The Flying U's Last Stand by B. M. Bower (good books to read for teens .txt) 📗

is a song; there are a lot more verses exactly like this one, which may be sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne with much effectiveness when one is in a certain mood. So Andy sang, while his tired horse picked its way circumspectly among the scattered rocks of the trail up the coulee. “It's time you're here, it's time you're here, It's time that you were here—”

mocked an echo not of the hills.

Andy swore in his astonishment and gave his horse a kick as a mild hint for haste. He thought he knew every woman-voice in the neighborhood—or had until the colony came—but this voice, high and sweet and with a compelling note that stirred him vaguely, was absolutely strange. While he loped forward, silenced for the moment, he was conscious of a swift, keen thankfulness that Pink had at the last minute decided to stay in camp that night instead of accompanying Andy to One Man. He was in that mood when a sentimental encounter appealed to him strongly; and a woman's voice, singing to him from One Man cabin, promised undetermined adventure.

He did not sing again. There had been something in the voice that held him quiet, listening, expectant. But she also was silent after that last, high note—like a meadow lark startled in the middle of his song, thought Andy whimsically.

He came within sight of the cabin, squatting in the shadow of the grove at its back. He half expected to see a light, but the window was dark, the door closed as he had left it. He felt a faint, unreasoning disappointment that it was so. But he had heard her. That high note that lingered upon the word “here” still tingled his senses. His eyes sent seeking glances here and there as he rode up.

Then a horse nickered welcomingly, and someone rode out from the deeper shadow at the corner of the cabin, hesitated as though tempted to flight, and came on uncertainly. They met full before the cabin, and the woman leaned and peered through the dusk at Andy.

“Is this—Mr. Mallory—Irish?” she asked nervously. “Oh dear! Have I gone and made a fool of myself again?”

“Not at all! Good evening, Miss Allen.” Andy folded his hands upon the saddle horn and regarded her with a little smile, Keen for what might come next.

“But you're not Irish Mallory. I thought I recognized the voice, or I wouldn't have—” She urged her horse a step closer, and Andy observed from her manner that she was not accustomed to horses. She reined as if she were driving, so that the horse, bewildered, came sidling up to him. “Who are you?” she asked him sharply.

“Me? Why, I'm a nice young man—a lot better singer than Irish. I guess you never heard him, did you?” He kept his hands folded on the horn, his whole attitude passive—a restful, reassuring passivity that lulled her uneasiness more than words could have done.

“Oh, are you Andy Green? I seem to connect that name with your voice—and what little I can see of you.”

“That's something, anyway.” Andy's tone was one of gratitude. “It's two per cent. better than having to tell you right out who I am. I met you three different times, Miss Allen,” he reproached.

“But always in a crowd,” she defended, “and I never talked with you, particularly.”

“Oh, well, that's easily fixed,” he said. “It's a nice night,” he added, looking up appreciatively at the brightening star-sprinkle. “Are you living on your claim now? We can talk particularly on the way over.”

Miss Allen laughed and groped for a few loose hairs, found them and tucked them carefully under her hatcrown. Andy remembered that gesture; it helped him to visualize her clearly in spite of the deepening night.

“How far have you ridden today, Mr. Green?” she asked irrelevantly.

“Since daylight, you mean? Not so very far counting miles—We were trailing a herd, you see. But I've been in the saddle since sunrise, except when I was eating.”

“Then you want a cup of coffee, before you ride any farther. If I get down, will you let me make it or you? I'd love to. I'm crazy to see inside your cabin, but I only rode up and tried to peek in the window before you came. I have two brothers and a cousin, so I understand men pretty well and I know you can talk better when you aren't hungry.”

“Are you living on your claim?” he asked again, without moving.

“Why, yes. We moved in last week.”

“Well, we'll ride over, then, and you can make coffee there. I'm not hungry right now.”

“Oh.” She leaned again and peered at him, trying to read his face. “You don't WANT me to go in!”

“Yes, I do—but I don't. If you stayed and made coffee, tomorrow you'd be kicking yourself for it, and you'd be blaming me.” Which, considering the life he had lived, almost wholly among men, was rather astute of Andy Green.

“Oh.” Then she laughed. “You must have some sisters, Mr. Green.” She was silent for a minute, looking at him. “You're right,” she said quietly then. “I'm always making a fool of myself, just on the impulse of the moment. The girls will be worried about me, as it is. But I don't want you to ride any farther, Mr. Green. What I came to say need not take very long, and I think I can find my way home alone, all right.”

“I'll take you home when you're ready to go,” said Andy quietly. All at once he had wanted to shield her, to protect her from even so slight an unconventionality as making his coffee for him. He had felt averse to putting her at odds with her conventional self, of inviting unfavorable criticism of himself; dimly, because instinct rather than cold analysis impelled him. What he had told her was the sum total of his formulated ideas.

“Well, I'm ready to go now, since you insist on my being conventional. I did not come West with the expectation of being tied to a book of etiquette, Mr. Green. But I find one can't get away from it after all. Still, living on one's own claim twelve miles from a town is something!”

“That's a whole lot, I should say,” Andy assured her politely, and refrained from asking her what she expected to do with that eighty acres of arid land. He turned his tired horse and rode alongside her, prudently waiting for her to give the key.

“I'm not supposed to be away over here, you know,” she began when they were near the foot of the bluff up which the trail wound seeking the easiest slopes and avoiding boulders and deep cuts. “I'm supposed to be just out riding, and the girls expected me back by sundown. But I've been trying and trying to find some of you Flying U boys—as they call you men who have taken so much land—on your claims. I don't know that what I could tell you would do you a particle of good—or anyone else. But I wanted to tell you, anyway, just to clear my own mind.”

“It does lots of good just to meet you,” said Andy