The Heart of the Range | Page 9

mount were breasting the first slight rise of the
northern slope of Indian Ridge--which ridge marks with its long,
broad-backed bulk the southern boundary of the flats south of Farewell
and forces the Marysville trail to travel five miles to go two--a rider
emerged from a small boulder-strewn draw wherein tamaracks grew
thinly.
Racey stared--and forgot his irritation and his headache. The draw was
not more than a quarter-mile distant, and he perceived without
difficulty that the rider was a woman. She quirted her mount into a

gallop, and then seesawed her right arm vigorously. Above the
pattering drum of her horse's hoofs a shout came faintly to his ears. He
pulled up and waited.
When the woman was close to him he saw that it was the good-looking,
brown-haired Happy Heart lookout, the girl whose dog he had
protected. She dragged her horse to a halt at his side and smiled. And,
oddly enough, it was an amazingly sweet smile. It had nothing in
common with the hard smile of her profession.
"I'm sorry I had to leave without thanking you for what you done for
me back there," said she, with a jerk of her head toward distant
Farewell.
"Why, that's all right," Racey told her, awkwardly.
"It meant a lot to me," she went on, her smile fading. "You wouldn't let
that feller hurt me or my dog, and I think the world of that dog."
"Yeah." Thus Racey, very much embarrassed by her gratitude and quite
at a loss as to the proper thing to say.
"Yes, and I'm shore grateful, stranger. I--I won't forget it. That dog he
likes me, he does. And I'm teaching him tricks. He's awful cunnin'. And
company! Say, when I'm feeling rotten that there dog _knows_, and he
climbs up in my lap and licks my ear and tries his best to be a comfort.
I tell you that dog likes me, and that means a whole lot--to me. I--I ain't
forgetting it."
Her face was dark red. She dropped her head and began to fumble with
her reins.
"You needn't 'a' come riding alla way out here just for this," chided
Racey, feeling that he must say something to relieve the situation.
"It wasn't only this," she denied, tiredly. "They was something else.
And I couldn't talk to you in Farewell without him and his friends
finding it out. That's why I borrowed one of Mike Flynn's hosses an'

followed you thisaway--so's we could be private. Le's ride along. I
expect you was going somewhere."
They rode southward side by side a space of time in silence. Racey had
nothing to say. He was too busy speculating as to the true significance
of the girl's presence. What did she want--money? These saloon
floozies always did. He hoped she wouldn't want much. For he ruefully
knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able to resist a
woman's appeal. He glanced at her covertly. Her little chin was
trembling. Poor kid. That's all she was. Just a kid. Helluva life for a kid.
Shucks.
"Lookit here," said Racey, suddenly, "you in hard luck, huh? Don't you
worry. Yore luck is bound to turn. It always does. How much you
want?"
So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers. The girl
shook her head without looking at him.
"It ain't money," she said, dully. "I make enough to keep me going."
Then with a curious flash of temper she continued, "That's always the
way with a man, ain't it? If he thinks yo're in trouble--Give her some
money. If yo're sick--Give her money. If yo're dyin'--Give her money.
Money! Money! Money! I'm so sick of money I--Don't mind me,
stranger. I don't mean nothing. I'm a--a li'l upset to-day. I--it's hard for
me to begin."
Begin! What was the girl driving at?
"Yes," said she. "It's hard. I ain't no snitch. I never was even when I
hadn't no use for a man--like now. But--but you stuck up for me and
my dog, and I gotta pay you back. I gotta. Listen," she pursued, swiftly,
"do you know who that feller was you shot?"
"No." Racey shook his head. "But you don't owe me anything. Forget it.
I dunno what yo're drivin' at, and I don't wanna know if it bothers you
to tell me. But if I can do anything--anything a-tall--to help you, why,
then tell me."

"I know," she nodded. "You'd always help a feller. Yo're that kind. But
I'm all right. That jigger you plugged is Tom Jones."
The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of Tom Jones
should have been informative of much. But, Fieldings excluded, there
are many Tom Joneses. Racey did not react.
"Dunno him," denied Racey Dawson. "I