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what Lake says about us? A much-mollified Bransford finished the sentence for her.
She nodded. Then, to change the subject:
You do speak cowboy talk one minute and all booky, polite and proper the next, you know. Why?
Bad associations, said Bransford ambiguously. Also for tis my nature to, as little dogs they do delight to bark and bite. That beef sure tastes like more.
And now you may smoke while I pack up, announced the girl when dessert was over, at long last. And please, there is something I want to ask you about. Will you tell me truly?
Um you sing?
Yes a little.
If you will sing for me afterward?
Certainly. With pleasure.
All right, then. Whats the story about?
Ellinor gave him her eyes. Did you rob the post-office at Escondido really?
Now it might well be embarrassing to be asked if you had committed a felony; but there was that behind the words of this naïve query in look, in tone, in mental attitude an unflinching and implicit faith that, since he had seen fit to do this thing, it must needs have been the right and wise thing to do, which stirred the felons pulses to a pleasant flutter and caused a certain tough and powerful muscle to thump foolishly at his ribs. The delicious intimacy, the baseless faith, was sweet to him.
Sure, I did! he answered lightly. Lake is one talkative little man, isnt he? Fie, fie! But, shucks! What can you expect? The beast will do after his kind.
And youll tell me about it?
After I smoke. Got to study up some plausible excuses, you know.
She studied him as she packed. It was a good face lined, strong, expressive, vivid; gay, resolute, confident, alert reckless, perhaps. There were lines of it disused, fallen to abeyance. What was well with the man had prospered; what was ill with him had faded and dimmed. He was not a young man thirty-seven, thirty-eight (she was twenty-four) but there was an unquenchable boyishness about him, despite the few frosty hairs at his temples. He bore his hard years jauntily: youth danced in his eyes. The explorer nodded to herself, well pleased. He was interesting different.
The tale suffered from Bransfords telling, as any tale will suffer when marred by the inevitable, barbarous modesty of its hero. It was a long story, cozily confidential; and there were interruptions. The sun was low ere it was done.
Now the song, said Jeff, and then He did not complete the sentence; his face clouded.
What shall I sing?
How can I tell? What you will. What can I know about good songs or anything else? responded Bransford in sudden moodiness and dejection for, after the song, the end of everything! He flinched at the premonition of irrevocable loss.
The girl made no answer. This is what she sang. No; you shall not be told of her voice. Perhaps there is a voice that you remember, that echoes to you through the dusty years. How would you like to describe that?
Oh, Sandy has monie and Sandy has land,
And Sandy has housen, sae fine and sae grand
But Id rather hae Jamie, wi nocht in his hand,
Than Sandy, wi all of his housen and land.
My father looks sulky; my mither looks soor;
They gloom upon Jamie because he is poor.
I loe them baith dearly, as a docther should do;
But I loe them not half sae weel, dear Jamie, as you!
I sit at my cribbie, I spin at my wheel;
I think o the laddie that loes me sae weel.
Oh, he had but a saxpence, he brak it in twa,
And he gied me the half ot ere he gaed awa!
He said: Loe me lang, lassie, though I gang awa!
He said: Loe me lang, lassie, though I gang awa!
Bland simmer is cooming; cauld winters awa,
And Ill wed wi Jamie in spite o them a!
Jeffs back was to a tree, his hat over his eyes. He pushed it up.
Thank you, he said; and then, quite directly: Are you rich?
Not very, said Ellinor, a little breathless at the blunt query.
Im going to be rich, said Jeff steadily.
Im going to be a horse, quoth the little eohippus. The girl retorted saucily, though secretly alarmed at the import of this examination.
Ex-actly. So thats settled. What is your name?
Hoffman.
Where do you live, Hoffman?
Ellinor, supplemented the girl.
Ellinor, then. Where do you live, Ellinor?
In New York just now. Not in town. Upstate. On a farm. You see, grandfathers growing old and he wanted father to come back.
New Yorks not far, said Jeff.
A sudden panic seized the girl. What next? In swift, instinctive self-defense she rose and tripped to the tree where lay her neglected sketch-book, bent over and started back with a little cry of alarm. With a spring and a rush, Jeff was at her side, caught her up and glared watchfully at bush and shrub and tufted grass.
Mr. Bransford! Put me down!
What was it? A rattlesnake?
A snake? What an idea! I just noticed how late it was. I must go.
Crestfallen, sheepishly, Mr. Bransford put her down, thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his chin and whistled an aggravating little trill from the Rye twostep.
Mr. Bransford! said Ellinor haughtily.
Mr. Bransfords face expressed patient attention.
Are you lame?
Mr. Bransfords eye estimated the distance covered during the recent snake episode, and then gave to Miss Hoffman a look of profound respect. His shoulders humped up slightly; his head bowed to the stroke: he stood upon one foot and traced the Rainbow brand in the dust with the other.
I told you all along I wasnt hurt, he said aggrieved. Didnt I, now?
Are you lame? she repeated severely, ignoring his truthful saying.
Not very. The quotation marks were clearly audible.
Are you lame at all?
No, maam not what you might call really lame. Uh no, maam.
And you deceived me like that! Indignation checked her. Oh, I am so disappointed in you! That was a fine, manly thing for you to do!
It was such a lovely time, observed the culprit doggedly. And such a chance might never happen again. And it isnt my fault I wasnt hurt, you know. Im sure I wish I was.
She gave him an icy glare.
Now see what youve done! Your men havent come and you wont stay with Mr. Lake. How are you going to get home? Oh, I forgot you can walk, as you should have done at first.
The guilty wretch wilted yet further. He shuffled his feet; he writhed; he positively squirmed. He ventured a timid upward glance. It seemed to give him courage. Prompted, doubtless, by the same feeling which drives one to dive headlong into dreaded cold water, he said, in a burst of candor:
Well, you see, maam, that little horse now he really aint got far. He got tangled up over there a ways
The girl wheeled and shot a swift, startled glance at the little eohippus on the hillside, who had long since given over his futile struggles and was now nibbling grass with becoming resignation. She turned back to Bransford. Slowly, scathingly, she looked him over from head to foot and slowly back again. Her expression ran the gamut wonder, anger, scorn, withering contempt.
I think I hate you! she flamed at him.
Amazement triumphed over the other emotions then a real amazement: the detected impostor had resumed his former debonair bearing and met her scornful eye with a slow and provoking smile.