A word started the horses into a lope. The buckboard was whirled along over the last two miles to Stockchute in a wild race against the train. The steam horse won. It had sidetracked the private car attached to the rear of the last pullman and was puffing away westward, when Ashton guided his running team in among the crude shacks of the town. He swung around at a more moderate pace towards the big chute for cattle-loading, and fetched up a few yards out from the rear step of the private car.

An assiduous porter had already swung down with a box step. A big, square-faced, square-framed man of twenty-eight or thirty stepped out into the car vestibule. He sprang to the ground as Miss Knowles stepped from the buckboard. She had lowered her veil, but it failed to mask the extreme brilliancy of her eyes and her quick changes of color. Her face, flushed from the excitement of the race into town, went white when she first saw the man in the vestibule; flushed again when he sprang down; again paled; and, last of all, glowed radiantly as she advanced to meet him. 139

He hastened to her, baring his big head of its Panama, and staring at her fashionable hat and dress in frank surprise.

“Mr. Blake!” she murmured.

At the sound of her voice he started and fixed his light blue eyes on her veiled face with a keen glance. She turned pale and as quickly blushed, as if embarrassed by his scrutiny.

“Excuse me!” he apologized. “You are Miss Knowles?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Knowles?” he repeated, half to himself. “Strange! Haven’t I met you before?”

“In Denver?” she suggested. “I spend my winters in Denver. But there was one in Europe.”

“No, it wouldn’t be either. You must excuse me, Miss Knowles. There was something about your voice and face––rather threw me off my balance. If you’ll kindly overlook the bungling start-off! I’m greatly pleased to meet you. My wife will be, too. May I ask you to step aboard the car?––No, here she is now.”

A graceful, rather small lady, dressed with elegant simplicity, had come out into the car vestibule.

“Jenny, here’s Miss Knowles now,” said Blake. “She came to meet us herself.”

“That was very good of you, Miss Knowles,” said the lady, as the two advanced towards her. “We 140 are very glad to meet you. Will you not come up out of the sun?”

The white-uniformed porter promptly stood at attention. Blake as promptly offered his hand. The girl accepted his assistance and mounted the car steps with an absence of awkwardness instantly noted by Mrs. Blake. That lady held out a somewhat thin white hand as Isobel drew off her gauntlet gloves. But she did not stop with the light firm handclasp. Lifting the girl’s veil, she kissed her full on her coral lips.

“We shall be friends,” she stated, a smile in her hazel eyes.

“I hope so,” murmured the girl, blushing with delight. “The only question is whether you will like me.”

Mrs. Blake patted the plump, sunbrowned hand that she had not yet relinquished. She was little if any older than the girl, but her air was that of matronly wisdom. “My dear, can you doubt it? I was prepared to like even the kind of young woman my husband told me to expect.”

“Bronco Bess, Queen of the Cattle Camp,” suggested the girl, dimpling. “Wait till you see me rope and hogtie a steer.”

Mrs. Blake smiled, and looked across at Ashton, who sat motionless under the shadow of his big sombrero, his face half averted from the car. 141

“I’ve a real surprise for you,” said the girl. “Mr. Blake, if I may tell it to you also.”

Blake swung up the steps, hat in hand. “It can’t be half as pleasant as the surprise you’ve already given us,” he said.

“I fear not,” she replied, with a quick change to gravity. She looked earnestly into their faces. “Still, I hope––yes, I really believe it will please you when you consider it. But first, I want to tell you that out here it’s our notion that a man should be rated according to his present life, and not blamed for his past mistakes.”

“Certainly not!” agreed Mrs. Blake, with a swift glance at her husband. “If a man has mounted to a higher level, he should be upheld, not dragged down again.”

“That’s good old-style Western fair play,” added Blake.

“I’m so glad you take it that way!” said Isobel. “A young man utterly ruined in fortune––partly at least through his own fault––came to us and asked to be hired. He has been a hard worker and a gentleman. His name is Lafayette Ashton.”

“Ashton?” said Blake, his face as impassive as a granite mask.

“Yes. He has told me all about the bridge. He wished to go away, because he thought you and Mrs. Blake would not like to meet him. I told him you 142 would be willing to let bygones be bygones, and help him start off with a new tally card.”

“Lafayette Ashton working––as a cowboy!” murmured Mrs. Blake.

“He is still a good deal of a tenderfoot. But he is learning fast; and work!––the way he pesters Daddy to find him something to do!”

“He certainly must be a changed man,” dryly commented Blake.

“Cherchez la femme,” said his wife.

“Mrs. Blake!” protested the girl, blushing.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“‘Find the woman,’” explained Mrs. Blake.

“That’s easy,” he said, fixing his twinkling eyes on the rosy-faced girl.

“But I’m sure it has not been because of me––at least not altogether,” she qualified with her uncompromising honesty.

“I wouldn’t blame him even if it was altogether,” said Blake.

“Then you will be willing to overlook your past trouble with him?”

“Since you say he has straightened out––yes.”

“That’s good of you! That’s what I expected of you!” exclaimed the girl. “That is he, in the buckboard.”

Without a word, Blake started down the car steps.

“Bring him here at once, Tom,” said Mrs. Blake. 143

Her husband went up beside the motionless figure in the buckboard and held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Ashton,” he said with matter-of-fact heartiness. “Jenny wants you to come to her. We’re not ready to start, as we were not certain we would be met.”

“Miss––Mrs. Blake wishes me to come!” mumbled Ashton.

“Yes,” said Blake, gripping the other’s hesitatingly extended hand.

Ashton flushed darkly. “But I––I can’t leave the horses,” he replied.

Blake signed to the porter, who hastened forward. “Hold the lines for this gentleman, Sam.”

Ashton reluctantly gave the lines into the mulatto’s sallow hands and stepped from the buckboard. His head hung forward as he followed Blake. But at the foot of the steps he removed his sombrero and forced himself to look up. Isobel was smiling down at him encouragingly. He looked from her to Mrs. Blake, his handsome face crimson with shame.

“How do you do, Lafayette?” Mrs. Blake greeted him with quiet cordiality. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes––yes, indeed! I––yes, very!” he stammered, so embarrassed that he would have stuck at the foot of the steps had not Blake started him up with a vigorous boost. 144

Mrs. Blake gave him her hand. “You look so strong and hearty!” she remarked. “It speaks well for the fare Miss Knowles provides.”

“Oh, that credit is due our Jap chef,” laughed the girl. “I can cut out a cow from the herd better than I can bone a chop. But the butter and eggs and cream that are awaiting you––Which reminds me that we’ve yet to see It.”

“It?” asked Blake.

“Yes, him––the baby!”

“Oh, you dear girl!” cooed Mrs. Blake. “Come in and see him.”

Isobel followed her into the car. Blake nodded to Ashton. But the younger man shrank away from the door.

“If you’ll kindly excuse me,” he muttered. “It would remind me too much of––the time when––No, I’d rather not.”

“Of course,” assented Blake with ready understanding. “How do you like this country? I went through here once on a railway survey. It’s rare good luck––this chance to visit Miss Knowles. Jenny is a little run down, as you see.”

“I shall trust that her visit to this locality will soon quite restore her,” remarked Ashton.

“It will. The doctors said Maine; I said Colorado. It has done you no end of good. You are looking particularly fine and fit.” 145

“It has helped me––in more ways than one,” murmured Ashton.

“Glad to hear you say it!” responded Blake in hearty approval.

Ashton turned from him as Isobel appeared in the doorway, cuddling a lusty, rosy-cheeked baby. The mother hovered close behind her.

“Look at him!” jeered Blake with heavily feigned derision. “Did you ever see such a big, fat, lubberly––”

“Yes, look at him, Lafe,” said the girl, stepping out into the vestibule. “He is only a yearling, but isn’t he just the perfect image of his father?”

Ashton burst into a ringing laugh, but abruptly checked himself at sight of the sober face of the young mother. “I––I beg pardon!” he stammered. “I––she––Miss Knowles––that is what she told me to tell you about him.”

“And you didn’t play up worth a little bit, Lafe!” complained the girl.

It was Blake’s turn to laugh. “You––!” he accused. “Schemed to frame up a case on us did you!”

His wife smiled faintly, not altogether certain that an aspersion had not been cast upon her chuckling son.

“But it’s partly true, really,” remarked Ashton, peering at the baby’s big pale-blue eyes. 146

Blake burst into a hilarious roar. But Mrs. Blake now beamed upon Ashton. “Then you, too, see the resemblance, Lafayette! Isn’t it wonderful, and he so young? His name is Thomas Herbert Vincent Leslie Blake.––Now, my dear, if you please, I shall take him in. We must be preparing to start, if it is so long a drive.”

“Do let me hold him until you and Mr. Blake are ready,” begged the girl.

“I am not quite sure that––You will be careful not to drop him? He is tremendously strong, and he squirms,” dubiously assented the fond mother. “Come, Tom. We must not keep Miss Knowles waiting.”

Blake disappeared with her into the luxuriously furnished car.

“Isn’t he a dear?” cooed the girl, clasping the baby to her bosom and kissing his chubby clenched hands. He stared up into her glowing face with his round light-blue eyes. “Thomas Blake!––Tom Blake!” she whispered.

Ashton did not heed the words. He was gazing too intently at the girl and the child. His eyes glistened with a wonderment and longing so exquisitely intense that it was like a pain. The girl sank down in one of the cane chairs and laid the baby on his back. He kicked and gurgled, seized one of his upraised feet 147 and thrust a pink big toe in between his white milk teeth.

“That’s more than you can do, Lafe!” challenged the girl.

She glanced up, dimpling with merriment,––met the adoration in his eyes, and looked down, blushing. He attempted to speak, but the words choked into an incoherent sound like a sob. He jumped from the car and hurried to take the lines from the porter.