West was standing near a tall pine tree, fastening a small square of white paper against it with a pin. James stood near, holding a 38 Smith and Wesson in his hands. Bess stood back some fifteen yards with a 22-caliber repeating rifle rested across her left arm.
“She said she did, Henry,” said James as he lifted his eye-brows in a smile of incredulity.
“Yes, I did yesterday—hit the mark, not only three but four times, if you please.”
“Well, the test is at hand. You have to ‘show us’ Sister, before we can ‘deliver the goods.’”
Twice had the pin dropped from West’s fingers, but the third attempt had securely fastened the target in place.
“Now, then, Bess, three holes within an inch apart, and only three shots,” said West, as he stepped aside. James ran and concealed himself behind a tree, as if he really feared being shot.
For a moment Bess stood still, lifted the gun, examined it to see that the cartridges were all right, adjusted the sights correctly, and then with a firm, decisive movement placed the weapon against her shoulder. A sharp report and one mark was recorded; the click of the lever and another shot, and then the third. She stood with the butt of the gun resting on her foot, as she watched eagerly as both boys hurried forward to view the record. Both were pointing and measuring and talking. She heard James say “not quite” and West replied “near enough.”
“If it is not correct, I have lost,” said Bess, as she started towards the tree. She found two holes together and the third a little more than one inch to the left.
“Take one more shot, Bess; I know you can hit it,” said West, as he assured himself that the gun was loaded and handed it back to the girl. Bess resumed her position, and the next shot cut directly between the other two, making one large mark on the paper.
“Good,” cried both the boys at once, and they came laughingly forward to present her the pretty new weapon. James cleared his throat preparatory to making a presentation speech, and as the words “In behalf of” were said, Bess threw her arms about his neck and then placed both her hands over his mouth.
“Thanks, Henry, it is a perfect beauty,” said Bess, as she accepted the gun. As she read engraved on one side of the handle, her name, “Bess Fletcher” and on the other, HW brand, she extended her hand and happy tears filled her eyes.
Both men demanded that she give the pistol a trial, and both were really astonished to see how quickly she used it and how accurate were her aim and judgment of distance.
“See, I have the pocket in my skirt all ready for it,” and the gun slid into the ingenious opening near the waist, leaving only the handle inconspicuously exposed. “You see, I was determined to win, although I really cannot see what possible use it can ever be to me. I could not bear to shoot a bird, and as far as defense, what can harm me, Henry?”
“I have carried a gun here on the range always,” remarked West, as he drew one from his holster, “and I have never used it but once, and that was to shoot a rattlesnake which put up a fight. See, here are the rattles,—eleven and the button.” Taking off his hat he showed the interested pair where he wore it on his hat-band. “Another time I had it drawn and cocked, but,”—he paused; “but—I replaced it.” Bess saw him bite his lip as if the memory of the incident, even, filled him with hate. Neither asked what the occasion was, but as he carefully looked at the weapon his face told them that he might use it again. He thrust it back into its leathern receptacle, giving the holster a firm pat, as if to assure himself the gun was secure—and ready.
Bess had remounted her horse and gone back to the house to show the prize to Mrs. West. As she left them, James turned to West, who was re-adjusting one of his stirrups before remounting. The three had come a short distance from the house for the shooting exhibition, and now James and West were going on to gather up some running horses which he wished to get in shape for the races to be held within the next few days.
“Henry,” began James, as he walked to the man standing near Eagle, “why can’t you tell me what troubles you? You are not like your old self, not one bit. I have seen it ever since my return, and of late your mood is becoming worse. Is it anything which I could help—if it is, tell me, and you know I’ll do anything under God’s sun to help you, old boy.”
He placed a friendly arm about the dark, silent man’s shoulder, and with a gentle pat or two rested it there. He noted the sudden dilation of the wide nostrils, heard the teeth as they ground together and caught a hopeful expression in the dark, deep eyes as they were lifted to his face for a moment.
As if to arouse the man from a dream, James gave his broad shoulder another pat, at which West straightened himself and grasped James’ hand in his, in a strong grip.
“You, Jim, are and have been my truest, best friend. Ever since that first night at Harvard have you been more to me than a brother. My trouble is something which even God could not help. Part of it is past, part is still to come. The past cannot be forgotten, the future is inevitable,—I must face it and—alone. I could not tell you without causing you unnecessary pain, and believe me, I should ask your help, if you could help me. Never mind my moods. I try hard enough to brace up before your sister and my mother, but I know that sometimes I fail miserably. Give me your hand again, Jim, and know—that when I can or must tell you, nothing shall prevent my seeking you and your confidence.”
He put his foot in the stirrup and swung with easy grace into his saddle. James mounted and rode beside him, trying in vain to think of something to say which might relieve the awkward silence. Either West did not see another rider approaching them, or else he purposely reined Eagle from the hard, beaten road, across the prairie. In response to a signal from the horseman, James called to West. “Henry, Davis is signaling to us. Come back and see what he wants.”
Already Fletcher had started back and was talking with Davis when West came up slowly. He touched his hat as the Indian Agent looked up at him, and noting that the conversation did not concern him he let Eagle nibble at the grass at some little distance, while he waited for James.
“Thanks, Fletcher; I shall do as you suggest,” came to West’s ears, as he looked up to see James returning and Davis going on—he knew to his home to see the one whom he himself loved more than all the world.
“Do you know, Henry,” said James, “I think Davis is a fine man. He just asked my consent to visit my sister and try to win her for his wife. I told him that as far as I was concerned, he might do so, but that Bess could and would please herself. In fact, I told him that she did not seem to care for anyone’s addresses.”
West could not reply, his heart and lips seemed suddenly frozen. If he only could warn this brother against that man! Yet, how could he without revealing the deep secret of his heart? Unless he stated facts Fletcher might think it was some personal affair which prompted his criticism of Davis. And yet, to let Bess fall directly into the talons of a vulture without even lifting his voice to defend her, seemed the height of cowardice. He must have time to think—to think.
Mauchacho, with his saddle on, was standing at the gate waiting for his mistress to resume her ride. He gave a long neigh of welcome as Mr. Davis came riding up. Bess ran to the door to see what Mauchacho wanted, just as Mr. Davis leaped to the ground and started through the gate. With a little ejaculation of surprise she stepped down toward him. She knew that if she could have escaped without being seen, she would not now be shaking hands with this man.
“Mr. Fletcher told me I should find you here, and he assured me that you would be glad to see me,” he said. He did not look directly at her as he exaggerated the truth. “Are you not glad, little girl?”
Since the evening when the white roses had come and the card had been read to the others, Bess had not felt so confused nor embarrassed when Davis had been spoken of. Now that James and Henry and Mrs. West knew that Davis cared for her and that he came purposely to see her, she tried to overcome her aversion for the man. While he was near her he exerted an influence which, strive as she would, she could not resist. His manner was charming, his conversation interesting, and there was about him that subtle, indescribable something which made him well-nigh irresistible. Bess was even surprised at herself as she became more and more interested in the man. And yet when he was gone she always felt relieved and happier, as if she were freed from some undue constraint. She never longed for him to come again and always felt a surprise when he came, and an insane desire to run away to hide. As she did not reply to his question, he asked again, “Is my sweetheart glad to see me?”
“Really, Mr. Davis, your conjecture is rather bold! Did I ever say I was anyone’s sweetheart?”
“But you are, you are mine, and just now your brother congratulated me.”
“Well, indeed,” said Bess, haughtily; “is a girl compelled to assume the role, nolens volens?” Her brown eyes snapped defiance at the man standing a few steps below her.
“There, Bess, no one will compel you to do anything against your own will,” quickly corrected Mr. Davis, for he did not wish his too slow progress to be retarded by any whim or imagined compulsion. He had had experience enough to know that with women, coaxing accomplishes more than commands.
“Come, I came to take you for a ride. I see you were intending to go anyway,” he said tactfully. Half reluctantly she permitted him to lead her to the gate and assist her in mounting. Immediately, as she felt her horse under her, her usual happy spirit returned and in a short time she was laughing and merry as could be. The warm breeze blew her white veil about her face and tossed her hair about in sweet confusion. What a picture they made as their horses moved swiftly along in rhythmic motion! He sat his horse well and rode without any awkwardness, now that his ankle was strong once more. It seemed to him that he had never seen such perfect grace before, as he saw how beautifully the girl rode her splendid horse.
“If it were not so hot down across the flat,” said Bess, “I would show you that Mauchacho can go twice as fast as that cayuse you are riding,” and the twinkle in her eye was inconsistent with her assumed, contemptuous smile.
“This is the first ride we have had together for so long that I could not bear to hurry it,” replied Davis, as he placed a restraining hand on Mauchacho’s bridle.
“It seems to be growing dreadfully hot! Go to the right beyond those rocks and we shall find shade and a spring,” said the girl, as she noticed tiny beads of sweat trickling down the horses’ necks.
Suddenly, Mauchacho, who was leading, gave a quick snort and sprang sidewise into the air and landed several feet to the side of the trail, nearly throwing Bess from the saddle. Astonished at the unusual performance of her horse, she glanced quickly about to discern the cause of this fear. The next instant she snatched the 38 Smith and Wesson from her skirt and a sharp crack sounded as the shot created a squirming, writhing mass in the trail only a few feet in front of her. Davis’ horse had also become frightened at the coiled rattler and was now almost uncontrollable. Bess sprang from Mauchacho, who had the sense to know that the snake was now harmless, firing another shot into the quivering streaks of drab and it lay still.
“Well, upon my word, Miss Fletcher, I take off my hat to you!” said Davis, as he succeeded in quieting his horse. “Who taught you to be such a ‘crack shot’ and where did you get that pretty gun? Where did you conceal it, may I ask?”
“Come, cut the rattles off for me and put them in my hat-band, Mr. Davis! This is the first thing I’ve shot with my pistol which Henry West gave me only today as a present, because I had learned to shoot so well under his directions,” answered the excited girl.
“Eleven rattles and a button! Just like his!” She could not resist a tiny shudder of aversion as she placed the sombrero with its new decoration upon her head. Yet she knew that Henry West’s face would light up with gratification when he saw her trophy.