“By gorry, when you dream, you shore dream yourself dizzy,” declared Jim heartily, as Andrew paused for breath.

  “Chickens, pigs — did I include horses? A brace of good hunting dogs, a fine collie or shepherd, shotguns and rifles, saddles, bridles, chaps, spurs — and, oh hell! a lot more stuff!” Out of the corner of his eye Andrew saw the old range man turn to gaze at him, as though he were beginning to doubt his sanity.

  “Oh, hell! Shore. An’ you forgot a weddin’ ring fer Martha.”

  Andrew landed out of the clouds with a jar.

  “No, Jim. I sure didn’t dream that,” he replied soberly.

  “Wal, if you had, I’d said thet was somethin’ mighty fine...Andy, I hope you ain’t goin’ dotty.”

  “Do I talk dotty?”

  “Sorta. You started wal, but you’ve grooved kinda wild. Yore face is red, too. I oughtn’t have let you lay out four nights alone. Andrew, have you got a fever?”

  “I guess so, come to think of it.”

  “Wal, you’ve ketched cold. Thet sudden change from dry to wet is bad. Sue will have to doctor you up a bit.”

  “Jim, it’s not that kind of a fever.”

  “What kind then?” asked Fenner anxiously. “Is yore haid burnin’?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “An’ do you ache?”

  “Fierce!”

  “Hell! You’re gonna be sick. Does thet ache ketch you all over?”

  “No. Only in one place...But, Jim, tell me, did that pipe dream I had seem far-fetched and impossible to you?”

  “Shore, fer us, wuss luck. If we had a little money, though, it wouldn’t be, by thunder! Bligh has a thousand acres — wal, he has if McCall doesn’t force him offfinest kind of land thet’ll raise most anythin’. Andy, we could develop a great ranch, the prettiest one in Wyomin’ an’ a plumb good money maker...Aw hell! After all, dreams only make you sad.”

  “Jim, this one will come true. I know it!”

  “Huh?” grunted Jim stupidly.

  “I have been kidding you, old-timer,” cried Andrew joyfully, finding it impossible to react calmly to the thing he had disclosed. “It has been a dream, ever since I got here. And now it’s coming true!”

  “Andy! You’re out of yore haid!”

  “No, Jim. I’ve figured it all out. I’ve got the cash. I’ve got enough for all the things I enumerated. And then some left to run things for a couple of years...Lord, I don’t see how I kept it from you so long!”

  “You got the cash!” yelped Jim.

  “Bet your life I have.”

  “Whar?”

  “Under my cabin. Buried deep. Safe.”

  “Honest, Andy?”

  “Absolutely. On my honor, Jim.”

  “Gawd Almighty! Andy, I always was leery about you. Don’t say you’re a bank robber or a politician!”

  “Not on your life!”

  “Whar did you git it?”

  “My mother left me an inheritance, Jim.”

  “An you’re gonna stake Bligh?”

  “Bligh and I will be partners.”

  “An’ me?”

  “You’ll run the ranch. Foreman isn’t a good enough job for you. You’ll be superintendent!”

  Fenner’s face worked. He had halted his horse to confront Andrew. The sun had set and dusk was shadowing the trail.

  “So thet was it!” he finally ejaculated weakly, and nodded his lean old head as if to an invisible interrogator.

  “What was?”

  “All the time — thet was it!”

  “Jim, you’re the loco one now.”

  “Andy, somethin’ kept me up,” replied the Arizonian in a low voice. “I never seen a more hopeless deal than Bligh’s. But I never gave up — not since you an’ Martha came. I reckoned mebbe it was her sweetness, her gay bossin’ me around an’ never lettin’ me be false to the hope an’ youth of her — an’ yore comin’ — somethin’ about you thet I could never figger.”

  “Whatever it was, I’m glad.”

  “Andy, the same thing thet called Martha out here called you,” averred Fenner solemnly. “An’ we old folks have been waitin’...It’ll make a new man of Bligh. Sue will be happy an’ thet wonderful girl — thet Martha...Aw! she’s gonna break her heart now, an’ crawl to you on her knees.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” laughed Andrew. “Jim, you’re not to tell Bligh or Sue till we have it all worked out. And the whole deal must be kept absolutely secret from Martha.”

  “Aw! to keep such good news!”

  “Tough, yes. But I demand it. Let her be curious when the cattle and horses drift in. You will buy her the swellest pony in Wyoming. And saddle, and bridle to match. Get me, Jim?”

  “I git you. An’, by thunder! that Aladdin geezer never had nothin’ on you, Andy...I agree. I swear by you. I’ll be dumb. But don’t expect me to look down in the mouth while I’m doin’ it.”

  “Look any way you like. It’ll be all the more mysterious...Well, here we are at the barn,” said Andrew, dismounting with cramped and stiff limbs. “I’m damn near frozen...After supper you come over to my cabin. We’ll go over all the plans and settle everything.”

  After unsaddling and looking to his horse Andrew went with Jim to the kitchen. By this time it was dark, and the yellow lights from the windows of the house were shining a cheery welcome. Jim went in and Andrew followed.

  “For the land’s sake!” exclaimed Sue. “Of all the bedraggled, dirty-faced punchers I ever seen, you two are the worst.”

  Andrew bent over the hot stove to warm his red cold hands. The light, the warmth, the steaming kettle and coffee pot, the supper table already set, the familiar fragrance and comfort — these struck Andrew with a stunning realization of how little it took to make a man humble and grateful.

  “Andy has had an orful drill, Sue. I had to track him. Whar’s the boss an’ Martha?”

  “Bligh is not so well,” replied Sue, and then turned to call Martha.

  As she opened the door to enter, Andrew felt a lift of his heart. Had only five days elapsed since he had seen her? A glamorous light appeared to surround her lovely face and golden head. Her eyes showed the marks of weeping, but that did not account for the subtle change Andrew felt. She went to Jim, where he sat beside the stove, and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Howdy,” she said, including both in the greeting. Then she took cognizance of their grimy state, and laughed. “Have you been mining coal? You look it!”

  “Lass, I’ve tracked gophers an’ badgers in my day, but fer a shore-enough ground hawg Andy takes the cake,” drawled Jim.

  “How come?” she inquired quickly, and her eyes, dark in that light, swept from Jim to Andrew.

  “Martha, what have you been crying about?” asked Andrew.

  “Uncle Nick,” she replied forlornly.

  “Is he ill?”

  “He has worried himself sick over this McCall deal.”

  “Anything developed?”

  “McCall is going to force Uncle off the ranch.”

  “Well! That is bad news. Has he gone to court?”

  “Not yet, Uncle says.”

  Andrew filled a lard pail with hot water from the kettle. “I’ll run over and clean up. Don’t let Jim eat all the grub,” he said as he went out. While Andrew strode across to his cabin, and set about starting a fire his thoughts dwelt on the change in Martha Ann’s attitude toward him. Her civility came as a surprise. His return could have meant nothing to her. Probably days ago she had relegated him to the long list of the undesired and discarded. Still there had been something — that same old unsatisfied look. He was glowing still with the delight her loveliness had inspired. He made haste to shave and change. The thrill of the new ranch project already had faded. Had he been nursing that dream, and divulged it to Fenner, solely for Martha Dixon?

  Soberly Andrew went out into the dark, empty, windy hall of the night. He found himself strangely happy. There was no reason why he should feel at all hopeful as far as Martha was concerned. Had she not passionately scorned him? Had she not declared that she would not marry him if he were the last man on earth? Had he not accepted this decree? Certainly he had not blamed her. Whence, then, this longing to see her, to be in the same room with her? Would she be glad of his return — that he had come back safely? Would she think him brave, strong, courageous to venture forth to run down the rustlers? Jim would lose no time telling that story. Could he ever be a hero in her sight? Had she realized that she had driven him into the wilds where, like a wounded creature, he could hide and lick his wounds? Had she thought of him at all? In that short walk to the kitchen a hundred longing, questioning thoughts besieged him — to see her again, to hear her, to watch the play of her features for that sweet smile, to catch the light of her eyes. And at the very door he hesitated for fear that she would read him as an open page and laugh him to scorn.

  Boldly he went in. Martha Ann was alone in the kitchen.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to be so late. Where’s Jim?”

  “He went out to help Sue. I’ve kept your supper hot.”

  “Thank you,” said Andrew, and sat down, feeling betrayed again. He did not look up while she placed his supper before him. She brushed against his shoulder and once her hand touched his. How easy it would be to jump up from the table and clasp her in his arms. What an idiot a man could be!

  “You don’t act hungry,” she said presently.

  “I am, though,” he replied hastily, and fell to.

  “Jim told us.”

  “What?” he mumbled.

  “About your catching the rustler red-handed, then letting him off because he had a wife and babies. You would!”

  “Yeah. But Jim had as much to do with it as I did.”

  “Andrew, it was wrong of you to run off alone, without food or bedding,” she went on severely. “Uncle was worried. And Sue scolded Jim roundly just now, as if poor Jim were to blame for your wild-goose chase.”

  “Ha! Wild-goose chase?”

  “Yes! You rode off in a huff, like a little boy who hoped to get hurt, perhaps killed, just to make his mother feel sorry.”

  “I had suffered a slight — disappointment,” returned Andrew, raising his eyes. She stood by the table gazing down upon him with what seemed to be genuine disapproval.

  “But suppose you had?” she retorted, flushing. “That is no reason for you to distress Sue, worry Uncle — and—”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me...I — I suppose I hate you, Andrew. But that didn’t keep me from worrying...Once a young fellow shot himself on my account...Oh, it was horrible.” There was now a mischievous glint in Martha Ann’s eyes.

  “What for?” asked Andrew, fully aware that she was improvising as she went.

  “Because I — I wouldn’t give him a kiss.”

  “Did he kill himself?”

  “No. But that wasn’t his fault. And I felt almost as bad as if he had.”

  “My sympathy is all with him.”

  “Don’t try to make fun of me, Andrew,” she rejoined with asperity. “You’re no callow youth. You’ve had real women sweethearts—”

  “I had one and she was — all that’s modern rolled into one.”

  “Connie. I’d like to meet her sometime...But, Andrew, just because I — I do not love you — and do hate you — and wouldn’t marry you — don’t do such a foolish thing like this again. You aren’t the type for heroics or for dramatizing yourself! Just to make me sorry! You’ve probably gotten over your — disappointment already!”

  “That’s what you think!”

  “Now I ask you, Andrew,” she expostulated, “if you go play-acting this way, with ruin staring us all in the face, running off to starve and be shot at — won’t life around this ranch simply be impossible?”

  “I’ll say it will.”

  “Then please stop taking such risks.”

  “May I presume to inquire if you wish me to avoid risks?” he queried satirically.

  “Yes, you may presume,” she flared, and the flush on her face decidedly deepened.

  “But why? I cannot conceive of a girl with your peculiar tendencies—”

  Just then Jim and Sue entered the room to end an exchange that once more was headed for danger.

  CHAPTER XIII

  ANDREW BONNING HAD tackled a man’s job — sawing wood. He had a notion to recommend to all college football coaches the unlimited possibilities in a bucksaw as an infallible test of an athlete’s stamina. The huge pile of driftwood that Andrew had snaked up from the river bottom showed little inroad for all his labors. It seemed to require hours to reduce one hardwood log to firewood.

  As an occasional relief from this back-breaking labor, Andrew packed the sawn billets into his cabin. The long room was too big and the north wall did not keep out the wind. So he decided to stack wood solidly all the way across and up to the roof. This would serve a double purpose, first as a wind break, and secondly to furnish an ample supply of firewood for the winter season soon to come. Already he had learned to love a ruddy blaze in the open fireplace. What that would mean on bitter nights, when the gale howled along the eaves, he could well imagine. He must have a comfortable chair, a bright lamp, and plenty to read. He did not choose to spend all of his leisure hours in moodily staring into the embers.

  Several times he had caught glimpses of Martha passing to and fro, on errands too obvious to deceive him, and the last time he had discreetly withdrawn into the cabin. When he went out again, he found her tugging at the bucksaw. She was wearing dungarees, top boots and a white blouse, and with her hair flying, she made a most distracting picture. He watched her, surprised to see that she was strong enough to pull the saw through the hardwood log. The extreme effort she had to put forth showed in the clench of her little brown hands, and the strain and bind of the slender figure. As she tired, the saw moved more slowly.

  “Damn!” she ejaculated, giving up, quite out of breath.

  “Vain oblations, Martha. You will never make a pioneer woman,” said Andrew.

  “Who are you to talk?” she replied. “You’ve been at it for two whole days, yet I can’t see that you have accomplished very much.”

  “Take a look inside.”

  She did so, only to return and say: “Well, I guess you have worked...Looks as if you meant to stay all winter.”

  “All my life, Martha, if I am big enough to deserve it.” She sat down upon a log and watched him for a while. There plainly was something on her mind.

  “Andrew, what has got into Uncle Nick and Jim and Sue the last few days?”

  He took care not to meet her questioning eyes and kept on sawing. “Well, it must be the contagion of my indomitable spirit. My nature not to give up. My unquenchable hope. My unabatable faith.”

  “Honest injun, Andy? Are you really like that?” she asked, momentarily deceived.

  “I wish to God I were.”

  “But Uncle is really much better. He’s being almost cheerful. And as for Jim and Sue — they’re certainly up to something. I hear them whispering, laughing. Sue is packing a grip for Jim. He’s going some place. I asked him, but he put on an innocent air of surprise. What’s come over them?”

  “Come to think of it, I have noticed a tendency to cheerfulness,” replied Andrew, resting an elbow on his saw.

  “Tendency, my hat! They’re happy now, and they weren’t a week ago...Andrew, this scarcely applies to you; I can see you are still feeling your customary grumpy self.”

  “Me? Oh, sure. I can’t be any other way.”

  “I could forgive Jim and Sue, but never you,” she said darkly.

  “Forgive? What on earth for?”

  “I don’t know. But if there was any tiny little hope for us — and you knew about it and kept it from me I — I’d hate you even more than I already do.”

  “There is always hope for good people.”

  “Good people don’t need hope. It’s bad people, like me — and you.”

  Andrew shook his head and went on sawing. Martha would find out sooner or later. He sawed through the log. Martha picked up the block and carried it into the cabin. She remained a considerable while. Upon her return she said: “That’s really a lovely big room. If you fixed it up, it’d be simply darling.”

  “I like it the way it is now.”

  “But it’s so bare. You ought to clean it, stain the logs, hang curtains instead of bony old horns, put in some nice solid furniture and rugs. Oh, I could make it cosy and warm and bright.”

  “I dare say you could — for some girl. But unfortunately for me there is no girl. I’ll make out somehow with my pet squirrels.”

  “You might send for Connie,” she said mischievously, but as he ignored her remark she went on: “Are the squirrels really pets?”

  “Yes. They run over my bed.”

  “Excuse me! I’ll bet you have mice and snakes, too. Primitive stuff! You are a kind of a cave man, at that, aren’t you Andrew?”

  “I believe I reacted to some such instinct once with you...Once was enough.”

  “Why?”

  Andrew declined to answer. The girl was an enigma. Nevertheless, how much better this mood of hers than one of indifference or of hostility! He would not distrust her again, be she as infinitely various as the winds. He was beginning to have another and most disturbing suspicion, and it was that this mood of hers was a sincere one.

  “Are you going to work all day?” she asked petulantly.

  “Certainly I am.”

  “But you don’t get paid for it...I should think you’d want to loaf a little.”

  “Work is my one salvation.”

  “Oh! you confess then to being a sinner?...Gives me a kind of sisterly regard for you.”

  “Martha, I never knew what work really was until I got out West. It’s great,” he said, and spread out his big, strong, brown hands for her to see.

  “What kind of work did you do after leaving college?” she asked curiously.