Out of the Depths Page 3

This time she did not blush. “I am quite serious, Mr. Ashton,” she reproved him. “Daddy owns only five sections. The rest of his range is public land. If settlers should come in and homestead it, he would have to quit the cattle business. You cannot realize how fearfully we are watching the irrigation projects––all the Government reclamation work, and the private dams, too. There seems to be no water that can be put on Dry Mesa, yet the engineers are doing such wonderful things these days.”

  Ashton straightened on his saddle. “That is quite true, Miss Knowles. You know, I myself am an engineer.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in dismay. “You, an engineer? Have you come here to see if our mesa can be irrigated?”

  “No, indeed, no, I shall not do that,” he replied. “I have not the slightest thought of such a project. I am merely out for sport.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “But––We get all the reports––There is an Ashton connected with that wonderful Zariba Dam, just being finished in Arizona.”

  “That is my father. He is interested in it with a Mr. Leslie. They are financing the project. But I have nothing to do with it, nothing whatever, I assure you. The engineer is another man, a fellow named––”

  He paused as if unable to remember. The girl looked at him with a shade of disappointment in her clear eyes.

  “A Mr. Blake––Thomas Blake,” she supplied the name. “I thought you might have known him.”

  “Ah––Blake?” he murmured hesitatingly. “Why, yes, I did at one time have somewhat of an acquaintance with him.”

  “You did?” she cried, her eyes brilliant with excitement. “Oh, tell me! I––” She faltered under his surprised stare, and went on rather lamely: “You see, I––we have been immensely interested in the Zariba Dam. The reports all describe it as an extraordinary work of engineering. And so we have been curious to learn something about the engineer.”

  “But if you’re so opposed to irrigation projects?” he thrust.

  “That makes no difference,” she parried. “We––Daddy and I––cannot but admire such a remarkable engineer.”

  Ashton shrugged. “The dam was a big thing. I fail to see why you should admire Blake just because he happened to blunder on the idea that solved the difficulty.”

  “You do not like him,” she said with frank directness.

  He hesitated and looked away. When he replied it was with evident reluctance: “No, I do not. He is––You would hardly admire him personally, even though he did bully Genevieve Leslie into marrying him.”

  “He is married?” exclaimed the girl.

  “No wonder you are surprised,” said Ashton. “It was the most amazing thing imaginable––she the daughter of H. V. Leslie, one of our wealthiest financiers, and he a rough, uncouth drunkard.”

  “Drunkard?” almost screamed the girl. “No, no, not drunkard! I cannot believe it!”

  “He certainly was one until just before Genevieve married him,” insisted Ashton. “I hear he has managed to keep sober since.”

  “O-o-oh!” sighed Miss Isobel, making no effort to conceal her vast relief. She attempted a smile. “I am so glad to hear that he is all right now. Of course he must be!... You say he married an heiress?”

  “She is worth three millions in her own right, and Leslie is as daft over him as she is. Leslie and my father are the ones who backed him on the Zariba Dam.”

  “How interesting! And I suppose Mr. Blake is a Western man. So many of the best engineers come from the West.”

  Ashton looked at her suspiciously. He could not make out her interest in Blake. She apparently had come to regard the engineer as a sort of hero. Yet why should she continue to inquire about him, now that she knew he was a married man?

  “I’m sure I cannot tell you,” he replied, somewhat stiffly. “The fellow seems to have come from nowhere. Had it not been for an accident, he would never have got within speaking distance of Genevieve, but they happened to be shipwrecked together alone––on the coast of Africa.”

  “Wrecked?––shipwrecked? How perfectly glorious!”

  “I wouldn’t mind it myself––with you!” he flashed back.

  “I might,” she bantered. “This Mr. Blake, I imagine, was hardly a tenderfoot.”

  “No, he was a roughneck,” muttered Ashton.

  “You do not like him,” she remarked the second time.

  “Why should I, a low fellow like that? I’ve heard that he even brags that he started in the Chicago slums.”

  The girl put her hand to her bosom. “In the––the Chicago slums!” she half whispered.

  “No wonder you are surprised,” said Ashton. “Anyone would presume that he would keep such a disgrace to himself. It shows what he is––absolutely devoid of good taste.”

  “Is he––What does he look like?” she eagerly inquired.

  Ashton shrugged. “Pardon me. I prefer not to talk any more about the fellow.”

  Miss Isobel checked her curiosity. “Very well, Mr. Ashton.” She looked around, and suddenly flourished her leathern quirt. “Look––there are Kid and Daddy trying to head us. Come on, if you want a race. I’m going to beat them down to Dry Fork.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV

  DOWNHILL AND UP

  The lash of the quirt fell with a swish on the flank of the girl’s pony. He did not wait for a second hint, but started down the steep slope “on the jump.” Before Ashton realized what was happening, his own horse was following at the same breakneck pace.

  Down plunged the two ponies––down, down, down the sharply pitched mountain side, leaping logs and stones, crashing through brush, scrambling or slithering stiff-legged down rock slides. It was a wild race, a race that would have been utterly foolhardy with any other horses than these mountain bred cow ponies. A single misstep would have sent horse and rider rolling for yards, unless sooner brought up against tree or rock.

  Most of the color had left Ashton’s cheeks, but his full lips were set in resolute lines. His gaze alertly took in the ground before his horse and at the same time the girl’s graceful, swaying figure. Fortunately he knew enough to let his horse pick his own way. But such a way as it was! Had not the two animals been as surefooted as goats and as quick as cats, both must have pitched head over heels, not once, but a score of times.

  They had leaped down over numbers of rocks and logs and ledges, and the girl had not cast back a single glance to see if Ashton was following. But as they plunged down an open slope she suddenly twisted about and flung up a warning hand.

  “Here’s a jump!” she cried––as though they had not been jumping every few yards since the beginning of that mad descent.

  Hardly had she faced about again when her pony leaped and dropped with her clear out of sight. Ashton gasped and started to draw rein. He was too late. Three strides brought his horse to a ledge fully six feet high. The beast leaped over the edge without making the slightest effort to check himself.

  Ashton uttered a startled cry, but poised himself for the shock with the cleverness of a skillful rider. His pony landed squarely, and at once started on again as if nothing unusual had happened.

  The girl was already racing down the lower slope, which was more moderate, or rather, less immoderate than that above the ledge. She looked around and waved her hand gayly when she saw that Ashton had kept his seat.

  The salute so fired him that he gave his pony the spur and dashed recklessly down to overtake her. At last he raced alongside and a little past her. She looked at his overridden pony and drew rein.

  “Hold on,” she said. “Better pull up a bit. You don’t want to blow your hawss. ’Tisn’t everyone can take that jump as neatly as he did.”

  “But the others?” he panted––“they’ll beat us!”

  “They cut down to the right. It’s nothing to worry about if they do head us. They’ve got the best hawsses. We’ll jog the rest of the way.”

  “Of course,” he hastened to agree, “if you prefer.”

  �
��I’d prefer to lope uphill and down, but––” she nodded towards his pony’s heaving flanks––“no use riding a willing hawss to death.”

  “No danger of that with this old nag. He’s tough as a mule,” Ashton assured her, though he followed her example by pulling his mount in to a walk.

  “A mule knows enough to balk when he’s got enough,” she informed him.

  He did not reply. With the lessening of his excitement habit sent his hand to his open packet of cigarettes. He had not smoked since before shooting the calf. As they came down into the shallow valley between the foot of the mesa and a parallel line of low rocky hills he could wait no longer. His lighter was already half raised to the gilt-tipped cigarette when it was checked by etiquette. He bowed to the girl as a matter of form.

  “Ah, pardon me––if you have no objections,” he said.

  “I have,” was her unexpected reply.

  “Er––what?” he asked, his finger on the spring of the lighter.

  “You inquired if I have any objections,” she answered. “I told you the truth. I dislike cigarettes most intensely.”

  “But––but––” he stammered, completely taken aback, “don’t your cowboys all smoke?”

  “Not cigarettes––where I ever see them,” she said.

  “And cigars or pipes?” he queried.

  “One has to concede something to masculine weakness,” she sighed.

  “Unfortunately I have no cigars with me, not even at my camp, and a pipe is so slow,” he complained.

  “Oh, pray, do not deprive yourself on my account,” she said. “You’ll find the cut between those two hills about as short a way to your camp as this one, if you prefer your cigarettes to my company.”

  “Crool maid!” he reproached, not altogether jestingly. He even looked across at the gap through the hills to which she was pointing. Then he saw the disdain in her blue eyes. He took the cigarette from his lips, eyed it regretfully, and flung it away with a petulant fillip.

  “There!” he said. Meeting her amused smile, he added in the injured tone of a spoiled child. “You don’t realize what a compliment that is.”

  “What?––abstaining for a half hour or so? If I asked you to break off entirely, and you did it, I would consider that a real compliment.”

  “I should say so!”

  “But I am by no means sure that I would care to ask you,” she bantered.

  “You’re not? Why, may I inquire?”

  “I do not like to make useless requests.”

  “Useless!” he exclaimed, his self-esteem stung by her raillery. “Do you think I cannot quit smoking them?”

  “I think you do not care to try.”

  Impulsively he snatched out a package of his expensive cigarettes and tossed it over his shoulder. Another and another and still others followed in rapid succession, until he had exhausted his supply.

  “How’s that?” he demanded her approval.

  “Well, it’s not so bad for a start-off,” she answered with an absence of enthusiasm that dashed him from his pose of self-abnegation.

  “You don’t realize what that means,” he complained.

  “It means, jilt Miss Nicotine in haste, and repent at leisure.”

  “You’re ragging me! You ought to be particularly nice to me. I did it for you.”

  “Thanks awfully. But I didn’t ask you to do it, you know.”

  “Oh, now, that’s hardly––when I did it because of what you said.”

  “Well, then, I promise to be nice to you until events do us part. That will be in about five minutes. Over there is Dry Fork Gulch. The waterhole is just down around this hill.”

  Ashton took his ardent gaze off the girl’s face long enough to glance to his left. He recognized the tremendous gorge in the face of the mountain side that he had tried to ascend the previous day. It ran in with a moderately inclined bottom for nearly a mile, and then scaled up to the top of High Mesa in steep slopes and sheer ledges.

  His eyes followed the dry gravelly creek bed around to the right, and he nodded: “Yes, my camp is just over the corner of those crags. But surely, Miss Knowles, you will not end our acquaintance there.”

  She met his appealing look with a level glance. “Seriously, Mr. Ashton, don’t you think you had better move camp to another section? It seems to me you have done quite enough unseasonable deer hunting.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, she urged her horse into a lope. His own mount was too jaded for a quick start. When he overtook the girl she had rounded the craggy hill on their right and was in sight of a scattered grove of boxelders below a dike of dark colored trap rock that outcropped across the bed of the creek.

  Above the natural dam made by this dike the valley was bedded up with sand and large gravel washed down by the torrential rush of spring freshets. Below it the same wild floods, leaping down in a twenty-foot fall, had gouged out a pothole so wide and deep that it was never empty of water even in the driest seasons.

  * * *

  CHAPTER V

  INTO THE DEPTHS

  At the top of the bank made by the dike the girl pointed with her quirt down to the rock-rimmed pool edge where a pair of riders were just swinging out of their saddles.

  “Hello, Daddy! We’re coming, Kid,” she called, and she turned to explain to Ashton. “They came around the other end of the hills; a longer way but better going. How’s this? Thought you said you were camped here.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t you see the tent? It’s right there among the––Why, what––where is it?” cried Ashton, gaping in blank amazement.

  “We’ll soon see,” replied the girl.

  Their horses were scrambling down the short steep slope to the pool, where the other horses were drinking their fill of the cool water. The two men watched Ashton’s approach, Knowles with an impassive gaze, Gowan with cold suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

  “Well, honey,” asked the cowman, “did you have him pulling leather?”

  “No, and I didn’t lose him, either,” she replied, with a mischievous glance at Gowan. “I took that jump-off where the white-cheeked steer broke its neck. He took it after me without pulling leather.”

  “Huh!” grunted the puncher. “Mr. Tenderfoot shore is some rider. We’re waiting for him now to ride around and find that camp where we were to deliver his veal.”

  Ashton stared with a puzzled, half-dazed expression from the tentless trees beside him to the fore and hind quarters of veal wrapped in slicker raincoats and fastened on back of the men’s saddles.

  “Well?” demanded Knowles. “Thought you said you were camped here.”

  “I am––that is, I––My tent was right there between those two trees,” said Ashton. “You see, there are the twigs and leaves I had my valet collect for my bed.”

  “Shore––valleys are great on collecting beds of leaves and sand and bowlders,” observed Gowan.

  “There’s his fireplace,” said the girl, wheeling her horse through a clump of wild rosebushes. “Yes, and he’s right about the tent, too. It is a bed. Here’s a dozen cigarette boxes and––What’s this, Mr. Ashton! Looks as if someone had left a note for you.”

  “A note?” he muttered, slipping to the ground.

  He ran over to the spot to which she was pointing. On a little pile of stones, in front of where his tent had been pitched, a piece of coarse wrapping paper covered with writing was fluttering in the light breeze. He snatched it up and read the note with fast-growing bewilderment.

  “What is it?” sympathetically questioned the girl, quick to see that he was in real trouble.

  He did not answer. He did not even realize that she had spoken. With feverish haste he caught up an opened envelope that had lain under the paper. Drawn by his odd manner, Knowles and Gowan came over to stare at him. He had torn a letter from the envelope. It was in typewriting and covered less than a page, yet he gaped at it, reading and re-reading the lines as if too dazed to be able to comprehend their meaning.r />
  Slowly the involved sentences burned their way into his consciousness. As his bewilderment cleared, his concern deepened to dismay, and from dismay to consternation. His jaw dropped slack, his face whitened, the pupils of his eyes dilated.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” exclaimed the girl.

  “Matter?”––His voice was hoarse and strained. He crumpled the letter in a convulsive grasp––“Matter? I’m ruined!––ruined! God!”

  Knowles and the girl were both silent before the despair in the young man’s face. Gowan was more obtuse or else less considerate.

  “Shore, you’re plumb busted, partner,” he ironically condoled. “Your whole outfit has flown away on the wings of the morning. Hope you won’t tell us the pay for your veal has vamoosed with the rest.”

  “Oh, Kid, for shame!” reproved the girl. “Of course Daddy won’t ask for any pay––now.”

  Ashton burst into a jangling high-pitched laugh.

  “No, no! there’s still my pony and saddle and rifle and watch!” he cried, half hysterically. “Take them! strip me! Here’s my hat, too! I paid forty-five dollars for it––silver band.” He flung it on the ground. “There’s a hole in it––I wish the hole were through my head!”

  “Now, now, look here, son. Keep a stiff upper lip,” said Knowles. “Don’t act like you’re locoed. It’s all right about that veal, as Chuckie says, and you oughtn’t to make such a fuss over the loss of a camp outfit.”

  “Camp outfit?” shrilled Ashton. “If that were all! if that were all! What shall I do? Lost––all lost!––father––all! Ruined! Oh, my God! What shall I do? Oh, my God! Oh––” Anguish and despair choked the cry in his throat. He collapsed in a huddled, quivering heap.

  “Sho! It can’t be as bad as that, can it?” condoled the cowman.

  “Go away!” sobbed the prostrated man. “Go away! Take my pony––all! Only leave me!”

  “If ever I saw a fellow plumb locoed!” muttered Gowan, half awe-struck.

  “Maybe he’ll come to his senses if we leave him,” suggested Knowles. He took a step towards Ashton. “All right, son, we’ll go. But we’ll leave you half that veal, and we won’t take your hawss. D’you want help in looking for your outfit?”