Chip saddled Silver, his own particular “drifter,” eyed the clouds appraisingly and swung into the saddle for a fifteen-mile ride to the home ranch and his wife, the Little Doctor. “You can make it, all right, if yuh half try,” he encouraged. “It isn’t going to cut loose before dark, if I know the signs. Better put your jaw in a sling, Happy—you’re liable to step on it. Cheer up! tomorrow’s the Day we Celebrate in letters a foot high. Come early and stay late, and bring your appetites along. Fare-you-well, my brothers.” He rode away in the long lope that eats up the miles with an ease astonishing to alien eyes, and the Happy Family rolled a cigarette apiece and went back to work rather more cheerful than they had been.
Pleasure, the pleasure of wearing good clothes, dancing light-footedly to good music and saying nice things that bring smiles to the faces of girls in frilly dresses and with brown, wind-tanned faces and eyes ashine, comes not often to the veterans of the “Sagebrush Cavalry.” They were wont to count the weeks and the days, and at last the hours until such pleasure should come to them. They did not grudge the long circles, short sleeps and sweltering hours at the branding, which made such pleasures possible—only so they were not, at the last, cheated of their reward.
Every man of them—save Pink—had secret thoughts of some particular girl. And more than one girl, no doubt, would be watching, at the picnic, for a certain lot of white hats and sun-browned faces to dodge into sight over a hill, and looking for one face among the group; would be listening for a certain well-known, well-beloved chorus of shouts borne faintly from a distance—the clear-toned, care-naught whooping that heralded the coming of Jim Whitmore’s Happy Family.
Tomorrow they would be simply a crowd of clean-hearted, clean-limbed cowboys, with eyes sunny and untroubled as a child’s, and laughs that were good to hear and whispered words that were sweet to dream over until the next meeting. (If you ask the girls of the range-land, and believe their verdict, cowboys make the very best and most piquant of lovers.) Tomorrow there would be no hint of the long hours in the saddle, or the aching muscles and the tired, smarting eyes. They might, if pressed, own that they burnt the earth getting there, but the details of that particular conflagration would be far, far behind them—forgotten; no one could guess, tomorrow, that they were ever hot or thirsty or tired, or worried over a threatening storm, or that they ever swore at one another ill-naturedly from the sheer strain of anxiety and muscle-ache.
By sundown, so great was their industry, the last calf had scampered, blatting resentment, to seek his mother in the herd. Slim kicked the embers of the branding fire apart and emptied the water-bucket over them with a satisfied grunt.
“By golly, I ain’t mourning because brandin’s about over,” he said. “I’m plumb tired uh the sight uh them blasted calves.”
“And we got through ahead of the storm,” Weary sweetly reminded Happy Jack.
Happy looked moodily up at the muttering black mass nearly over their heads and said nothing; Happy never did have anything to say when his gloomy predictions were brought to naught.
“I’m going to get on the bed-ground without any red tape or argument, if yuh ask me,” volunteered Cal Emmett, rubbing his aching arms. “We want to get an early start in the morning.”
“Meaning sun-up, I suppose,” fleered Pink, who had no especial, feminine reason for looking forward with longing. With Pink, it was pleasure in the aggregate that lured him; there would be horse racing after dinner, and a dance in the school-house at night, and a season of general hilarity over a collection of rockets and Roman candles. These things appealed more directly to the heart of Pink than did the feminine element; for he had yet to see the girl who could disturb the normal serenity of his mind or fill his dreams with visions beautiful. Also, there was one thing about these girls that did not please him; they were prone to regard him as a sweet, amusing little boy whose dimples they might kiss with perfect composure (though of course they never did). They seemed to be forever taking the “Isn’t he cunning!” attitude, and refused to regard him seriously, or treat him with the respect they accorded to the rest of the Happy Family. Weary’s schoolma’am had offended him deeply, at a dance the winter before, by patting him indulgently on the shoulder and telling him to “Run along and find you a partner.” Such things rankled, and he knew that the girls knew it, and that it amused them very much. Worse, the Happy Family knew it, and it amused them even more than it amused the girls. For this reason Pink would much prefer to sleep luxuriously late and ride over to the picnic barely in time for dinner and the races afterward. He did not want too long a time with the girls.
“Sure, we’ll start at sun-up,” Cal answered gravely. “We’ve got to be there by ten o’clock, so as to help the girls cut the cake and round up all the ham sandwiches; haven’t we, Weary?”
“I should smile to remark,” Weary assented emphatically. “Sun-up sure sees us on the road, Cadwolloper—and yuh want to be sure and wear that new pink silk handkerchief, that matches the roses in your cheeks so nice. My schoolma’am’s got a friend visiting her, and she’s been hearing a lot about yuh. She’s plumb wild to meet yuh. Chip drawed your picture and I sent it over in my last letter, and the little friend has gone plumb batty over your dimples (Chip drawed yuh with a sweet smile drifting, like a rose-leaf with the dew on it, across your countenance, and your hat pushed back so the curls would show) and it sure done the business for Little Friend. Schoolma’am says she’s a good-looker, herself, and that Joe Meeker has took to parting his hair on the dead center and wearing a four-inch, celluloid collar week days. But he’s all to the bad—she just looks at your picture and smiles sad and longing.”
“I hate to see a man impose on friendship,” murmured Pink. “I don’t want to spoil your face till after the Fourth, though that ain’t saying yuh don’t deserve it. But I will say this: You’re a liar—you ain’t had a letter for more than six weeks.”
“Got anything yuh want to bet on that?” Weary reached challengingly toward an inner pocket of his vest.
“Nit. I don’t give a darn, anyway yuh look at it. I’m going to bed.” Pink unrolled his “sooguns” in their accustomed corner next to Weary’s bed and went straightway to sleep.
Weary thumped his own battered pillow into some semblance of plumpness and gazed with suspicion at the thick fringe of curled lashes lying softly upon Pink’s cheeks.
“If I was a girl,” he said pensively to the others, “I’d sure be in love with Cadwolloper myself. He don’t amount to nothing, but his face’d cause me to lose my appetite and pine away like a wilted vi’let. It’s straight, about that girl being stuck on his picture; I’d gamble she’s counting the hours on her fingers, right now, till he’ll stand before her. Schoolma’am says it’ll be a plumb sin if he don’t act pretty about it and let her love him.” He eyed Pink sharply from the tail of his eye, but not a lash quivered; the breath came evenly and softly between Pink’s half-closed lips—and if he heard there was nothing to betray the fact.
Weary sighed and tried again. “And that ain’t the worst of it, either. Mame Beckman has got an attack; she told Schoolma’am she could die for Pink and never bat an eye. She said she never knowed what true love was till she seen him. She says he looks just like the cherubs—all but the wings—that she’s been working in red thread on some pillow shams. She was making ’em for her sister a present, but she can’t give ’em up, now; she calls all the cherubs ‘Pink,’ and kisses ’em night and morning, regular.” He paused and watched anxiously Pink’s untroubled face. “I tell yuh, boys, it’s awful to have the fatal gift uh beauty, like Cadwolloper’s got. He means all right, but he sure trifles a lot with girls’ affections—which ain’t right. Mamma! don’t he look sweet, laying there so innocent? I’m sure sorry for Mame, though.” He eyed him sidelong. But Pink slept peacefully on, except that, after a half minute, he stirred slightly and muttered something about “drive that darned cow back.” Then Weary gave up in despair and went to sleep. When the tent became silent, save for the heavy breathing