Horse Heaven Hill. Zane Grey

Adam.”

      “Well, Red an’ I didn’t throw clubs at you, anyway,” returned Coil significantly.

      “It was only in fun, Miss Lark,” protested Hurd, not in the least concerned. “And it didn’t hit you.”

      “Like fun it didn’t,” retorted Lark indignantly. “It almost crippled me.” And she exaggerated a limp.

      “Maybe you’re not as tough as you look,” remarked Blanding facetiously. “That outfit has had more than one bump, I’ll bet.”

      Lark had to acknowledge to herself that Blanding had keen eyes. She did not care much for the look in them.

      “Do I get a horse or must I go back to tell Marigold that I was insulted?”

      “Aw, Miss Burrell, don’t be too hard on me an’ Red, anyway,” asked Coil appealingly. “I apologize for my part. Miss Wade would sure fire us.”

      The emphasis on the us, which significantly eliminated Blanding, was not lost upon Lark. There was something here, almost dismaying, that stimulated her thought.

      “In your case, then, I’ll believe you were only in fun,” replied Lark kindly.

      “Thanks, miss. You can ride any horse,” began Coil, beaming, but Blanding thrust him and Red back.

      “I’m boss here. Now, Miss Lark, what kind of a horse do you want?”

      “Any kind that will go,” rejoined Lark slowly, as the two disgruntled cowboys walked out of the barn. Coil looked back at Blanding, a scowl marring his youthful face.

      “Can you ride?” asked Blanding in a flattering tone. He stepped close to her, looking down. He was a superb animal and knew it.

      “Oh, yes, tolerable.”

      “You look like a cowgirl. I’ll bet you’ve ridden at rodeos.”

      “No. I’ve just been a ranch hand.”

      “Come here. Take a peep at Mari—Miss Wade’s horse,” said Blanding, and he circled his fingers around Lark’s elbow, leading her to a stall. It might have been nothing, this action, and then again it might have been a good deal. He kept his hand there while he showed Lark her cousin’s favorite, a dark bay mare with white feet. They went on to the next stall, and the next, down the line on that side of the stable. Lark had been used all her life to good horses. These fine animals of Mr. Wade’s scarcely needed Blanding’s eloquence. He wanted to talk. He wanted to impress Lark.

      Across the aisle in the first stall a white-faced horse poked his head over the bars and whinnied. He took Lark’s eye.

      “This here is Chaps,” went on Blanding. “He’s from Oregon, an’ I’ll say they sure raise horseflesh in that state.”

      “They’re all wonderful,” burst out Lark in delight. “Saddle Chaps for me.”

      “I knew he’d be the one. You’re a swell picker, Miss Lark. . . . An’ you’re goin’ to let me ride with you?” He squeezed her arm and drew her so that she rested against him and gazed down upon her in a bold and masterful way. It was new to Lark, though she had been importuned by cowboys, and it both excited and repelled her. But remembering Marigold’s hint, Lark kept her wits about her. “I reckon I got to see what you look like,” he went on coolly, and removed her sombrero.

      “Do I look like a boy now?” asked Lark.

      “Say, girl, it’s downright cruel an’ mean to hide your hair an’ face,” he exploded, bending lower. “Under a deceivin’ old slouch hat like this.”

      “Why so?” rejoined Lark provocatively.

      “Because you’re most awful pretty.

      “Thank you. But that’s nothing. Give me my old slouch hat.”

      Manifestly, Blanding did not require much time or opportunity to make advances toward a girl. Lark, owing to some vague subtle connection between her cousin and this cowboy which she had grasped, had not reacted immediately upon her instincts. Probably her apparent laxity had deceived him; more probably Blanding was not the kind of man to need encouragement. But when he deliberately bent lower, his face heating, she was sure of her suspicions and thrust him away with no light hand. Then she snatched her sombrero.

      “Keep your paws off me, cowboy,” she said, in a tone only a conceited fool could have misunderstood.

      “Wha-what?” he stammered, very certainly surprised.

      “That’s what I said. Mr. Blanding, it doesn’t follow because you can get fresh with these girls around here that you can do it with a little country jake from down Idaho.”

      Lark learned more from his suddenly flaming face than from any other circumstance that had occurred.

      “Say, has Marigold been shootin’ off her chin to you?” he demanded, recovering. That question defined his status, as well as gave Lark a most decided concern. Could it be possible— She quelled the thought.

      “No. My cousin did not mention you, if that is what you meant,” she replied haughtily.

      “Oh . . . Well, I—you—it sure sounded as if somebody had put you against me,” he floundered, seeking a way out. He had no sense of shame.

      “It wasn’t necessary. Any decent girl could figure you out in five minutes. Less time if she was alone with you!”

      “Say, Lark—”

      “What right have you to call me Lark?” she interrupted. “I’m Miss Burrell to you, or any other cowboy.”

      “All right, Miss Burrell,” he said, forced to recognize something astounding. “But I didn’t mean any harm. I—”

      “No, you didn’t,” retorted Lark scornfully. “You’re a fine gentlemanly cowboy! You threw a club at me—”

      “I didn’t know you were a girl.”

      “There! I’ve caught you in a lie. . . . You threw a club at me and two minutes afterward you’d have kissed me.”

      “What’s a kiss, anyway?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.

      “It’s a great deal to some girls.”

      “Maybe so, but I don’t believe it.”

      “Well, it’s an insult to me anyhow. I—shall tell Marigold.”

      This was an unconsidered random shot that found its mark. For the first time consternation and alarm appeared in his mobile face.

      “Please, Miss Burrell, don’t do that,” he begged, suddenly sincere. And sincerity made him appealing. “Can’t you make allowance? You’ve a most awful pretty face. Red lips! . . . Seein’ them sudden like, without any warnin’—I—I lost my head. I get fool notions over girls. Maybe this was love at first sight.”

      “Maybe it wasn’t,” drawled Lark, enjoying Blanding’s right-about-face.

      “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

      “Sure, in the case of cowboys with any girl. But Mr. Blanding, I want a horse. I can’t stay here all day listening to you.”

      “But please don’t tell her. She’d fire me.”

      “I daresay that would be a calamity for Wade Ranch, in your opinion.”

      “For me it would. You won’t tell her?”

      “Unless I change my mind I certainly will,” returned Lark vehemently. “You’re not doing your cause any good by this talk. What kind of a man are you, anyway? I’m used to cowboys who do what they’re told to do. This is a funny kind of ranch.”

      Lark felt that she was stretching the truth a bit, as far as her experience went, but it was logical. She saw that she