of Contents
Occasionally the women of the district answered the vagrant call of social impulse, and this afternoon a dozen of them were informally gathered together in the shade of the long galleried Leverage porch. The sun, dipping westward, began to desert the emerald ridges but still made a bright yellow glare in the open prairie that rolled away from the foothills into the dazzling distance. It was high time to pack up and go, but the ladies lingered, some reluctant to depart, some waiting for the men folk to come after them.
"Men," stated Mrs. Jim Coldfoot, biting off her thread, "are all the same and none of 'em too good. When I look about Yellow Hill and consider the specimens wearing pants I'm plumb reminded of a rummage counter with all the good cloth already took."
The circle smiled, knowing Mrs. Jim Coldfoot well. Her heart was sound, but her inquisitive mind pried into all things, her ears missed nothing, and her tongue readily dealt in scandal.
"Well," observed a Mrs. Roberts gently, "I dare say some of the poor dears would like to say the same of us."
"They're scared to," observed Mrs. Jim Coldfoot acidly. "All they can do is look humble as pie, and mutter to themselves. Like I've told Coldfoot time and again, if he's got any mutterin' to do for land sakes go behind the woodshed and do it alone. You can't teach 'em anything, you can't get 'em to admit anything. And they'll lie for each other 'sif they belonged to a lodge. Strange to me women can't stick together like that. Men call it honor not to tell on the other fellow. I call it a universal sense of guilt."
"What of it?" Mrs. Casper Flood wanted to know. "Women are free to take men or leave them alone, aren't they?"
"We ain't got that much sense," retorted Mrs. Jim Coldfoot. "I married Coldfoot because he pestered me to death. Sometimes I think he's sorry for it, though heaven knows I'm good to him."
One of the ladies hid her face behind a piece of quilt work and coughed delicately. Deborah Lunt, who had returned from the Sky Peak country, listened wide eyed to this devastatingly frank comment of the older women. Distinctly a pretty girl, she had a manner of drawing her mouth primly together when she was shocked or displeased.
"I believe," said she emphatically, "a woman should not let a man be too familiar. He won't respect her."
Mrs. Jim Coldfoot peered over her glasses with quick interest. "When you and Steve going to get married?"
Debbie flushed. "I don't—that is, the date isn't set yet."
"Don't let him dangle too long or you'll lose him," advised Mrs. Jim.
Debbie's flush deepened. "I wouldn't hold him a minute if he didn't want to marry me. I'm not that kind."
"Ha," contradicted Mrs. Jim. "I've heard lots of 'em say that. It ain't so. All of us sisters fight tooth and toe nail to get a husband. Lessee, you've been engaged six months. No, six months and a half. I recall when I heard the news. Well, that's time enough to let anybody suffer. Ought to have your mind made up by now. No matter how bad you think he is now, he'll be worse when you look at him over the breakfast table with his whiskers in the coffee."
Debbie's deepening flush became scarlet storm signals. "There's nothing bad about him! He's a fine, good man!"
Eve, silent thus far, broke in smoothly. "Debbie, don't let Mrs. Jim fluster you like that. She just loves to disturb us."
"I've got ears and eyes," responded Mrs. Jim tersely. "Anyhow, with Lola Monterey back, I wouldn't trust no man around the corner. I—"
The ladies looked at Mrs. Jim with varying expressions of warning and significance. Mrs. Casper Flood tried to change the subject. "I heard the funniest story about—"
But Mrs. Jim had the bit in her teeth and was not to be stopped. "You can't make nothing out of nothing. Lola's the daughter of a Spanish woman and a white man, which is bad. She learned her trade in a dance hall, and that ain't any help to her. She's been all over the world singing and Lord knows that's nothing to brag about either. I'll admit she's got a way with her, but good looks and nice clothes mean nothing to me even if it does set every man under seventy on his ears."
"I think she is beautiful," said Eve quietly, feeling the united scrutiny of the group.
"Ain't you worried?" challenged Mrs. Jim.
"Over what?" Eve asked innocently.
"Well, goodness sakes," exclaimed Mrs. Jim, "whose man is Dave Denver, anyhow?"
"Now, isn't it queer?—I have forgotten to ask him that."
Approval of this faint rebuke fairly exuded from the other women. But Mrs. Jim didn't know a rebuke from an invitation to dinner. The restless brightness of her glance skittered over Eve's boyish, half smiling countenance. And she plumped out an eager question.
"Would you marry him at the chance?"
Eve laughed outright. "I never answer direct questions on Tuesdays."
Mrs. Jim put away her knitting, seeing Coldfoot approaching with a buggy. "Well," she sighed, "you're a good actor anyhow. Though it ain't any of my business, I'll say I think you're crazy if you're not interested in him. But if you are interested in him there's enough between him and Lola Monterey to cause you many a sleepless night. Girls, I just had an elegant time." She smiled all around and turned to her husband, who waited in subdued silence.
"You're late," said she with some asperity.
"Yes, Mama," agreed Coldfoot and snapped one of his suspenders.
"Don't mumble at me with all that tobacco in your mouth. If you've got to spit, then spit." She climbed vigorously into the buggy and they went swaying out to the road. Mrs. Casper Flood collapsed in her rocker and laughed so hard she almost cried. Mrs. Roberts rose to end her visit. "After a scene like that," she remarked, "I always go home a better woman and cook something special for the men. Nellie, are you riding with me?"
The group broke up. More buggies came down the road to claim the errant housewives. Mrs. Casper Flood stepped to the saddle of a waiting pony and went out of the yard on the gallop; and as the last of them left a man rounded the bend of the ridge, sitting slack and indolent, and pointed for the yard. Eve waved an arm at which Debbie Lunt showed surprise.
"You've got awfully good eyes, Eve. Who is it?"
"Dave."
"Well, no wonder." She wrinkled her pert nose impatiently. "If Steve dawdled along like that when he knew I was waiting for him I most certainly would lecture him."
"Not if Steve were Dave," said Eve softly, "and not if you were me."
Dave cut across the yard and reined in beside the porch. He did not immediately get down, but lifted his hat and studied the two girls quizzically. "Now here is a picture worth travelin' to see," he drawled. "But, hold on, it ain't quite perfect. One of these fair damsels looks like she's too proud to scowl at me and too stubborn to smile. Debbie, I ain't stolen your Stevie boy."
Debbie flushed and tipped her chin defiantly. In her heart she was a little afraid of Denver and a little jealous. The fear, queerly enough, was the fear of a little girl facing a man whose explosive fighting qualities had been talked about in the country for years. Yet it was not altogether that; Debbie always instinctively tried to cover her feelings when his deep and direct and slightly ironic glance rested on her. She felt he was reading her, prying out her intrinsic worth, and finding her lacking. As for the jealousy, she hated the thought that anybody had the power of swaying Steve Steers's loyalty and affection; and she knew Denver had this power.
"You're making fun of me," said she, despising herself for going on the defensive.
"No, sir, not me, Debbie. I never laugh at pretty girls. And where is that human dynamo on wheels—in other words, Mister Stephen Burt Steers?"
"He's supposed to be here now, to take me home," said Debbie with a faint inflection of tartness. Dave looked lazily at Eve and understanding passed between. Eve crooked her finger at him.
"Get down and wait. I see a party coming off the prairie,