Part 2

“I shore did. He comes crowin’ down to the bunk-house—about how he’s goin’ to ride with you an’ how we-all are not in the runnin’. I says, ‘Nevada, I reckon there’s a steer mired in the sand up in Cedar Wash. You ride up there an’ pull him out.’”

“And then what did he say?” inquired Jane, curiously.

“Why, Miss Stacey, shore I hate to tell you. I didn’t think he was so—so bad. He just used the most awful language as was ever heard on this heah ranch. Then he rode off.”

“But _was_ there a steer mired up in the Wash?”

“I reckon so,” replied Tex, rather shamefacedly. “Most always is one.”

Jane let scornful eyes rest upon the foreman. “That was a mean trick,” she said.

“There’s been worse done to me by him, an’ all of them. An’ all’s fair in love an’ war.... Will you ride with me?”

“No. I think I’ll ride off alone up Cedar Wash and help Nevada find that mired steer.”

“Miss Stacey, you’re shore not goin’ to ride off alone. Savvy that?”

“Who’ll keep me from it?” demanded Jane, with spirit.

“I will. Or any of the boys, for thet matter. Springer’s orders.” Jane started with surprise and then blushed rosy red. Tex, also, appeared confused at his disclosure. “Miss Stacey, I oughtn’t have said that. It slipped out. The boss said we needn’t tell you, but you were to be watched an’ taken care of. It’s a wild range. You could get lost or thrown from a horse.”

“Mr. Springer is very kind and thoughtful,” murmured Jane.

“The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place since you came,” went on Tex as if emboldened. “An’ this beatin’ around the bush doesn’t suit me. All the boys have lost their haids over you.”

“Indeed? How flattering,” replied Jane, with just a hint of mockery. She was fond of all her admirers, but there were four of them she had not yet forgiven.

The tall foreman was not without spirit.

“It’s true all right, as you’ll find out pretty quick,” he replied. “If you had any eyes you’d see that cattle raisin’ on this heah ranch is about to halt till somethin’ is decided. Why, even Springer himself is sweet on you.”

“How dare you!” flashed Jane, suddenly aghast.

“I ain’t afraid to tell the truth,” declared Tex, stoutly. “He is. The boys all say so. He’s grouchier than ever. He’s jealous. He watches you—”

“Suppose I told him you had dared to say such things?” interrupted Jane, trembling on the verge of strange emotion.

“Why, he’d be tickled to death. He hasn’t got nerve enough to tell you himself.”

This cowboy, like all his comrades, was hopeless. She was about to attempt to change the conversation when Tex took her into his arms. She struggled—and fought with all her might. But he succeeded in kissing her cheek and then the tip of her ear. Finally she broke away from him. “Now—” she panted. “You’ve done it—you’ve insulted me. Now I’ll never ride with you again—even speak to you.”

“Shore I didn’t insult you,” replied Tex. “Jane—won’t you marry me?”

“No.”

“Won’t you be my sweetheart—till you care enough to—to—”

“No.”

“But, Jane, you’ll forgive me, an’ be good friends again?”

“Never!” Jane did not mean all she said. She had come to understand these men of the ranges—their loneliness—their hunger for love. But in spite of her sympathy and affection she needed sometimes to be cold and severe.

“Jane, you owe me a good deal—more than you’ve any idea,” said Tex, seriously. “You’d never have been here but for me,” he said, solemnly.

Jane could only stare at him.

“I meant to tell you long ago. But I shore didn’t have nerve. Jane, I—I was that there letter writin’ fellar. I wrote them letters you got. I am Frank Owens.”

“No!” exclaimed Jane. She was startled. That matter of Frank Owens had never been cleared up. It had ceased to rankle within her breast, but it had never been forgotten. She looked up earnestly into the big fellow’s face. It was like a mask. But she saw through it. He was lying. He was brazen. Almost she thought she saw a laugh deep in his eyes.

“I shore am thet lucky man who found you a job when you was sick an’ needed a change ... An’ thet you’ve grown so pretty an’ so well you owe all to me.”

“Tex, if you really were Frank Owens, _that_ would make a great difference. I owe him everything. I would—but I don’t believe you are he.”

“It’s a sure honest gospel fact,” declared Tex. “I hope to die if it ain’t!”

Jane shook her head sadly at his monstrous prevarication. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and left him standing there.

It might have been mere coincidence that during the next few days both Nevada and Panhandle waylaid and conveyed to her intelligence by divers and pathetic arguments the astounding fact that each was Mr. Frank Owens. More likely, however, was it the unerring instinct of lovers who had sensed the importance and significance of this mysterious correspondent’s part in bringing health and happiness into Jane Stacey’s life. She listened to them with anger and sadness and amusement at their deceit, and she had the same answer for both: “I don’t believe you.”

And through these machinations of the cowboys, Jane had begun to have vague and sweet and disturbing suspicions of her own as to the real identity of that mysterious cowboy, Frank Owens. Andy had originality as well as daring. He would have completely deceived Jane if she had not happened, by the merest accident, to discover the relation between him and certain love letters she had begun to find in her desk. She was deceived at first, for the typewriting of these was precisely like that in the letters by Frank Owens. She had been suddenly aware of a wild start of rapture. That had given place to a shameful, open-eyed realization of the serious condition of her own heart. But she happened to discover in Andy the writer of these missives, and her dream was shattered, if not forgotten. Andy certainly would not carry love letters to her that he did not write. He had merely learned to use the same typewriter, and at opportune times he had slipped the letters into her desk. Jane now began to have her own little aching, haunting secret which was so hard to put out of her mind. Every letter and every hint of Frank Owens made her remember. Therefore she decided to put a check to Andy’s sly double-dealing. She addressed a note to him and wrote: “Dear Andy:—That day at the train when you thought I was a poor old schoolmarm you swore you were not Frank Owens. Now you swear you are! If you were a man who knew what truth is you’d have a chance. But now—No! You are a monster of iniquity. I don’t believe you.” She left the note in plain sight where she always found his letters in her desk. The next morning the note was gone. And so was Andy. She did not see him for three days.

* * * * *

It came about that a dance was to be held at Beacon during the late summer. Jane was wild to go. But it developed that she could not accept the escort of any one of her cowboy admirers without alienating the others. And she began to see the visions of this wonderful dance fade away when Springer accosted her. “Who’s the lucky cowboy to take you to our dance?”

“He’s as mysterious and doubtful as Mr. Frank Owens,” replied Jane.

“You don’t mean you haven’t been asked to go?”

“They’ve all asked me. That’s the trouble.”

“I see. But you mustn’t miss it. It’d be pleasant for you to meet some of the ranchers and their wives. Suppose you go with me?”

“Oh, Mr. Springer, I—I’d be delighted,” replied Jane.

“Thank you. Then it’s settled. I must be in town all that day on cattle business—next Friday. I’ll ask the Hartwells to stop here for you, an’ drive you in.” He seemed gravely, kindly interested as always, yet there was something in his eyes that interfered with the regular beating of Jane’s heart.

Jane spent much of the remaining leisure hours on a gown to wear at this dance which promised so much. The Hartwells turned out to be nice people whose little girl was one of Jane’s pupils. On the drive townward, through the crisp fall gloaming, while listening to the chatter of the children, and the talk of the elder Hartwells’, she could not help wondering what Springer would think of her in the new gown.

They arrived late. “Reckon it’s just as well for you an’ the children,” said Mrs. Hartwell to Jane. “These dances last from seven to seven.”

“Well, I am a tenderfoot from Missouri. But that’s not going to keep me from having a wonderful time.”

“You will, dear, unless the cowboys fight over you, which is likely. But at least there won’t be any shootin’. My husband an’ Springer are both on the committee an’ they won’t admit any gun-totin’ cowpuncher.” Here Jane had concrete evidence of something she had begun to suspect. These careless, love-making cowboys might be dangerous.

Jane’s first sight of that dance hall astonished her. It was a big barn-like room, roughly raftered and sided, decorated enough with colored bunting to take away the bareness. The volume of sound amazed her. Music and trample of boots, gay laughter, deep voices of men, all seemed to merge into a loud hum. A swaying, wheeling horde of dancers circled past her. No more time, then, was accorded her to clarify the spectacle, for Springer suddenly confronted her. If Jane needed assurance of what she had dreamed of and hoped for she had it in his frank admiration. “Sure it’s somethin’ fine for Bill Springer to have the prettiest girl here,” he said.

“Thank you—but, Mr. Springer—I sadly fear you were a cowboy before you became a rancher,” she replied archly.

“Sure I was. An’ that you may find out,” he laughed. “Of course, I could never come up to—say—Frank Owens. But let’s dance. I shall have little enough of you in this outfit.”

So he swung her into the circle of dancers. Jane found him easy to dance with, though he was far from expert. Jane felt strange and uncertain with him. Then soon she became aware of the cessation of hum and movement.

“Sure that was the best dance I ever had,” said Springer, with something of radiance in his dark face. “An’ now I must lose you to this outfit comin’.” Manifestly he meant his cowboys Tex, Nevada, Panhandle and Andy, who presented themselves four abreast, shiny of hair and face.

“Good luck,” he whispered. “If you get into trouble let me know.”

What he meant quickly dawned upon Jane. Right then it began. She saw there was absolutely no use in trying to avoid or refuse these young men. The wisest and safest course was to surrender, which she did. “Boys, don’t all talk at once. I can dance with only one of you at a time. So I’ll take you in alphabetical order. I’m a poor old schoolmarm from Missouri. It’ll be Andy, Nevada, Panhandle and Tex.”

Despite their protests she held rigidly to this rule. Each one of the cowboys took shameless advantage of his opportunity. Outrageously as they all hugged her, Tex was the worst offender. She tried to stop dancing, but he carried her along as if she had been a child. He was rapt, and yet there seemed an imp of mischief in him.

“Tex—how dare—you!” panted Jane, when at last the dance ended. “You ought to be—ashamed. I’ll not dance with you again.”

“Aw, now,” he pleaded.

“I won’t, Tex, so there. You’re no gentleman.”

“Ahuh!” he ejaculated, drawing himself up stiffly. “All right, I’ll go out an’ get drunk, an’ when I come back I’ll clean out this heah hall.”

“Tex! Don’t go,” she called, hurriedly, as he started to stride away. “I’ll take that back. I will give you another dance—if you promise to—to behave.” Thus she got rid of him, and was carried off by Mrs. Hartwell to be introduced to ranchers and their wives, to girls and their escorts. Her next partner was a tall, handsome cowboy named Jones. She did not know quite what to make of him. He talked all the time. He was witty and engaging, and he had a most subtly flattering tongue. Jane could not fail to grasp that he might even be worse than Tex, but at least he did not make love to her with physical violence. She enjoyed that dance and admitted the singular, forceful charm about this man. Jones demanded, rather than begged, for another dance, and though she laughingly explained her predicament in regard to partners, he said he would come after her anyhow. Then followed several dances with new partners, between which Jane became more than ever the centre of attraction. It all went to her head like wine. She was having a perfectly wonderful time. Jones claimed her again, in fact whirled her out on the floor; and it seemed then that the irresistible rush of the dances was similar to her sensations. Twice again before the supper hour at midnight she found herself dancing with Jones. How he managed it she did not know. He just took her, carried her off by storm. Jane did not awaken to this unpardonable conduct of hers until she discovered that a little while before she had promised Tex his second dance, and then she had given it to Jones.

Then came the supper hour. It was a gala occasion, for which, evidently, the children had heroically kept awake. Jane enjoyed the children immensely. She sat with the numerous Hartwells, all of whom were most kindly attentive to her. Jane wondered why Mr. Springer did not put in an appearance, but considered his absence due to numerous duties. When the supper hour ended Jane caught sight of Andy.

“Andy, please find Tex for me. I owe him a dance, and I’ll give him the very first, unless Mr. Springer comes for it.”

Andy regarded her with an aloofness totally new to her. “Wal, I’ll tell him. But I reckon Tex ain’t presentable just now. An’ all of us are through dancin’ tonight. There’s been a little fight.”

“Oh, no!” cried Jane. “Who?”

“Wal, when you cut Tex’s dance for Beady Jones, you sure put our outfit in bad,” replied Andy coldly. “At thet, there wouldn’t have been anythin’ come of it here if Beady Jones hadn’t got to shootin’ off his chin. Tex slapped his face an’ thet sure started a fight. Beady licked Tex, too, I’m sorry to say. Wal, we had a dickens of a time keepin’ Nevada out of it. But we kept them apart till Springer come out. An’ what the boss said to thet outfit was sure aplenty. Beady Jones kept talkin’ back, nasty like—you know he was once foreman for us—till Springer got good an’ mad. An’ he said: ‘Jones, I fired you once because you was a little too slick for our outfit, an’ I’ll tell you this, if it comes to a pinch I’ll give you the blamest thrashin’ any smart-aleck cowboy ever got.’ You can bet that shut Beady Jones’ loud mouth.”

After that rather lengthy speech, Andy left her unceremoniously standing there alone. Jane looked for Springer, hoping yet fearing he would come to her. But he did not. She had another uninterrupted dizzy round of dancing until her strength failed. At four o’clock she was scarcely able to walk. Her pretty dress was torn and mussed; her slippers were worn ragged. And her feet were dead. From that time she sat with Mrs. Hartwell looking on, and trying to keep awake.

At length the exodus began. Jane went out with the Hartwells, to be received by Springer, who was decidedly cool to Jane. All through the long ride out to the ranch he never addressed her. Springer’s sister, and the matronly housekeeper were waiting for them, with cheery welcome, and invitation to a hot breakfast.

Presently Jane found herself momentarily alone with the rancher. “Miss Stacey,” he said, in a voice she had never heard, “your flirtin’ with Beady Jones made trouble for the Springer outfit.”

“_Mr. Springer!_” she exclaimed, her head going up.

“Excuse me,” he returned, in cutting, dry tone that recalled Tex. Indeed, this westerner was a cowboy, the same as those who rode for him, only a little older, and therefore more reserved and careful of speech. “If it wasn’t that—then you sure were much taken with Mr. Beady Jones.”

“If that was anybody’s business it might have appeared so,” she retorted, tingling all over with some feeling she could not control. “He was a splendid dancer. He did not maul me like a bear. I really had a chance to breathe during my dances with him. Then, too, he could talk.”

Springer bowed with dignity. His dark face paled. It dawned upon Jane that there was something intense in the moment. She began to repent of her hasty pride.

“Thanks,” he said. “Please excuse my impertinence. I see you have found your Mr. Frank Owens in this cowboy Jones, an’ it sure is not my place to say any more.”

“But—but—Mr.—Springer—” faltered Jane, quite unstrung by that amazing speech. The rancher, however, bowed again and left her. Jane felt too miserable and weary for anything but rest.

About mid-afternoon Jane awakened greatly refreshed and relieved, and strangely repentant. She dressed prettily and went out into the courtyard, and naturally, as always, gravitated toward the corrals and barns. Springer appeared, in company with a rancher Jane did not know. She expected Springer to stop her for a few pleasant words as was his wont. This time, however, he merely touched his sombrero and passed on.

Then she went on down the lane, very thoughtful. Jane’s sharp eyes caught sight of the boys before they espied her. And when she looked up again every lithe back was turned.

She went back to her room, meaning to read or sew, or do school work. But instead she cried.

Next day was Sunday. Heretofore every Sunday had been a full day for Jane. This one bade fair to be empty.

Her attention was attracted by sight of a superb horseman riding up the lane to the ranch-house. He seemed familiar, but she could not place him. What a picture he made as he dismounted, slick and shiny, booted and spurred, to doff his huge sombrero! Jane heard him ask for Miss Stacey. Then she recognized him. Beady Jones! She was at once horrified, and something else she could not name. She remembered now he had asked if he might call Sunday and she had certainly not refused. But for him to come after the fight with Tex and the bitter scene with Springer! What manner of man was this cowboy Jones? He certainly did not lack courage. But more to the point—what idea had he of her? Jane rose to the occasion. She had let herself in for this, and she would see it through. She would let Springer see she indeed had taken Beady Jones for Mr. Frank Owens.

To that end Jane made her way down the porch to greet her cowboy visitor. She made herself charming and gracious, and carried off the embarrassing situation—for Springer was present—as if it were perfectly natural. And she led Jones to one of the rustic benches down the porch.

Manifest, indeed, was it that young Jones felt he had made a conquest. He was the most forceful and bold person Jane had ever met. Soon he waxed ardent. Jane was accustomed to the sentimental talk of cowboys, but this fellow was neither amusing nor interesting. He was dangerous. When Jane pulled her hand, by main force, free from his, and said she was not accustomed to allow men such privileges, he grinned at her. “Sure, sweetheart, you have missed a heap of fun,” he said. “An’ I reckon I’ll have to break you in.”

Jane could not feel insulted at this brazen lout, but she certainly raged at herself. Her instant impulse was to excuse herself and abruptly leave him. But Springer was close by. She had caught his dark, wondering, covert glances. And the cowboys were at the other end of the long porch. Jane feared another fight. She had brought this upon herself, and she must stick it out. The ensuing hour was an increasing torment. At last it seemed she could not bear the false situation any longer. And when Jones again importuned her to meet him out on horseback she stooped to deception to end the interview. She really did not concentrate her attention on his plan or take stock of what she agreed to, but she got rid of him with ease and dignity before Springer. After that she did not have the courage to stay out and face them. Jane stole off to the darkness and loneliness of her room.

* * * * *

The school teaching went on just the same, and the cowboys thawed out and Springer returned somewhat to his kindliness, but Jane missed something from her work and in them. At heart she grieved. Would it ever be the same again?

There came a day when Jane rode off alone towards the hills. She forgot the risk and the admonitions of the cowboys. She wanted to be alone to think. Her happiness had sustained a subtle change. Her work, the children, the friends she had made, even the horse she loved, were no longer all-sufficient. Something had come over her. It was late fall, but the sun was warm that afternoon. Before her lay the valley range, and beyond it the foothills rose, and above them loomed the dark beckoning mountains.

She rode fast until her horse was hot and she was out of breath. Then she slowed down and for the first time she looked back toward the ranch. It was a long way off—ten miles—a mere green spot in the gray. And there was a horseman coming. As usual, some one of the cowboys had observed her, let her think she had slipped away, and was now following her. Today it angered Jane. She wanted to be alone. She could take care of herself. And as was unusual with her, she used her quirt on the horse. He broke into a gallop. She did not look back again for a long time. When she did it was to discover that the horseman had not only gained, but was now quite close to her. Jane looked hard, but she could not recognize the rider. Once she imagined it was Tex and again Andy.

Jane rode the longest and fastest race she had ever ridden. She reached the low foothills and, without heeding the fact that she would at once become lost, she entered the cedars and began to climb. At times her horse had to walk and then she heard her pursuer breaking through the cedars. He had to trail her by her horse’s tracks, and so she was able to keep in the lead. It was not long until Jane realized she was lost, but she did not care. She rode up and down and around for an hour, until she was thoroughly tired out, and then up on top of a foothill she reined in her horse and waited to give this pursuer a piece of her mind.

What was her amaze, when she heard a thud of hoofs and cracking of branches in the opposite direction from which she expected her pursuer, to see a rider emerge from the cedars and trot his horse toward her. Jane needed only a second glance to recognize Beady Jones. Suddenly she knew that he was not the pursuer she had been so angrily aware of. Jones’ horse was white. That checked her mounting anger.

Jones rode straight at her, and as he came close Jane saw his bold, dark face and gleaming eyes. “Howdy, sweetheart,” sang out Jones, in his cool devil-may-care way. “Reckon it took you a long time to meet me as you promised.”

“I didn’t ride out to meet you, Mr. Jones,” replied Jane, spiritedly. “I know I agreed to something or other, but even then I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, I had a hunch you was playin’ with me,” he returned, darkly.

He reached out a long gloved hand and grasped her arm. “What do you mean, sir?” demanded Jane, trying to wrench free.

“Sure I mean a lot,” he said, grimly. “You stood for the love-makin’ of that Springer outfit. Now you’re goin’ to get a taste of somethin’ not so mushy.”

“Let go of me—you—you ruffian!” cried Jane, struggling fiercely. She was both furious and terrified.

“Shucks! Your fightin’ will only make it interestin’. Come here, you deceitful little cat.” And he lifted her out of her saddle over in front of him. Jones’ horse, that had been frightened and plunging, ran away into the cedars. Then Jones proceeded to embrace Jane. She managed to keep her mouth from contact with his, but he kissed her face and neck, kisses that seemed to pollute her.