive the honored guests with a fitting welcome. The Rocking Chair was a big ranch, and its hospitality was famous all over the Southwest. It was quite unnecessary to make special efforts to entertain, but Webb and his wife took that means of relieving the strain on them till night.
Higher crept the hot sun of baked Arizona. It passed the zenith and began to descend toward the purple hills in the west, went behind them with a great rainbow splash of brilliancy peculiar to that country Dusk came, and died away in the midst of a love-concert of quails. Velvet night, with its myriad stars, entranced the land and made magic of its hills and valleys.
For the fiftieth time Webb dragged out his watch and consulted it.
“I wish that young man had let us know which way he was coming, so I could go and meet them. If they come by the river they should be in the Box canyon by this time. But if I was to ride out, like as not they would come by the mesa,” he sputtered.
“What time is it, Webb?” asked his wife, scarcely less excited.
He had to look again, so absent-minded had been his last glance at the watch. “Nine-fifteen. Why didn't I telephone to Rogers and ask him to find out which way they were coming? Sometimes I'm mighty thick-headed.”
As Mackenzie had guessed, the party was winding its way through the Box Canyon at that time of speaking. Bucky and Frances led the way, followed by Henderson and the vaquero whom Mackenzie had telephoned to guide them from Aravaipa.
“I reckon