BARBARA RELEASES A CONSPIRATOR
IT was a week later, yet Grayson still was growling about the loss of "that there Brazos pony." Grayson, the boss, and the boss's daughter were sitting upon the veranda of the ranchhouse when the foreman reverted to the subject.
"I knew I didn't have no business hirin' a man thet can't ride," he said."Why thet there Brazos pony never did stumble, an' if he'd of stumbled he'd a-stood aroun' a year waitin'
to be caught up agin.I jest cain't figger it out no ways how thet there tenderfoot bookkeeper lost him.He must a-shooed him away with a stick.An' saddle an' bridle an' all gone too.
Doggone it!"
"I'm the one who should be peeved," spoke up the girl with a wry smile."Brazos was my pony.He's the one you picked out for me to ride while I am here; but I am sure poor Mr.Bridge feels as badly about it as anyone, and I know that he couldn't help it.We shouldn't be too hard on him.We might just as well attempt to hold him responsible for the looting of the bank and the loss of the pay-roll money.""Well," said Grayson, "I give him thet horse 'cause I knew he couldn't ride, an' thet was the safest horse in the cavvy.Iwisht I'd given him Santa Anna instid--I wouldn't a-minded losin' him.There won't no one ride him anyhow he's thet ornery.""The thing that surprises me most," remarked the boss, "is that Brazos doesn't come back.He was foaled on this range, and he's never been ridden anywhere else, has he?""He was foaled right here on this ranch," Grayson corrected him, "and he ain't never been more'n a hundred mile from it.If he ain't dead or stolen he'd a-ben back afore the bookkeeper was.It's almighty queer.""What sort of bookkeeper is Mr.Bridge?" asked the girl.
"Oh, he's all right I guess," replied Grayson grudgingly."Afeller's got to be some good at something.He's probably one of these here paper-collar, cracker-fed college dudes thet don't know nothin' else 'cept writin' in books."The girl rose, smiled, and moved away.
"I like Mr.Bridge, anyhow," she called back over her shoulder, "for whatever he may not be he is certainly a well-bred gentleman," which speech did not tend to raise Mr.
Bridge in the estimation of the hard-fisted ranch foreman.
"Funny them greasers don't come in from the north range with thet bunch o' steers.They ben gone all day now," he said to the boss, ignoring the girl's parting sally.
Bridge sat tip-tilted against the front of the office building reading an ancient magazine which he had found within.His day's work was done and he was but waiting for the gong that would call him to the evening meal with the other employees of the ranch.The magazine failed to rouse his interest.He let it drop idly to his knees and with eyes closed reverted to his never-failing source of entertainment.
And then that slim, poetic guy he turned and looked me in the eye, "....It's overland and overland and overseas to--where?""Most anywhere that isn't here," I says.His face went kind of queer.
"The place we're in is always here.The other place is there."Bridge stretched luxuriously."'There,'" he repeated."I've been searching for THERE for many years; but for some reason I can never get away from HERE.About two weeks of any place on earth and that place is just plain HERE to me, and I'm longing once again for THERE."His musings were interrupted by a sweet feminine voice close by.Bridge did not open his eyes at once--he just sat there, listening.
As I was hiking past the woods, the cool and sleepy summer woods, I saw a guy a-talking to the sunshine in the air, Thinks I, "He's going to have a fit--I'll stick around and watch a bit,"But he paid no attention, hardly knowing I was there.
Then the girl broke into a merry laugh and Bridge opened his eyes and came to his feet.
"I didn't know you cared for that sort of stuff," he said.
"Knibbs writes man-verse.I shouldn't have imagined that it would appeal to a young lady.""But it does, though," she replied; "at least to me.There's a swing to it and a freedom that 'gets me in the eye.'"Again she laughed, and when this girl laughed, harder-headed and much older men than Mr.L.Bridge felt strange emotions move within their breasts.
For a week Barbara had seen a great deal of the new bookkeeper.Aside from her father he was the only man of culture and refinement of which the rancho could boast, or, as the rancho would have put it, be ashamed of.
She had often sought the veranda of the little office and lured the new bookkeeper from his work, and on several occasions had had him at the ranchhouse.Not only was he an interesting talker; but there was an element of mystery about him which appealed to the girl's sense of romance.
She knew that he was a gentleman born and reared, and she often found herself wondering what tragic train of circumstances had set him adrift among the flotsam of humanity's wreckage.Too, the same persistent conviction that she had known him somewhere in the past that possessed her father clung to her mind; but she could not place him.
"I overheard your dissertation on HERE AND THERE," said the girl."I could not very well help it--it would have been rude to interrupt a conversation." Her eyes sparkled mischievously and her cheeks dimpled.
"You wouldn't have been interrupting a conversation,"objected Bridge, smiling; "you would have been turning a monologue into a conversation.""But it was a conversation," insisted the girl."The wanderer was conversing with the bookkeeper.You are a victim of wanderlust, Mr.L.Bridge--don't deny it.You hate bookkeeping, or any other such prosaic vocation as requires permanent residence in one place.""Come now," expostulated the man."That is hardly fair.
Haven't I been here a whole week?"
They both laughed.
