Horse Heaven Hill. Zane Grey

friends of yours! . . . Dad, I don’t want to get sore. But they don’t understand Marigold and neither do you. How often have I tried to make you see! Times are changing. More women go to college and become more independent.”

      Stanley spoke with earnest passion and he anticipated a pondering wait for an answer. But it came like a flash.

      “Stan,” the rancher said, “my advice to you is marry her just as quick as ever you can. Wifehood and motherhood have been natural to women for a long time. This heah foolin’ around hasn’t been. An’ it’s takin’ a risk. I’m not blamin’ the girls, Stan. I’m blamin’ the times. An’ if I was you I’d put a halter on Mari.”

      “Dad, I must confess to you,” returned Stanley shamefacedly, “I—I quarreled with Marigold tonight over that very thing. I wanted her to marry me in June. She refused—said she could not possibly get ready before June a year. I argued with her, tried to persuade her. No go! She wants her freedom for a while. That riled me, of course. We had it out hot and heavy. And I beat it home before the storm subsided.”

      “Ahuh. Wal, what’re you goin’ to do aboot it?”

      “I don’t know, Dad.”

      “Humph. Do you still love Mari?”

      “Love her!—Why, I never thought of anything different,” replied Stanley, aghast at the thought. It puzzled him, too.

      “Love changes, son. An’ it doesn’t last forever, in some cases. I can’t see that Mari loves you heaps. If she did, she wouldn’t set such store on this precious freedom. She’d want you. She’d want to come out heah pronto, an’ give a woman’s touch to this old home once more, an’ see thet there were children around heah before I die.”

      “Lord help me, Dad, you’re right! I’ve thought that, only I just wouldn’t believe it. What can I do?”

      “Wal, I’m glad you asked thet,” responded the old man. “We’ve been close together, father an’ son, as blood ties go these days. When I sent you to college I was afraid you’d get a leanin’ toward the cities an’ mebbe prefer them. But you didn’t. You care for the old ranch. It’s shore made me happy. I couldn’t ask no more, unless for you to fetch a wife home.”

      “Dad, I’ve been happy, too, until lately,” rejoined Stanley, just as earnestly. “I love the open country. City life would never suit me. There’s big development to work out on this ranch. But for weeks I’ve been at a standstill. No use lying. It’s on account of Marigold.”

      “Ahuh. A woman can shore raise hell with a man,” replied his father grimly, nodding his shaggy head. “Listen, son. It may be hard for you to see, but it’s not for me. . . . If you feel thet Mari is honest an’ true, give her the benefit of a doubt an’ more time. Be good to her. No naggin’ or fightin’.”

      “Thanks, Dad. I’ll think it over,” responded Stanley soberly.

      “Don’t waste no more time, Stan. Life is short. . . . Reckon I’ll go to bed now. I’m glad you confided in me. Good night, son.”

      Stanley sat there long after his father left, and until the fire burned down to a bed of glowing coals. The wind moaned outside and the coyotes howled. In this lonely hour Stanley thought he had made an end of indecision, of hoping against hope.

      * * * *

      Next morning, after breakfast, Stanley rode down away from the ranch toward the foothills to the west. He had donned his old riding outfit, and he rode his favorite horse. The spring morning was gloriously bright, cool, crisp; the sky shone bright blue; the wind off the sage brought a sweet, thick fragrance, always so strong and welcome.

      Once down on the winding trail he put Boots to a long swinging lope toward an isolated foothill, round and beautiful, banded with gray sage halfway up and then covered with pines. It stood about an equal distance from Sage Hill and Wadestown, approximately ten miles.

      In the course of an hour or more Stanley reached the edge of the gradual slope, where he reined Boots to a walk. His habit was to ride up to the pines, tie his horse there, and with his field glass study the range.

      This intention, however, was frustrated by a rider coming down the trail from the direction Stanley was bent upon. He saw that he had been noticed as quickly as his keen eyes had sighted a horse. The rider had just come around the slope and looked like a bareheaded boy, mounted on Marigold’s cream-colored mustang. Stanley thought that was strange, for Marigold certainly would not let any boy use that horse. Perhaps Hurd Blanding was responsible.

      The rider looked, halted, then, jamming on a sombrero, wheeled the mustang as if to depart hurriedly. The distance was more than a hundred yards, but Stanley recognized that shining, curly head before it was covered.

      “Hold on, Lark!” he called piercingly.

      That stopped her, whereupon Stanley, spurring Boots, quickly covered the intervening distance.

      “Well, of all things, Lark Burrell, way out here in the sage!” exclaimed Stanley, in surprise and pleasure. His swift glance took her in from the battered old sombrero to her top boots and long spurs. She looked the real thing.

      “Good morning, Mr. Weston,” she replied.

      “Didn’t you recognize me? You were going to beat it.”

      “Yes, I—I’m ashamed to say I knew you and was going to run.”

      “Why, for goodness’ sake?”

      “I was sure you wouldn’t know me—in this rig. . . . And I—well—fact is, I haven’t any good excuse, except I was scared.”

      “You had a right to be,” he returned seriously. “You shouldn’t ride way out here alone. There are Indians and outlaws back in those hills. It’s just as well, too, for you not to meet some of our cowboys.”

      “Shucks. They couldn’t catch me.”

      “Chaps is fast, all right. But can you ride?”

      “A little,” she replied, leaning over, the better to see all around Stanley’s horse. Then she sat up, eager and excited. “Oh, that’s a horse you’re on. Can he run?”

      “Rather. Best on the range.”

      “Is he? But he couldn’t catch me.”

      “I’ll bet you he could. Want to try?”

      “No. But he couldn’t. You are too heavy.”

      Stanley conceded the point without argument. Evidently this girl from southern Idaho understood horses. With what ease and grace she sat her saddle! She was as lithe as an Indian. Stanley’s eyes made note of the service her rider’s outfit had evidently rendered. His glance, however, quickly traveled back to her face, only partly hidden under the limp, wide flap of the old sombrero. Stanley had seen her before, and bareheaded, too, but somehow she was marvelously different today.

      “What are you doing way out here?” he asked.

      “Riding. Seeing your country. Oh, it’s glorious. I’m afraid I’m drunk on sage. We have sage down in Idaho, but not like this. Not blue and thick!”

      “You like my sage country then?”

      “I love it. I had no idea it was so beautiful—so sweet. Marigold never said a word about the sage or the hills or, well, anything except I’d get a thrill out of town, anyway.”

      “Did you?”

      “Not one thrill. Not one, Mr. Weston, and it worries me,” she replied.

      “How about the pretty dresses?”

      “Oh, they had some effect on me. No thrill though. Should they?”

      “Some girls think so. I just had a very pleasant one—when I came around the slope to see you. I’m afraid my mood was rather gloomy.”

      That