Another Girl’s Brand

By Marian O’Hearn

 

When the blondly beautiful Trudy offered Quent a partnership in a promising business, Quent was tempted to swallow his prejudice against pants-wearing career girls — for he had to make quick money to take his exotic and flirtatious Grace from this hell-camp of hard-case miners.

 

 

Chapter 1: A Girl in Pants!

 

QUENT RUSSELL was not feeling so good when he reached the Gregory Diggings. He had been riding since dawn and, all the way from Table Mountain had traveled through streams of “gold-rush” prospectors risking their lives and ready to deal death to reach the new field.

On the valley floor he stopped for a second to look over the Diggings, which he had left two weeks before in an attempt to find capital for the claim he and Jack Pearl had staked out. The place was more than ever like a scene drawn by madmen — the same madmen anxious to kill each other to find gold.

Between the hills an insane semblance of a town had appeared, with a few streets indicated by the straggling rows of tents and cabins. On the first street were grocery and meat shops while the cabins farther up the valley were what the prospectors called their homes.

Quent thought of Grace Moody in her cabin beside the stream where her father expected to find a fortune. It was really because of Grace that he had made the trip to Denver, dreaming that, with backing, his mine would pay off quickly and that he could take her out of this delirium. Well, he hadn’t gotten the backing and he would have to tell her that. Would have to watch her dark eyes grow empty and see hopelessness touch her mouth.

He turned his pony into the first street which was merely a broad path trampled by constantly pounding feet and did not even glance at the various store tents which lined it. The thought of Grace crowded him and he was heavy with the realization that he was returning to her a failure.

At the end of the street, he stopped in surprise; for here, meeting the slip-shod structures, were three large tents firmly pegged into the ground. All flaps were open and he could see women bending over washboards and tubs. At least a dozen women, all working against time.

These clean strong tents had not been here when he left and his glance went to a smaller tent which flanked them. Over it a neatly lettered sign proclaimed: Trudy Falkner’s Laundry. $3 a dozen pieces.

Quent whistled faintly and then grinned. Yes, there was money to be made in the Gregory Diggings and this Trudy Falkner was a smart woman, maybe.

The small tent was closed, but as he eyed the sign, the flap thrust back and a girl came out. And the first sight of her made him forget some of the heaviness of failure. She was tall and slim. The sun had turned her skin a clear gold and her hair, almost the same color, clung richly to her head. She looked at him as appraisingly as he was looking at her — and his first feeling of pleasure disappeared. Grace Moody would never eye a man like that — glance meeting the same kind of glance.

She said pleasantly: “Good afternoon. This is the laundry — if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He realized that she was wearing pants. Her slim grace made them seem feminine, but Quent had always hated pants-wearing women.

“No, ma’am, not just now.” What was she smiling about? With that one-of-the-boys grin on her lips? “I just stopped because this place wasn’t here two weeks ago.”

“We’ve only been running for a week — but what a week!” She glanced with open pride toward the laundry tents and the busy women.

Irritation flicked rawly across his mind. “You seem to be doing all right. No one expects to find laundries in a gold-field, but it’s not a bad idea, as long as you don’t have to do the work.” His words were edged.

But her smile held. “Of course,” she said quietly and her glance dropped to her own hands. They were capable hands. He could see them on the reins of a fractious horse — or maybe guiding a rebellious husband. This Trudy Falkner was not a girl who could ever hold any interest for him.

“Good day, ma’am. Glad you like it here.” He nudged his pony to swing up the street.

She said: “Don’t go yet.”

Her eyes were waiting for him as he turned back. Deep gray eyes, with something in their depths which made his own lids narrow and his neck grow hot. Not even an opinionated woman in pants could find anything to admire about him at the moment. He knew that he looked like all the other unshaven, bedraggled gold-seekers, but the depths of her eyes held a shimmer of light which, for a second, tugged at his senses.

“Yes, ma’am!” He deliberately sent his disapproving glance toward her slim, trousered legs.

“Do you know this country well?” she demanded.

“Yeah. I got here three months ago — and there were only a few ahead of me.”

“Then you’re just the person I need. Won’t you come in?”

He hesitated, remembering his anger and dislike, but his glance strayed to her full, firm mouth again and he got down.

She did not move at once but stood before him, her eyes looking into his with that faint, odd shimmer in their depths. She was only a little shorter than himself and her skin was hard to believe; the kind of skin which he knew would feel like silk. Cool smooth silk, colored by the sun.

The corners of her mouth moved and a smile flicked across her face. Still in silence, she turned into the small tent, fastened back the flap and waited for him to enter. Inside was a small table, used as a desk, two chairs and a number of boxes filled with papers. There was an upright wooden case which obviously served as a wardrobe, a lamp — and a bowl of flowers.

“No,” she said, as if answering a question, “I don’t live here. I have a cabin up the street. Will you sit down?”

He hunched down, awkwardly, into the second chair, and she sat across from him with that odd, swift smile flashing over her face.

“I’ve been hoping to find a man who’d go into partnership with me.”

“Partnership — here? This —”

“No.” She cut through his words neatly, but as their eyes met the shimmer in hers was brighter. “This is what I’m talking about.” She spread a sheaf of papers before him. They were a carefully drawn legal document specifying that a “Guiding Service Company” had been formed by Trudy Falkner for the purpose of providing guides to prospectors and visitors in Gregory Diggings.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I have the company all set, as you can see. I’ve put signs everywhere and the miners have promised to see that I get all the business.”

“I still don’t see why you need me — or anyone else.”

 

HER smile showed again. “Yesterday, there were ten calls for guides and today there were twenty. Business is fine, but there’s one drawback — I don’t know anything about being a guide. But, if I had a partner like you, we’d make a fortune. My price for providing a guide is $100 a day. You can see —” She waved her hand and let the rest of the words go unuttered.

Quent leaned against the table to look at her. “No, I don’t see. What’s your proposition?”

“That we become partners. You do the work and I own the Company. We divide the profits fifty-fifty.”

He continued to lean against the table. His narrowed gaze moved, unbelievingly, from her mouth to her eyes and back to her mouth. It was a ripe mouth. Smooth, like her skin. “Just why should anyone become a working partner, leaving you in ownership when they could start a guide service of their own and have all the profits?”

She nodded, as if she were glad he had pointed that out. “I’ve done a lot of advertising, as I told you. Besides, nearly every miner in the district has promised he’ll turn all prospects over to me and no one else. This is the only laundry in the valley and, naturally, the men want to be sure they get good service.”

He went on staring at her and the back of his neck was hotter than ever. This girl, for all of her good looks — and her smoothness — was the most unlikeable member of her sex that he had ever met. She was behaving precisely like a man who believed he could outsmart and out-deal anyone else.

“You’ve got it all figured out and tied up,” he murmured at last. “But it wouldn’t be hard to show you that the whole thing could be taken away from you.”

Her gray eyes widened and he noticed that her lashes curved at the ends. “You may be right,” she said, more slowly. “Still, it would take time.”

“And you really believe you’re offering something? You get half the money and the partner gets all the work?”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his. And then she smiled again. “That's the way I’ve seen it done in other places,” she murmured. “Business men get rich by taking the profits.”

She spread her hands apart and the gesture reminded him, sharply, of Grace Moody, who was so very different from this assured, pants-wearing woman. Grace’s hair was black silk against her soft face and her mouth could become hurt too quickly. Her dark eyes held the confidence and the shyness of a child’s.

His eyes focused on the face before him and he searched it, almost savagely. But there was no hardness in it. Nor was there the faintest trace of the other kind of girl — the kind who followed gold booms and got rich because the miners admired — or felt sorry — for them.

Abruptly his own lips twitched, and he grinned. The grin grew into a laugh and he felt the tautness leaving his nerves; the fatigue and disappointment dropping from him. “I’m almost tempted to accept your offer,” he said finally. “If I didn’t have —”

Or did he have a claim that was worth anything? Did the Rusty Pearl hold enough gold worth the mining? He could have found out in a few weeks, if he’d been able to get backing, but this way he and Jack Pearl might work on it for years without realizing anything. And there was Grace and her trust in him. He had to get her out of that miserable shack her father called home; had to give her some of the decencies of life. Maybe he could do it this way. If Trudy Falkner could charge one hundred dollars a day for a guide...

“Yeah,” he said, very quietly. “I’ll take you up on it — partner.”

She looked straight into his eyes and then put out her hand. “Partner,” she murmured.

He took her hand and, suddenly, the meeting of their glances was disturbing. For all its slim strength, it was a woman’s hand. Once he had held a lost fledgling in his palm and the wings had beaten against his flesh.

He got to his feet. “When do we start? I’m Quent Russell, in case you want to know your partner’s name.”

“Tomorrow.” She was standing, too, and she was only a few inches shorter than himself.

He hesitated, with an uneasy sense of words unsaid, but it was only when she followed him out that he asked: “Was there any reason you made this proposition to me? Why didn’t you pick someone else?”

“Yes,” she said promptly, “I knew I’d recognize the man I wanted as soon as I saw him. You’re the one.”

“Just like that,” he said. “You told yourself ‘this is the hombre.’ ”

“Certainly. I like you better than any man I’ve seen.”

Quent stiffened but her gaze did not waver or change.

“Ma’am,” he said slowly, feeling for his words in a kind of embarrassment he had never before experienced, “if we’re going to be partners that sort of gives me the right to — ask questions, doesn’t it?”

“Of course. Go right ahead.”

“Are you this way with everyone? Girls don’t usually say such things. That’s — acting like a man.”

Her gray eyes sharpened as if she were trying to understand what lay behind his words. But then she nodded. “Maybe you’re right, but isn’t it foolish? Why shouldn’t a girl be as honest as a man? Why should she have to pretend?”

“Because she might be misunderstood.”

“I don’t think so,” Trudy Falkner said softly, and her tone lowered. “Goodbye, partner.”

She put out her hand again and once more Quent thought of fledgling wings beating against his palm. The light was on her smooth lips and he felt the closeness of her become warmth. Grace’s small hand had often rested in his and it had been pleasant, but not like this...

Trudy’s head was tilted as a woman tilts her head for a kiss, but he let go of her hand and his teeth set with anger. A girl in pants...

 

 

Chapter 2: A Gilded Cage

 

QUENT turned back toward the stream and let his pony pick a slow way along its muddy banks. He constantly encountered prospectors at work, but no one looked up or spoke as he passed. They were too feverishly busy for that. They were concerned only with themselves — and gold.

The Moody cabin came into sight and he spurred his pony. The cabin was really a shack with sagging roof only a few yards from old Jake Moody’s sluice boxes. Jake was also working frantically and did not turn even when Quent’s pony stopped behind him. “Howdy,” Quent called loudly to him.

Moody turned and, as he recognized him, nodded without interest. “Howdy, Russell. I’ll do all right here. No color yet, but it’ll come — it’ll come.”

“Yeah,” Quent said. “Is Grace inside?”

“Grace? Don’t know. Maybe. Take a look.”

Quent rode the short distance to the cabin and when there was no answer to his knock, pushed open the sagging door to glance into the single room. It was empty and he turned away scowling. This was no place for a girl to wander about alone and if her father wasn’t gold-crazy, he’d know where she had gone. Well, he would find her if he had to search the whole Diggings, and after this he would see that she stayed close to the cabin. First, though, he’d go on to his own place and tell Jack he was back — and tell him the news.

The pony’s hoofs made sucking sounds in the mud and once the little animal stumbled, but he held him to a brisk gait until the mine-workings in the granite hillside and the sluice-boxes of the Rusty Pearl were directly ahead.

The cabin, stout and well-put-together, stood a good distance back from the stream and the pony’s hoofs made no sound over the soft earth. But as he reined in, a girl’s laugh sounded. A light, lifting laugh which he knew better than the sound of his own voice, and grinning, he swung down. Grace was probably waiting for him. Maybe she had guessed that he would return today and was waiting here at the cabin.

He pushed open the door, his eyes searching for her, and she jumped up from the one crude chair. And then Jack Pearl, who had been sitting on the edge of a bunk, got to his feet. He looked at Quent sharply and a full, strained second passed before he said: “Hi, stranger. Got back early, didn’t you?”

Quent glanced at Grace, whose eyes were very large in her small face. “Why — Quent — I’m so glad you’re here.”

He had forgotten how lovely she was. What she did to a man’s blood and a man’s mind. She was small and rounded, her eyes were parts of an unforgettable night. He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her until the feeling of failure was forgotten.

But instead, his gaze turned to Jack Pearl. Jack stared back and his set face reminded Quent that his arrival had startled them. Blood rushed along his jaws, but he did not speak. He would have a talk with Jack later, but now he had to get Grace away without upsetting her. She was a kid; a thoughtless, friendly kid who wouldn’t understand.

“I’m going to take you home,” he said. “There’s a lot to talk about.”

“Why —” One small hand went to a throat which was softly shadowed at its base. “Yes. It’ll take a long time to do all our talking!” Her words lifted into a laugh and she turned obediently after him to the door.

Jack Pearl did not move and when Quent said: “See you later,” he did not answer.

Outside, Grace glanced at the single pony. “How can you take me home?”

“Like this.” He bent and lifted her into his arms; held her softness against him for a moment before putting her into the saddle. “It’s not far and the pony can carry double if we take it slowly.”

Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Do you think we should — it looks so — undignified.” She finished with a smoothing-down gesture of her wide, cotton skirts.

Quent grinned, but the grin died at once and he felt the rasp of irritation. Why should she be concerned with what anyone in this crazy place thought of her and the man she was going to marry? Trudy Falkner would have swung into the saddle and smiled at him — with waiting eyes.

He stepped up behind Grace and turned the horse downstream toward the Moody cabin. But when he followed her into the shack, he forgot his flash of anger, forgot everything but her nearness, and caught her into his arms. During the days on the trail he had thought about this moment and now it was here. His arms tightened hungrily and his mouth turned fierce against hers. She clung to him for a moment and then pushed away, with her eyes confused.

“Quent, you — frighten me.”

“Why? You know I love you, darling. It’s been more than two weeks since I saw you. I was hoping you’d be glad, too.”

“Oh, I am,” she said quickly, and touched his hand.

But he was remembering the scene in his own cabin, was thinking of Jack Pearl, his partner. “I wish you wouldn’t go to the claim when I’m away,” he said abruptly. “Have you been there often?”

“Often?” Her eyes went wide. “Why, no — just once in a while. I hoped Jack might know when you’d be getting back. And, Quent, he is your partner! I thought that’d make it all right.”

 

“YEAH,” he grunted and his hand clenched over hers. “Listen to me, Grace. Jack’s my partner, and we’re good friends, but he’s a man — and you’re a beautiful girl. I don’t want you to go there again unless I’m with you.”

She stared at him and hurt crept around her mouth. “I’m sorry you’re like that. I thought —”

“I want your promise.”

“Promise —” The word came out on a broken breath and he was afraid that she was going to cry. But then she said: “Of course, if that’s what you want, darling. Now, tell me about your trip. When will the work begin on the mine?”

His hand went lax, releasing hers, and he braced himself. “It won’t. I couldn’t raise the capital or get any backing. We’ll have to go along as we are, at least for a while. Still, if we strike a good vein, there’ll be plenty of people ready to go in.”

“Ye-es, but that may take months — or even years. Oh, Quent, I’m so disappointed!”

“Not as much as I am.” He swung to his feet, the defeat rising again as he paced away from her. “I just couldn’t put it over.”

She was silent and he went to the open door and stared out at the stream. “But I’m going to get money,” he added, without turning. “I’ve arranged to —”

Her voice, soft and light, cut across his words as though she had not been listening. “Maybe — do you think you should have sent Jack? He might have gotten backing.”

Quent saw her father bent over the sluice boxes. Saw the rush of the river. He thought of the last night beside the trail on the way back from Denver. And then her words re-echoed in his brain: “Jack might have gotten backing.”

He turned across the room and sat beside her. “Do you feel that way, Grace? Do you think Jack might not have been such a failure?”

“Failure? Oh, Quent, you take everything so seriously! I didn’t mean anything — just that Jack’s so friendly and likes everyone. You’re quieter and don’t make friends so easily.”

“I see.”

She slid light hands up to his shoulders and then drew his head down to hers. Her lips were soft and fire stirred through him, but he released her almost at once. Something was missing; something he had remembered and thought about during the nights on the trail.

“I’ll have to leave now,” he said, slowly, “but I’ll be around tomorrow. I’m starting something new — going into business here in the Diggings. Maybe I’ll make enough to develop the mine.”

“Going into business? Why you just got back! How could you be going into business?”

He was uncomfortable, meeting her eyes. “I ran into — someone when I reached the Diggings and we talked over a guide service. I’ll get half the profits.” Why couldn’t he mention Trudy Falkner?

“Oh,” her face changed and her eyes sharpened. “It’s strange you’d decide on a guide service when one’s just been started — by a girl named Trudy Falkner. She only came to the Diggings a little while ago, but she’s pushing into everything — just as if she were a man. Why Quent,” her voice slowed, “could it be her? You aren’t thinking of going into partnership with her?”

“Yes,” he said and his voice was short.

Her eyes went wide and her hands swept together in her lap. “I see,” she murmured. “So that’s how it is.”

He could feel the scowl between his own eyes. “What do you mean by ‘So that’s how it is’?” he demanded. “I met her as soon as I got back and she said she was looking for a partner. I decided to go in with her.”

“I see,” she repeated, and her dark eyes deepened with hurt.

“Grace,” he said, pulling her into his arms, “Don’t act that way. Can’t you see I’ve got to make money?”

“Never mind.” She stirred against him and lifting her head, touched his cheek with soft lips. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

She stepped back and the sagging door swung into place between them. He eyed it briefly and his throat filled with a curse as he made for his pony. He would see Jack Pearl now and get things straight.

But when he entered their cabin, Jack said casually, “How’d you make out on your trip?”

“I didn’t.” Quent slumped into a chair at the slab table and jerked off his hat.

“Couldn’t get a penny. Still, I may swing some — not right away, but in a while. There’s something else on my mind — I don’t like Grace being here while I’m away.”

Pearl’s eyelids moved together. “What are you getting at?”

“Just what I said. She’s engaged to me and I’m looking after her.”

Jack’s eyes remained narrowed. “Does that mean no one else can talk to her?”

“Maybe,” Quent said softly.

Jack stared back at him and then shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Forget it,” he said and pushing up to his feet, strode out of the cabin.

 

 

Chapter 3: Invitation to Kiss

 

WHEN Quent reached Trudy Falkner’s “office” the next morning, she was standing outside, waiting for him. “I was afraid you might have changed your mind,” she called. “I’m glad you didn’t.” Her deep gray eyes held warmth; personal warmth, which made him aware of her.

Quent asked:

“Where do we start?”

“Right inside, partner. We’ve two customers waiting. One’s willing to pay $150 for the day and provide all his own equipment.”

“I’ll make it two hundred,” a thick voice announced and a short squat man emerged from the tent. “But I don’t want to share a guide. I know what I’m doing and what I want.”

He was dressed in clothes which had only been out of the store for a matter of hours. Highly polished boots, an expensive shirt and hat. Even his blue jeans managed to look costly, and Quent grinned down at him.

“We’ll try to work it out, but prospecting trips aren’t Sunday-school picnics and three men are better than two. We might need help.”

“Sure, sure,” the squat man settled his shiny, cartridge-bristling belt. “I’m Sam McGraw.”

Russell glanced at the second “prospector,” a thin sun-dried man with grim eyes who said, “I’m Horgan. Like it if you could fix things up.”

Quent lifted his gun from its holster, broke it and inspected the loading. “All depends. Think I’ll take along another iron. You need plenty of ’em on this trip. What about tools?”

“Mine are down the street,” Sam McGraw said. “Burro all packed. But say now, if you think the going’ll be bad as all that, maybe we had better kind of band together.”

Ten minutes later, Quent started out with McGraw and the silent, grim-eyed Horgan. But, as they left the tent, Trudy called brightly: “Hold on, I think I’ll go along.”

Quent heeled about to look at her and she smiled up at him through the sunlight. Her hair and skin were smoothly gold and her eyes were warm. “You? But you don’t know anything about this country and the traveling will be plenty rough.”

“I know.” She came toward him calmly. “I think I’d better start learning — just in case.”

He felt the scowl digging into the flesh between his brows. “What about your business here?”

“That runs itself,” she said, and turning back into the tent, reappeared with a filled knapsack.

“You intended to go all the time,” he said.

Her eyes laughed at him. But the laughter was warm, and instead of answering, she asked: “Where do we pick up the equipment?”

“At the end of the street,” he said flatly, his gaze running over her, taking in everything from the broad hat pulled down over her eyes, to the slim, pants-covered legs.

McGraw’s burro was tethered before one of the grocery tents and as Quent stopped to inspect its load, someone came out of the store and stopped abruptly. Lifting his head, he found himself looking into Grace Moody’s eyes. Her lips were curved downward. “Is this the way the prospecting trips will be run?” she demanded, her voice swift with anger. “Will you take your — partner on all of them?”

Quent flushed. “Grace,” he said very awkwardly, “this is Miss Trudy Falkner and —”

“I’ve met Miss Falkner!” Grace cut him off, and without a glance at the other girl, walked swiftly past them.

Quent flushed.

Sam McGraw stared after her with frank interest. “Now, that,” he proclaimed, “is sure a pretty girl.”

“Yeah,” Quent said. “Let’s get started.”

They headed north, out of town. Quent led the way and Trudy Falkner walked beside him. McGraw, fussing at his burro trailed behind Horgan, who was carrying his own tools.

Trudy kept pace easily for the first two hours, but by the time they reached the strip of valley beyond the first ridge of hills, she was falling back. And, a little before noon, as they toiled upward again, making for the granite-lined cliffs — she slipped and fell.

Quent heard her gasp and when he turned she was on her knees. “I — twisted my leg,” she said.

He lifted her to her feet, but when she tried to walk, she stumbled heavily. “I’ll have to go back. Either that, or wait right here.”

She turned her head and smiled faintly — and her gray eyes held that flare of warmth. It made him aware of her; conscious of the suppleness of her body and the smoothness of her lips.

 

GRACE had been angry when she realized that Trudy was going with him and, now, he didn’t blame her. This girl in his arms — this slim, golden-skinned girl — was deliberately reminding him that she was a woman. “You’d better sit down,” he said stiffly. “There’s a bridge over there.”

“Thank you.” She clung to his arm as he helped her onto the rock, tilted her head to look at him. Anger crept through him and he bent over her, toward the challenge of her mouth. But then he jerked erect and said: “What now? Seems to me you’re the boss of this outfit.”

McGraw and Horgan caught up with them and McGraw, dropping to his knees, insisted on inspecting the girl’s ankle. “Might be worse than you think,” he panted, and his thick hand closed over her leg. “Better let me find out.”

“No — oh —” Trudy moaned softly, jerked with pain and somehow, Sam McGraw lost his balance and toppled over onto his back.

He scrambled up, red-faced, and she regarded him with a faint smile. “It hurt so much — I didn’t mean to push you over.”

“Guess not, guess not. Want me to take you back to town? Think I’ll quit for the day. Have to get used to this climate before I go in for much prospecting.”

Her golden head tilted. “Would you? We can make it easy enough — no one could get lost in this part of the country.”

“Sure, sure.” He waved a hand, but his eyes were cautious and appraising.

Quent broke in, sharply. “You paid for the day. From the stuff you’re carrying on that burro, I thought you’d stay out a week.”

“I paid and that goes — but now I’m starting back.” He nodded at Trudy. “Ready ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you. That’ll take care of everything, but what about the equipment?”

“Your partner can look after it. Would you like to lean on me, ma’am? I’ll just put out my arm — like this — guess that ankle hurts.”

She took his arm and looked back at Quent with laughter bright in her gray eyes. “We’ll be all right — don’t worry about us.”

He said: “If that’s the way you want it,” and watched her start down-slope with McGraw. There was no reason for worry; for in spite of her injured leg she was more than capable of handling Sam McGraw. But maybe her injury was worse than she’d admitted...

He and Horgan ploughed on to the granite walls and he helped make camp. But he remembered Trudy limping down-slope with the red-faced McGraw and became uneasy. Angrily he switched his thoughts to Grace, but could recall only the hurt darkness in her eyes.

At sunset he started for the Diggings and it was midnight when he reached the Moody shack beside the stream. No light showed and he went on, deciding that he would see Grace in the morning.

The Rusty Pearl cabin was also dark and, groping his way to the table, he held a lighted match to the lamp. Jack’s bunk was empty and he crossed the room to his own bed. But as he pulled off his boots, his glance touched a small, crumpled bit of white cloth on the slab table. He got up and looked at it, spread it out between his fingers. It was a girl’s handkerchief embroidered with the initial G. His fist closed over it and the veins in his temples pressed against the flesh. Grace had been here again. And Jack was still out. Maybe she was not asleep in the darkened Moody shack, but somewhere in the Diggings with Jack?

He pushed the handkerchief into his pocket, pulled his boots on and started south at a long, swinging gait. The shack was still unlighted and silent, but he went to the door, determined to make old Jake remember where his daughter might have gone.

The sound of slow-moving hoofs halted him and striding back to the stream, he waited. Two ponies stopped before the shack and, in spite of the gloom, he knew that the riders were Grace and Jack Pearl.

Pearl got down and lifted the girl from the saddle. And then Grace’s light laugh sounded as she slipped into the house. Quent heard the thud of the door and in two strides he reached Jack’s horse.

“All right, partner,” he rasped, “This is as good a place as any.”

“Sure.” Jack slid to the ground and Quent’s fist smashed into his jaw.

He went down, but was up again at once and Russell staggered as a blow caught him under the heart. But he sidestepped and bore in, and the night was not black, but red before his eyes — a hazy red.

Jack was saying something — roaring it. And there was nothing in front of Quent’s flailing fists. Pearl was running away. But no, he was a few feet ahead, shouting: “Quent — you’re crazy! If she didn’t want to see other men, she wouldn’t! No girl’s worth a killing. And that’s what this’ll be — one of us is going to get killed.”

He stopped, his arms heavy at his sides, and heard his own loud breathing. A second voice began to call his name — a shrill, frightened voice. “Quent!” Grace’s small hands tore at his arm. “What’s the matter — what’s happening? Did you fight with Jack just because I’d gone out with him? Answer me!”

He turned his head slowly and peered down at her. The red mist was lifting from his brain and he could see the small pale shape of her face.

“Go inside,” he said thickly. “This is between us.”

“I won’t.” Her voice went even higher. “You — you followed me and spied on me! I wouldn’t marry you, ever. Do you hear, Quent? I’ll never marry you now!”

She left him and he could hear the swish of her skirts as she ran for the shack. The door banged again and Jack Pearl said, roughly: “Let’s forget it and go back to the cabin.“

Quent turned on him. “Get out of my way. If I went back to the Rusty Pearl, I really would kill you.” He started walking, then. Lurching unsteadily, as if he were drunk, without noticing where he was going. Lights showed ahead. Scattered lights and then clusters of them. The Diggings was still awake. Someone brushed against his arm and Trudy Falkner murmured: “Where to, partner?”

“I don’t know. Looking for a place to sleep. Goodnight.”

But she remained at his side, limping a little as she kept pace. “Bill Enright, who owns the general store, has got an empty cabin. He’ll rent it — so we’ll go there. I’ll tell him about it tomorrow.”

Her hand closed on his arm. Light and firm. Later, he remembered that it was warm, too.

Automatically, he followed her and she led the way from the crooked main street to a plot of ground in back of the general store. “This is it,” she said and opening the door, and stepping inside. A lamp glowed and she called: “All right, your new quarters, partner. Not much, but a place to sleep.”

There was a blanket-covered cot, a chair, a few boxes and a table. His glance ran over it and then found Trudy’s face — saw tears in her eyes. Once more the blood began to beat against his temples. “What is this?” he demanded, and his voice was harsh. “The lady in pants can’t be crying?”

“No-o, of course not. Sit down and I’ll do something for your forehead. That’s an ugly cut. Someone must have hit you hard.”

“Yeah. He hits hard enough. But it’ll be all right. Needn’t bother.”

“Quent.” She moved toward him deliberately. “I’m going to clean it, so sit down in that chair.”

He looked into her eyes for almost a full second. The strange, warm sheen was in their depths. And then he grinned. “You’re used to playing boss, aren’t you? What a life your husband will lead — if you ever get a husband.”

She took a basin from a nail over the makeshift sink and went into the lean-to for water. When she returned and began to bathe the cut, she said: “Don’t you think I’ll ever get married?”

Her hands were sure and firm. But light. The same quality was in everything about her. It would even be in her lips.

“I doubt it,” he said, cheerfully. “Not if the man knew you more than five minutes. No one wants a lifetime boss.”

“Mmmm.” She began to bandage his forehead. “I like your hair. It’s just right. Thick and glossy, but not too soft. You know, Quent,” she leaned against the table and smiled, “there’s a lot about you a woman can’t help liking.”

Grace standing in the dark with her sharp little fingers digging into his arm, as she screamed: “I’ll never marry you.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, “I’ll bet there is. But,” his grin widened because, suddenly, he wanted to see laughter flash through her glance, “what’s that got to do with it? I was talking about bossy pants-wearing women. I don’t like ’em.”

She bent over to inspect the bandage on his forehead and then, abruptly, her lips were touching his cheek. They were sun-warm and smooth. Fledgling wings beating against his flesh. His arms pulled her close and he kissed her. The sun was there beneath his mouth. And a pulse-beat ran between their lips.

His arms dropped and she whirled away from him, out of the room. When the door snapped shut behind her, he banged the table with his closed fist. Trudy had been inviting him to kiss her since their first meeting. She had been challenging him with her eyes and her mouth. With something he couldn’t quite name. And now she had won.

 

 

Chapter 4: Only a Caress...

 

TRUDY was not in the office when Quent arrived the next morning. Nor were there any waiting prospectors. He started out again and saw Grace Moody coming down the street.

She was moving at a near-run and her face looked too white.

“Quent,” she cried. “I was hoping you’d be here — I had to come, even if this is Trudy Falkner’s place.”

“Why not?”

She was as soft and lovely as ever. The drooping line of her mouth was a hand tearing at his senses and her eyes reminded him of her kisses.

“I have to talk to you,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry about last night — I was frightened.”

He drew her into the tent and put her into a chair. “Now tell me — slowly.”

Her eyes became huge in her small white face. “You’ve got to help me, Quent,” she said breathlessly. “Last night after you left — after the fight, Jack Pearl came and pounded on the door of the cabin. He told my father I had to talk to him and — and —”

“And what?” Russell asked, his lips bloodless.

“He said I had to decide about him. He blamed me for breaking up your partnership and said I couldn’t play with him any longer. As if I’d been playing with anyone! I’m afraid of him.”

He looked down at her. “Maybe he’s talking straight, Grace. You broke our engagement. You’ve been seeing him although I asked you not to, so maybe he’s got some rights.”

“You don’t believe that?” the soft line of her lips drooped. “I didn’t mean what I said last night. I was hurt because you thought you had to fight over me!”

Quent did not move. He watched her; watched the fear in her eyes and the moving wistfulness of her mouth.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered and her small hand crept out to his. “Do you hate me?”

“I couldn’t hate you, ever.” His voice went rough and he pulled her up into his arms. “But you’re so — changeable, Grace, darling — so damned feminine. Yeah, I guess that’s it. You’re a man’s woman. The kind who was born to drive him crazy.”

Her lips stirred under his and then clung. Her slim arms tightened around his neck, and he found himself fighting off the thought of Trudy Falkner’s mouth.

There was a sound behind them. A quick, light step. And with a small cry, Grace tore out of his arms.

It was Trudy, her sun-colored hair a smooth cap on her lifted head, her gray eyes quiet. “Morning, partner,” she said lightly. “Good morning, Grace.”

“Good morning, Miss Falkner. Quent, will you come with me — a little way?”

He started after her, but stopped again to look back at Trudy. Her eyes were still on him, and suddenly he felt that the night before, with her mouth beneath his and a pulse-beat between their lips, had been a promise. Uncomfortably, he mumbled: “Back in a few minutes.”

As he hurried after Grace, the back of his neck felt hot.

“I wish you weren’t in business with her,” Grace murmured. “She — she makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like women of her kind. Why, they say she’s making a mint from that laundry.”

“She’s doing all right with the guiding business, too.”

“Do you have to go on with her?”

“For a while, anyhow. I need money.”

Grace paused, abruptly. “I don’t want to seem demanding or — interfering, Quent. Go back now. You’ve got work to do. We can talk later.”

“If I don’t take out a prospector, I’ll see you tonight,” he said. “And don’t worry about Pearl. I’ll talk to him.”

She smiled fleetingly, and turned down the main street. He watched her go; watched the sun’s reflection on her dark hair and the way she carried her small body. Someone hurried from one of the store-tents and called to her; a man with a thick, squat body who was sweeping off his hat in an exaggerated gesture. Sam McGraw. Quent’s mouth tightened, but then he grinned at himself. It was natural for men to admire Grace.

He went back to the tent and Trudy, who was sitting at the desk, lifted her head when he entered. “No prospecting today,” she said. “I put off all customers until tomorrow.”

“Why?”

She looked down at the pen in her fingers. “Reasons of my own,” she said, almost softly.

He did not speak at once, but when he did, the words shot from his lips. “Reasons of your own. In other words, you’re reminding me — again — that you’re the boss.”

Her gray glance caught his and streaks of scarlet darted up her cheeks. “No — it’s not like that,” she said quickly. “I didn’t want to tell you until later, but I’m expecting trouble tonight and hoped you’d be around.”

“What kind of trouble?”

She lifted her slim shoulders. “Last night, after I left you, I ran into a bunch of drunks. They recognized me and started shouting — said I’d better get out while I could — that they didn’t intend to let any woman in pants stay in business in the Diggings.”

Quent lowered himself into the chair at the other side of the desk. “Meaning they’ll run you out,” he murmured, “But I don’t think they will. In fact, I know they won’t. You go home for the day and I’ll stick around to see what happens.”

The deep smile lifted up to the surface of her eyes. “Thanks, but there’s no danger of trouble at this hour of the day. They’ll wait until they’re drunk — and that won’t be before dark.”

“Still, it might be safer — if they were feeling that way last night, they may work themselves up early. Let me take you home now.”

Her smooth lips curved and she said, half-mockingly: “I believe you’re really worried about me!”

“I am —” But he broke off, for her tone had swept back the moment when she had kissed him with warm lips. “Look,” he said abruptly, “I’m sorry about last night. I acted like a tramp.”

Her mouth remained curved. “You did not. You were just a man kissing a girl, and there’s nothing to be sorry for — on either side.”

 

HE FELT shock go through him and his eyes turned to thin lines of blue. Why, she meant it. To her a man’s kiss — his kiss — was merely an accident or a gesture! Heat moved up into his face; the same kind of heat which had covered his brain with a reddish haze when he fought Jack Pearl. “Good,” he exclaimed harshly, “I was afraid you might be like most women and — put some value on those things.”

He shoved back his chair and started out, but again he stopped and turned back to her. “When you found me, last night, I’d been fighting with my claim-partner.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “I know — over Grace Moody. I don’t blame you, in a way — she’s lovely.”

Quent’s jaws clamped together and he pushed through the tent opening to the street...

Just before dusk Quent returned to the office tent and through the tied-back flap, saw Trudy sitting at her desk. And then he realized that, for the first time, she was wearing a dress. Her bright hair was piled high and made her face seem delicately chiseled.

He took off his hat as he entered and she grinned that “one-of-the-boys” grin. “What a few ruffles will do,” she murmured. “But why,” as her glance touched the double holsters at his thighs, “all that hardware?”

“You said there might be trouble. I’m going to take you to your cabin and I want you to stay there. Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone.”

“All right, in a minute. Look, Quent,” she gestured at a sheet of figures on her desk. “I’m thinking of opening a store — the kind a woman would want instead of the junk shops they’ve got here. I’d like your advice on it. I think I’ve got enough to finance it — at the start. The income from the laundry will keep it going for a while.”

“Why my advice? I don’t know anything about storekeeping.”

“Well —” Her eyes were the clearest, finest gray he had ever seen. “We could be partners in this, too. You might put in your profits from the prospectors and —”

She was wearing perfume. A flowerlike smell that was headier than any flower in the world. It swept from her hair into his nostrils and made him aware of the softness of her throat and shoulders. Her face was tilted and he remembered that her lips had been sun-warm.

He lifted her up and held her hard against him. Her lips were still for a moment and her eyes bright with that soft sheen. Then her mouth was flame and daring. It was everything he had thought of the first time he had seen her and he released her, almost angrily. “You lied,” he said roughly. “You didn’t kiss me because you happened to feel like it at the moment. It meant something to you.”

Her smile was crooked. “Does that make any difference?”

“A lot. I’d like to know what this is all about.”

She leaned toward him a little. “You can’t guess? Maybe it’s because I like you — because it’s even more than that —”

“Trudy!” his voice cut through hers commandingly. But as her mouth straightened and her face went still, he said gently: “You crazy kid. No girl can talk to a man — any man — like that. Now, you’re going home. Come on.”

They walked silently down the street and around the corner to her cabin. And at the door, he jerked off his hat and muttered: “Good night. Stay inside.”

She went in and when he heard the door-bolt slide into place, he returned to the office. But he couldn’t remain there. The little tent seemed hot and airless. Seemed filled with the perfume she had worn and with the picture of her sitting at the desk with her head tilted up to him.

He strode outside and down to the first bar, where he had a single drink and returned to the tent. But at dusk he went back to the bar, and after that spent only short intervals in the office. Between times he prowled the nearby streets, listening for sounds of disturbance, but at ten o’clock the only noise was the usual roar from the jammed saloons.

Moving down a side lane which was little more than a continuous line of bars, he glanced through the open, unglassed windows of one particularly large saloon. A three-piece orchestra was grinding out music while drink girls and prospectors danced, none too prettily, on the small floor. Other couples sat at the tables. His glance ran over them and stopped. At a table near the wall was Grace Moody. And with her was Sam McGraw.

The thick, squat man was leaning toward her, his red face creased into a smile. Her small, soft hand was resting on his shoulder. His head bent even more and Quent swung about and shouldered through the door, thinking, ”So this is the girl I am going to marry.”

The dancers backed out of his way, but McGraw grinned. “Hello, Russell, sit down and have a drink —”

Quent said tightly to the girl: “You’re leaving now — with me.”

Her mouth started to droop, but as she saw his eyes, she got to her feet. “She’s saying goodnight,” Quent told the other man. “That means goodbye, too.”

His hand closed on Grace’s arm and he led her out of the bar, around the corner to the street on which Trudy’s office stood. “I can’t take you home, but you’re going to stay here until I can,” he said thinly.

“Wait a minute. Are you taking me to that woman’s place? You didn’t have any right to come in and drag me away —”

“Shut up,” Quent said. “I don’t even want to talk to you just now. You’re going in here,” opening the flap to the office-tent, “and stay there.”

She stared up at him. “Quent,” her lips shaped the word like a sob, “you don’t understand. I thought you were away and I was lonesome. If I’d stayed home, Jack Pearl would have come storming around —”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He turned down the street again, moving slowly. Grace in that honky-tonk with Sam McGraw pawing her. But he hadn’t even wanted to punch McGraw, because the pudgy little man had nothing to do with this. First Jack Pearl, and now...

It was beginning to look as if Trudy’s fear of being mobbed was groundless, too. It was almost midnight and nothing had happened — He stopped short. Had she really been threatened? Or had she merely wanted to hold him here in town?

He started on again, but at a near-run, and reaching her cabin, pounded on the door with his closed fist. A dim light glowed and then she asked softly: “Who is it?”

At his answer, the door swung open and he stepped into a room which didn’t belong in the Diggings. There was a dark carpet on the floor, bright curtains and flowers. And Trudy, looking very slim, in a blue silk robe over her white nightdress, her fair hair falling about her shoulders.

“Quent, what’s happened?”

“Nothing — that’s just it. You knew nothing was going to happen, didn’t you? You said you’d been threatened to keep me in town tonight — and maybe I know why.”

She moved to a table holding a softly shaded lamp, but when she looked at him, her eyes were clear and direct. “All right, you’ve guessed it. I wanted you to find out — You’re too fine to be —”

“That’s my business,” he cut her off. “But not yours. Maybe, if it wasn’t for you, certain things wouldn’t have happened at all.”

“Quent —” her lips shaped the word, but no sound came from them. And then she was silent, her eyes changing and losing their life, going bleak as ice.

He waited, suddenly uncertain, and when she remained silent, turned out of the room. That was that. He was no longer Trudy Falkner’s partner and wished he had never been. He wouldn’t remember how empty her eyes had become.

Grace was still sitting on a chair in the office, her hands locked together in her lap, like those of a frightened child. “I’ll take you home now,” he told her.

“Quent, I want to tell you about Mr. McGraw and —”

“Not now,” he took her soft little arm.

 

 

Chapter 5: One Man’s Woman

 

QUENT spent the next day talking to prospectors and business men in an attempt to find someone to take over his share of the Rusty Pearl. If he could dispose of it, he would get out and take Grace with him. After supper he went to the cabin behind the general store, deciding that the next day would be time enough to talk to Grace...

It was barely light when he awoke and sat up on his bunk listening to sounds from beyond the door. A fist was thudding on the wood and a man was barking: “Open up there, Russell.”

“What the hell —” he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled sleepily across the room. “It’s not dawn yet.”

The sheriff stepped in and regarded him with deep-set, chill eyes. “I’m arresting you for your partner’s killing,” he said.

“Partner — Jack Pearl!”

“Yeah, guess you know the name. Get your clothes on.”

“Is he dead?”

“Might as well be. The doc doesn’t expect him to live more’n a few hours. Cut the gab and get dressed.”

Quent met the coldly angry eyes. “Sure, I’ll go with you, but you’ll find out I didn’t shoot him.”

“I didn’t come here for talk. Everybody in the Diggings knows you two quarreled over the Moody girl and that you left the claim. Last night he was found on the trail, below the Moody cabin, with three bullets in him.”

Quent began to dress and the sheriff stepped past him and picked up his guns. “The Diggings isn’t a Sunday School, Russell, but we don’t like hombres who try to kill their own partners — when the partners ain’t even armed.”

“Then Jack was drygulched?”

“Yeah, from behind.”

Quent followed him out and down to the main street, which, in spite of the hour, was already lined with people. They stared silently, and his lips twisted. It wouldn’t take long to work up a mob in this place and any mob could do what it pleased against a sheriff and one deputy protecting the flimsy, log-shack jail.

The crowd was thicker at the door of the jail and the sheriff snapped: “Get away from here, all of you. Inside, Russell.”

He went into the space which served as the sheriff’s office — and saw Trudy Falkner waiting for him. Her face was colorless and her lips were a tight line against the whiteness of her skin. “I just heard about it,” she said. “Some people were talking near my window — and I came here to help, I hope you don’t mind.”

His crooked grin grew. “Why should I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shut up, Russell,” the sheriff barked. “What do you want, young lady?”

Trudy’s gray glance swept over the man’s face. “I came to tell you Quent didn’t shoot his partner.”

The lawman made a grim gesture. “That’s fine — just give us your proof, ma’am, but don’t take too long.”

“All — right.” Quent could hear her long-drawn breath. “When was Jack Pearl found?”

“ ’Bout three hours ago. He’d probably been lying on the trail for an hour or so.”

“Then —” her cheeks were even whiter now, “Quent couldn’t have done it. He was in my cabin until four o’clock this morning.”

“Trudy!” Russell roared. “You crazy kid — don’t try to make up a story like that!”

She looked at him gravely. “Didn’t you come to my place last night?”

“Yes, but —”

“Shut up,” the sheriff put in. “Anything you say’ll be used against you. And you, young lady, go home and don’t try to mix in this. We’ll find out where he was, without your help. If what you say is true, you’d better get ready to leave the Diggings.”

“Why, you —” Quent whirled on the officer, but the cold-eyed man already had a gun in his hand.

“Take it easy. On your way, Miss.”

Trudy moved toward the door slowly, her shoulders sagging. And suddenly she seemed completely defenseless, all her proud young strength gone.

Quent put out his hand and, catching her arm, turned her back to him. “This isn’t a time for saying such things,” he told her hurriedly, “but if they don’t hang me, can I tell you — what I should have told you the first day we met?”

“Say it now,” she whispered, her head tilted up as if waiting for his kiss.

“All right,” his voice went low. “I knew then we belonged together. Any other — anyone else — was a mistake I made while I was waiting for you.”

“Do you mean that, Quent? Mean it, even if I am a bossy, pants-wearing female?”

“It’s the only time I’ve ever meant anything. Maybe I like pants-wearing girls, after all. Maybe they’re really men’s women, the kind who stand side by side with them.”

 

SHE smiled, her lips curving into fullness, the deep bright sheen in her eyes. “I’m glad — but I’m not really like that. Oh, yes, I came to the Diggings to go into business. I heard there was money to be made here. But I was here before you ever noticed me. I saw you — and I heard about Grace Moody, so I had to think of some way to interest you. I started wearing pants and being bossy because of that, Quent. Even if you disliked me, I had to make you see me and —”

He pulled her into his arms and found the deep warmth of her lips, held the fiery tempest of her mouth, until the sheriff rasped: “I’ve told you to get out, young lady. Russell —”

She slipped from his arms and when she was gone, he looked at the lawman. “All right, let’s get on with it. I’d like to see Jack.”

“No use. He’s unconscious and the doc doesn’t expect him to come to — thinks he’ll just go out in a coma.”

“Still —”

The door of the cubicle office opened again — banged open — and young Clem Hampton, the deputy, called: “Pearl’s asking for this hombre, sheriff. He came to and the doc says we’d better bring Russell.”

“The doc isn’t telling me how to handle prisoners —” But suddenly the raw-boned sheriff broke off and let his eyes rest on Quent’s face. “All right, we’ll go over. But don’t try anything on the way, young fellow.”

The office of Steve Galloway, the only doctor in the Diggings, was half a block away and the medico led them into a large, bare room which had been built onto the back of the cabin. Jack Pearl, his face gray and his eyes feverish, lay on a narrow cot with a sheet drawn up to his chin.

His uncertain gaze touched Quent’s face and brightened. “Partner,” he whispered. “Never wanted to fight you — about her, Quent. Not worth it. I met her on the trail below the Moody cabin — with that hombre, McGraw. They were riding and their ponies were carrying saddlebags. When I stopped ’em, McGraw let me have the truth — they were eloping — planned to be married in Denver. I told him he couldn’t do it — not to you — wouldn’t let him. I knew how you felt about her. Dragged him off his horse and then I stumbled — and he let me have it.”

Quent’s hand closed on Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t talk any more,” he said. “You can beat this if you try, partner.”

The wounded man tried to grin. “Sure,” he whispered. “We’ll still get that stuff out of the Rusty Pearl.”

“Leave now,” Dr. Galloway broke in. “He hasn’t any strength to waste.”

Outside the sickroom, Quent demanded: “Will he make it — has he got a chance?”

“Just a chance. He’s tough, like most of the men in this hell-hole.”

“Thanks. Give him whatever he needs, a nurse, if you can find one — anything. I’ll pay the bill.”

The sheriff followed Quent to the street and nodded at him unsmilingly. “Good thing he didn’t go out without talking. You wouldn’t have had a chance. Guess you’d better mosey back to the jail with me so I can make out the right papers on this business.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, briefly. “I want to pick up my irons. I may take ’em with me on a trip to Denver.”

“Not a bad idea,” the lawman agreed, and in solemn accord, they started for the jail.

But someone was standing before the door — standing with an air of inexhaustible patience. A girl whose hair and skin had been warmed to gold by the sun.

She did not speak as Quent approached, merely looked up at him, into his eyes. “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “We saw Jack and he said Sam McGraw shot him.”

Still she stood very straight and still. “Maybe you know now why I wanted you to stay in town last night. I’d seen enough —”

“Let’s forget it. I’m glad I stayed.”

She stepped forward, close to him. “Are you sure? I mean about thinking I’m not just a bossy, pants-wearing woman?”

He grinned as his arms found her. “You’re one man’s woman,” he said, “the only one I’ll ever want.”

 

THE END