The Lonesome Trail and Other Stories | Page 6

big dimples in the crown, turned it around
three times for critical inspection, placed it upon his head at a
studiously unstudied angle, felt anxiously at his neck-gear and slapped
Glory affectionately upon the rump--and came near getting kicked into
eternity. Then he swung off up the path, softly whistling "In the good,
old summer-time." An old hen, hovering her chicks in the shade of the
hay-rack, eyed him distrustfully and cried "k-r-_r-r-r_" in a shocked
tone that sent her chickens burrowing deeper under her feathers.
Miss Satterly had changed her pink kimono for a white shirt-waist and
had fluffed her hair into a smooth coil on the top of her head. Weary
thought she looked very nice. She could make excellent lemonade, he
discovered, and she proved herself altogether different from what the

messages she sent him had led him to expect. Weary wondered, until he
became too interested to think about it.
Presently, without quite knowing how it came about, he was telling her
all about the race. Miss Satterly helped him reckon his
winnings--which was not easy to do, since he had been offered all sorts
of odds and had accepted them all with a recklessness that was
appalling. While her dark head was bent above the piece of paper, and
her pencil was setting down figures with precise little jabs, he watched
her. He quite forgot the messages he had received from her through the
medium of the Happy Family, and he quite forgot that women could
hurt a man.
"Mr. Davidson," she announced severely, when the figures had all been
dabbed upon the paper, "You ought to have lost. It would be a lesson to
you. I haven't quite figured all your winnings, these six-to-ones and
ten-to-ones and--and all that, take time to unravel. But you, yourself,
stood to lose just three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Gee! but you
cowboys are reckless."
There was more that she said, but Weary did not mind. He had
discovered that he liked to look at the schoolma'am. After that, nothing
else was of much importance. He began to wish he might prolong his
opportunity for looking.
"Say," he said suddenly, "Come on and let's go to the dance."
The schoolma'am bit at her pencil and looked at him. "It's late--"
"Oh, there's time enough," urged Weary.
"Maybe--but--"
"Do yuh think we aren't well enough acquainted?"
"Well we're not exactly old friends," she laughed.
"We're going to be, so it's all the same," Weary surprised himself by
declaring with much emphasis. "You'd go, wouldn't you, if I was--well,
say your brother?"
Miss Satterly rested her chin in her palms and regarded him
measuringly. "I don't know. I never had one--except three or four that
I--er--adopted, at one time or another. I suppose one could go,
though--with a brother."
Weary made a rapid, mental note for the benefit of the Happy
Family--and particularly Cal Emmett. "Darling Brother" was a myth,
then; he ought to have known it, all along. And if that were a myth, so

probably were all those messages and things that he had hated. She
didn't care anything about him--and suddenly that struck him
unpleasantly, instead of being a relief, as it consistently should have
been.
"I wish you'd adopt me, just for to-night, and go;" he said, and his eyes
backed the wish. "You see," he added artfully, "it's a sin to waste all
that good music--a real, honest-to-God stringed orchestra from Great
Falls, and--"
"Meekers have taken both rigs," objected she, weakly.
"I noticed a side saddle hanging in the stable," he wheedled, "and I'll
gamble I can rustle something to put it on. I--"
"I should think you'd gambled enough for one day," she quelled. "But
that chunky little gray in the pasture is the horse I always ride. I
expect," she sighed, "my new dancing dress would be a sight to behold
when I got there--and it won't wash. But what does a mere man care--"
"Wrap it up in something, and I'll carry it for yuh," Weary advised
eagerly. "You can change at the hotel. It's dead easy." He picked up his
hat from the floor, rose and stood looking anxiously down at her.
"About how soon," he insinuated, "can you be ready?"
The schoolma'am looked up at him irresolutely, drew a long breath and
then laughed. "Oh, ten minutes will do," she surrendered. "I shall put
my new dress in a box, and go just as I am. Do you always get your
own way, Mr. Davidson?"
"Always," he lied convincingly over his shoulder, and jumped off the
porch without bothering to use the steps.
She was waiting when he led the little gray up to the house, and she
came down the steps with a large, flat, pasteboard box in her arms.