Her Prairie Knight by B. M. Bower (e reader comics txt) 📗

Beatrice, standing on the top of a steep, grassy slope, was engaged in the conventional pastime of enjoying the view. It was a fine view, but it was not half as good to look upon as was Beatrice herself, in her fresh white waist and brown skirt, with her brown hair fluffing softly in the breeze which would grow to a respectable wind later in the day, and with her cheeks pink from climbing.

She was up where she could see the river, a broad band of blue in the surrounding green, winding away for miles through the hills. The far bank stood a straight two hundred feet of gay-colored rock, chiseled, by time and stress of changeful weather, into fanciful turrets and towers. Above and beyond, where the green began, hundreds of moving dots told where the cattle were feeding quietly. Far away to the south, heaps of hazy blue and purple slept in the sunshine; Dick had told her those were the Highwoods. And away to the west, a jagged line of blue-white glimmered and stood upon tip-toes to touch the swimming clouds—touched them and pushed above proudly; those were the Rockies. The Bear Paws stood behind her; nearer they were—so near they lost the glamour of mysterious blue shadows, and became merely a sprawling group of huge, pine-covered hills, with ranches dotted here and there in sheltered places, with squares of fresh, dark green that spoke of growing crops.

Ten days, and the metropolitan East had faded and become as hazy and vague as the Highwoods. Ten days, and the witchery of the West leaped in her blood and held her fast in its thralldom.

A sound of scrambling behind her was immediately followed by a smothered epithet. Beatrice turned in time to see Sir Redmond pick himself up.

“These grass slopes are confounded slippery, don't you know,” he explained apologetically. “How did you manage that climb?”

“I didn't.” Beatrice smiled. “I came around the end, where the ascent is gradual; there's a good path.”

“Oh!” Sir Redmond sat down upon a rock and puffed. “I saw you up here—and a fellow doesn't think about taking a roundabout course to reach his heart's—”

“Isn't it lovely?” Beatrice made haste to inquire.

“Lovely isn't half expressive enough,” he told her. “You look—”

“The river is so very blue and dignified. I've been wondering if it has forgotten how it must have danced through those hills, away off there. When it gets down to the cities—this blue water—it will be muddy and nasty looking. The 'muddy Missouri' certainly doesn't apply here. And that farther shore is simply magnificent. I wish I might stay here forever.”

“The Lord forbid!” cried he, with considerable fervor. “There's a dear nook in old England where I hope—”

“You did get that mud off your leggings, I see,” Beatrice remarked inconsequentially. “James must have worked half the time we've been here. They certainly were in a mess the last time I saw them.”

“Bother the leggings! But I take it that's a good sign, Miss Lansell—your taking notice of such things.”

Beatrice returned to the landscape. “I wonder who originated that phrase, 'The cattle grazing on a thousand hills'? He must have stood just here when he said it.”

“Wasn't it one of your American poets? Longfellow, or—er—”

Beatrice simply looked at him a minute and said “Pshaw!”

“Well,” he retorted, “you don't know yourself who it was.”

“And to think,” Beatrice went on, ignoring the subject, “some of those grazing cows and bossy calves are mine—my very own. I never cared before, or thought much about it, till I came out and saw where they live, and Dick pointed to a cow and the sweetest little red and white calf, and said: 'That's your cow and calf, Trix.' They were dreadfully afraid of me, though—I'm afraid they didn't recognize me as their mistress. I wanted to get down and pet the calf—it had the dearest little snub nose but they bolted, and wouldn't let me near them.”

“I fancy they were not accustomed to meeting angels unawares.”

“Sir Redmond, I wish you wouldn't. You are so much nicer when you're not trying to be nice.”

“I'll act a perfect brute,” he offered eagerly, “if that will make you love me.”

“It's hardly worth trying. I think you would make a very poor sort of villain, Sir Redmond. You wouldn't even be picturesque.”

Sir Redmond looked rather floored. He was a good fighter, was Sir Redmond, but he was clumsy at repartee—or, perhaps, he was too much in earnest to fence gracefully. Just now he looked particularly foolish.

“Don't you think my brand is pretty? You know what it is, don't you?”

“I'm afraid not,” he owned. “I fancy I need a good bit of coaching in the matter of brands.”

“Yes,” agreed Beatrice, “I fancy you do. My brand is a Triangle Bar—like this.” With a sharp pointed bit of rock she drew a more or less exact diagram in the yellow soil. “There are ever so many different brands belonging to the Northern Pool; Dick pointed them out to me, but I can't remember them. But whenever you see a Triangle Bar you'll be looking at my individual property. I think it was nice of Dick to give me a brand all my own. Mr. Cameron has a pretty brand, too—a Maltese Cross. The Maltese Cross was owned at one time by President Roosevelt. Mr. Cameron bought it when he left college and went into the cattle business. He 'plays a lone hand,' as he calls it; but his cattle range with the Northern Pool, and he and Dick work together a great deal. I think he has lovely eyes, don't you?” The eyes of Beatrice were intent upon the Bear Paws when she said it—which brought her shoulder toward Sir Redmond and hid her face from him.

“I can't say I ever observed Mr. Cameron's eyes,” said Sir Redmond stiffly.

Beatrice turned back to him, and smiled demurely. When Beatrice smiled that very demure smile, of which she was capable, the weather-wise generally edged toward their cyclone-cellars. Sir Redmond was not weather-wise—he was too much in love with her—and he did not possess a cyclone cellar; he therefore suffered much at the hands of Beatrice.

“But surely you must have noticed that deep, deep dimple in his chin?” she questioned innocently. Keith Cameron, I may say, did not have a dimple in his chin at all; there was, however, a deep crease in it.

“I did not.” Sir Redmond rubbed his own chin, which was so far from dimpling that is was rounded like half an apricot.

“Dear me! And