“If them bone-heads don’t wake up, nobody’ll be any the wiser—and it’s a lovely night for a ramble,” murmured Weary, consoling himself.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep,” Irish confessed, half defiantly. “I expect it’s just a big josh, but—it won’t do any hurt to make sure.”
“Yuh all think Andy Green lives to tell lies,” snapped Pink, throwing the saddle on his horse with a grunt at the weight of it. The horse flinched away from its impact, and Pink swore at it viciously. “Yuh might uh gone down and made sure, anyhow,” he criticised.
“Well, I was going to; but Jack said—” Irish stooped to pick up the latigo and did not finish. “But I can’t get over the way his head dropped down on his arms, when we were riding out uh sight. As if—oh, hell! If it was a josh, I’ll just about beat the head off him for spoiling my sleep this way. Get your foot off that rein, yuh damned, clumsy bench!” This last to his horse.
They rode slowly away from the ranch and made the greater haste when the sound of their galloping could not reach the dulled ears of those who slept. They did not talk much, and when they did it was to tell one another what great fools they were—but even in the telling they urged their horses to greater speed.
“Well,” Pink summed up at last, “if he’s hurt, out here, we’re doing the right thing; and if he ain’t, he won’t be there to have the laugh on us; so it’s all right either way.”
There was black shadow in the grassy swale where they found him. His horse had wandered off and it was only the sure instinct of Irish that led them to the spot where he lay, a blacker shadow in the darkness that a passing cloud had made. Just at first they thought him dead, but when they lifted him he groaned and then spoke.
“It’s one on me, this time,” he said, and the throat of Irish pinched achingly together at the sound of his voice, which had in it the note of pain he had been trying to forget.
After that he said nothing at all, because he was a senseless weight in their arms.
At daylight Irish was pounding vehemently the door of the White House and calling for the Little Doctor. Andy lay stretched unconscious upon the porch beside him, and down in the bunk-house the Happy Family was rubbing eyes and exclaiming profanely at the story Pink was telling.
“And here,” finished Irish a couple of hours later, when he was talking the thing over with the Little Doctor, “here’s a note Take-Notice’s girl gave me for him. I don’t reckon there’s any good news in it, so maybe yuh better hold it out on him till he’s got over the fever. I guess we queered Andy a lot—but I’ll ride over, soon as I can, and fix it up with her and tell her he broke his leg, all right. Maybe,” he finished optimistically, “she’ll come over to see him.”
Irish kept his word, though he delayed until the next day; and the next day it was too late. For the cabin of Take-Notice was closed and empty, and the black lamb and the white were nosing unhappily their over-turned pan of mush, and bleating lonesomely. Irish waited a while and started home again; rode into the trail and met Bert Rogers, who explained:
“Take-Notice was hauling his girl, trunk and all, to the depot,” he told Irish. “I met ’em just this side the lane. They aimed to catch the afternoon train, I reckon. She was going home, Take-Notice told me.”
So Irish rode thoughtfully back to the ranch and went straight to the White House where Andy lay, meaning to break the news as carefully as he knew how.
Andy was lying in bed looking big-eyed at the ceiling, and in his hand was the note. He turned his head and glanced indifferently at Irish.
“Yuh sure made a good job of it, didn’t yuh?” he began calmly, though it was not the calm which meant peace. “I was just about engaged to that girl. If it’ll do yuh any good to know how nice and thorough yuh busted everything up for me, read that.” He held out the paper, and Irish turned a guilty red when he took it.
Mr. Green:
I have just been greatly entertained with the history of your very peculiar deeds and adventures, and I wish to say that I have discovered myself wholly lacking the sense of humor which is necessary to appreciate you.
As I am going home tomorrow, this is my only opportunity of letting you know how thoroughly I detest falsehood in any form.
Yours truly,
MARY EDITH JOHNSON.
“Ain’t yuh proud?” Andy inquired in a peculiar, tired voice. “Maybe I’m a horrible liar, all right—but I never done anybody a dirty trick like that.”
Irish might have said it was Jack Bates who did the mischief, but he did not. “We never knew it was anything serious,” he explained contritely. “On the dead, I’m sorry—”
“And that does a damned lot uh good—if she’s gone!” Andy cut in, miserably.
“Oh, she’s gone, all right. She went today,” murmured Irish, and went out and shut the door softly behind him.
FOOL’S GOLD.
Andy Green, unshaven as to face and haggard as to eyes, leaned upon his stout, willow stick and looked gloomily away to the west. He was a good deal given to looking to the west, these days when a leg new-healed kept him at the ranch, though habit and inclination would have sent him riding fast and far over prairies untamed. Inaction comes hard when a man has lived his life mostly in the open, doing those things which keep brain and muscle keyed alike to alertness and leave no time for brooding.
If Andy had not broken his leg but had gone with the others on roundup, he would never have spent the days glooming unavailingly because a girl with a blond pompadour and teasing eyes had gone away and taken with her a false impression of his morals, and left behind her the sting of a harsh judgment against which there seemed no appeal. As it was, he spent the time going carefully over his past in self-justification, and in remembering every moment that he had spent with Mary Johnson in those four weeks when she stayed with her father and petted the black lamb and the white.
In his prejudiced view, he had never done anything to make a girl hate him. He had not always told the truth—he would admit that with candid, gray eyes looking straight into your own—but he had never lied to harm a man, which, it seemed to him, makes all the difference in the world.
If he could once have told her how he felt about it, and showed her how the wide West breeds wider morals—he did not quite know how you would put these things, but he felt them very keenly. He wanted to make her feel the difference; to see that little things do not count in a man’s life, after all, except when they affect him as a man when big things are wanted of him. A little cowardice would count, for instance, because it would show that the man would fail at the test; but a little lie? just a harmless sort of lie that was only a “josh” and was taken as such by one’s fellows? Andy was not analytic by nature, and he would have stumbled vaguely among words to explain his views, but he felt very strongly the injustice of the girl’s condemnation, and he would scarcely speak to Jack Bates and Irish when they came around making overtures for peace and goodwill.
“If she hadn’t gone home so sudden, I could uh squared it all right,” he told the Little Doctor, whenever her sympathetic attitude won him to speech upon the subject.
“Yes, I believe you could,” she would agree cheeringly. “If she’s the right sort, and cared, you could.”
“She’s the right sort—I know that,” Andy would assert with much decision, though modesty forbade his telling the Little Doctor that