take my word for it. If there’s any harm done it’s done. You cain’t help it. Nesta is genuinely fond of Sam Playford. But she’s also fascinated by this young Tate. That’s natural. Sam will get her, though, if he doesn’t make a jackass out of himself. He’s not worryin’ me much. Sam is a reasonable fellow. He rings true. But Rich will give me gray hairs. He’s his father over again. An’ more—Cappy. He’s the livin’ likeness of his father’s twin brother, Jess Ames. An’ if ever there was a fightin’ Texan it was Jess Ames. Their father was Caleb Ames, who fought in the Texas invasion in the ’forties. He was a Texas Ranger. Rich is a grandson of that old warrior. You see what kind of blood he has. An’ he hasn’t any reason to love the Tates, has he?”
“I reckon not,” rejoined Tanner, gloomily, yet he thrilled in his gloom.
“It’s Rich I’m afraid of, an’ not Nesta.”
“Wal, it’s the other way round with me,” returned Tanner, and he went out to look for the girl.
He sought her at the barn and the corral, along the trail, up the gulch at his own cabin, and farther on, without success. Mescal Ridge could easily have hidden a thousand girls. Then returning to the creek valley he went farther, and at last espied Nesta’s fair head shining in the sun. She was sitting above the Rock Pool. This was a deep dark eddy at the head of the valley, a lonesome spot, where the slopes met in a V-shaped notch. Only from one place could Tanner have espied the girl, and it had been just accident that he had done so. He descended the bank and clambered over the boulders, and eventually gained the huge flat rock upon which she sat.
Tanner was old in years, yet at close sight of Nesta Ames he grew young again. She personified youth, beauty, love, tragedy. The environment seemed in harmony with all these. It was a wild, romantic spot. The leafless sycamore branches spread out over the rocks and the dark pool. A low roar of falling water came from up the creek. Opposite the yellow cliff bulged out, with its niches of green and its red-leafed vines. Downstream the whole of the gorge opened clear to the sight, to where it turned into the shadowy Hell Gate.
Under Nesta Ames’ blue eyes were dark circles. Her fair face showed the stains of recent tears. At sight of Cappy she seemed divided between gladness and resentment, neither of which she could control.
“Howdy, lass!” said Cappy, mildly.
A curved arm of the great sycamore reached out low over the rock. Nesta leaned against it. Manifestly this was a favorite retreat. A layer of pine needles made a comfortable seat. Cappy sat down close to her and leaned against the branch.
“So you tracked me?” she queried, flippantly and aloofly.
“Awful nice hyar,” replied Cappy, with a sigh. “Reckon I found you hyar once—long ago, before you growed up. Protected from thet north wind an’ open to the sun from the south.”
He laid aside his sombrero, and feeling Nesta’s gaze he thought it just as well that Mrs. Ames had given him some advice.
“What do you want?” asked Nesta, presently, and the tone was not propitious.
“Wal, seein’ you didn’t come to me, I reckon I had to come to you.”
“What for?”
“Nothin’, except the joy of seein’ you, lass. Course I’m not forgettin’ what you said yesterday about needin’ a friend.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart,” replied Cappy, and he suited the act to the words.
“But you saw Rich,” she flashed.
“Yes, he was over a little while.”
“He talked aboot me?”
“Reckon he did, some.”
“Good or bad?”
“Wal, a little of one an’ a lot of the other. You can take your choice.”
“Bad!” she retorted, with passion.
“Lass, I didn’t say so. An’ what Rich said ain’t botherin’ me none. Poor boy! He had to talk to me. I’ve always listened an’ kept my mouth shut.”
“It’s a pity he cain’t keep his mouth shut,” she returned, hotly. “This mawnin’ he called me a spoiled kid. Then when I spoke my mind he swore an’ boxed my ears.”
“No! You don’t say!—Wal, wal! I’m afraid Rich doesn’t savvy you’re growed up.”
“Do you?”
“Wal, I reckon. I seen thet yesterday.”
“You didn’t track me heah to scold and nag? To find fault with me? To worry me into being bossed by Rich?”
“Nesta, where’d you get such an idee as thet?” queried Cappy, as if surprised. Nevertheless, he did not trust himself to meet the wonderful blue eyes. After a moment she slipped a hand under his arm and moved almost imperceptibly closer.
“Forgive me, Cappy,” she murmured, contritely. “I guess Rich is right. I’m a cat sometimes.”
“Rich is all right, lass. He’s only weak where we’re all weak.”
“And where’s that, Cappy?”
“Where a certain Tonto lass is concerned.”
Nesta trilled a little gay laugh that yet had a note of sadness.
“Cappy, are you weak there?”
“Yes, lass. In the last stages.”
At that she slipped her hand farther under his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. Cappy could have blessed the girl’s mother. He felt more in that moment than he could have explained in an hour of pondering thought. She seemed a wistful, lovable, willful girl merging into womanhood, uncertain and doubtful of herself, passionately sensitive to criticism, intolerant of restraint.
“Cappy, last night I was gloriously happy,” she said. “I loved you for your generous gifts—more for the affection that prompted them. . . . But this mawnin’ I—I—oh, I’m sad. I’m crazy to wear that white gown—the stockings—the slippers. Oh, how did you ever—ever choose so beautifully? Why, they fit to perfection! . . . I cain’t resist them. I must go to Lil Snell’s wedding. I ought not to go, but I shall go.”
“Wal, why not, lass? I’m sure goin’. I wouldn’t miss seein’ you for a hundred beaver skins.”
“Why, Cappy?” she murmured, dreamily.
“Because you’ll look lovely an’ make them Tonto girls sick.”
“Ah! . . . You’ve hit it, Cappy. That’s my weakness. . . . There are several girls who have rubbed it into me. Laughed at my old shabby clothes. And there’s one girl I—I hate. . . . Oh yes, I’ve been jealous of her. I am jealous. . . . But neither she nor any other Tonto girl ever saw as beautiful a dress as mine. But for that I could stay home and obey Rich—and—and not hurt Sam any more.”
“Sam?—Aw, a little hurtin’ won’t hurt him. Let him see you with thet handsome Tate lad. You two will make a team. Sam is an ugly, slow fellar, an’——”
“Cappy, don’t say anything against Sam Playford,” interrupted Nesta, with surprising spirit.
“Excuse me, Nesta,” replied Cappy, guilty in his realization. “I sort of got the idee you didn’t give a rap for Sam.”
“But—I do,” said Nesta, with a catch in her breath. “I do!—That’s what makes it so hard. I’ve got to break with Sam and I—I cain’t.”
Cappy let well enough alone, though he was consumed with curiosity. In all good time Nesta would betray herself. There was deeper trouble here than Rich had guessed, though the lad’s misgivings were poignant.
“Cappy,