Nothing more was said about the trip to town until late Wednesday evening. As Knowles slammed shut his book and the young men rose to withdraw to the bunkhouse, he asked Gowan casually: “Got those harness hawsses in the corral?”

“Brought ’em in this afternoon. Greased the buckboard and overhauled the harness. Everything’s in shape,” answered the puncher.

Knowles merely nodded. Yet in the morning, immediately after the usual early breakfast, Gowan went up to the corral and returned driving a lively pair of broncos to the old buckboard. Ashton happened to come around the house as Knowles stepped from the front door. The cowman was followed by his daughter, attired in a new riding habit and a fashionable hat with a veil.

“You’re just in time, Lafe,” said Knowles. “Saddle a couple of hawsses and follow Chuckie to town. I misdoubt that seat is cramped for three, and a baby to boot.” 126

“But I––it looks quite wide to me,” said Ashton, flushing and drawing back.

“You know the size of Blake and his lady––I don’t,” replied the cowman. “Just the same, I want you to go along with Chuckie. There’s not a puncher in this section would harm her, drunk or sober; but the fellows that come in and go out on the railroad are sometimes another sort.”

“Of course I––if necessary,” stammered Ashton. “Yet may I ask you to excuse me? In the event of trouble, Mr. Gowan, you know––”

“Great snakes!” called Gowan from the buckboard. “Needn’t ask me to go, twice!”

“Can’t spare you today,” said Knowles, his keen eyes fixed on Ashton in unconcealed amazement.

It was inconceivable. For the first time in his career as an employÉ, the tenderfoot was attempting to evade a duty,––a duty that comprised a fifty-mile ride in company with Miss Isobel Knowles!

The girl looked at Ashton with a perfect composure that betrayed no trace of her feelings.

“I’m sure there’s no reason whatever why Lafe should go, if he does not wish to,” she remarked. “Any of my hawsses will lead to the buckboard.”

“He’s going to town with you,” said Knowles, his jaw setting hard with stubborn determination.

“Why, of course, Mr. Knowles, if you really think it necessary,” reluctantly acquiesced Ashton. He put 127 his hand into his pocket, shrugged, and asked in a hesitating manner: “May I request––I have only a small amount left from that five dollars. If you consider there are any wages owing me––Going to town, you know.”

“Lord!” said the cowman. “So that’s what you stuck on. ’Fraid of running out of change with a lady along. Here’s the balance of your first month’s wages, and more, if you want it.”

He drew out a fat wallet and began counting out banknotes.

“Oh, no, not so many,” said Ashton. “I wish only what you consider as owing to me now.”

“You’ll take an even hundred,” ordered Knowles, forcing the money on him. “A man doesn’t feel just right in town unless he’s well heeled. Only don’t show more than a ten at a time in the saloon.”

“You have chosen me to act as your daughter’s escort,” replied Ashton.

Quick to catch the inference of his remark, Isobel flashed him a look of approval, but called banteringly as she darted out to the buckboard: “Better move, if you expect to get near enough to escort me, this side of Stockchute.”

Gowan sprang down to hand her into the buckboard. She took the reins from him and spoke to the fidgetting broncos. They plunged forward and started off on a lope. Ashton perceived that she did 128 not intend to wait for him. He caught Gowan’s look of mingled exultance and envy, and dashed for the corral. Rocket was outside, but at his call trotted to meet him, whinnying for his morning’s lump of sugar. Ashton flung on saddle and bridle, and slipped inside the corral to rope his own pony. Haste made him miss the two first throws. At last he noosed the pony, and slapped on the girl’s saddle and bridle.

As he raced off, pounding the pony with his rope to keep him alongside Rocket, Knowles waved to him from the house. He had saddled up in less than twice the time that Gowan could have done it,––which was a record for a tenderfoot. He waved back, but his look was heavy despite the excitement of the pursuit.

He expected to overtake Isobel in a few minutes. This he could have done had he been able to give Rocket free rein. But he had to hold back for the slower-gaited pony. Also, the girl had more of a start than he had at first realized, and she did her best to hold the handicap. Hitched to the light buckboard, her young broncos could have run a good part of the way to Stockchute. She was far out on the flat before she at last tired of the wild bumping over ruts and sagebrush roots, and pulled her horses down to a walk.

“I could have kept ahead clear across to the hills,” she flung back at him as he galloped up. 129

“You shouldn’t have been so reckless!” he reproached. “Every moment I’ve been dreading to see you bounced out.”

“That’s the fun of it,” she declared, her cheeks aglow and eyes sparkling with delight.

“But the road is so rough!” he protested. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to ride my pony? He’s like a rocking-chair.”

“No,” she refused. But she smiled, by no means ill pleased at his solicitude for her comfort. She halted the broncos, and said cordially: “Tie the saddle hawsses to the back rail, and pile in. We may as well be sociable.”

He hastened to accept the invitation. She moved over to the left side of the seat and relinquished the lines to him. With most young ladies this would have been a matter-of-course proceeding; from so accomplished a horsewoman it was a tactful compliment. He appreciated it at its full value, and his mood lightened. They rattled gayly along, on across the flats, up and down among the piÑon clad hills, and through the sage and greasewood of the valleys.

He had thought the country a desolate wilderness; but now it seemed a Garden of Eden. Never had the girl’s loveliness been more intoxicating, never had her manner to him been more charming and gracious. He could not resist the infection of her high spirits. For the greater part of the trip he gave himself over 130 to the delight of her merry eyes and dimpling, rosy cheeks, her adorable blushes and gay repartee.

All earthly journeys and joys have an ending. The buckboard creaked up over the round of the last and highest hill, and they came in sight of the little shack town down across the broad valley. Though five miles away, every house, every telegraph pole, even the thin lines of the railroad rails appeared through the dry clear air as distinct as a miniature painting. Miles beyond, on the far side of the valley, uprose the huge bulk of Split Peak, with its white-mantled shoulders and craggy twin peaks.

But neither Ashton nor Isobel exclaimed on this magnificent view of valley and peak. Each fell silent and gazed soberly down at the dozen scattered shacks that marked the end of their outward trip. Rapidly the gravity of Ashton’s face deepened to gloom and from gloom to dejection. The horses would have broken into a lope on the down grade. He held them to a walk.

Chancing to gaze about and see his face, the girl started from her bright-eyed daydream. “Why, Lafe! what is it?” she inquired. “You look as you did the other day, when you brought the mail.”

“It’s––everything!” he muttered.

“As what?” she queried.

He shrugged hopelessly, hesitated, and drew out the roll of bills forced on him by Knowles. “Tell me, 131 please, just how much of this is mine, at your father’s usual rate of wages, and deducting the real value of that calf.”

“Why, I can’t just say, offhand,” she replied. “But why should you––”

“I shall tell you as soon as––but first––” He drew out his watch. “This cost me two hundred and fifty dollars. It is the only thing I have worth trading. Would you take it in exchange for Rocket and the balance of this hundred dollars over and above what is due me?”

“Why––no, of course, I wouldn’t think of such a thing. It would be absurd, cheating yourself that way. Anyhow, Rocket is your horse to ride, as long as you wish to.”

“But I would like him for my own. How about trading him for my pony and the wages due me?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be an unfair bargain. Your hawss is the best cow pony of the two.”

“It is very kind of you to agree, Miss Chuckie! Here is all the money; and here is the watch. I wish you to accept it from me as a––memento.”

“Mr. Ashton!” she exclaimed, indignantly widening the space between them as much as the seat would permit.

“Please!” he begged. “Don’t you understand? I am going away.”

“Going away?” she echoed. 132

“Yes.”

“But––why?”

“Because he is coming.”

“Mr. Blake?”

“Yes. I cannot stay after he––”

“But why not? Has he injured you? Are you afraid of him?”

“No. I’m afraid that you––” Ashton’s voice sank to a whisper––“that you will believe what he––what they will say against me.”

“Oh!” she commented, her expression shifting swiftly from sympathetic concern to doubt.

He caught the change in her look and tone, and flushed darkly.

“There are sometimes two sides to a story,” he muttered.

“Tell me your side now,” she suggested, with her usual directness.

His eyes fell before her clear honest gaze. His flush deepened. He hung his head, biting his twisted lip. After several moments he began to speak in a hesitating broken murmur:

“I’ve always been––wild. But I graduated from Tech.––not at the foot of my class. My father––always busy piling up millions––never a word or thought for me, except when I overspent my allowance. I was in a––fast set. My father––threatened 133 me. I had to make good. I took a position in old Leslie’s office––Genevieve’s father. I––”

He paused, licked his lips, hesitated, and abruptly went on again, this time speaking with almost glib facility: “There was an engineers’ contest for a projected bridge over Michamac Strait. I started to draw plans, that I might enter the contest, but I did not finish in time. The plans of the other engineers were all rejected. I continued to work on mine. After the contest I happened to pick up a piece of torn plan out of the office wastebasket, and it gave me a suggestion how to improve the central span of my bridge.”

“Yes?” asked the girl, her interest deepening.

He again licked his lips, hesitated, and continued: “There was no name on that torn plan––nothing to indicate to whom it had belonged. So I used it––that is, the suggestion I got from it, and was awarded the bridge on my plans. This made me the Resident Engineer of the bridge, and I had it almost completed when this man Blake came back from Africa after Genevieve, and claimed that I had––had stolen his plans of the bridge. It seems they were lost in Mr. Leslie’s office. He claimed he had handed them in to me for the contest. But so had all the other contestants, and their plans were not lost. It may have been that one of the doorkeepers tore his plans up, out of 134 revenge. Blake was a very rough brute of a fellow at that time. He quarreled with the doorkeeper because the man would not admit him to see Mr. Leslie––threatened to smash him. Afterwards he accused Mr. Leslie of stealing his plans.”

“Oh, no, no! he couldn’t have done that! He can’t be that kind of a man!” protested Isobel.

“It’s true! Even he will not deny it. Old Leslie thought him crazy––then. It was different when he came back and accused me! He had been shipwrecked with Genevieve. They were alone together all those weeks, and so one can––” Ashton checked himself. “No, you must not think––He saved her. When they came back he claimed the bridge as his own––those lost plans.”

“His plans? So that was it! And you––?”

“Of course they believed him. What was my word against his with Genevieve and Leslie. Leslie’s consulting engineer was an old pal of Blake’s. So of course I––I’ll say though that Blake agreed to put it that I had only borrowed his idea of the central span.”

“That was generous of him, if he really believed––”

“Did he?––did Genevieve? Do they believe it now? You see why I must go away.”

“I don’t any such thing,” rejoined the girl.

“You don’t?” he exclaimed. “When they are 135 coming here, believing I did it! They must believe it, all of them! And my father––after all this time––They agreed not to tell him. Yet he has found out. That letter, up at the waterhole––it was from his lawyers. He had cut me off––branded me as an outcast.”

“Without waiting to hear your side––without asking you to explain? How unjust! how unfair!” cried Isobel.

Ashton winced. “I––I told you I––my record was against me. But I was his son––he had no right to brand me as a––a thief! My valet read the letter. He must have told the guide––the scoundrels!”

Tears of chagrin gathered in the young man’s dark eyes. He bit his lip until the blood ran.

“O-o-oh!” sighed the girl. “It’s all been frightfully unjust! You haven’t had fair play! I shall tell Mr. Blake.”

“No, not him!––not him!” Ashton’s voice was almost shrill. “All I wish is to slip away, before they see me.”

“You don’t mean, run away?” she said, quietly placing her little gauntlet-gloved hand on his arm. “You’re not going to run away, Lafe.”

“What else?” he asked, his eyes dark with bitter despair. “Would you have me return, to be booted off the range when they tell your father?”

“Just wait and see,” she replied, gazing at him with 136 a reassuring smile. “You’ve proved yourself a right smart puncher––for a tenderfoot. You’re in the West, the good old-style West, where it’s a man’s present record that counts; not what he has been or what he has done. No, you’re not going to run. You’re going to face it out––and going to stay to learn your new profession of puncher and––man!”

“But they will not wish to associate with me.”

“Yes, they will,” she predicted. “I shall see to that.”

He took heart a little from her cheery, positive assurance. “Well, if you insist, I shall not go until they show––”

“They’ll not recognize you at first. That will give me a chance to speak before they can say anything disagreeable. I’m sure Mr. Blake will understand.”

“But––Genevieve?”

“If she married him when he was as rough as you say, and if he agrees to let bygones be bygones, you need have no fear of Mrs. Blake. Only be sure to go into raptures over the baby. Tell her it’s the perfect image of its father.”

“What if it isn’t?” objected Ashton gloomily.

She dimpled. “One must allow for the difference in age; and there’s always some resemblance––each must have a mouth and eyes and ears and a nose.”

He caught himself on the verge of laughter. Her eyes were fixed upon him, pure and honest and dancing 137 with mirth. A sudden flood of crimson swept up his face from his bristly, tanned chin to his white forehead. He averted his gaze from hers.

“You’re good!” he choked out. “I don’t deserve––But I can’t go––when you tell me to stay!”

“Of course you can’t,” she lightly rejoined. “Look! There’s the train coming. Push on the lines!”