Going Some | Page 5

girls behind the distant screen of vines, removed his cigarette and
whistled thrice, like a quail, then, leaning against the adobe wall, curled

his black silken mustaches to needle-points.
"It's that romantic Spaniard!" whispered Helen. "What does he want?"
"It's his afternoon call on Mariedetta, the maid," said Jean. "They meet
there twice a day, morning and afternoon."
"A lovers' tryst!" breathed Miss Blake, eagerly. "Isn't he graceful and
picturesque! Can we watch them?"
"'Sh-h! There she comes!"
From the opposite direction appeared a slim, swarthy Mexican girl, an
Indian water-jug balanced upon her shoulders. She was clad in the
straight-hanging native garment, belted in with a sash; her feet were in
sandals, and she moved as silently as a shadow.
During the four days since Miss Blake's arrival at the Flying Heart
Ranch she had seen Mariedetta flitting noiselessly here and there, but
had never heard her speak. The pretty, expressionless face beneath its
straight black hair had ever retained its wooden stolidity, the velvety
eyes had not laughed nor frowned nor sparkled. She seemed to be
merely a part of this far southwestern picture; a bit of inanimate yet
breathing local color. Now, however, the girl dropped her jug, and with
a low cry glided to her lover, who tossed aside his cigarette and took
her in his arms. From this distance their words were indistinguishable.
"How perfectly romantic," said the Eastern girl, breathlessly. "I had no
idea Mariedetta could love anybody."
"She is a volcano," Jean answered.
"Why, it's like a play!"
"And it goes on all the time."
"How gentle and sweet he is! I think he is charming. He is not at all
like the other cowboys, is he?"

While the two witnesses of the scene were eagerly discussing it, Joy,
the Chinese cook, emerged from the kitchen bearing a bucket of water,
his presence hidden from the lovers by the corner of the building.
Carara languidly released his inamorata from his embrace and lounged
out of sight around the building, pausing at the farther corner to waft
her a graceful kiss from the ends of his fingers, as with a farewell flash
of his white teeth he disappeared. Mariedetta recovered her water-jug
and glided onward into the court in front of the cook-house, her face
masklike, her movements deliberate as usual. Joy, spying the girl,
grinned at her. She tossed her head coquettishly and her step slackened,
whereupon the cook, with a sly glance around, tapped her gently on the
arm, and said:
"Nice l'il gally."
"The idea!" indignantly exclaimed Miss Blake from her hammock.
But Mariedetta was not offended. Instead she smiled over her shoulder
as she had smiled at her lover an instant before.
"Me like you fine. You like pie?" Joy nodded toward the door to the
culinary department, as if to make free of his hospitality, at the instant
that Carara, who had circled the building, came into view from the
opposite side, a fresh cigarette between his lips. His languor vanished
at the first glimpse of the scene, and he strode toward the white-clad
Celestial, who dove through the open door like a prairie dog into its
hole. Carara followed at his heels.
"It serves him right!" cried Miss Blake, rising. "I hope Mr. Carara--"
A din of falling pots and pans issued from the cook-house, mingled
with shrill cries and soft Spanish imprecations; then, with one
long-drawn wail, the pandemonium ceased as suddenly as it had
commenced, and Carara issued forth, black with anger.
"Ha!" said he, scowling 'at Mariedetta, who had retreated, her hand
upon her bosom. He exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke through his
nostrils fiercely. "You play wit' me, eh?"

"No! no!" Mariedetta ran to him, and, seizing his arm, cooed amorously
in Spanish.
"Bah! _Vamos!"_ Carara flung her from him, and stalked away.
"Well, of all the outrageous things!" said Miss Blake. "Why, she was
actually flirting with that Chinaman."
"Mariedetta flirts with every man she can find," said Jean, calmly, "but
she doesn't mean any harm. She'll marry Carara some time--if he
doesn't kill her."
"Kill her!" Miss Blake's eyes were round. "He wouldn't do _that!"_
"Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper."
Miss Blake sank back into the hammock. "How perfectly dreadful! And
yet-it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you."
Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver is almost
like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes our foreman!"
Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzled mustache,
came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beaten chaps were much
too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar of his faded flannel shirt
lacked an inch of meeting at the throat, its sleeves were shrunken until
his hairy hands hung down