The Seventh Man | Page 5

Vic!"
He grinned, half mollified, half shame-faced, and ducked back into the

room, but a moment later he clumped stiffly down the stairs, frowning.
He wondered if he could dance in those boots.
"Feel kind of strange in these clothes. How do I look, Nelly?" And he
turned in review at the foot of the stairs.
"Slick as a whistle, I'll tell a man." She raised her voice to a shout as he
disappeared through the outer door. "Kiss her once for me, Vic."
In the center of the little pasture he stood shaking out the noose, and the
three horses raced in a sweeping gallop around the fence, looking for a
place of escape, with Grey Molly in the lead. Nothing up the Doane
River, or even down the Asper, for that matter, could head Molly when
she was full of running, and the eyes of Gregg gleamed as he watched
her. She was not a picture horse, for her color was rather a dirty white
than a dapple, and besides, there were some who accused her of
"tucked up belly." But she had the legs for speed in spite of the sloping
croup, and plenty of chest at the girth, and a small, bony head that
rejoiced the heart of a horseman. He swung the noose, and while the
others darted ahead, stupidly straight into the range of danger, Grey
Molly whirled like a doubling coyote and leaped away.
"Good girl!" cried Vic, in involuntary approbation. He ran a few steps.
The noose slid up and out, opened in a shaky loop, and swooped down.
Too late the gray saw the flying danger, for even as she swerved the
riata fell over her head, and she came to a snorting halt with all fours
planted, skidding through the grass. The first thing a range horse learns
is never to pull against a rope.
A few minutes later she was getting the "pitch" out of her system, as
any self-respecting cattle horse must do after a session of pasture and
no work. She bucked with enthusiasm and intelligence, as she did all
things. Sun-fishing, sun-fishing is the most deadly form of bucking, for
it consists of a series of leaps apparently aimed at the sun, and the horse
comes down with a sickening jar on stiff front legs. Educated "pitchers"
land on only one foot, so that the shock is accompanied by a terrible
sidewise, downward wrench that breaks the hearts of the best riders in
the world. Grey Molly was educated, and Mrs. Pym stood in the

doorway with a broad grin of appreciation on her red face, she knew
riding when she saw it. Then, out of the full frenzy, the mare lapsed
into high-headed, quivering attention, and Gregg cursed her softly, with
deep affection. He understood her from her fetlocks to her teeth. She
bucked like a fiend of revolt one instant and cantered like an angel of
grace the next; in fact she was more or less of an equine counterpart of
her rider.
But now he heard shrill voices passing down the street and he knew
that school was out and that he must hurry if he wanted to ride home
with Betty, so he waved to Mrs. Pym and cantered away. For over two
days he had been rushing towards this meeting; all winter he had
hungered for it, but now that the moment loomed before him he
weakened; he usually did when he came close to the girl. Not that her
beauty overwhelmed him, for though she had a portion of energetic
good-health and freckled prettiness, he had chosen her as an Indian
chooses flint for his steel; one could strike fire from Betty Neal. When
he was far away he loved her without doubt or question and his trust
ran towards her like a river setting towards the ocean because he knew
that her heart was as big and as true as the heart of Grey Molly herself.
Only her ways were fickle, and when she came near, she filled him
with uneasiness, suspicion.
Chapter III.
Battle
On the road he passed Miss Brewster--for the Alder school boasted two
teachers!--and under her kindly, rather faded smile he felt a great desire
to stop and take her into his confidence; ask her what Betty Neal had
been doing all these months. Instead, he touched Grey Molly with the
spurs, and she answered like a watch-spring uncurling beneath him.
The rush of wind against his face raised his spirits to a singing pitch,
and when he flung from the saddle before the school he shouted: "Oh,
Betty!"
Up the sharply angling steps in a bound, and at the door: "Oh, Betty!"

His voice filled the room with a thick, dull echo, and there was Betty
behind