Part 78

“Danny Mains?” echoed Madeline, wonderingly.

“Wal, I said so.”

Stillwell was indeed not himself.

“Is Danny Mains here?” she asked, in sudden curiosity.

The old cattleman nodded gloomily.

“Yep, he’s hyar, all right. Sloped in from the hills, an’ he hollered to see Bonita. He’s locoed, too, about that little black-eyed hussy. Why, he hardly said, ‘Howdy, Bill,’ before he begun to ask wild an’ eager questions. I took him in to see Bonita. He’s been there more ’n a half-hour now.”

Evidently Stillwell’s sensitive feelings had been ruffled. Madeline’s curiosity changed to blank astonishment, which left her with a thrilling premonition. She caught her breath. A thousand thoughts seemed thronging for clear conception in her mind.

Rapid footsteps with an accompaniment of clinking spurs sounded in the hallway. Then a young man ran out upon the porch. He resembled a cowboy in his lithe build, his garb and action, in the way he wore his gun, but his face, instead of being red, was clear brown tan. His eyes were blue; his hair was light and curly. He was a handsome, frank-faced boy. At sight of Madeline he slammed down his sombrero and, leaping at her, he possessed himself of her hands. His swift violence not only alarmed her, but painfully reminded her of something she wished to forget.

This cowboy bent his head and kissed her hands and wrung them, and when he straightened up he was crying.

“Miss Hammond, she’s safe an’ almost well, an’ what I feared most ain’t so, thank God,” he cried. “Sure I’ll never be able to pay you for all you’ve done for her. She’s told me how she was dragged down here, how Gene tried to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an’ her, too, how Monty at the last throwed his guns. Poor Monty! We were good friends, Monty an’ I. But it wasn’t friendship for me that made Monty stand in there. He would have saved her, anyway. Monty Price was the whitest man I ever knew. There’s Nels an’ Nick an’ Gene, he’s been some friend to me; but Monty Price was—he was grand. He never knew, any more than you or Bill, here, or the boys, what Bonita was to me.”

Stillwell’s kind and heavy hand fell upon the cowboy’s shoulder.

“Danny, what’s all this queer gab?” he asked. “An’ you’re takin’ some liberty with Miss Hammond, who never seen you before. Sure I’m makin’ allowance fer amazin’ strange talk. I see you’re not drinkin’. Mebbe you’re plumb locoed. Come, ease up now an’ talk sense.”

The cowboy’s fine, frank face broke into a smile. He dashed the tears from his eyes. Then he laughed. His laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring—a happy ring.

“Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a minute, will you?” Then he bowed to Madeline. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hammond, for seemin’ rudeness. I’m Danny Mains. An’ Bonita is my wife. I’m so crazy glad she’s safe an’ unharmed—so grateful to you that—why, sure it’s a wonder I didn’t kiss you outright.”

“Bonita’s your wife!” ejaculated Stillwell.

“Sure. We’ve been married for months,” replied Danny, happily. “Gene Stewart did it. Good old Gene, he’s hell on marryin’. I guess maybe I haven’t come to pay him up for all he’s done for me! You see, I’ve been in love with Bonita for two years. An’ Gene—you know, Bill, what a way Gene has with girls—he was—well, he was tryin’ to get Bonita to have me.”

Madeline’s quick, varying emotions were swallowed up in a boundless gladness. Something dark, deep, heavy, and somber was flooded from her heart. She had a sudden rich sense of gratitude toward this smiling, clean-faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed through tears.

“Danny Mains!” she said, tremulously and smilingly. “If you are as glad as your news has made me—if you really think I merit such a reward—you may kiss me outright.”

With a bashful wonder, but with right hearty will, Danny Mains availed himself of this gracious privilege. Stillwell snorted. The signs of his phenomenal smile were manifest, otherwise Madeline would have thought that snort an indication of furious disapproval.

“Bill, straddle a chair,” said Danny. “You’ve gone back a heap these last few months, frettin’ over your bad boys, Danny an’ Gene. You’ll need support under you while I’m throwin’ my yarn. Story of my life, Bill.” He placed a chair for Madeline. “Miss Hammond, beggin’ your pardon again, I want you to listen, also. You’ve the face an’ eyes of a woman who loves to hear of other people’s happiness. Besides, somehow, it’s easy for me to talk lookin’ at you.”

His manner subtly changed then. Possibly it took on a little swagger; certainly he lost the dignity that he had shown under stress of feeling; he was now more like a cowboy about to boast or affect some stunning maneuver. Walking off the porch, he stood before the weary horse and burro.

“Played out!” he exclaimed.

Then with the swift violence so characteristic of men of his class he slipped the pack from the burro and threw saddle and bridle from the horse.

“There! See ’em! Take a look at the last dog-gone weight you ever packed! You’ve been some faithful to Danny Mains. An’ Danny Mains pays! Never a saddle again or a strap or a halter or a hobble so long as you live! So long as you live nothin’ but grass an’ clover, an’ cool water in shady places, an’ dusty swales to roll in an’ rest an’ sleep!”

Then he untied the pack and, taking a small, heavy sack from it, he came back upon the porch. Deliberately he dumped the contents of the sack at Stillwell’s feet. Piece after piece of rock thumped upon the floor. The pieces were sharp, ragged, evidently broken from a ledge; the body of them was white in color, with yellow veins and bars and streaks. Stillwell grasped up one rock after another, stared and stuttered, put the rocks to his lips, dug into them with his shaking fingers; then he lay back in his chair, head against the wall, and as he gaped at Danny the old smile began to transform his face.

“Lord, Danny if you hevn’t been an’ gone an’ struck it rich!”

Danny regarded Stillwell with lofty condescension.

“Some rich,” he said. “Now, Bill, what’ve we got here, say, offhand?”