 CHAPTER XII OF THE RAINSTDWELLERS by B. M. Bauer This Liborax recording is in the public domain. I begin to realize, if I had hoped that I'd gotten over any foolishness by spending the fall and winter away from white divide, or the sight of it, I commenced right away to find out my mistake. No sooner did the big ridge rise up from the green horizon than every scar and wrinkle and abrupt little peak fairly shouted things about Barrel King. She wasn't there. She was back in New York, and that blasted tyrant's weaver was back there, too, making all kinds of love to her according to the letters of Edith. But I hadn't realized just how seriously I was taking it till I got within sight of the ridge that had sheltered her abiding place and had made all the trouble. Like a fool I had kept telling myself that I was very sick for the range, for range horses and range living, for the wind that always blows over the prairies, and for the cattle that feed on the hills and troop down the long, coolly bottoms to drink at their favorite watering places. When I thought it was the boys I wanted to see, and to gallop out with them in the soft sunrise and lie down with them under a tent roof at night, then I wanted to eat my meals sitting cross-legged in the grass with my plate piled with all the courses at once and my cup of coffee balanced precariously somewhere within reach. That's what I thought. When things tasted flat and old Frisco, I wasn't dead sure why, and maybe I didn't want to be sure why. When I couldn't get hold of anything that had the old tang, I laid it all to a hankering after Roundup. Even when we drove around the end of White Divide and got up on our ridge where I could see the long arm that stretched out from the east side of King's Highway, I wouldn't own up to myself that there was the cause of all my bad feelings. I think Frosty knew all along, for when I had sat with my face turned to the Divide and had let my cigarette go cold while I thought and thought, and remembered, he didn't say a word. But when memory came down to that last ride through the pass, and to Shylock shot down by the corral at last to Frosty, standing tall and dark against the first yellow streak of sunrise, while I rode on and left him afoot beside a half-dead horse, I turned my eyes and looked at his thin, thoughtful face beside me. His eyes met mine for half a minute, and he had a little twitching at the corners of his mouth. Churk up, he said quietly, chances are she'll come back this summer. I guess I blushed, anyway, I didn't think of anything to say that would be either witty or squelching, and could only relight my cigarette and look the fool I felt. He caught me right in the solar plexus, and we both knew it, and there was nothing to say. So after a while, we commenced talking about a new bunch of horses that Dad had bought through an agent, and that had to be saddlebroke that summer. And I kept my eyes away from white divide and my mind from all it meant to me. The old ranch did look good to me, and Perry Potter actually shook hands. If you knew him as well as I do, you'd realize better what such a demonstration means, coming from a fellow like him. Why, even his lips are always shut with a drawstring from the looks to keep any words but what are actually necessary from coming out. His eyes had the same look, kind of pulled in at the corners. No, don't ever accuse Perry Potter of being a demonstrative man, or a loquacious one. I had two days at the ranch, getting fitted into the life again. On the third, the roundup started, and I packed a war bag of essentials. Took my last summer's chaps down off the nail in the bunkhouse where they had hung all that time as a sort of absent but not forgotten memento, one of the boys told me, and started out in full regalia and with an enthusiasm that was real while it lasted. If you never slept on the new grass with only a bit of canvas between you and the stars, if you have never rolled out at daylight and dressed before your eyes were fair open and rushed with the bunch over to the mess wagon for your breakfast, if you have never saddled hurriedly a rangebread and rangebroken coyose with a hump in his back and seven devils in his eye and gone careening across the dew wet prairie like a tugboat in a choppy sea, if you have never, well, if you don't know what it's all like and how it gets into the very bones of you so that the hankering never quite leaves you when you try to give it up, I'm not going to tell you. I can't. If I could, you'd know just how heady it made me feel those first few days after we started out to work the range. I was fond of telling myself those days that I'd been more scared than hurt and that it was the range I was in love with and not Barrel King at all. She was simply a part of it, but she wasn't the whole thing or even a part that was going to be indispensable to my mental comfort. I was a free man once more and so long as I had a good horse under me and a bunch of the right sort of fellows to lie down in the same tent with, I wasn't going to worry much over any girl. That for as long as a week and that more than pages of description shows you how great is the spell of the rangeland and how it grips a man. End of chapter 12, recording by Tom Penn. Chapter 13 of The Range Dwellers by B. M. Bauer. This lemur box recording is in the public domain. We meet once more. I think it was about three weeks that I stayed with the Round-Up. I didn't get tired of the life or weary of honest labor or anything of that sort. I think the trouble was that I grew accustomed to the life so that the exhilarating effects of it wore off or got so soaked into my system that it began to take it all as a matter of course. And that, naturally, left room for other things. I know I'm no good at analysis and that's as close as I can come to account for my welching the third week out. You see, we were working south and west and getting further and further away from, well, from the part of the country that I knew and liked best. It's kind of lonesome leaving old landmarks behind you. So when white divide dropped down behind another range of hills and I couldn't turn in my saddle almost any time and see the jagged blue skyline over, I stood it for about two days. Then I rolled my bed one morning, caught out two horses from my string instead of one, told the wagon boss I was going back to the ranch and lit out with a whole bunch grinning after me. As they would have said they were all dead next but were good enough not to say so. Or perhaps they remembered the boxing lessons I had given them in the bunkhouse a year or more ago. I did feel kind of sneaking, quitting them like that. But it's like playing higher than your logical limit. You know you're doing a fool thing and you want to plant your foot violently upon your own person somewhere but you go right ahead in the face of it all. They didn't have to tell me I was acting like a calf that has lost his mother in the herd. You know he's prone to go mooning back to the last place he was with her if it's 10 miles. I knew it all right. And when I topped the hill and saw the high ridges and peaks of white divide standing up against the horizon to the north, I was so glad I felt ashamed of myself and called one Ellis Carlton worse names and I'd stand to hear from anybody else. Still to go back to the metaphor, I kept on shoving in chips just as if I had a chance to win out and wasn't the biggest softest headed idiot the Lord ever made. Why, even Perry Potter almost grinned when I came riding up to the corral. And I caught the fellow that was kept on at the ranch lowering his left lid knowingly at the cook when I went into supper that first night. But I was too far gone then to care much what anybody thought so long as they kept their mouth shut and left me alone. That was all I asked of them. I was a heroic figure all right those days. On a day in June, I rode dispiritedly over to the little butte just out from the mouth of the pass. Not that I expected to see her. I went because I had gotten into the habit of going and every nice morning just simply pulled me over that way. No matter how much I might want to keep away. That argues great strength of character for me. I know. But it's unfortunately the truth. I knew she was back or that she should be back. If nothing had happened to upset their plans. Edith had written me that they were all coming and that they would have two cars this summer instead of just one. And that they expected to stay a month. She and her mother and barrel and Aunt Lodema, Terrence Weaver, Deuce Takim, and two other fellows and Gertrude, somebody. I forget just who. He just hoped that I would make my peace with Uncle Homer so they could see something of me. If I had told her how easy it was to make peace with Uncle Homer and how he had turned me down, she might not have been quite so sure that it was all my bullheadedness. She complained that Gertrude was engaged to one of the fellows and so was awfully stupid. My marrow might as well be. I tore up the letter just there and the wind, which was howling that day, caught the pieces and took them over to North Dakota. So I don't know what else Edith may have had to tell me. I'd read enough to put me in a mighty nasty temper at any rate. So I suppose its purpose was accomplished. Edith is like all the rest. If she can say anything to make a man uncomfortable, she'll do it every time. This day I remember I went mooning along thinking hard things about the world in general, and my little corner of it in particular. The country was beginning to irritate me and I knew that if something didn't break loose pretty soon, I'd be off somewhere. Riding over to little Buttes and not meeting a soul on the way or seeing anything but a bare rock when you got there grows monotonous in time and rather gets on the nerves of a fellow. When I came close up to the Butte, however, I saw a flutter of skirts on the pinnacle and it made a difference in my gait. I went up all out of breath, scrambling as if my life hung on a few seconds and calling myself a different kind of fool for every step I took. I kept assuring myself over and over that it was only Edith, and that there was no need to get excited about it. But all the while I knew down deep down in the thumping chest of me that it wasn't Edith. Edith couldn't make all that disturbance in my circulatory system, not in a thousand years. She was sitting on the same rock and she was dressed in the same adorable writing outfit with a blue wisp of veil wound somehow on her gray-filled hat and the same blue ron was dozing with dragging bridal reins a few rods down the other side of the peak. She was sketching so industriously that she never heard me coming until I stood right at her elbow. It might have been the first time over again, except that my mental attitude toward her had changed a lot. That's better. I can see now what you're trying to draw, I said, looking down over her shoulder. Not at the sketch. It might have been a sea view for all I knew, but at the pink curve of her cheek, which was growing pinker while I looked. She did not glance up or even start. So she must have known all along that I was headed her way. She went on making a lot of marks that didn't seem to fit anywhere, and it seemed to me a bit wobbly and uncertain. I caught just the least hint of a smile twitching the corner of her mouth. I wanted awfully to kiss it. Yes. I believe I have at last got everything, King's Highway, in the proper perspective and the proper proportion, she said, stumbling a bit over the alliteration, and no wonder it was a sentence to stampede cattle. But I didn't stampede. I wanted more than ever to kiss, but I won't be like Barney if I can help it. It's too far off, too unattainable, I criticized, meaning something more than her sketch of the past. And it's too narrow. If a fellow wrote in there, he would have to go straight on through. There wouldn't be a chance to turn back. Ergo, a fellow shouldn't ride in, she retorted with a composure positively wicked, considering my feelings. Though it does seem that a fellow rather enjoys going straight on through, regardless of anything, promises, for instance, that was the gauntlet I'd been hoping for. From the minute I first saw her there, it flashed upon me that she was astonished and indignant that night when she saw Frosty and me come charging through the pass, after me telling her I wouldn't do it anymore. It looked to me like I'd have to square myself, so I was glad enough of the chance. Sometimes a fellow has to do things regardless of promises, I explained. Sometimes it's a matter of life and death. If a fellow's father, for instance, oh, I know, Edith told me all about it. Her tone was curious, and while I did not encourage further explanations or apologies, it also lacked absolution of the offense I had committed. I sat down in the grass, half facing her to better my chance of a look into her eyes. I was consumed by a desire to know if they still had the power to send crimply waves all over me. For the rest, she was prettier even than I remembered her to be, and I could fairly see what little sense or composure I had left slide away from me. I looked at her fatuously, and she looked speculatively at a sharp ridge of the divide as if that sketch were the only thing around there that could possibly interest her. Why do you spend every summer out here in the wilderness? I asked, feeling certain that nothing but speech could save me from going hopelessly silly. She turned her eyes calmly toward me, and their power had not weakened at all events. I felt as if I had taken hold of a battery with all the current turned on. Why, I suppose I like it here in summer. You're here yourself. Don't you like it? I wanted to say something smart there, and I have thought of a dozen bright remarks since. But at the time, I couldn't think of a blessed thing that came within a mile of being either witty or epigrammatic. Lovemaking was all new to me, and I saw right then I wasn't going to shine. I finally did remark that I should like it better if her father would be less belligerent and more peaceful as a neighbor. You told me last summer that you enjoyed keeping up the feud. She reminded, smiling whimsically down at me. She made a wrong play there. She let me see that she did remember some things I said. It boosted my courage a notch. But that was last summer, I countered. One can change one's viewpoint a lot in 12 months. Anyway, you knew all along that I didn't mean a word of it. Indeed. It was evident that she didn't quite like having me take that tone. Yes, indeed, I repeated, feeling a rebellion against circumstances and at convention growing stronger within me. Why couldn't I put her on my horse and carry her off and keep her always? I wondered crazily. That was what I wanted to do. Do you ever mean what you say, I wonder? She mused, biting her pencil point like a schoolgirl when she can't remember how many times three goes into twenty-seven. Sometimes, sometimes I mean more. I set my teeth, closed my eyes, mentally, and plunged insanely, not knowing whether I should come to the surface alive or knock my head on a rock and stay down. For instance, when I say that someday I shall carry you off and find our preacher to marry us, and that we shall live happily ever after, whether you want to or not, because I shall make you, I mean every word of it, and a lot more. That was going to be some fancy. I was so scared at myself, I didn't dare breathe. I kept my eyes fixed desperately on the mouth of the past, all golden green in the sunshine. And I remember that my teeth were so tight together that they ached afterward. The point of her pencil came off with a snap. I heard it, but I was afraid to look. Do you? How very odd. Her voice sounded queer, as if it had been squeezed dry of every sort of emotion. And Edith? I looked at her then fast enough. Edith? I stared at her stupidly. What the? What's Edith got to do with it? Possibly nothing in the same squeezed tone. Men are so irresponsible. And you say you don't always mean. Still, when a man writes pages and pages to a girl every week for nearly a year, one naturally supposes, oh, look here, I was getting desperate enough to be a bit rough with her. Edith doesn't care a wrap about me. And you know it. And she knows I don't care. And, and if anybody had anything to say, it would be your Mr. Terrence Weaver. My Terrence Weaver? She was looking down at me sideways in a perfectly maddening way. You are really very funny, Mr. Carlton. Well, I wrapped out between my teeth. I don't feel funny. I feel no. But really, you know, you act that way. I saw she was getting all the best of it. And in my opinion, that would kill what little chance a man might have with a girl. I said deliberately about breaking through that crust of composure, if I did nothing more. That depends on the viewpoint, I grinned. Would you think it funny if I carried you off? Really, you know, and married you and made you live happy? You seem to insist upon the happy part of it, which is not at all necessary, I hinted. Plausible, she supplied sweetly. But would you think it funny if I did? She regarded her broken pencil rooffully, or pretended to, and pinched her brows together in deep meditation. Oh, she was the most maddening bit of young womanhood. But there, no Barney for me. I might, she decided at last. It would be rather droll, you know, and I wonder how you'd manage it. I'm not very tiny. And I rather think it wouldn't be easy to carry me off. Would you wear a mask, a black velvet mask? I should insist upon black velvet. And would you say, Gadzooks, madam, I command you not to scream? Would you? She leaned toward me in her eyes. Well, for downright torture, women are at times perfectly fiendish. I caught her hand, and I held it, too, in spite of her. That far I was master. No, I told her grimly. If I saw that you were going to do anything so foolish as to scream, I should just kiss you, and kiss you till you were glad to be sensible about it. Well, she tried first to look calmly amused, then she tried to look insulted, and to freeze me into sanity. She ended, however, by looking a good bit confused, and by blushing Scarlet. I had won that far. I kept her hand held tight in mine, and I could feel it squirm to get away, and it felt no thunder. Let's play something else, she said after a long minute. I never did admire high women, particularly. And I must go home. No, you mustn't, I contradicted. You must. She looked at me with those wonderful, heavy, lashed eyes, and her lips had a little quiver as if, I don't know. But I let go her hand, and I felt like a great hulking brute that had been teasing a child till it cried. All right. I sighed. I'll let you go this time. But I warn you, little girl, if no, when I find you out from King's Highway by yourself again, that kidnapping is sure going to come off. The Lord intended you to be Mrs. Ellis Carlton, and forty feuds and forty fathers can't prevent it. I don't believe in going against the decrees of Providence, a wise Providence. She bit her lip at the corner. You must have a little private Providence of your own, she retorted, with something like her old assurance. I'm sure mine never hinted at such a fate for me. And one feud is as good as forty, Mr. Carlton. If you are anything like your father, I can easily understand how the feud began. The Kings and the Carltons are fond of their own way. Thy way shall be my way, I promised rashly, just because it sounded smart. Thank you. And there will be no melodramatic abductions in the shadow of white divide, she laughed triumphantly. And I shall escape a most horrible fate. She went, still laughing, down to where her horse was waiting. I followed, rather I kept pace with her. All the same I dare you to ride out alone from King's Highway again. I defied. For if you do, and I find you. Goodbye, Mr. Carlton. You'd be splendid in vaudeville, she mocked from her saddle, where she had got with all the ease of a cowboy, without any help from me. Black Velvet Mask and Gadzooks, madam. I must certainly tell Edith. It will amuse her, I'm sure. No, you won't tell Edith, I flung after her. But I don't know if she heard. She rode away down the steep slope, the ron leaning back stiffly against the incline. And I stood watching her like a fool. I didn't think it would be good policy to follow her. I tried to roll a cigarette in case she might look back to see how I was taking her last shot. But she didn't. And I threw the thing away half made. It was a case where smoke wouldn't help me. If I hadn't made my chance any better, I knew I couldn't very well make it worse. But there was mighty little comfort in that reflection. And what a bluff I had put up. Carry her off and marry her? Lord knows I wanted too badly enough. But end of chapter 13. Recording by Tom Penn. Chapter 14 of The Rainsdwellers by B. M. Bauer. This Liebervox recording is in a public domain. Frosty disappears. On the way back to the ranch, I overtook Frosty, mooning along at a walk with his shoulders humped in the way a man has when he's thinking pretty hard. I had left Frosty with the roundup and I was pretty much surprised to see him here. I didn't feel in the mood for conversation, even with him. But to be decent, I spurred up alongside and said hello. And where had he come from? There was nothing in that for a man to get upish about. But he turned and actually glared at me. Oh, my Ben, I quizzed if some of a gun and ask you the same thing. He growled. Yes, you might, I agree. But if you did, I'd be apt to tell you to depart immediately for a place called Gehenna, which is polite for hell. Well, same here, he retorted leconically. And that ended our conversation, though we rode stirrup to stirrup for eight miles. I can't say that after the first shock of surprise, I gave much time to wondering what brought Frosty home. I took it he had had a row with the wagon boss. Frosty is an independent sort, it won't stand a word from anybody. And the wagon boss is something of a bully. The gate they were traveling out there with the wagons was fraying the nerves of the whole bunch before I left. And that was all I thought about Frosty. I had troubles of my own about that time. I had put up my bluff. And I kept wondering what I should do if Barrel King called me. There wasn't much chance that she would, of course. But still, she wasn't that kind of girl who always does the conventional thing, and the expected thing. And I had seen a gleam in her eyes that in a man's I should call devil tree, pure and simple. If I should meet her out somewhere, and she even looked a dare. I confess one thing. For a whole week, I was mighty shy of riding out where I would be apt to meet her. And you can call me a coward if you like. Still, I had schemes, plenty of them. I wanted her. Lord knows how I wanted her. And I got pretty desperate sometimes. Once I settled up with the fixed determination of riding boldly and melodramatically into King's highway, facing old King and saying, Sir, I love your daughter. Let bygones be bygones. Dad and I forgive you and help you'll do the same. Let us have peace and let me have Barrel or something to that effect. He'd only have done one of two things. He'd have taken a shot at me, or he'd have told me to go to the same old place where we can sign unpleasant people. But I didn't tempt him. No, I did tempt fate. I went over to the little butte climbed it pensively and sat on a flat rock and gazed for learnly at the mouth of the past. I had the rock to myself. But I made a discovery that set the nerves of me jumping like a man just getting over a, well, a season of dissipation in the sandy soil next to the rock were many confused footprints, the prints of little riding boots, and they look quite fresh. She had been there all right. And I had missed her and swore and wondered what she must think of me. Then I had an inspiration. I rolled and half smoked eight cigarettes and scattered the stubs with the careful carelessness and the immediate vicinity of the rock. I put my boots down in a clear spot of sand where they left marks that fairly shouted of my presence. Then I walked off a few steps and studied the effect with much satisfaction. When she came again, she couldn't fail to see that I had been there. But I had waited a long time. She could count the cigarette stubs and so form some estimate of the time and had gone away, presumably in deep disappointment. Maybe it would make her feel a little less sure of herself to know that I was camping thus earnestly on her trail. I rode home feeling a good deal better in my mind. That night it rained barrels full. I laid and listened to it and gritted my teeth. Where was all my cunning now? Where were those blatant footprints of mine that were to give their own eloquent message? I could imagine just how the water was running in yellow streams off the peak of that beaut. Then it came to me that at all events, some of the cigarette stubs would be left. So I turned over and went to sleep. I wish to say before I forget it, that I don't think I am deceitful by nature. You see, it changes a fellow a lot to get all tangled up in his feelings over a girl that doesn't seem to care a rap for you. He does things that are positively idiotic at any rate I did. And I could sympathize some with Barney McTeague. Only his girl had a crooked nose and no eyebrows to speak of. So he hadn't the excuse that I had. Take a girl with eyes like a barrel. A couple of days after that, days when I hadn't the nerve to go near the little butte, frosty drew six months wages and disappeared without a word to anybody. He didn't come back that night. And the next day, Prairie Potter, who knows well, the strange freaks cowboys will sometimes take when they have been working steadily for a long time, suggested that I ride over to Kenmore and see a frosty was there and try my powers of persuasion on him. Unless he was already broke, in which case, according to Prairie Potter, he would come back without any persuading. Prairie Potter added dryly that it wouldn't be out of my way and he would only be a little longer ride. I must say I looked at him with suspicion. The way that little dried up center found out everything was positively uncanny. Frosty, as I soon discovered, was not in Kenmore. He had been, for I learned by inquiring around that he had passed the night there at that one little hotel. Also, that he had not more than two hours before, or three at most, hired a rig and driven on to Osage. A man told me that he had taken a lady with him, but knowing Frosty as I did, I couldn't quite swallow that. It was queer, though, about him hiring a rig and leaving his saddlehorse there in the stable. I couldn't understand it, but I wasn't going to buy into Frosty's affairs unless I had to. I ate my dinner dejectedly in the hotel. The dinner was enough to make any man dejected and started home again. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 15 of The Range Dwellers by B. M. Bauer This lemur rocks recording us in the public domain. The broken motor car. Outward the trail from Kenmore intersects the one leading from Laurel to and through King's Highway. I passed over a little hill and came suddenly upon a big dark gray touring car stalled in the road. In it, Barrelled King sat looking intently down at her toes. I nearly fell off my horse at the shock of it, and then my blood got to acting funny so that my head felt queer. Then I came to and rode boldly up to her, mentally shaking hands with myself over my good luck, for it was good luck just to see her whether anything came of it or not. Something wrong with the wheelbarrow? I asked her with placid superiority. She looked up with a little start. She never did seem to feel my presence until I spoke to her and frowned prettily. But whether at me or at the car, I didn't know. I guess something must be, she answered quite meekly for her. It keeps making the funniest buzz when I start it. And it's Mr. Weaver's car. And he doesn't know I, I borrowed it without asking, and that car's all right. I bluffed from my saddle. It's simply obeying instructions. It comes under the jurisdiction of my private providence, you see. I ordered it that you should be here, and in distress, and grateful for my helping hand. How was that for straight nerve? Well then, let's have the helping hand and be done. I should be at home by now. They will wonder. I just went for a little spin. And when I turned to go back, it started that funny noise. I'm afraid of it. It might blow up or something. She seemed in a strangely explanatory mood. That was to say the least suspicious. Either she had come out purposely to torment me, or she was afraid of what she knew was in my mind, and wanted to make me forget it. But my metal was up for good. I had no notion of forgetting or of letting her. I'll do what I can and willingly, I told her coolly. It looks like a good car, an accommodating car. I hope you're prepared to pay the penalty. Penalty? She interrupted and opened her eyes at me innocently. I'm a bit too innocently, I may say. Penalty, yes. The penalty of letting me find you outside of King's Highway alone, I explained brazenly. She tried to lever hurriedly, and the car growled up at her so that she quit. Then she pulled herself together and faced me nonchalantly. Oh, you mean about the black velvet mask? I'm afraid I had forgotten that funny little joke. With all she could do, her face and her tongue were not convincing. I gathered courage as she lost it. I see that I must demonstrate to you the fact that I am not altogether a joke. I said grimly and got down from my horse. I don't to this day know what she imagined I was going to do. She sat very still. The kind of stillness a rabbit adopts when he hopes to escape the notice of an enemy. I could see that she hardly breathed even. But when I reached her, I only got her wrench out of the toolbox and yank open the hood to see what held the motor. I knew something of that make a car. In fact, I had owned one before I got the yellow peril, and I had a suspicion that there wasn't much wrong. A loose nut will sometimes sound a good deal more serious than it really is. Still, a half formed idea, a perfectly crazy idea, made me go over the whole machine very carefully to make sure she was all right. When I was through, I stood up and found that she was regarding me curiously, yet with some amusement. She seemed to feel herself mistrust of the situation, and to consider me as an interesting play thing. I didn't approve of that attitude. At all events, she said, when she met my eyes, and speaking as if there had been no break in our conversation, you are rather a good joke. Thank you so much. I put away the wrench, fasten the lid of the toolbox, and then I faced her grimly. I see mere words are wasted on you, I said. I shall have to carry you off, Barrel King. I shall carry you off if you look at me that way again. She did look that way, only more so. I wonder what she thought a man was made of to stand it. I set my teeth hard together. Have you got the black velvet mask? She taunted, leaning just the least bit towards me. Her eyes, I say it deliberately, were a direct challenge that no man could refuse to accept and feel himself a man after. Mask or no mask, you'll see. I turned away to where my horse was standing, eyeing the car with extreme disfavor. Picked up the reins and glanced over my shoulder. I didn't know but she would give me the slip. She was sitting very straight, with both hands on the wheel, and her eyes looking straight before her. She might have been posing for a photograph from the look of her. I tied the reins with a quick twist over the saddle horn and gave him a slap on the rump. I knew he would go straight home. Then I went back and stepped into the car just as she reached down and started the motor. If she had meant to run away from me, she had been just a second too late. She gave me a side long measuring glance and gasped. The car slid easily along the trail as it were listening for what we were going to say. I shall drive. I announced quietly, taking her hands gently from the wheel. She moved over to make room mechanically, as if she didn't in the least understand this new move of mine. I know she never dreamed of what was really in my heart to do. You will drive where? Her voice was politely freezing. To find that preacher, of course, I answered, trying to sound surprised that she should ask. I sent the speed up a notch. You, you never would dare. She cried breathlessly and a little anxiously. The deuce I wouldn't, I retorted and laughed in the face of her. It was queer. But my thoughts went back just for a flash to the time Barney had dared me to drive the yellow peril up past the cliff house to the Citro Bass. I had the same hedialation of devil tree. I wouldn't have turned back then, even if I hadn't cared so much for her. She didn't say anything more. And I sent the car ahead at a pace that almost matched the mood I was in and that brought white divides sprinting up to meet us. The trail was good and the car was a dandy. I was making straight for King's highway as the best and only chance of carrying out my full hearty design. I doubt if any bold bed night of old ever had the effrontery to carry his lady love straight past her own door in broad daylight. Yet it was the safest thing I could do. I meant to get the Osage and the only practicable route for a car lay through the pass to be sure there was a preacher at Kenmore, but with the chance of old King being there also and interrupting the ceremony, supposing I brought matter successfully that far, with a shot or two, did not in the least appeal to me. I had made sure there was plenty of gasoline aboard, so I drove her right along. I hope your father isn't home, I remarked truthfully when we were slipping into the wide jaws of the pass. He is, though, and so is Mr. Weaver. I think you had better jump out here and run home, or it's not a velvet mask you will need, but a mantel of invisibility. I couldn't make much of her tone, but her words implied that even yet she would not take me seriously. Well, I have neither mask nor mantel, I said, but the way I can fade down the pass will, I think, be a fair substitute for both. She said nothing whatever to that, but she began to seem interested in the affair, as she had need to be. She might have jumped out and escaped while I was down opening the gate. But she didn't. She sat quite still, as if we were only out for a commonplace little jaunt. I wondered if she didn't have the spirit of adventure in her makeup, also. Girls do sometimes. When I had got in again, I turned to her, remembering something. Gadzooks, madam, I command you not to scream, I quoted sternly. At that, for the first time in our acquaintance, she laughed, such a delicious, rocking little laugh that I felt ready, at the sound, to face a dozen fathers, and they all old kings. As we came chugging up to the house, several faces appeared in the doorway, as if to welcome and scold the runaway. I saw Old King with his pipe in his mouth, and there were Aunt Lodema and Weaver. They were all smiling at the escapade, Barrel's escapade, that is, and I don't think they realized just at first who I was, or that I was in any sense a menace to their peace of mind. When we came opposite and showed no disposition to stop, or even to slow up, I saw the smiles freeze to amazement, and then, but I hadn't the time to look. Old King yelled something, but by that time we were skidding around the first shed, where Shylock had been shot down on my last trip through there. It was a new shed, I observed, mechanically, as we went by. I heard much shouting as we disappeared, but by that time we were almost through the gauntlet. I made the last turn on two wheels, and scattered away up the open trail of the pass. CHAPTER XVI. OF THE RANGED DOLLARS by B. M. Bauer. This lever-box recording is in the public domain. One more race. A faint toot-toot warned from behind. They've got out the other car, said Barrel, a bit tremulously, and added, It's a much bigger one than this. I let her out all I dared for the road we were traveling, and then there we were at that blessed gate. I hadn't thought of it until we were almost upon it, but it didn't take much thought. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I caught Barrel by an arm and pulled her down to the floor of the car, not taking my eyes from the trail or a speaking. Then I drove the car forward like a cannonball. We hit that gate like a locomotive and scarcely felt the jar. I knew the make of that motor and what it could do. There was raining splinters and bits of lamps, but we went right on as if nothing had happened, and as fast as the winding trail would allow. I knew that beyond the pass, the road ran straight and level for many a mile, and that we could make good time if we got the chance. Barrel set half turned in the seat, glancing back. But for me, I was busy watching the trail and taking the sharp turns in a way to lift the hair of one not used to traveling by lightning. I will confess, it was ticklish going at that pace, and there were places when I took longer chances than I had any right to take. But you see, I had Barrel, and I meant to keep her. That weaver fellow must have had a bigger bump of caution than I, or else he'd never raced. I could hear them coming, but they didn't seem to be gaining. Rather, they lost ground, if anything. Presently, Barrel spoke again, still looking back. Don't you think, Mr. Carlton, this joke has gone far enough? You have demonstrated what you could do if I risked both our lives to glance at her. This joke, I said, is going to Osage. I want to marry you, and you know it. The Lord in this car willing, I'm going to. Still, if you really have been deceived in my intentions and insist upon going back, I shall stop, of course, and give you back to your father. But you must do it now, at once, or marry me. She gave me a queer side glance, but she did not insist. Naturally, I didn't stop, either. We shot out into the open with the windings of the pass behind, and then I turned the old car loose. And maybe we didn't go. She wasn't a bad sword, but I would have given a good deal just then, if she had been the yellow peril stripped for a race. I could hear the others coming up, and we were doing all we could, and I saw to that. I think they'll catch us, Barrel observed maliciously. Their car is a 60 horsepower Mercedes, and this is about a 40, I cut in tartly, not liking the tone of her, and just plain American make. But don't you fret, my money's on Uncle Sam. She said no more. Indeed, it wasn't easy to talk with the wind drawing the breath right out of your lungs. She hung onto her hat and into the seat, and she had her hands full. Let me tell you, the purr of their motor grew louder, and I didn't like the sound of it a bit. I turned my head enough to see them slithering along close, abominably close. I glimpsed old King in the tonneau, and Weaver hopped over the wheel in an unpleasantly business-like fashion. I hopped over my own wheel and tried to coax her up a bit, as if she had been the yellow peril at the wind-up of a close race. For a minute I felt hopeful. Then I could tell by the sound that Weaver was crowding up. They're gaining, Mr. Carleton! Barrel's voice had a new ring in it, and I caught my breath. Can you get here and take the wheel and hold her straight without slowing her? I asked, looking straight ahead. The trail was level and not a bend in it for half a mile or so, and I thought there was a chance for us. I have a notion that friend Weaver has nerves, but I'm going to rattle him if I can. But whatever happens, don't loose your grip and spill us out. I won't hurt them. Her hands came over and touched mine on the wheel. I've raced a bit myself, she said simply. I can drive her straight. I wriggled out of the way and stood up, glancing down to make sure she was all right. She certainly didn't look much like the girl who was afraid because something made a funny noise. I suspected that she knew a lot about motors. A bullet clipped close. Barrel set her teeth into her lips, but gridly refrained from turning to look. I breathed freer. Now don't get scared, I warned, bounced myself as well as I could in the swaying car and sent a shot back at them. Weaver came up to my expectations. He ducked, and the car swerved out of the trail and went waywarding spitefully across the prairie. Old King sent another rifle bullet my way. I must have made a fine mark standing up there, and he was a good shot. I was mighty glad he was getting jolted enough to spoil his aim. Weaver came to himself a bit and grabbed frantically for brake and throttle and steering wheel all at once, it looked like. He was rattled all right. He must have given the wheel a twist the wrong way, for their car hit a jutting rock and went up in the air like a pitching Bronco. An old King sailed in a beautiful curve out of the tunnel. I was glad Barrel didn't see that. I watched, not breathing, till I saw Weaver scramble into view and Barrel's dad get slowly to his feet and grip about for his rifle. So I knew there would be no funeral come of it. I fancy his language was anything but mild. Though by that time we were too far away to hear anything but the faint churning of their motor as their wheels pawed futilely in the air. They were harmless for the present. Their car tilted ungracefully on its side, and though I hadn't any quarrel with Weaver, I hoped his big Mercedes was out of business. When I put away my gun sat down and looked at Barrel. She was very wide around the mouth and her hat was hanging by one pin, I remember, but her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon the brown trail, stretching lazily across the green of the grassland, and she was driving that big car like an old hand. Well, her voice was clear and anxious and impatient. It's all right, I said. I took the wheel from her, got into her place, and brought the car down to a six-mile gate. It's all right, I repeated triumphantly. They're out of the race for a while, at least, and not hurt that I could see. Just plain old-fashioned mad. Don't look like that, Barrel. I slowed the car more. You're glad, aren't you? And you will marry me, dear. She leaned back, panting a little from the strain of the last half hour, and did things to her hat. I watched her furtively. Then she let her eyes meet mine, those dear, wonderful eyes of hers, and her mouth was half smiling, and very tender. You silly! That's every word she said on my oath. But I stopped the car dead still, and gathered her into my arms, and, you know, well, I won't trail off into sentiment. You couldn't appreciate it if I did. It's a mercy weaver's car was done for, or they could have walked right up and got their hands on us before we'd have known it. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 17 of The Rain's Dwellers by B. M. Bauer This Liber Rocks recording is in the public domain. The Final Reckoning About four o'clock we reached the ferry, just behind a fagged-out team in a light buggy that had in it two figures, one of whom, at least, looked familiar to me. Frosty! By all that's holy, I exclaimed, when we came close enough to recognize a man. I clean forgot, but I was sent to Kenmore this morning to find that very fellow. Don't you know the other? Barrel laughed teasingly. I was at their wedding this morning, and wished them Godspeed. I never dreamed I should be Godspeed'd myself, directly. I drove Edith over to Kenmore quite early in the car, and Edith, certainly Edith. Whom else? Did you think she'd be left behind, pining at your infidelity? Didn't you know they are old, old sweethearts, who had quarreled and parted quite like a story? She used to read your letters so eagerly to see if you made any remark about him. You did, quite often, you know. I drove her over to Kenmore, and afterward went off toward Laurel just to put in the time, and not arrive home too soon without her, which might have been awkward. If father took a notion to go after her, I was so glad we came up with them. She stood up and waved her hand at Edith. I shouted reassurances to Frosty, who was looking apprehensively back at us. But it was a facer. I had never once suspected them of such a thing. Well, I greeted, when we overtook them and could talk comfortably. Mrs. Luck, when we get across to Pochettes, you can get in with us, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and add the desired touch of propriety to our wedding. They did some staring themselves then, and Barrel blushed delightfully, just as she did everything else. She was growing an altogether bewitching bit of femininity, and I kept thanking my private provenance that I had had the nerve to kidnap her first and take chances on her being willing. Honest, I didn't believe I'd ever have got her in any other way. When we stopped at Pochettes' door, the girls ran up and tangled their arms around each other and wasted enough kisses to make Frosty and me swear. And they whispered things, and then laughed about it, and whispered some more. And all we could hear was a gurgle of you, dear, and the like of that. Frosty and I didn't do much. We just looked at each other and grinned. And its long odds we understood each other quite as well as the girls did, after they'd whispered and gurgled an hour. We had an early dinner, or supper, and ate fried bacon and stewed prunes. And right there, I couldn't keep the joke, but had to tell the girls about how Frosty and I had deviled Barrel's father at that time. They could see the point alright, and they seemed to appreciate it too. After that, we all talked at once, sometimes. And sometimes we wouldn't have a thing to say, times when the girls would look at each other and smile, with their eyes all shiny. Frosty and I would look at them, and then at each other, and Frosty's eyes were shiny too. Then we went on with the motor purring love songs and sliding the miles behind us, while Frosty and Edith cooed in the tonneau behind us, and didn't thank us to look around or interrupt. Barrel and I didn't say much. I was driving as fast as was wise, and sometimes faster. There was always the chance that the other car would come slithering along on our trail. Besides, it was enough just to know that this was real, and that Barrel would marry me just as soon as we found a preacher. There was no incentive to linger along the road. It yet lacked an hour of sunset when we had slid into Osage and stopped before a little Goodsbox Church, with a sample of the same style of architecture chucked close against one side. We left the girls with the preacher's wife, and Frosty wrote down our ages. Barrel was 21, if you're curious. In our parents' names and where we were born, and if we were black or white, and a few other impertinent things which he, having been through it himself, insisted was necessary. Then he hustled out after the license, while I went over to the dry goods and jewelry store to get a ring. I will say that Osage puts up a mighty poor showing of wedding rings. We were married. I suppose I ought to stop now and describe just how it was in what the bride wore and a list of the presents. But it didn't last long enough to be clear in my mind. Everything is a bit hazy just there. I dropped the ring, I know that for certain, because it rolled under an article or furniture that looked suspiciously like a folding bed masquerading as a cabinet. And Frosty had to get down on all fours and fish it out before we could go on. And Edith put her handkerchief to her mouth and giggled disreputably. But anyway, we got married. The preacher gave Barrel an impressive Lillian Rose certificate, which caused her much embarrassment because it would not go into any pocket of hers or mine that must be carried ostentatiously in the hand. I believe Edith was a bit jealous of that beflowered roll. Her preacher had been out of certificates and had made shift with a plain, undecorated sheet of fool's cap that Frosty said looked exactly like a homemade bill of sale. I told Edith she could paint some lilies around the edge and she flounced out with her nose in the air. We had decided that we must go back in the morning and face the music. We had no desire to be arrested for stealing Weaver's car, and there was not a man in Osage who could be trusted to drive it back. Then the girls needed a lot of things, and though Frosty had intended to take the next train east, I persuaded him to go back and wait for us. Barrel said she was almost sure her father would be nice about it, now there was no good in being anything else. I think that long roll of stiff paper went a long way toward strengthening her confidence. She simply could not conceive of any father being able to resist its appeal and its look of finality. We all got into the car again and went up to the station, so I might send a wire to Dad. It seemed only right and fair to let him know at once that he had a daughter to be proud of. Good Lord! I broke out when we were nearly to the depot. If that isn't, do any of you notice anything out on the side track over there? I pointed an unsteady finger toward the purple and crimson sunset. A maroon-colored car with dark green, Barrel began promptly. That's it, I cut in. I was afraid joy had gone to my head and was making me see crooked. It's Dad's car, the Shasta, and I wonder how the loose she got here. Probably by the railroad, said Edith flippantly. I drove over to the Shasta and we stopped. I couldn't for the life of me understand her being there. I stared up at the windows and nodded daisily to Crom, grinning down at me. The next minute Dad himself came out on the platform. So it's you, Ellie, he greeted calmly. I thought Potter wasn't to let you know I was coming. He must be getting garrulous as he grows old. However, since you're here, I'm very glad to see you, my boy. Hello, Dad, I said meekly, and help Barrel out. I wasn't at all sure that I was glad to see him just then. Telling Dad face to face was a lot different from telling him by telegraph. I swallowed. Dad, let me introduce you to Mrs. Barrel King, that is Carlton, my wife. I got that last word out plain enough at any rate. Dad stared. For once I had rather floored him, but he's a thoroughbred all right. You can't freeze him for longer than 10 seconds, and then only in extreme cases. He leaned down over the rail and held out his hand to her. I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. Barrel King, that is Carlton, he said, mimicking me. Come up and give your Dad in law proper welcome. Barrel did. I wondered how long it had been since Dad had been kissed like that. It made me gulp once or twice to think of all he had missed. Frosty and Edith came up then, and Edith shook hands with Dad, and I introduced Frosty. Five minutes, they're on the platform, went for explanations. Dad didn't say much. He just listened and sized up the layout. Then he led us through the vestibule into the drawing room, and I knew from the look of him that we would get his verdict straight. But it was a relief not to see his fingertips together. Perry Potter wrote me something of all this. He observed settling himself comfortably in his pet chair. He said this young cub needed looking after, or King, your father, Mrs. Carlton, would have him by the heels. I thought I'd better come and see what particular brand of, uh, this for the motor. I might make shift to take it back myself. Seeing Potter hasn't got a rig here to meet me. And if you'd like a little jaunt in the Shasta, you four, you're welcome to her for a couple of weeks or so. I'm not going back right away. Ellis has done his, um, is married and off my hands so I can take a vacation too. I can arrange transportation over any lines you want before I start for the ranch. Will that do? I guess he found that it would, from the way Edith and Barrel made for him. Frosty glanced out of the window and motioned to me. I looked and we both bolted for the door, reaching it just as old King's foot was on the lower step of the platform. Weaver, looking like Chief Warner at a funeral, was down below in his car. King came up another step glaring and evidently in a mood for war and extermination. How do you do, King? Dad greeted over my shoulder before I could say a word. He may not have had his fingertips together, but he had the fingertip tone all right, and I knew it was a good man who would get the better of him. Looking for strays? Come right up. I've got two brand new married couples here, and I need some sane person pretty bad to help me out. There was the faintest possible accent on the scene. Say, it was the finest thing I had ever seen Dad do, and it wasn't what he said so much as the way he said it. I knew then why he had such a record for getting his own way. King swallowed hard and glared from Dad to me, and then at Barrel, who had come up and laid my arm over her shoulder, where it was perfectly satisfied to stay. There was a half minute when I didn't know whether King would shoot somebody or have apoplexy. You're late, Father, said Barrel sweetly, displaying that blessed certificate rather conspicuously. If you had only hurried a little, you might have been in time for the wedding. I squeezed my arm tight in approval and came near choking her. King gasped as if somebody had an arm around his neck, too, and was squeezing. Oh, well, you're here now, and that's all right. Put in Dad easily, as though everything was quite commonplace and had happened dozens of times to us. Chrom will have dinner ready soon, though as he and Tony weren't notified that there would be a wedding party here, I can't promise the feast I'd like to. Still, there's a bottle or two good enough to drink even their happiness in, Homer. Just send your chauffeur down to the town and come in. Good one on Weaver that, and the best part of it was he heard it. King hesitated while I could count ten, if I counted fast enough, and came in, following us all back through the vestibule. Inside, he looked me over and drew his hand down over his mouth. I think to hide a smile. Young man, you seem born to leave a path of destruction behind you, he said. There's a lot of fixing to be done on that gate, and I don't reckon I ever will find a padlock again. His eyes met the king's steady look of Dad. Stopped there, wavered, softened to friendliness. Their hands went out half shyly and met. Kids are sure of terrors these days, he remarked, and they laughed a little. But the soul folks have got to stand in the corners when they're around. King's highway is open trail, and Barrel and I go through there often in the yellow peril, since Dad gave me outright the base state ranch and all pertaining there too, except, of course, Perry Potter. He stays on of his own accord. Frosty is Father King's foreman, and Aunt Ladimo went back east and stayed there. She writes prim little letters to Barrel once in a while, and I gather she doesn't approve of the match at all. But Barrel does, and if you ask me, I approve also. So what does anything else matter? End of Chapter 17. End of The Range Dwellers by B. M. Bauer. Recording by Tom Penn.