Alcatraz | Page 7

a hitching post under her window
and rolled a cigarette, quite withdrawn from the crowd which was
working over his victim.
Marianne began to feel that all she had seen was an ordinary chapter in
his life; yet in the mere crossing of that street he had lost his spurs on a
bet; saved a youngster from death at the risk of his own head, battled
with a monster and now rolled a cigarette cheerily complacent. If fifty
feet of his life made such a story what must a year of it be?
As though he felt her wonder above him, he raised his head in the act of
lighting his cigarette and Marianne was looking down into bright,
whimsical blue eyes. She was utterly unconscious of it at the moment
but at the sight of that happy face and all the dust-dimmed finery of the
cavalier, Marianne involuntarily smiled. She knew what she had done

the moment he grinned in response and began to whistle, and whistle
he did, keeping the rhythm with the sway of his head:
"At the end of the trail I'll be weary riding But Mary will wait with a
smile at the door; The spurs and the bit had been chinking and chiding
But the end of the trail--"
Marianne stepped back from the window with the blood tingling in her
face. She was terribly ashamed, for some reason, because she knew the
words of that song.
"A cowpuncher--actually whistling at me!" she muttered, "I've never
known a red-headed man who wasn't insolent!"
The whistling died out, a clear-ringing baritone began a new air:
"Oh, father, father William, I've seen your daughter dear. Will you
trade her for the brindled cow and the yellow steer? And I'll throw in
my riding boots and...."
Marianne slammed down the window. A moment later she was
horrified to find herself smiling.

CHAPTER III
CONCERNING FIGHTERS
The race-track had come into existence by grace of accident for it
happened that a lane ran a ragged course about a big field taking the
corners without pretense of making true curves, with almost an
elbow-turn into the straightaway; but since the total distance around
was over a mile it was called the "track." The sprints were run on the
straightaway which was more than the necessary quarter of a mile but
occasionally there was a longer race and then the field had to take that
dangerous circuit, sloppy and slippery with dust. The land enclosed was
used for the bucking contest, for the two crowning events of the
Glosterville fiesta, the race and the horse-breaking, had been saved for

this last day. Marianne Jordan gladly would have missed the latter
event. "Because it sickens me to see a man fight with a horse," she
often explained. But she forced herself to go.
She was in the Rocky Mountains, now, not on the Blue Grass. Here
riding bucking horses was the order of the day. It might be rough, but
this was a rough country.
It was a day of undue humidity--and the Eagle Mountains were
pyramids of blue smoke. Closer at hand the roofs of Glosterville shone
in the fierce sun and between the village and the mountains the open
fields shimmered with rising heat waves. A hardy landscape meant
only for a hardy people.
"One can't adopt a country," thought Marianne, "it's the country that
does the adopting. If I'm not pleased by what pleases other people in
the West, I'd better leave the ranch to Lew Hervey and go back East."
This was extraordinarily straight-from-the-shoulder thinking but all the
way out to the scene of the festivities she pondered quietly. The
episode of the mares was growing in importance. So far she had been
able to do nothing of importance on the ranch; if this scheme fell
through also it would be the proverbial last straw.
In spite of her intentions, she had delayed so long that the riding was
very nearly ended before she arrived. Buckboards and automobiles
lined the edges of the field in ragged lines, but these did not supply
enough seats and many were standing. They weaved with a continual
life; now and again the rider of one of the pitching horses bobbed above
the crowd, and the rattle of voices sharpened, with piercing single calls.
Always the dust of battle rose in shining wisps against the sun and
Marianne approached with a sinking heart, for as she crossed the track
and climbed through the fence she heard the snort and squeal of an
angry, fear-tormented horse. The crying of a child could not have
affected her so deeply.
The circle was too thick to be penetrated, it seemed, but as she drew
closer an opening appeared and she easily sifted through to the front

line