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

“I always stand up for my friends,” evaded Rowdy. “And if I had a brother—”

“Of course you'd be loyal,” approved Miss Conroy warmly. “But I didn't want you to come on; it isn't your quarrel. And I know the way now. You needn't have come any farther.”

“You forgot the blanket,” Rowdy reminded wickedly. “I think a lot of that Navajo.”

“You insisted upon my taking it,” she retorted, and took refuge in silence.

For a long hour they plodded blindly. Rowdy beat his hands often about his body to start the blood, and meditated yearnigly upon hot coffee and the things he liked best to eat. Also, a good long pull at a flask wouldn't be had, either, he thought. And he hoped this little schoolma'am knew where she was going—truth to tell, he doubted it.

After a while, it seemed that Miss Conroy doubted it also. She took to leaning forward and straining her eyes to see through the gray wall before.

“There should be a gate here,” she said dubiously, at last.

“It seems to me,” Rowdy ventured mildly, “if there were a gate, it would have some kind of a fence hitched to it; wouldn't it?”

Miss Conroy was in no mood for facetiousness, and refused to answer his question. “I surely can't have made a mistake,” she observed uneasily.

“It would be a wonder if you didn't, such a night as this,” he consoled. “I wouldn't bank on traveling straight myself, even if I knew the country—which I don't. And I've been in more blizzards than I'm years old.”

“Rodway's place can't be far away,” she said, brightening. “It may be farther to the east; shall we try that way—if you know which is east?”

“Sure, we'll try. It's all we can do. My packhorse is about all in, from the way he hangs back; if we don't strike something pretty soon I'll have to turn him loose.”

“Oh, don't do that,” she begged. “It would be too cruel. We're sure to reach Rodway's very soon.”

More plodding through drifts high and drifts low; more leaning from saddles to search anxiously for trace of something besides snow and wind and biting cold. Then, far to the right, a yellow eye glowed briefly when the storm paused to take breath. Miss Conroy gave a glad little cry and turned Badger sharply.

“Did you see? It was the light from a window. We were going the wrong way. I'm sure that is Rodway's.”

Rowdy thanked the Lord and followed her. They came up against a fence, found a gate, and passed through. While they hurried toward it, the light winked welcome; as they drew near, some one stirred the fire and sent sparks and rose-hued smoke rushing up into the smother of snow. Rowdy watched them wistfully, and wondered if there would be supper, and strong, hot coffee. He lifted Miss Conroy out of the saddle, carried her two long strides, and deposited her upon the door-step; rapped imperatively, and when a voice replied, lifted the latch and pushed her in before him.

For a minute they stood blinking, just within the door. The change from numbing cold and darkness to the light of the overheated room was stupefying.

Then Miss Conroy went over and held her little, gloved hands to the heat of the stove, but she did not take the chair which some one pushed toward her. She stood, the blanket shrouding her face and her slim young figure, and looked about her curiously. It was not Rodway's house, after all. She thought she knew what place it was—the shack where Rodway's hay-balers bached.

From the first, Rowdy did not like the look of things—though for himself it did not matter; he was used to such scenes. It was the presence of the girl which made him uncomfortable. He unbuttoned his coat that the warmth might reach his chilled body, and frowned.

Four men sat around a small, dirty table; evidently the arrivals had interrupted an exciting game of seven-up. A glance told Rowdy, even if his nose had not, that the four round, ribbed bottles had not been nearly emptied without effect.

“Have one on the house,” the man nearest him cried, and shoved a bottle toward him.

Involuntarily Rowdy reached for it. Now that he was inside, he realized all at once how weary he was, and cold and hungry. Each abused muscle and nerve seemed to have a distinct grievance against him. His fingers closed around the bottle before he remembered and dropped it. He looked up, hoping Miss Conroy had not observed the action; met her wide, questioning eyes, and the blood flew guiltily to his cheeks.

“Thanks, boys—not any for me,” he said, and apologized to Miss Conroy with his eyes.

The man rose and confronted him unsteadily. “Dat's a hell off a way! You too proud for drink weeth us? You drink, now! By Gar, I make you drink!”

Rowdy's eyelids drooped, which was a bad sign for those who knew him. “You're forgetting there's a lady present,” he reminded warningly.

The man turned a brief, contemptuous glance toward the stove. “You got the damn' queer way to talk. I don't call no squaw no lady. You drink queeck, now!”

“Aw, shut up, Frenchy,” the man at his elbow abjured him. “He don't have to drink if he don't want to.”

“You keep the face close,” the other retorted majestically; and cursed loud and long and incoherently.

Rowdy drew back his arm, with a fist that meant trouble for somebody; but there were others before him who pinned the importunate host to the table, where he squirmed unavailingly.

Rowdy buttoned up his coat the while he eyed the group disgustedly. “I guess we'll drift,” he remarked. “You don't look good to me, and that's no dream.”

“Aw, stay and warm up,” the fourth man expostulated. “Yuh don't need t' mind Le Febre; he's drunk.”

But Rowdy opened the door decisively, and Miss Conroy, her cheeks like two storm-buffeted poppies, followed him out with dignity—albeit trailing a yard of red-and-yellow Navajo blanket behind her. Rowdy lifted her into the saddle, tucked her feet carefully under the blanket, and said never a word.

“Mr. Vaughan,” she began hesitatingly, “this is too bad; you need not have left. I—I wasn't afraid.”

“I know you weren't,” conceded Rowdy. “But it was a hard formation—for a woman. Are there any more places on this flat marked Unavailable?”

Miss Conroy replied misanthropically that if there were they would be sure to find them.

They took up their weary wanderings again, while the yellow eye of the window winked after them. They missed Rodway's by a scant hundred yards, and didn't know it, because the side of the house next them had no lighted windows. They traveled in a wide, half circle, and thought that they were leaving a straight trail behind them. More than