The Lonesome Trail and Other Stories | Page 5

presently. "You seemed quite upset at seeing the place
wasn't deserted; but I'm sure, if you are a robber running away from a
sheriff, I'd never dream of stopping you. Please don't mind me; just
make yourself at home."
Weary turned his head and looked straight up at her. "I'm afraid I'll
have to disappoint yuh, Miss Satterly," he said blandly. "I'm just an
ordinary human, and my name is Davidson--better known as Weary.
You don't appear to remember me. We've met before."

She eyed him attentively. "Perhaps we have--it you say so. I'm
wretched about remembering strange names and faces. Was it at a
dance? I meet so many fellows at dances--" She waved a brown little
hand and smiled deprecatingly.
"Yes," said Weary laconically, still looking into her face. "It was."
She stared down at him, her brows puckered. "I know, now. It was at
the Saint Patrick's dance in Dry Lake! How silly of me to forget."
Weary turned his gaze to the hill beyond the creek, and fanned his hot
face with his hat. "It was not. It wasn't at that dance, at all." Funny she
didn't remember him! He suspected her of trying to fool him, now that
he was actually in her presence, and he refused absolutely to be fooled.
He could see that she threw out her hand helplessly. "Well, I may as
well 'fess up. I don't remember you at all. It's horrid of me, when you
rode up in that lovely, unconventional way. But you see, at dances one
doesn't think of the men as individuals; they're just good or bad
partners. It resolves itself, you see, into a question of feet. If I should
dance with you again,--did I dance with you?"
Weary shot a quick, eloquent glance in her direction. He did not say
anything.
Miss Satterly blushed. "I was going to say, if I danced with you again I
should no doubt remember you perfectly."
Weary was betrayed into a smile. "If I could dance in these boots, I'd
take off my spurs and try and identify myself. But I guess I'll have to
ask yuh to take my word for it that we're acquainted."
"Oh, I will. I meant to, all along. Why aren't you in town, celebrating? I
thought I was the only unpatriotic person in the country."
"I just came from town," Weary told her, choosing, his words carefully
while yet striving to be truthful. No man likes confessing to a woman
that he has been run away with. "I--er--broke my bridle-bit, back a few
miles" (it was fifteen, if it were a rod) "and so I rode in here to get one
of Joe's. I didn't want to bother anybody, but Glory seemed to think this
was where the trail ended."
Miss Satterly laughed again. "It certainly was funny--you trying to get
him away, and being so still about it. I heard you whispering
swear-words, and I wanted to scream! I just couldn't keep still any
longer. Is he balky?"
"I don't know what he is--now," said Weary plaintively. "He was, at

that time. He's generally what happens to be the most dev--mean under
the circumstances."
"Well, maybe he'll consent to being led to the stable; he looks as if he
had a most unmerciful master!" (Weary, being perfectly innocent,
blushed guiltily) "But I'll forgive you riding him like that, and make for
you a pitcher of lemonade and give you some cake while he rests. You
certainly must not ride back with him so tired."
Fresh lemonade sounded tempting, after that ride. And being lectured
was not at all what he had expected from the schoolma'am--and who
can fathom the mind of a man? Weary gave her one complex glance,
laid his hand upon the bridle and discovered that Glory, having done
what mischief he could, was disposed to be very meek. At the corral
gate Weary looked back.
"At dances," he mused aloud, "one doesn't consider men as
individuals--it's merely a question of feet. She took me for a train
robber; and I danced with her about forty times, that night, and took her
over to supper and we whacked up on our chicken salad because there
was only one dish for the two of us--oh, mamma!"
He pulled off the saddle with a preoccupied air and rubbed Glory down
mechanically. After that he went over and sat down on the oats' box
and smoked two cigarettes while he pondered many things.
He stood up and thoughtfully surveyed himself, brushed sundry bright
sorrel hairs from his coat sleeves, stooped and tried to pinch creases
into the knees of his trousers, which showed symptoms of "bagging."
He took off his hat and polished it with his sleeve he had just brushed
so carefully, pinched four