Rowdy of the Cross L by B. M. Bower (classic fiction .TXT) 📕

The storm lifted suddenly, as storms have a way of doing, and a low, squat ranch-house stood dimly revealed against the bleak expanse of wind-tortured prairie. Rowdy gave an exultant little whoop and made for the gate, leaned and swung it open and rode through, dragging Chub after him by main strength, as usual. When he turned to close the gate after Miss Conroy he found her standing still in the lane.

“Come on in,” he called, with a trace of impatience born of his weariness and hunger.

“Thank you, no.” Miss Conroy's voice was as crisply cold as the wind which fluttered the Navajo blanket around her face. “I much prefer the blizzard.”

For a moment Rowdy found nothing to say; he just stared. Miss Conroy shifted uneasily in the saddle.

“This is old Bill Brown's place,” she explained reluctantly. “He—I'd rather freeze than go in!”

“Well, I guess that won't be hard to do,” he retorted curtly, “if you stay out much longer.”

The dog was growing hysterical over their presence, and Bill Brown himself came out to see what it was all about. He could see two dim figures at the gate.

“Hello!” he shouted. “Why don't yuh come on in? What yuh standing there chewing the rag for?”

Vaughan hesitated, his eyes upon Miss Conroy.

“Go in,” she commanded imperiously, quite as if he were a refractory pupil. “You're tired out, and hungry. I'm neither. Besides, I know where I am now. I can find my way without any trouble. Go in, I tell you!”

But Rowdy stayed where he was, with the gate creaking to and fro between them. Dixie circled till his back was to the wind. “I hope you don't think you're going to mill around out here alone,” Rowdy said tartly.

“I can manage very well. I'm not lost now, I tell you. Rodway's is only three miles from here, and I know the direction.”

Bill Brown waded out to them, wondering what weighty discussion was keeping them there in the cold. Vaughan he passed by with the cursory glance of a disinterested stranger, and went on to where Miss Conroy waited stubbornly in the lane.

“Oh, it's you!” he said grimly. “Well, come in and thaw out; I hope yuh didn't think yuh wouldn't be welcome yuh knew better. You got lost, I reckon. Come on—”

Miss Conroy struck Badger sharply across the flank and disappeared into the night. “When I ask shelter of you,” she flung back, “you'll know it.”

Rowdy started after, and met Bill Brown squarely in the gate. Bill eyed him sharply. “Say, young fellow, how'd you come by that packhorse?” he demanded, as Chub brushed past him.

“None of your damn' business,” snapped Rowdy, and drove the spurs into Dixie's ribs. But Chub was a handicap at any time; now, when he was tired, there was no getting anything like speed out of him; he clung to his shuffling trot, which was really no better than a walk. After five minutes spent alternately in spurring Dixie and yanking at Chub's lead-rope, Rowdy grew frightened and took to shouting. While they were in the lane Miss Conroy must perforce ride straight ahead, but the lane would not last always. As though with malicious intent, the snow swooped down again and the world became an unreal, nightmare world, wherein was nothing save shifting, blinding snowfloury and wind and bitter, numbing cold.

Rowdy stood in his stirrups, cupped his chilled fingers around his numbed lips, and sent a longdrawn “Who-ee!” shrilling weirdly into the night.

It seemed to him, after long listening, that from the right came faint reply, and he turned and rode recklessly, swearing at Chub for his slowness. He called again, and the answer, though faint, was unmistakable. He settled heavily into the saddle—too weak, from sheer relief, to call again. He had not known till then just how frightened he had been, and he was somewhat disconcerted at the discovery. In a minute the reaction passed and he shouted a loud hello.

“Hello?” came the voice of Miss Conroy, tantalizingly calm, and as superior as the greeting of Central. “Were you looking for me, Mr. Vaughan?”

She was close to him—so close that she had not needed to raise her voice perceptibly. Rowdy rode up alongside, remembering uncomfortably his prolonged shouting.

“I sure was,” he admitted. And then: “You rode off with my blanket on.” He was very proud of his matter-of-fact tone.

“Oh!” Miss Conroy was almost deceived, and a bit disappointed. “I'll give it to you now, and you can go back—if you know the way.”

“No hurry,” said Rowdy politely. “I'll go on and see if you can find a place that looks good to you. You seem pretty particular.”

Miss Conroy may have blushed, in the shelter of the blanket. “I suppose it did look strange to you,” she confessed, but defiantly. “Bill Brown is an enemy to—Harry. He—because he lost a horse or two out of a field, one time, he—he actually accused Harry of taking them! He lied, of course, and nobody believed him; nobody could believe a thing like that about Harry. It was perfectly absurd. But he did his best to hurt Harry's name, and I would rather freeze than ask shelter of him. Wouldn't you—in my place, I mean?”