Sis is ragging me for asking Lark to go riding.”
“Why should you do that, Marigold?” returned the mother.
“Mom, Lark doesn’t want to go out with El. She said so.”
“Oh, indeed. I should think she’d be glad—and proud to go,” returned Mrs. Wade stiffly.
“Well, you’re wrong, Mother darling.”
Lark, who had hesitated and then stopped in the hallway, hurried to her room and closed the door. She sat down, staring blankly at the purchases spread on her bed.
She thought of her conversation with Stanley, on the way home—how kind he was—and she became conscious of a vague, sweetly stirring, infinitely remote sensation of warmth—of pleasure. It was the way he looked at her when she was telling of breaking colts and riding along the Salmon River. It had to do with his nearness to her, when her unruly hair blew across his face. She found that she liked both those incidents, and felt uneasiness that this should be so.
After Lark’s first flush of consternation she straightened out the matter in her mind. She had known confusing things would happen to her in this new home. She would be lifted to the sky and then cast down. She would be puzzled, perplexed, upset, furious, unhappy. She would be jealous, envious, miserable, all because she was a girl and could not help it. She was bound to be pleased by Marigold’s family and friends, and also displeased. Mr. Stanley Weston, her cousin’s fiancé, had pleased her, that was all, and Lark decided gravely to try to forget it.
CHAPTER THREE
Next morning Lark waited to be called to breakfast. She was usually up with the bird for which her father had named her. It seemed a long while until the breakfast hour, but at last she heard a bell. She encountered Marigold in a bright blue gown, which enhanced her blonde beauty.
“Hello, Lark. I forgot to tell you about breakfast hour,” she said. “It’s any time. Dad and El leave early for the store. Mom is seldom down and I never am. Cookie will give you eats any time.”
“Seems like I’ve been up hours,” rejoined Lark. “I didn’t sleep very well. Heard horses more than once.”
“Let’s go down. . . . Stan left last night in a rage. I went to town. Didn’t get back till late.”
They had breakfast alone, to Lark’s relief.
“Say, Lark, for heaven’s sake, throw away that gray dress, will you? It looks dreadful.”
“All right, I will—after this time. Marigold, can I see the horses and ride this morning?”
“Of course. Maybe I’ll go with you. What have I got to do, anyway? No, I can’t. . . . But you don’t need me. Put on your riding clothes and go out to the barn. Hurd won’t be there—he was drunk last night. . . . But some of the boys will be there. Tell them I said you could have any horse in the outfit. So you take your pick.”
“Oh, thank you, cousin. That will be grand,” cried Lark, thrilled at the prospect. “And where will I ride?”
“There’s a thousand miles of sage back of the ranch, more or less,” laughed Marigold. “Lark, I’m glad that makes you look happy. We’ve got horses and sage enough, Lord knows. And do I need to warn you against cowboys?”
“Hardly. I reckon cowboys are all alike.”
“They are, and no good on earth, except—well, so long, Lark. Don’t ride clear to Horse Heaven Hill.”
Lark ran upstairs and soon, in a delight that caused her a mild astonishment, she had donned her riding garb. She laughed at her image in the big mirror. She was a boy once more, in jeans, boots, spurs, blouse and all, even to a battered old sombrero, which she pulled down over her wavy locks. Then, gloves in hand, she went sideways down the stairs, careful not to tear the carpet with her long spurs, and slipping out the back way, much to Cookie’s amazement, she took the path that led to the barns.
She had seen them from a distance, and now, nearing them, she was to learn what a big ranch meant, in barns and corrals, sheds and cribs, with wide green pastures beyond, spotted with horses. For the first moment since Lark had left home she felt natural, sure of herself, and really happy. She did not show in the least her elation and surprise at the sight of a Western ranch. She reveled in the well-loved sounds and smells.
The main barn was a huge affair, with a wide lane through the center and numerous stalls on each side. A slanting runway led up to the level of the floor. Three cowboys were sitting there, indulging in some game. They wore the customary garb of riders, rough and worn, yet they did not, upon closer view, appear as tough as the cowboys around Batchford.
“Howdy, sonny, what you want?” asked one of them casually, after a glance at her.
“I want a horse,” replied Lark.
“You don’t say?” returned the rider, as he bent over the dice his companion was throwing. “What for do you want a horse?”
“To ride.”
“Got any dough?”
“Dough?—No, I haven’t.”
“Well, beat it then,” he said, snatching at the dice.
Lark sat down across the wide entrance, in such a way that she aided the deception she had begun unwittingly and now began to revel in. She watched them awhile unmolested, as evidently her interrogator had forgotten her. They threw dice, complained, swore mildly. The one who had spoken was bareheaded, a young fellow, clean-cut and smooth-faced, very nice-looking indeed. The second was redheaded and somewhat coarse. The third was older, in his late twenties, which meant maturity for a cowboy. He had strikingly handsome features. His eyes were cast down. There were blue circles under them. His lips and chin were boldly chiseled.
“Damn you, Hurd. Lucky in dice as lucky in women!” complained the cowboy next to him.
“It’s not luck; I’m smart,” replied the other, spreading the dice.
Here Lark pricked up her ears, even more interested. This one must be Hurd Blanding, the cowboy associated with Ellery Wade in the wild-horse drive. Marigold, too, had mentioned him.
“You won’t be smart at all if Stan Weston gets wise to you,” came the significant reply. Whereupon Blanding flung the dice at the other.
“Shut up. If you make another crack like that I’ll—”
He noticed Lark then and checked his speech. He had wonderful, hard, light eyes.
“Who the hell is this, Coil?” he asked, nudging the bareheaded cowboy, and indicating Lark.
“Some kid who came in here asking for a horse . . . Hey, didn’t I tell you to beat it?”
“Reckon you did,” replied Lark, almost giggling, as she sat, elbows on her knees, her hands at the flap of her sombrero. How she wished that the innocent deceit could be prolonged!
Blanding searched around with eye and hand, manifestly for something to throw at Lark. At that moment his look justified her intuition—he had an evil face, undeniably handsome though it was. He found a piece of wood, which he flung at Lark, accompanying the action with a harsh: “Get out!” The missile struck Lark on her right foot; a glancing blow, but it hurt. She stood up.
“My cousin Marigold sure has a fine lot of cowboys,” she said contemptuously.
Lark’s movement and change of tone were followed by a blank silence. Not until she stepped out where they could see her plainly did they accept her sex. Blanding was the first to recover. He rose to his superb height and doffed his sombrero.
“Miss, you can lay it to your ridin’ outfit,” he said, with a winning smile. “We wanted to give you a little fun, seein’ you looked like a boy. But I knew you all the time.”
The other cowboys leaped