Part 10 (1/2)

And so Casey Dunne dreamed as he rode--dreamed as he had not dreamed waking since the days when, a little boy, he had lain on warm sands beside a blue inland sea on summer's afternoons and watched the patched sails of the stone hookers, and the wheeling, gray lake gulls, and heard the water hiss and ripple to the long, white beaches. And, as he dreamed, a part of boyhood's joy in mere life awoke in him again.

Chakchak Ranch came into view. Its cultivated area smaller than that of Talapus, it was nevertheless as scrupulously cared for. The one might have served as model for the other. Here, also, were the straight lines of the ditches, the squares of grain fields beginning to show green, the young orchards, the sleek, contented stock, the corrals, and outbuildings.

But, as became the residence of a bachelor, the ranch-house itself was less pretentious. It was a small bungalow, with wide verandas which increased its apparent size. There Casey lived with Tom McHale, his right-hand man and foreman. The hired men, varying in number constantly, occupied other quarters.

Casey would have helped Sheila to alight, but she swung down, stretching her limbs frankly after the hard ride.

”That's _going_,” she said. ”Beaver Boy was a brute to hold; he wanted to race s.h.i.+ner. He nearly got away from me once. My wrists are actually lame.” She drew off her long buckskin gauntlets, flexing her wrists cautiously, straightening her fingers, prolonging the luxury of relaxing the cramped sinews.

”Let us now eat, drink, and be merry,” said Casey, ”for to-morrow--well, never mind that. But what would you like? Coffee, tea, claret lemonade? Tell me what you want.”

”Too hot for tea. I'd like a dust eraser--a cold drink about a yard long.”

”Hey, you, Feng!” Casey cried, to a white-ap.r.o.ned, grinning Chinaman, ”you catch two ice drink quick--_hiyu_ ice, you savvy! Catch claret wine, catch cracker, catch cake. Missy _hiyu_ dry, _hiyu_ hungry. Get a hustle on you, now!”

Feng, understanding perfectly the curious mixture of pidgin and Chinook, vanished soft-footed. They entered the living room of the bungalow.

”Stretch out and be comfy while he's rustling it,” said Casey, indicating a couch. He himself fell into a huge wicker chair, flung his hat carelessly at the table, and reached for a cigar box.

Sheila dropped on the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms above her head, her hands clasped, every muscle of her relaxing. The comparative coolness, the quiet, the soft cus.h.i.+ons were good after a day in the saddle. Down there on the Coldstream the strict proprieties did not trouble them. If any one had suggested to Sheila McCrae that she was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, she would have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have been unsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirability of a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all, the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advanced civilization.

But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening.

”You're awfully untidy, Casey!” she said.

Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of the room was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, and tobacco. Odd tools--a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl--mingled with them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinder swung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can.

In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set of antlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pair of muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.

”Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?” she demanded.

”Why, you see,” he explained, ”they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry.

I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact.” He rose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through the open door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila was not placated.

”That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and now it's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you know that that makes work?”

”For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for--only he doesn't do it.”

But she shook her head, brus.h.i.+ng the excuse aside as trifling, unsatisfactory. ”It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey.”

”Poor thing!”

”When you get one, I mean.”

”Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same to you, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the way it is.”

”Muss it up! I like that!” she responded. ”Why, of all the old _junk_!

Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust.” She extended her fingers in proof. ”That dirty rag! And a gun and cartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn't leave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving them loaded, almost.”

”That's Tom's gun. Sail into him.”

”You shouldn't allow it.”