Going Some | Page 5

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 like tassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.
"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"
"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do anything for you?"
"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into motion again.
"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss Chapin.
"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I reckon my sperret's broke, that's all."
"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"
"I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipede outfit has got it on us."
"Nonsense, Stover!"
"What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven't heard about any foot-race."
"You tell her," said