Ridgwell Cullum - The Son of his Father

The girl dropped the horse's hoof and straightened herself abruptly. She turned with a quick movement, and gazed back over the trail, her eyes alert and questioning. Her wide prairie hat was thrust slightly from her forehead, and a coil of abundant auburn hair was displayed beneath its brim. Her finely penciled eyebrows were drawn together in an unmistakable question, and her pretty eyes were obviously speculative.

She waited while the buggy drew nearer. She recognized the team as from Mike Callahan's barn, but the occupant of the vehicle was a stranger to her.

The latter fact drew her attention more closely. For a moment she had hoped that it was someone she knew. She needed someone she knew just now. Anyway, a stranger was always interesting, even though he could not afford her the assistance she just now happened to need.

She descried a boyish, eager face on the top of a pair of wonderful shoulders. But that which made a strong appeal to her was the manner in which he was handling his horses. There was nothing here of the slovenly prairie teamster. The stranger, whoever he was, was a master behind a good team of horses. She delighted in a horseman, whether he were in the driving-seat or the saddle.

But all of a sudden she became aware that her regard had been observed, and, with a little smile twinkling in the depths of her hazel eyes, she picked up her horse's forefoot again, and once more probed with her gauntleted finger for the cause of the desperate lameness with which he had been suddenly attacked.

She heard the buggy come up. She was aware that the team had swung out to avoid collision. Then a cheery voice greeted her ears with its pleasant and welcome inquiry —

"You seem to be in a fix. Can I help any?"

Before the girl looked round she was aware that the teamster had alighted. Then when she finally released her hold of the injured hoof, and stood up, she found herself confronted by Gordon's smiling blue eyes, as he stood bare-headed before her.

Somehow or other a smiling response was unavoidable.

"That's real kind of you," she said, "but I don't guess you can. You see, poor Sunset's dead lame with a flint in his frog, and – and I just can't get the fool thing out."

Gordon endeavored to look serious. But the trouble was incomparable in his mind with the delightful charm of this girl, in her divided riding-suit. However, his effort to conceal his admiration was not without some success.

"I don't guess we can stand for any old thing like an impertinent flint," he said impulsively. "Sunset must be relieved. Sunset must be put out of pain. I'm not just a veterinary surgeon, but I'm a specialist on the particular flint which happens to annoy you. Just grab these lines while I have a look."

The frank unconventionality of the man was wholly pleasing, and the girl found herself obeying him without question.

"It's the nearside," she explained.

Then she remained silent, watching the assured manner in which the stranger set about his work. He picked up the hoof and examined it closely. Then he drew out a folding button-hook from a trouser pocket. Then, for a few moments, she watched his deft manipulation of it.

Presently he stood up holding a long, thin, sharp splinter of flint between finger and thumb.

"Say," he remarked, as he returned the buttonhook to his pocket, while his eyes shone merrily, "I believe if some bright geologist were to set out chasing these flints to their lair, I've a notion he'd pull up in – in – well, aspirate a certain measure in cloth and I'd guess you get the answer right away. It's paved with 'em. That's my secret belief. I could write a treatise on 'em. I've discovered every breed and every species. I tell you if you want to study these rocks right, you need to run an automobile, and find yourself in a hurry, having forgotten to carry spare tires. Ugh!" He flung the stone away from him and turned again to the horse.

Still watching him, the girl saw him deliberately tear off a piece of his handkerchief, and, with the point of his pocket-knife, stuff it into the jagged gash in poor Sunset's frog.

"That'll keep out some of Snake's Fall," he observed, returning the rest of his handkerchief to his pocket. "We'll take it out when we get him home." Then he deliberately turned to his team and tied Sunset alongside. After that, in the most practical manner, he moved the wheels of the buggy apart. "Jump right in. Guess you know the way, so you can show it me. You see, I'm a stranger. Say, it's an awful thing to be a stranger. Life's rotten being a stranger."

The girl was gazing at him with wide, wondering eyes that were half inclined to resentment. She was not accustomed to being ordered about in this cavalier fashion. She had no intention of being incontinently swept off her feet.

"Thanks," she said, with an assumption of hauteur. "If you'll untie Sunset I'll ride home."

"Ride home? Say, you're joking. Why, you can't ride Sunset with that gash in his frog. Say, you couldn't be so cruel. Think of the poor fellow silently suffering. Think of the mute anguish he would endure at each step. It – it would be a crime, an outrage, a – a – " He broke off, his eyes twinkling merrily.

The girl wanted to be annoyed. She told herself she was annoyed, but she nevertheless began to laugh, and Gordon knew he was to have his way.

"I really couldn't think of accepting your – Besides, you weren't going to Buffalo Point. You know you weren't."

"Do I?" Gordon's eyes were blankly inquiring. "Now how on earth do I know where I was going? Say, I guess it's true I had in my mind a vision of the glinting summer sun, tinting the coal heaps with its wonderful, golden, ripening rays – though I guess it would be some work ripening stove coal – but as to my ever getting there – well, that just depended on the trail I happened to take. As I said, I'm a stranger. And I may as well admit right here that I've a hobby getting mussed up with wrong trails."

The girl's laughter dispelled her last effort at dignity.

"I knew you were a stranger. You see, I get to know everybody here – by sight."

Gordon made a gesture of annoyance.

"There," he exclaimed in self-disgust, "I ought to have thought of that before. How on earth could I expect you to ride in a stranger's buggy, with said stranger on the business end of the lines? Then the hills are so near. Why, you might be spirited off goodness knows where, and your loving relatives never, never hear of you no more, and – Say, we can easily fix that though. My name's – Van Henslaer. Gordon Van Henslaer from New York. Now if you tell me – what's the matter?"

A merry peal of laughter had greeted his announcement, and Gordon looked on in pretended amazement, waiting for her mirth to subside.

"Oh dear, oh dear," the girl cried at last. "I might have known. Say, of course I ought to have known. You came here yesterday on the train – by mistake. You – "

"That's so. I'd booked through to Seattle, but – some interfering pack of fools guessed I'd made a – mistake,"

The girl nodded. Her pretty eyes were still dancing with merriment.

"Father came by the same train, and told me of someone who got mixed up in – in a fight, and they threw – "

"Don't say another word," Gordon cried hurriedly. "I'm – I'm the man. And your father is – ?"

"Mallinsbee – Silas Mallinsbee!"

"Then you are Hazel Mallinsbee."

"How do you know my first name?"

"Why, I saw you in town, and the livery man told me you were 'Miss Hazel.' Say, this is bully. Now we aren't strangers, and you can ride in my buggy without any question. Jump right in, and I'll drive you – where is it?"

Hazel Mallinsbee obeyed without further demur. She sprang into the vehicle, and Gordon promptly followed. The next moment they were moving on at a steady, sober pace.