WHEN SLADE DESCENDED to the living room he found Mary Nellis sitting down.
“Cousin Andy wouldn’t allow you to be disturbed,” she replied to his apology for sleeping so late. “He said you’d had a hard night and needed your rest. You’ve sure taken the old dear in tow, which isn’t easy to do. How did you accomplish it, Mr. Slade?”
“Well,” El Halcón smiled, “last night I was the only one who took up for him when you were all giving him whatfor. I expect he appreciated it.”
“More than that,” she disagreed. “Even Hal Murdock singing your praises like he did would hardly influence him to that extent. But come along, your breakfast is ready for you. I waited to eat with you.”
“Which will make my breakfast an event,” he declared.
“Oh, there was a selfish motive involved,” she confessed. “When Ralpho, our cook, heard you were here, he became quite excited. Seems some of his friends in Presidio were talking about you. I don’t know what was said, but it must have been plenty. So I knew Ralpho was going to dish up something extra special for you and determined to share it, even to the detriment of my figure.”
“Yes?”
Only a monosyllable, but the way he said it caused her to blush rosily and drop her dark lashes.
When they entered the dining room, the old cook bowed reverently to Slade, who voiced a Spanish greeting at which Ralpho smiled happily, replying in kind.
Mary Nellis noted the bit of byplay and her delicate black brows drew together slightly and her big eyes became thoughtful. However, she did not comment.
They had a very pleasant breakfast together and showed ample appreciation of Ralpho’s culinary efforts, which were outstanding. Afterward they sat in the living room together. Slade smoked and Mary Nellis watched him, her blue eyes inscrutable.
“I see you are admiring my piano,” she said at length. “It is a beauty, isn’t it? Cousin Andy got it last year for my twenty-first birthday.”
“Looks like a fine instrument,” Slade commented. “Do you play?”
“A little. Would you like me to play for you?”
“I would,” he replied.
She crossed to the stool, lithe and graceful. Slade regarded her trim little figure with appreciation. She played very nicely, he thought, and told her so.
“Cousin Andy—he’s out somewhere with Hal—told me not to let you leave until he got back,” she said, as she turned to face him. “He thinks you ought to be here when the sheriff arrives, which should be some time around evening.”
“Yes, I suppose I should be here,” Slade agreed. “Nice to have an excuse for staying amid such pleasant surroundings and in such pleasant—company.”
“Really, you don’t need an excuse,” she said softly. “Not so far as—”
“Cousin Andy is concerned?” he interpolated.
The big eyes met his squarely. “No, darn it!” she said. “So far as I am concerned. No reason why I shouldn’t be honest about it, is there?”
“There certainly is not,” he agreed, positively, crossing to the piano stool and gazing down at her. She raised her piquant little face expectantly, and their lips met.
“Now, you’ve got to stay—after compromising the gal,” she giggled.
“Here’s to more compromising,” he said blithely, and bent over again.
“And now I’ve got to go visit your rival,” he said.
“Who is she?” Miss Nellis demanded, a dangerous glint in her big eyes.
“She ain’t a she, she’s a he,” was the ungrammatical and somewhat scrambled response. “My horse.”
“Oh, that beauty!” she exclaimed. “Now I know I haven’t a chance. I wonder would he let me ride him?”
“He will if I give you permission,” Slade replied.
“And will you?”
“Certainly, why not? He’s very gentle with those he knows and likes.”
“Maybe he won’t like me?”
“Generally we have tastes in common,” Slade smiled.
“That was nicely said,” she decided. “I’ll go change.”
“Why change?” he protested. “You look all right to me just as you are.”
“Ride in this dress! which is short and rather tight and would assuredly climb. Everybody would look.”
“I’ll promise not to,” he replied.’
“Then there’s no reason why I shouldn’t change,” she retorted with a toss of her curly head and scampered up the stairs, leaving him laughing. She had a delicious sense of humor, he thought.
When she came down, very shortly, he nodded his approval of the well-worn Levis, the little scuffed boots and the soft blue shirt, open at the throat.
“Sure makes a difference in overalls, what’s inside them,” he commented.
“And they don’t climb,” she countered.
“Hmmm!” he said. “They don’t need to.”
Which made the roses in her cheeks really bloom.
Slade got the rig on Shadow, performed the necessary introductions, cupped his hands around her slender waist and tossed her into the saddle.
“Heavenly days!” she gasped. “I wonder if you have any idea how strong you are. No wonder that poor boxcar you held up with your back didn’t have a chance. Oh, I heard about—I’ve heard lots of things about you from Hal—and I think it was the bravest thing I ever did hear of.”
“Hal tends to exaggerate,” he replied. “Off you go! Take care of her, Shadow.”
He watched her ride out of the yard. Shadow, to whom her slight weight was nothing, appeared glad of a chance to stretch his legs and skalleyhooted across the prairie at racing speed. Slade felt a touch on his arm and turned to face old Andy Jorg, who nodded cordially.
“Son,” he said, “you ’pear to have a way with horses, and women. Sorta reminds me of my boy Jack, who’s dead. He had a one-man horse, too. I’d hoped great things for him, but—he died.”
Slade gazed down at the old man who, he thought, was suddenly the picture of loneliness, and his cold eyes were all kindness.
“I think a lot of Mary, but she ain’t a son,” Jorg continued. “Him passing sorta left my life empty.”
“Mr. Jorg,” Slade said, his voice deep and musical, “there is no reason for your life to be empty. You are a big man, influential, with the power to do much for others. For people who are trying to get ahead and give something worth while to their sons, and who are sometimes in need of a helping hand. It should be a privilege to extend that hand, a blessed privilege to be able to extend it.”
Old Andy gazed at him fixedly. It was not hard to see that he felt he was being called to account by this tall young man with the strangely compelling eyes. Life as a survival of the fittest had always been his philosophy, and he had always been able to justify to himself his adherence to that philosophy. But now abruptly he experienced a disquietude that was difficult to tabulate, a vague feeling that this young man had a clearer view of practical morality than himself. Preposterous! He started to frame a tart reply; but the words refused to come as he gazed at the sternly handsome face so far above him.
And gradually in his gaze birthed a certain admiration, the unconscious tribute of the man whose life has been spent in the conquest of material things to the man who has the audacity, insensate though it seems, to fling those to the wind in his search after ideals. And over his lonely soul stole a strange peace such as he had not known since the day his son ceased to walk the world in laughter and lusty life. He sighed deeply, then suddenly he smiled, a very sweet and tender smile, Slade thought.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “an old man can learn from a young one, if he will just listen, and think. Let’s go get some coffee.”