mary stared thoughtfully into the mirror. it was a better one than the sliver into which she had looked more than a year before, when paul langford came riding over the plains to the lazy s. a better house had risen from the ashes of the homestead laid waste by the cattle rustlers. affairs were well with george williston now that the hand of no man was against him. he prospered.
louise stepped to the door.
“i am in despair, mary,” she said, whimsically. “mrs. white has ordered me out of the kitchen. what do you think of that?”
“louise! did you really have the hardihood to presume to encroach on mother white’s preserves—you—a mere bride of five months’ standing? you should be grateful she didn’t take the broom to you.”
“she can cook,” said louise, laughing. “i admit that. i only offered to peel potatoes. when one stops to consider that the whole county is coming to the ‘house-warming’ of the lazy s, one can’t help being worried about potatoes and such minor things.”
“do you think the whole county is coming, louise?” asked mary.
“of course,” said louise gordon, positively, slipping away again. she was a welcome guest at the ranch, and her heart was in the success of to-night’s party.
mary had dressed early. as hostess, she had laid aside her short skirt, leather leggings, and other boyish “fixings” which she usually assumed for better ease in her life of riding. she was clad simply in a long black skirt and white shirt-waist. her hair was coiled in thick braids about her well-shaped head, lending her a most becoming stateliness.
would paul langford come? he had been bidden. her father could not know that he would not care to come. her father did not know that she had sent langford away that long-ago night in december and that he had not come back—at least to her. naturally, he had been bidden first to george williston’s ‘house-warming.’ the men of the three bars and of the lazy s were tried friends—but he would not care to come.
listen! some one was coming. it was much too soon for guests. the early october twilight was only now creeping softly over the landscape. it was a still evening. she heard distinctly the rhythmical pound of hoof-beats on the hardened trail. would the rider go on to kemah, or would he turn in at the lazy s?
“hello, the house!” hailed the horseman, cheerily, drawing rein at the very door. “hello, within!”
the visitor threw wide the door, and williston’s voice called cordially:
“come in, come in, langford! i am glad you came early.”
“will you send mary out, williston? i need your chore boy to help me water sade here.”
the voice was merry, but there was a vibrant tone in it that made the listening girl tremble a little. langford never waited for opportunities. he made them.
mary came to the door with quiet self-composure. she had known from the first the stranger was langford. how like the scene of a summer’s day more than a year past; but how far sweeter the maid—how much more it meant to the man now than then!
“father, show mr. langford in,” she said, smiling a welcome. “i shall be glad to take sade to the spring.”
she took hold of the bridle rein trailing to the ground. langford leaped lightly from his saddle.
“i said ‘help me,’” he corrected.
“the spring is down there,” she directed. “i think you know the way.” she turned to enter the house.
for an instant, langford hesitated. a shadow fell across his face.
“i want you to come, mary,” he said, simply. “it is only hospitable, you know.”
“oh, if you put it in that way—,” she started gayly down the path.
he followed her more slowly. a young moon hung in the western sky. the air was crisp with the coming frost. the path was strewn with dead cottonwood leaves which rustled dryly under their feet.
at the spring, shadowed by the biggest cottonwood, she waited for him.
“i wish my father would cut down that tree,” she said, shivering.
“you are cold,” he said. his voice was not quite steady. he took off his coat and wrapped it around her, despite her protests. he wanted to hold her then, but he did not, though the touch of her sent the blood bounding riotously through his veins.
“you shall wear the coat i—do not want you to go in yet.”
“but sade has finished, and people will be coming soon.”
“i will not keep you long. i want you to—mary, my girl, i tried to kill black, but—jim—” his voice choked a little—“if it hadn’t been for jim, black would have killed me. i thought i could do it. i meant to have you. jim said it was all the same—his doing it in my stead. i came to-night to ask you if it is the same. is it, mary?”
she did not answer for a little while. how still a night it was! lights twinkled from the windows of the new house. now and then a dry leaf rustled as some one, the man, the girl, or the horse, moved.
“it is the same,” she said at last, brokenly.
her eyes were heavy with unshed tears. “but i never meant it, paul. i was wild that night, but i never meant that you or—jim should take life or—or—give yours. i never meant it!”
his heart leaped, but he did not touch her.
“do you love me?” he asked.
she turned restlessly toward the house.
“my father will be wanting me,” she said. “i must go.”
“you shall not go until you have told me,” he said. “you must tell me. you never have, you know. do you love me?”
“you have not told me, either,” she resisted. “you are not fair.”
he laughed under his breath, then bent his sunny head—close.
“have you forgotten so soon?” he whispered.
suddenly, he caught her to him, strongly, as was his way.
“i will tell you again,” he said, softly. “i love you, my girl, do you hear? there is no one but you in all the world.”
the fair head bent closer and closer, then he kissed her—the little man-coated figure in his arms.
“i love you,” he said.
she trembled in his embrace. he kissed her again.
“i love you,” he repeated.
she hid her face on his breast. he lifted it gently.
“i tell you—i love you,” he said.
he placed her arms around his neck. she pressed her lips to his, once, softly.
“i love you,” she whispered.
“my girl, my girl!” he said in answer. the confession was far sweeter than he had ever dreamed. he held her cheek pressed close to his for a long moment.
“the three bars is waiting for its mistress,” he said at last, exultantly. “a mistress and a new foreman all at once—the boys will have to step lively.”
“a new foreman?” asked mary in surprise. “i did not know you had a new foreman.”
“i shall have one in a month,” he said, smilingly. “by that time, george williston will have sold the lazy s for good money, invested the proceeds in cattle, turned the whole bunch in to range with the three bars herds, and on november first, he will take charge of the worldly affairs of one paul langford and his wife, of the three bars.”
“really, paul?” the brown eyes shone with pleasure.
“really, mary.”
“has my father consented?”
“no, but he will when he finds i cannot do without him and when—i marry his daughter.”
hoof-beats on the sod! the guests were coming at last. the beats rang nearer and nearer. from kemah, from the three bars trail, from across country, they were coming. all the neighboring ranchmen and homesteaders with their families and all the available cowboys had been bidden to the frolic. the stableyard was filling. hearty greetings, loud talking, and laughter floated out on the still air.
laughing like children caught in a prank, the two at the spring clasped hands and ran swiftly to the house. breathless but radiant, mary came forward to greet her guests while langford slipped away to put up sade.
the revel was at its highest. mary and louise were distributing good things to eat and drink to the hungry cowmen. the rooms were so crowded, many stood without, looking in at the doors and windows. the fragrance of hot coffee drifted in from the kitchen.
langford stood up. a sudden quiet fell upon the people.
“friends and neighbors,” he said, “shall we drink to the prosperity of the lazy s, the health and happiness of its master and its mistress?”
the health was drunk with cheers and noisy congratulations. conversation began again, but langford still stood.
“friends and neighbors,” he said again. his voice was grave. “let us drink to one—not with us to-night—a brave man—” in spite of himself his voice broke—“let us drink to the memory of jim munson.”
silently all rose, and drank. they were rough men and women, most of them, but they were a people who held personal bravery among the virtues. many stood with dimmed eyes, picturing that final scene on the island in which a brave man’s life had closed. few there would soon forget jim munson, cow-puncher of the three bars.
there was yet another toast langford was to propose to-night. now was the opportune time. jim would have wished it so. it was fitting that this toast follow jim’s—it was jim who had made it possible that it be given. he turned to mary and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
“will you come, mary?” he said.
she went with him, wonderingly. he led her to the centre of the room. his arm fell gently over her shoulders. her cheeks flushed with the sudden knowledge of what was coming, but she looked at him with perfect trust and unquestioning love.
“friends and neighbors,” his voice rang out so that all might hear, “i ask you to drink to the health and happiness of the future mistress of the three bars!”
