The Fighting Shepherdess | Page 9

something further to say in order to prolong the conversation they all
turned abruptly at the rattle of rocks.
"The boss," said Teeters sardonically from the corner of his mouth, and
added, "That's a young dude that's visitin'."
Toomey was perfectly equipped for a ride in Central Park. He looked
an incongruous and alien figure in the setting in his English riding
clothes and boots. The lad who accompanied him was dressed in
exaggerated cowboy regalia.
Toomey used a double bit and now brought his foaming horse to a
short stop with the curb. He vouchsafed the unimportant "natives" in
the road only a brief glance, but addressed himself to Teeters.
"Where have you been?" he demanded in a sharp tone.
"I ain't been lost," replied Teeters calmly. "Where would I be 'cept
huntin' stock?"
"Why didn't you follow me?"

"I think too much of my horse to jam him over rocks when there ain't
no special call for it. I kin ride on a run 'thout fallin' off, when they's
need to."
Toomey's brilliant black eyes flashed. Swallowing the impudence of
these western hirelings was one of the hardest things he had to endure
in his present life. But even he could see that Teeters thoroughly
understood cattle, else he would have long since discharged him.
"I've ridden about ten extra miles trying to keep you in sight."
"If you'd let them sturrups out like I told you and quit tryin' to set down
standin' up, ridin' wouldn't tire you so much." Teeters looked at the
English pigskin saddle in frank disgust.
Toomey ignored the criticism and said arrogantly:
"I want you to follow me from now on."
An ominous glint came in the cowboy's eye, but he still grinned.
"I wa'nt broke to foller. Never was handled right when I was a colt.
Don't you wait fer me, feller, you jest sift along in and I'll come when I
git done."
Judging from the expression on Toomey's face, it seemed to the Major
an opportune time to interrupt.
"Since nobody aims to introduce us--" he began good-naturedly,
extending a hand. "My name is Prouty--Stephen Douglas Prouty.
You've heard of me, like as not."
"Can't say I have," replied Toomey in a tone that made the Major flush
as he shook the extended hand without warmth.
To cover his confusion, the Major turned to the sheepherder whose soft
brown eyes held an amused look.
"Er--Joe--I'll make you acquainted with Mr. Jasper Toomey, one of our

leadin' stockmen in these parts."
The introduction received from Toomey the barest acknowledgment as
he directed his gaze to the grazing sheep.
"Where you taking them?" he asked in a curt tone.
"I really couldn't tell you yet."
Toomey glanced at him sharply, attracted by the cultivated tone.
"I wouldn't advise you to locate here; this is my range."
"Own it?" inquired the herder mildly.
"N-no."
"Lease it?"
"N-no."
"No good reason then is there to keep me out?"
"Except," darkly, "this climate isn't healthy for sheep."
"Perhaps," gently, "I'm the best judge of that."
"You'll keep on going, if you follow my advice." The tone was a threat.
"I hardly ever take advice that's given unasked."
"Well--you'd better take this."
The sheepherder looked at him speculatively, with no trace of
resentment in his mild eyes.
"Let me see," reflectively. "It generally takes an easterner who comes
west to show us how to raise stock from three to five years to go broke.
I believe I'll stick around a while; I may be able to pick up something

cheap a little later."
A burst of ringing laughter interrupted this unexpected clash between
the strangers. It was clear that the lack of harmony did not extend to
their young companions, for the lad and the girl seemed deeply
interested in each other as their ponies grazed with heads together. The
immediate cause of their laughter was the boy's declaration that when
he came to see the girl he intended to wear petticoats.
When their merriment had subsided, she demanded:
"Don't you like my overalls?"
He looked her over critically--at her face with the frank gray eyes and
the vivid red of health glowing through the tan; at the long flat braid of
fair hair, which hung below the cantle of the saddle; at her slender bare
feet thrust through the stirrups.
"You'd look pretty in anything," he responded gallantly.
She detected the evasion and persisted:
"But you think I'd look nicer in dresses, don't you?"
Embarrassed, he responded hesitatingly:
"You see--down South where I come from the girls all wear white and
lace and ribbon sashes and carry parasols and think a lot about their
complexions. You're just--different."
The herder waved his arm. "Way 'round 'em, Shep," and the sheep
began moving.
"Good-bye," the girl gathered up the