  Cyril reached the purebred camp the following morning. He had ridden without stopping the whole of the previous night. His mind was a burning chaos; and he suffered all the torments of jealousy and uncertainty. Even while he told himself that he now hated Nettie, his heart went back to her—in aching tenderness about her. He pictured her as he had known her—her hair shining in the sun, and that look which love alone brings to the human eyes, lighting up her face and making it divinely beautiful to her lover. He recalled her at the little shack, where she had helped him fashion some of the rude pieces of furniture; riding across the prairie, their horses' necks touching as they pressed as close to each other as the horses would permit; the nightly meetings in the berry bushes; her hand nestling in his own. He remembered her in his arms, her lips upon his! In the darkness of the night, the boy rode sobbing. In the gray of the morning, red of eyes, his hat well "You back already?" "Yes." "Ready to go on?" "Yes." "Good. We'll get away a few days ahead. Hold on there!" Cyril had moved to go. He stood now at the door of the cattle shed. "Where've you been?" There was no answer, and the Bull persisted. "You been to Bar Q?" "Yes." "Well?" There was silence again, and the Bull cut in with seeming indifference. "How's your gell? When you gettin' married?" A deep pause, and Cyril answered slowly. "It's off. I ain't marryin'." "Turned you down, did she? Huh! Well, what do you care? There's plenty good fish in the sea. There ain't nothing to bellyache about. When you get over He extended the plug of tobacco, which the boy ignored. His reddened eyes looked levelly into the Bull's, and he said sturdily: "It's a lie what you said about women. They ain't bad!" |
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