Frontier Stories | Page 5

Lance.
"To the ranch," she replied simply.
"Then you won't bring me anything to eat here?"
"What for? You kin get it down there." Lance hesitated. "I tell you it's
all right," she continued. "I'll make it all right with Dad."
"But suppose I reckon I'd rather stay here," persisted Lance, with a
perfect consciousness, however, of affectation in his caution.

"Stay away then," said the girl coolly; "only as Dad perempted this yer
woods"--
"_Pre_-empted," suggested Lance.
"Per-empted or pre-emp-ted, as you like," continued the girl
scornfully,--"ez he's got a holt on this yer woods, ye might ez well see
him down thar ez here. For here he's like to come any minit. You can
bet your life on that."
She must have read Lance's amusement in his eyes, for she again
dropped her own with a frown of brusque embarrassment. "Come along,
then; I'm your man," said Lance, gayly, extending his hand.
She would not accept it, eying it, however, furtively, like a horse about
to shy. "Hand me your pistol first," she said.
He handed it to her with an assumption of gayety. She received it on
her part with unfeigned seriousness, and threw it over her shoulder like
a gun. This combined action of the child and heroine, it is quite
unnecessary to say, afforded Lance undiluted joy.
"You go first," she said.
Lance stepped promptly out, with a broad grin. "Looks kinder as if I
was a pris'ner, don't it?" he suggested.
"Go on, and don't fool," she replied.
The two fared onward through the wood. For one moment he
entertained the facetious idea of appearing to rush frantically away,
"just to see what the girl would do," but abandoned it. "It's an even
thing if she wouldn't spot me the first pop," he reflected admiringly.
When they had reached the open hillside, Lance stopped inquiringly.
"This way," she said, pointing toward the summit, and in quite an
opposite direction to the valley where he had heard the voices, one of
which he now recognized as hers. They skirted the thicket for a few

moments, and then turned sharply into a trail which began to dip
toward a ravine leading to the valley.
"Why do you have to go all the way round?" he asked.
"We don't," the girl replied with emphasis; "there's a shorter cut."
"Where?"
"That's telling," she answered shortly.
"What's your name?" asked Lance, after a steep scramble and a drop
into the ravine.
"Flip."
"What?"
"Flip."
"I mean your first name,--your front name."
"Flip."
"Flip! Oh, short for Felipa!"
"It ain't Flipper,--it's Flip." And she relapsed into silence.
"You don't ask me mine?" suggested Lance.
She did not vouchsafe a reply.
"Then you don't want to know?"
"Maybe Dad will. You can lie to him."
This direct answer apparently sustained the agreeable homicide for
some moments. He moved onward, silently exuding admiration.

"Only," added Flip, with a sudden caution, "you'd better agree with
me."
The trail here turned again abruptly and reëntered the cañon. Lance
looked up, and noticed they were almost directly beneath the bay
thicket and the plateau that towered far above them. The trail here
showed signs of clearing, and the way was marked by felled trees and
stumps of pines.
"What does your father do here?" he finally asked. Flip remained silent,
swinging the revolver. Lance repeated his question.
"Burns charcoal and makes diamonds," said Flip, looking at him from
the corners of her eyes.
"Makes diamonds?" echoed Lance.
Flip nodded her head.
"Many of 'em?" he continued carelessly.
"Lots. But they're not big," she returned, with a sidelong glance.
"Oh, they're not big?" said Lance gravely.
They had by this time reached a small staked inclosure, whence the
sudden fluttering and cackle of poultry welcomed the return of the
evident mistress of this sylvan retreat. It was scarcely imposing. Further
on, a cooking stove under a tree, a saddle and bridle, a few household
implements scattered about, indicated the "ranch." Like most pioneer
clearings, it was simply a disorganized raid upon nature that had left
behind a desolate battlefield strewn with waste and decay. The fallen
trees, the crushed thicket, the splintered limbs, the rudely torn-up soil,
were made hideous by their grotesque juxtaposition with the wrecked
fragments of civilization, in empty cans, broken bottles, battered hats,
soleless boots, frayed stockings, cast-off rags, and the crowning
absurdity of the twisted-wire skeleton of a hooped skirt hanging from a
branch. The wildest defile, the densest thicket, the most virgin solitude,

was less dreary and forlorn than this first footprint of man. The only
redeeming feature of this prolonged bivouac was the cabin itself. Built
of the half-cylindrical strips of pine bark, and thatched with the same
material, it had a certain picturesque rusticity. But this was an accident
of economy rather