Kitobni o'qish: «Bat Wing Bowles»

CHAPTER I
MR. BOWLES

It was a fine windy morning in March and Dixie Lee, of Chula Vista, Arizona, was leaving staid New York at the gate marked "Western Limited." A slight difference with the gatekeeper, who seemed to doubt every word she said, cast no cloud upon her spirits, and she was cheerfully searching for her ticket when a gentleman came up from behind. At sight of the trim figure at the wicket, he too became suddenly happy, and it looked as if the effete East was losing two of its merriest citizens.

"Oh, good-morning, Miss Lee!" he said, bowing and smiling radiantly as she glanced in his direction. "Are you going out on this train?"

"Why – yes," she replied, gazing into her handbag with a preoccupied frown. "That is, if I can find my ticket!"

She found it on the instant, but the frown did not depart. She had forgotten the young man's name. It was queer how those New York names slipped her memory – but she remembered his face distinctly. She had met him at some highbrow affair – it was a reception or some such social maelstrom – and, yes, his name was Bowles!

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bowles," she exclaimed as he gallantly took her bag; but a furtive glance at his face left her suddenly transfixed with doubts. Not that his expression changed – far from that – but a fleeting twinkle in his eyes suggested some hidden joke.

"Oh, isn't your name Bowles?" she stammered. "I met you at the Wordsworth Club, you know, and – "

"Oh, yes – quite right!" he assured her politely. "You have a wonderful memory for names, Miss Lee. Shall we go on down to your car?"

Dixie Lee regarded the young man questioningly and with a certain Western disfavor. He was one of those trim and proper creatures that seemed to haunt Wordsworth societies, welfare meetings, and other culture areas known only to the cognoscente and stern-eyed Eastern aunts. In fact, he seemed to personify all those qualities of breeding and education which a long winter of compulsory "finishing" had taught her to despise; and yet – well, if it were not for his clothes and manners and the way he dropped his "r's" he might almost pass for human. But she knew his name wasn't Bowles.

There had been a person there by the name of Bowles, but the hostess had mumbled when she presented this one – and they had talked quite a little, too. She glanced at him again and a question trembled on her lips; but names were nothing out where she came from, and she let it go for Bowles.

The hypothetical Mr. Bowles was a tall and slender young man, of a type that ordinarily maddened her beyond all reason and prompted her to say cruel things which she was never sorry for afterward. He had a clear complexion, a Cupid's bow mouth, and eyes as innocent as a girl's. They were of a deep violet hue, very soft and soulful, and had a truly cultured way of changing – when he talked – to mirror a thousand shades of interest, courtesy and concern; but the way they had flickered when he took over the name of Bowles suggested a real man behind the veil. His manners, of course, were irreproachable; and not even a haberdasher could take exception to his clothes. He was, in fact, attired strictly according to the mode, in a close-fitting suit of striped gray, with four-inch cuffs above his box-toed shoes, narrow shoulders, and a low-crowned derby hat, now all the rage but affected for many years only by Dutch comedians.

When he removed this hat, which he did whenever he stood in her presence, he revealed a very fine head of hair which had been brushed straight back from his forehead until each strand knew its separate place; and yet, far from being pleased at this final evidence of conscientious endeavor, Dixie May received him almost with a sniff.

"And are you really on your way to Arizona, Miss Lee?" he inquired, carefully leaving the "r" out of "are" and putting the English on "really." "Why, how fortunate! I am going West myself! Perhaps we can renew our acquaintance on the way. Those were jolly stories you were telling me at the Wordsworth Club – very improperly, to be sure, but all the more interesting on that account. About the round-up cook, you know, and the man who couldn't say 'No.' Nothing like that in California, I suppose. I'm off for Los Angeles, myself."

"All right," answered Dixie Lee, waving California airily aside; "Arizona is good enough for me! Say, I'm going to ask this man where my section is."

She fished out her Pullman ticket and showed it to a waiting porter, who motioned her down the train.

"The fourth car, lady," he said. "Car Number Four!"

"Car Four!" cried Bowles, setting down the suitcase with quite a dramatic start. "Why – why, isn't this remarkable, Miss Lee? To think that we should take the same train – on the same day – and then have the very same car! But, don't you know, you never finished that last story you were telling me – about the cowboy who went to the picnic – and now I shall demand the end of it. Really, Miss Lee, I enjoyed your tales immensely – but don't let me keep you waiting!"

He hurried on, still commenting upon the remarkable coincidence; and as a memory of the reception came back to her and she recalled the avid way in which this same young man had hung upon her words, a sudden doubt, a shrewd questioning, came over the mind of Dixie Lee. Back in Arizona, now, a man with any git-up-and-git to him might – but, pshaw, this was not Arizona! And he was not that kind of man! No, indeed! The idea of one of these New York Willies doing the sleuth act and tagging her to the train!

At the same time Dixie Lee had her misgivings about this correct young man, because she knew his name was not Bowles. More than that, his language displeased her, reminding her as it did of her long winter's penance among the culturines. Three days more of highbrow conversation would just about finish her off – she must be stern, very stern, if she would avert the impending disaster! So she stabbed her neatly-trimmed little sombrero with a hatpin and waited for Mr. Bowles.

"Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" he purled as he made bold to sit down beside her.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, showing her white teeth in a simpering smile. "Simply heavenly. Don't you know, it reminds me of those lines in Wordsworth – you remember – I think it was in his 'Idiot Boy.' Oh, how do they go?"

She knitted her brows and Mr. Bowles regarded her thoughtfully.

"Perhaps it was in his 'Lines Written in Early Spring,'" he suggested guardedly.

"No," she insisted. "It was in 'The Idiot Boy' – either that or in 'Lines Written to the Same Dog.' I forget which. Anyway, it told all about the rain, you know, and the clouds – and all that. Don't you remember? I thought you were full of Wordsworth."

This last, was thrown out for a bait, to get Mr. Bowles to extend himself, but it failed of its effect. A somber smile took the place of the expected frenzy and he muttered half to himself as he gazed out of the window.

"What's that you say?" she questioned sharply.

"Oh, pardon me," he exclaimed, recovering himself with a sudden access of manner; "I was talking to myself, don't you know? But, really, I am pretty full of Wordsworth; so, if you don't mind, we'll talk about something else. My aunt, you know, is a great devotee of all the nature poets, and I attend the meetings to please her. It's an awful bore sometimes, too, I assure you; that's why your face was so welcome to me when I chanced to see you at the club-rooms. That lecturer was such a conceited ass and those women were so besotted in their admiration of him that I looked around to see if there was a single sane and reasonable creature in the room – and there you were, as stern and uncompromising as an angel and – oh, well, I formed a different conception of angels, right there. You were so delightfully humorous too, when Mrs. Melvine introduced us – and, well, really, Miss Lee, you are partly responsible for my leaving New York. I never fully realized before what our Western country must be like; I never dreamed that there was a place to flee to when the conventions of society grew irksome; but when you told me of your ranch, and the cowboys, and all the wonderful happenings of that wild and carefree life I – I made up my mind to chuck the whole thing, don't you know, and strike out for myself."

"Oho!" breathed Dixie Lee, squinting down her eyes and regarding him with a shrewd smile. "So you're running away to be a cowboy, eh? Going West to fight the Indians! Well, well! But let me ask you one question, Mr. Bowles – if that's your name – I trust you don't plan to begin your depredations in my part of the country; because if you do – "

"Oh, my dear Miss Lee," protested Mr. Bowles, "you have quite a mistaken idea, I assure you. Really, now, I hope you give me credit for more discretion than that. The fact is, I have an old college friend on a ranch in California and, though I have not taken my aunt entirely into confidence, I am really going out to make him a visit. It's all very well, you know, to read about sunsets in Wordsworth, but why not go out into the Far West and see the sun set indeed? That's what I say, but of course I would not offend her – she simply thinks my health is failing and I need a Western trip."

"Oh!" said Dixie Lee quietly. "So you've got an aunt, too, eh? What did you say her name was?"

"Why, Mrs. – er – Bowles!"

"But why Mrs. Er-Bowles?" queried Dixie May, relentlessly. "Why not Mrs. Bowles straight? Now, you know, Mr. Bowles, it looks very much to me as if – "

"Her former name was Earl," interposed Mr. Bowles suavely, and carefully leaving out the "r." "My father's brother married a very dear friend of ours, a Mrs. Earl, and I sometimes call her so still – inadvertently, you know. I am an orphan now and Mrs. Earl – ah, Bowles – has taken me as a son. But you can readily understand how a young man of my age and disposition might not always fall in with a somewhat elderly lady's views of life, especially in regard to cultural influences, and while I love her very dearly and wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world – "

"Yes, it's too bad about you!" observed Dixie Lee heartlessly; and then for quite a while she looked out of the car window as drab and dirty tenements slipped by and the train plunged into a tunnel.

"How far West are you going?" she inquired, waking up suddenly from her reverie. "Lemme see your ticket. Um-m! Well, we travel together as far as Albuquerque, New Mex, and there we say 'Good-by.' I reckon California is about your size, Mr. Bowles, but don't you make any mistake and drop off in Arizona or the cowboys will scare you up some. As for the rest of it, I don't care what name a man goes by, but I see you are down on your ticket here as 'Houghton.'"

There was a challenge in her voice; but Bowles was not dismayed.

"Now, really, Miss Lee," he began, "why quibble over the accident of a name? Whether my name is Houghton, as I have signed it here, or Bowles, has nothing to do with the case. The fact is, I am suffering from an excess of aunts and Wordsworth, much in the same way that you are, perhaps, and my heart has gone out to the West. Be a good fellow now and help me out. Tell me about the country and what I would better do; and, though it is a small return, you shall have one more devoted slave to worship at your feet."

A fleeting smile came into his eyes as he delivered himself of this last, and the queen of the Bat Wing Ranch paused suddenly to make sure there was no mistake. It would be hard indeed to find oneself laughed at by a suède New Yorker, and yet – well, he seemed to mean it, too.

"Rise up, then, Sir Knight," she said, tapping him lightly with her sombrero; "and be mighty particular to change cars when we get to Albuquerque – otherwise the Chula Vista cowboys will make you hard to catch."

CHAPTER II
THE FAR WEST

Three days is a short time in which to post a man on the Far West, but if you don't care what you say, and say it quick, you can give him a pretty good fill. Dixie Lee was almost sorry when the Limited rolled into Albuquerque, and Mr. Bowles was fairly tearful in his adieus.

"Really, Miss Lee," he said, holding her hand with just a shade more than the proper pressure, "really, I shall never forget your kindness. The days have passed like a dream and I feel myself quite a Westerner already. Yes, I am sure I shall love the West – it is so big, and free – but what I like about it most is its splendid spirit of equality, its camaraderie. I can feel it everywhere – it is in the air – these great, rough-looking men, greeting perfect strangers in the smokers and on the platforms and saying: 'Say, pardner, gimme a match' – or a smoke, even! Oh, it is glorious! I – but, really, I must be going! So sorry our ways should part here. Well, good-by, Miss Lee – so glad we should happen to meet. I hope you have a pleasant journey. Thank you! Oh, don't mention it – good-by!"

He raised his Dutch comedian hat once more, a trace of romantic mistiness came into his violet eyes, and then he hurried back to his luxurious quarters on the Limited while Dixie May sat and waited for the southbound to take her to Deming. It was not a cheerful journey to contemplate, for New Mexico and Arizona way trains are slow and dusty, and given to making poor connections and unseemly arrivals; but by ten o'clock that evening Dixie Lee hoped to get as far as Deming and then, if the Overland happened to be late too, she could catch a westbound passenger and get to Chula Vista before the hotel closed. The Western Limited pulled out as her train still stood on its track and she glanced at the rear-end of the observation car for a fluttering handkerchief; but Mr. Bowles' emotions seemed to have overcome him, for he was lacking in this last attention. She watched for him with a broad grin; then, when she was sure he was really gone, Dixie May threw herself back in her seat and laughed until she was silly.

She was in good humor all the way to Deming, where the westbound was reported two hours late; but as she was pacing up and down the platform at midnight her face came suddenly straight. The westbound was standing on the track waiting for orders and she was walking along up toward the front when suddenly, through the smoking-car window, she beheld Sir Knight Bowles in eager converse with a grizzled old-timer! If it wasn't he, it was his twin brother – for there was the hard-boiled hat as large as life. The window was a little murky and the air was thick inside, but Dixie May was sure she had seen him – or was she having dreams?

It seemed, somehow, as if she couldn't get that droll creature out of her mind. All the way down from Albuquerque she had been hearing his talk in her ears and laughing at the way he broadened his "a's" and purred and purled over his "r's." At times she had burst into inextinguishable laughter, insomuch that several of the male passengers had regarded her with curious glances and the train boy had tried to get gay with her; but Dixie Lee knew how to settle that kind of folks. A peanut butcher was a peanut butcher to her, and nothing more; and if he neglected to hawk his wares in order to drape himself over the back of her seat she could put him in his place. It was Mr. Bowles that she was thinking of —Mr. Bowles – and when she remembered the innocent look on his face as she filled him up with Indian atrocities and cattle-war stories she just simply had to laugh. But now to find him following her – to discover him on the same train when he was ticketed west out of Albuquerque – well, that was a different thing entirely!

Dixie Lee retired to the sleeper to snatch a few hours of repose and when the dead-eyed porter set her down at Chula Vista she had entirely forgotten her knight. It was five o'clock on a cold March morning and the wind came in from across the prairie with a sweep that chilled the blood. It was so cold that the ticket-agent had ducked back into his inner sanctum before she could so much as hail him – and it was a quarter of a mile up to the hotel! Dixie May took a long look about her; she tried the waiting-room door; then, with a deep-drawn shudder, she turned to go it alone, when lo, a tall and masculine figure stepped out from behind the warehouse and she recognized Mr. Bowles!

"Pardon me, madam," he said, doffing his comedian hat and addressing her as if she were a stranger; "I see you are all alone – can I be of any service to you?"

It was dark, all right, but the idea of Mr. Bowles expecting to conceal his identity by mere starlight! She knew him, of course, the minute she saw his hat, but – well, what was the use of getting haughty about it? Why not do a little play-acting, too, until they got up to the hotel?

"Why – why, yes," she faltered, simulating an appealing weakness. "It's very kind of you, I'm sure. I – I expected my father to meet me here, but – "

"Ah, yes – very unfortunate," put in Bowles promptly. "Is there any hotel near? Just lead the way then, and I'll follow with your luggage. You might put on my overcoat if you're suffering from the cold. Rather not? Very well, then; let's hurry along to the hotel."

They hurried, Bowles struggling with the baggage, of which he had three pieces, and Dixie Lee preparing her valedictory. Yes, much as she regretted it, she would have to bid him farewell – otherwise he might come tagging after her out to the ranch and set the whole country to talking. It was all very well back in New York, or on the train, but in the Tortugas – never! She would have to make her final effort cutting, but she hoped he would not take it too hard – and meanwhile, as a penance for his presumption, he could break his back packing her suitcases up from the station.

"Ah, just a moment!" entreated Mr. Bowles, setting down the suitcases and working his tortured hands. "Oh, no, not heavy at all – perhaps I can fasten them together with this strap."

He unbuckled the shoulder-strap from his alligator-skin bag and looped it through the handles of the suitcases.

"Hah! Just the thing!" he exclaimed, slinging the two suitcases over his shoulder; and then, with a long, free stride, he swung along beside her, as tireless as an Indian – and as silent.

A sudden sense of respect, almost of awe, came over Dixie Lee as she contemplated his masterful repose, but the hotel door was near and she nerved herself for the assault.

"You think you're smart, don't you?" she snapped. "Following along after me this way! Just because I happened to be a little friendly – "

"Now, really, Miss Lee," broke in Bowles with admirable calm, "I hope you will not be too hard on me. I assure you, if it had not been for your distressing situation – which no gentleman could overlook – you would never have been aware of my presence. But you have known me long enough, I am sure, to know that I would never presume to force my society upon any lady, more particularly upon one for whom – "

"Well, what are you tagging along for then?" demanded Dixie Lee wrathfully. "When I said good-by to you up at Albuquerque you had a through ticket to California. Now here you are down at Chula Vista. What are you up to – that's what I want to know!"

"To be sure!" agreed Mr. Bowles. "Under the circumstances, you have a perfect right to an explanation. I may as well confess then, Miss Lee, that your stories told on the train have fired me with a desire to see the real West, not the pseudo or imitation article, but the real thing with the hair on, as you so aptly phrased it. But here was my difficulty – I had no one to direct me. The hotel-keepers, the ticket-agents, even my Eastern friends in the West, might send me astray and I be none the wiser. I admit it was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, but rather than lose my last chance to see the great West of which you spoke I followed after you; but without the slightest intention, I assure you, of making myself obnoxious. Is this the hotel ahead?"

"Yes," said Dixie Lee, "it is. And while I wish to congratulate you upon your explanation I want to inform you, Mr. Bowles, that right here is where we part. You're looking for the Wild West, and here she is with her hair down. If you are hunting experiences these Chula Vista boys will certainly accommodate you; but from this time on, Mr. Bowles, we are strangers. We don't know each other, do you understand? If what you say is true, you followed me simply to find the Far West. This is it. We're quits, then; and I shall have to ask you, as a gentleman, not to annoy me further. You may be all right – back in New York – but out here it's different and I don't want to have the folks joshing me about you. So I'll bid you farewell, Mr. Bowles, and thank you kindly for carrying up my baggage – but don't you dare come around the Bat Wing Ranch, or I'll tell the boys to kill you!"

She grabbed up her baggage as she spoke and hurried ahead, and when Mr. Bowles stepped into the hotel some minutes later she was as distant as an ivory goddess. Or a bronze goddess, to be exact, for the sun and wind had caressed the fair cheeks of Dixie May until they were as brown and ruddy as a berry, and even the steam heat of a New York apartment could only reduce their coloring. She seemed a goddess indeed to Bowles as she lingered beside the stove, her smooth, capable hands bared to the glow of the flames, and her body buoyant with the grace of youth; but the laughing brown eyes which had become the mirrors of his life were turned away now and all the world was changed.

The bottle-nosed proprietor came shuffling in from the bar and silently handed him a pen; then, without looking at the name that was signed, he wrote a number after it and handed his guest a key.

"Baggage?" he inquired as Mr. Bowles stood helplessly to one side.

"Oh, yes!" said Bowles, recovering himself with an effort. "Here are the checks. My trunks will be in on a later train. Have them sent up, won't you?"

"Sample room?" queried the hotel-keeper brusquely.

"Beg pardon?"

"D'ye want 'em put in the sample room?" snarled the proprietor, outraged at having to bandy words with the despised Easterner.

"The sample room?" repeated Mr. Bowles, now thoroughly mystified. "Why, no – why should I?"

At this final evidence of imbecility a mighty spasm of rage came over the proprietor, and as he struggled to regain his calm Dixie Lee suddenly clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and made a dash for the dining-room. The paroxysm passed and with an air of wearied indulgence the proprietor explained and disappeared.

"All right!" he grumbled. "Guess you know your own business. Thought you was a travelin' man."

He stepped back through the door marked "Bar" and Mr. Bowles was left to gasp alone. A traveling man! They took him for a traveling man! It was quite a shock, and Bowles was still brooding over it by the stove when the door from the bar was thrust open and a tall cowboy, booted and spurred and shapped and pistoled, came stalking into the room. His broad sombrero was shoved far back on his head, showing a tremendous stand of tumbled hair, and his keen hazel eyes roved about with the steady intentness of a hunting animal's; but only for the fraction of a second did he condescend to notice Bowles. He swayed a little as he walked and the aroma of whisky came with him, but otherwise he seemed perfectly sober.

"Say!" he called, turning and kicking the bar door open again, "did Dix come in on that train? She did? Well, here's where I git hell – I was supposed to go down and meet 'er!"

He came over and stood by the stove, apparently oblivious of the man before him, and while he waited he cursed himself in a cynical, impersonal sort of way that made a great impression on Bowles.

"Well, where is she?" he demanded, as the proprietor hurried in behind him. "I ain't had a wink of sleep, but we'll have to hit the road anyway."

"Dixie's in getting a cup of coffee," answered the proprietor. "Better have a seltzer first," he wheedled, taking him by the arm and drawing him toward the barroom.

"You're dead right there too, old sport!" responded the cowboy heartily. "My head is as big as a balloon, and them grays will shore drag me over the dashboard if I don't kill some of this whisky."

He tottered out as he spoke and Mr. Bowles half rose from his chair. Dixie Lee was in danger; she was in imminent peril of death! He must warn her – he must help her – he must try to save her life! He was in a fever of excitement when the dining-room door finally swept open and Dixie May entered the room; but she was calm, very calm, and something about her bade him hold his hand. Then the barroom door swung in again and the cowboy appeared, walking head up with a masterful stride – and a look in his eyes that Bowles knew all too well.

"Why, hello, Dix!" he cried, hurrying over and striking hands with her. "Well, well, how're you comin'? What, don't I draw nothin'?"

"No, you don't!" responded Dixie Lee, stepping back as he impudently offered to kiss her. "Not unless it's a good slap for not meeting me down at the train! How's Maw and Paw and all the boys? Have you gentled that colt for me yet?"

And so, with many laughing sallies, they passed out into the cold dawn, leaving Bowles to sit by the fire and stare. But in her last glance he had read a challenge, and he did not let it pass.