A Vendetta of the Hills. Willis George Emerson

Sing Ling,” called out Dick, “and just as quick as you can serve it.”

      Sing Ling departed as noiselessly as he had come.

      “These are certainly great quarters,” observed Munson, settling himself in a big Old Mission rocker and glancing around.

      The walls, curiously enough, were pretty well covered with pen-and-ink sketches and designs of buildings that might have adorned an architect’s office, while there was a partly completed landscape painting in oils standing on a rudely fashioned easel.

      “And you’ve certainly stuck to the old line of work, Dick,” the lieutenant went on.

      “Of course one must have something to think about when he is all alone in a new country,” replied Willoughby. “But most of that stuff I did in my first year here,” he added, following the other’s survey of the walls.

      “You still paint, however,” remarked Munson, his eyes resting on the unfinished canvas.

      “Or try to,” was the laughing response.

      “Oh, that’s a modest way of putting it. Do you know, old man,” Munson went on, “since I came here I have often thought what a marvelous change has been wrought in you—what a transplanting has taken place? You were a chronic New Yorker, except for that one year you spent in the Latin Quarter of gay Paree. You thought then you were going to make a great painter. And, by gad, I almost believe so myself,” he added, bending forward to make a more critical scrutiny of the work on the easel. “By jove, that’s really fine, Dick.”

      “I’m afraid that’s flattery, Chester, my boy,” responded Willoughby. “However, it sounds good to hear you say so. A word of appreciation is what all hearts hunger for. Personally I even believe in a moderate amount of flattery. Its psychic influence is more potent in arousing and causing the heart to throb with ambition than all the stimulants, drugs or reasoning in the world. Indeed, without a certain amount of flattery one becomes ambitionless, languid, and perishes; whereas the unexpected caress or kindly words of praise from loved ones, just or unjust, adds more strength to the good right arm of the breadwinner than all the beef in Christendom, and makes the sunshine seem brighter and earth’s every breeze a south wind blowing across beds of violets.”

      “A bit of a poet, too, I see,” smiled Munson.

      Willoughby made no reply. He had crossed over to the open door and was looking out on the valley that stretched away for miles—great oak trees in the foreground, with cattle-dotted pasture lands beyond. Waving his hand toward the vast expanse, he said:

      “Just look at that for a picture, and see how tame a man-made gallery is as compared with this great art gallery of Nature. Do you know, Ches, I despise New York? There was a time, when I first came here, that I felt I should die of ennui, yearning for the Great White Way once again. But I have outgrown all that. I know now, thank God, there’s nothing to it. Here a man can fill his lungs with pure air, and at the same time feast his soul all day long with beautiful things.”

      There followed a brief interval of silence. Munson had risen and joined his comrade at the door. Both were gazing over the glorious sunlit sweep of territory rimmed by the distant, pine-clad hills. In the heart of Dick Willoughby was supreme contentment, in that of Chester Munson a vague longing to get away from red-tape army routine and breathe the exhilarating and inspiring freedom of life in the open.

      “Blakeflast,” bleated a soft voice behind them, and turning round they found the suave, smiling Chinaman with hand outstretched toward the smoking viands upon the table. Sentiment was instantly forgotten in favor of lamb chops grilled to a turn, a great fluffled omelette with fine herbs that would have done credit to a Parisian chef, and coffee that was veritable nectar.

      At last appetite was satisfied. The lieutenant had produced his cigar case, Dick was filling his briar-root pipe with tobacco from the humidor. The latter spoke:

      “Say, Ches, we were talking about New York. Do you want me to give you a toast on that modern Babylon?”

      “Sure, old man, go ahead! You know I haven’t lost my interest in old Gotham, by any manner of means. It may the a modern Babylon. But to me it is none the less the greatest of American cities.”

      “That’s just the trouble,” said Dick, seriously. “It is too great. There identities are swallowed up. Individualism cannot survive. It is all one great composite.”

      “Well, let us hear the toast.”

      Dick raised his cup of coffee and said: “Very well, here it is; here is my opinion of New York:

      ‘Vulgar in manners; overfed,

      Over-dressed and under-bred;

      Heartless, godless, hell’s delight,

      Rude by day and lewd by night.

      Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute;

      Ruled by boss and prostitute.

      Purple robed and pauper clad;

      Raving, rotten, money mad;

      A squirming herd in Mammon’s mesh;

      A wilderness of human flesh;

      Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—

      New York! thy name’s delirium.’.rdquo;

      “Great Heavens, old man,” exclaimed Munson, when Dick had finished, “you are severe, to say the least.”

      Willoughby laughed good-naturedly as he passed the match box to his friend.

      “Not severe, only truthful,” he said. “You see, in New York no man dares think for himself. Everything is controlled by a machine-appointed chairman, secretary and committee, and you must hear the resolutions read before you know the doctrine you are perforce to advocate.”

      Then he lit his pipe and rose from the table.

      “Now, I have a lot of things to attend to, old fellow,” he resumed. “Make yourself comfortable. Here’s a bunch of Eastern newspapers—oh, I read them regularly, haven’t got rid of that bad habit yet. I’ll tell Sing Ling to have lunch ready on the stroke of noon. Then we’ll be in good time to start out for the Rancho La Siesta. So long!”

CHAPTER V—At La Siesta

       Table of Contents

      SOON after one o’clock Dick Willoughby and Chester Munson were again in the saddle. They galloped along the foothills for some time in silence. But coming to the boulder-strewn wash of a mountain stream, they had perforce to rein their horses to a walk. Conversation was now possible.

      “Dick, will you give me a job as a cowboy if I quit the army?” asked Munson abruptly.

      “Surest thing you know,” replied Dick. “But why try to kid me like that?”

      “Oh,” laughed the other, “I am not jesting.”

      “Well, by gad, if you feel that way already, the chances are you will write out your resignation when you get back to the shack tonight.”

      “You mean by that—”

      “I mean,” said Dick, smiling benignly at his friend, “that when you have once seen Grace Darlington you will feel like browsing on the California range until you have learned to throw a riata.”

      “Oh, it is not the thought of any mere girl that will influence my decision. I feel like getting back to Nature—back to the soil—back to a life of untrammeled freedom.”

      “Back to unspoiled womanhood,” added Dick sententiously.

      “Well, you’ve certainly got my