Trailin'!

SALLY BREAKS A MIRROR

As Sally had remarked the night before, one does not pay much attention to a toilet when one rises at 5 a.m.  At least that is the rule, but Sally, turning out with a groan in the chill, dark room, shut off the alarm, lighted her lamp, and set about the serious task of dressing.  A woman, after all, is much like a diplomatic statesman; a hint along certain lines is more to her than a sworn statement.

She had secured a large mirror, and in front of this she laboured patiently for a full ten minutes, twisting her hair this way and that, and using the comb and brush vigorously.  Now and then, as she worked, she became aware that a fluff of hair rolling down low over her forehead did amazing things to her face and brought her from Sally Fortune into the strange dignity of a “lady.”  But she could not complete any of the manoeuvres, no matter how promisingly they started.  In the end she dashed a handful of hairpins on the floor and wound the hair about her head with a few swift turns.

She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her.  After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly—­it would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the assistance of a man, and a fighting man at that.  So what was the use?  She threw the mirror crashing on the floor; it splintered in a thousand pieces.

“After all,” she murmured aloud, “do I want to be a woman?”

The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered “No”; the wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key.  She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits.

“Late, Sally,” said the cook, tossing another hot cake on the growing pile which surmounted the warmer.

“Sure; I busted my mirror,” said Sally.

The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quantity of dough to fall from the dish cupped in the hollow of his arm; it overflowed the griddle-iron.

“Blockhead!” shouted Sally.  “Watch your step!”

She resumed, when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means:  “D’you think a girl can dress in the dark?”

But the cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point.  He confined his attention to the pancakes.

“There ain’t no fool worse than a he-fool,” continued Sally bitterly.  “Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?”

Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went on into the eating-room.  It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began.

They continued without interruption hour after hour, for the popularity of her restaurant had driven all competition out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders.  For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.

The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve strength on which she could fall back.  She suddenly became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort.  Finally she spilled a great armful of “empties” down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands.  The cook, Bert, though he cast a startled glance at her would not have dared to speak, after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent an appeal to his manliness.

His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle.  His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.

“Sally!”

“Shut your face!” moaned a stifled voice.

But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.

“Sally, somethin’ is wrong.”

“Nothin’ you can right, Fatty,” said the same woe-stricken voice.

“Sally, if somebody’s been gettin’ fresh with you—­”

Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them.

“Fresh with me?  Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d’you think there’s anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?”

Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature.  From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured:  “Then what is wrong?”

Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.

She said sadly:  “I dunno, Bert.  I ain’t the man I used to be—­I mean, the woman.”

He waited, his small eyes gentle.  What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook?  Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.

She confessed:  “I feel sort of hollow and gone—­around the stomach, Fatty.”

“Eat,” suggested the cook.  “I just took out a pie that would—­”

“But it ain’t the stomach.  It’s like bein’ hungry and wantin’ no food.  Fatty, d’you think I’m sick?”

“You look kind of whitish.”

“Fatty, I feel—­”

She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on:  “I feel as if I was afraid of somethin’, or someone.”

“That,” said Bert confidently, “ain’t possible.  It’s the stomach, Sally.  Something ain’t agreed with you.”

She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair.

“If this here feelin’ is goin’ to keep up—­why, I wisht I was dead—­I wisht I was dead!”

She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dab her eyes swiftly, started to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room.  Fatty, turning back to the stove, shook his head; he was more than ever convinced in his secret theory that all women are crazy.

Sally found that a new man had entered, one whom she could not remember having seen before.  She went to him at once, for it seemed to her that she would die, indeed, if she had to look much longer on the familiar, unshaven faces of the other men in the room.

“Anything you got,” said the stranger, who was broad of hands and thick of neck and he cast an anxious eye on her.  “I hear you seen something of a thinnish, dark feller named Bard.”

“What d’you want with him?” asked Sally with dangerous calm.

“I was aimin’ to meet up with him.  That’s all.”

“Partner, if you want to stand in solid around here, don’t let out that you’re a friend of his.  He ain’t none too popular; that’s straight and puttin’ it nice and easy.”

“Which who said I was his friend?” said the other with heat.

She turned away to the kitchen and reappeared shortly, bearing his meal.  The frown with which she departed had disappeared, and she was smiling as brightly as ever while she arranged the dishes in front of him.  He paid no attention to the food.

“Now,” she said, resting both hands on the table and leaning so that she could look him directly in the eye:  “What’s Bard done now?  Horse—­gun-fighter—­woman; which?”

The other loosened the bandanna which circled his bull neck.

“Woman,” he said hoarsely, and the blood swelled his throat and face with veins of purple.

“Ah-h-h,” drawled the girl, and straightening, she dropped both hands on her hips.  It was a struggle, but she managed to summon another smile.

“Wife—­sister—­sweetheart?”

The man stared dubiously on her, and Sally, mother to five hundred wild rangers, knew the symptoms of a man eager for a confidant.  She slipped into the opposite chair.

“It might be any of the three,” she went on gently, “and I know because I’ve seen him work.”

“Damn his soul!” growled the other by way of a prefix to his story.  “It ain’t any of the three with me.  This Bard—­maybe he tried his hand with you?”

Whether it was rage or scorn that made her start and redden he could not tell.

“Me?” she repeated.  “A tenderfoot get fresh with me?  Stranger, you ain’t been long in Eldara or you wouldn’t pull a bonehead like that.”

“‘Scuse me.  I was hopin’ that maybe you took a fall out of him, that’s all.”

He studied the blue eyes.  They had been tinted with ugly green a moment before, but now they were clear, deep, dark, guileless blue.  He could not resist.  The very nearness of the woman was like a gentle, cool hand caressing his forehead and rubbing away the troubles.

“It was like this,” he began.  “Me and Lizzie had been thick for a couple of years and was jest waitin’ till I’d corralled enough cash for a start.  Then the other day along comes this feller Bard with a queer way of talkin’ school language.  Made you feel like you was readin’ a bit out of a dictionary jest to listen to him for a minute.  Liz, she never heard nothin’ like it, I figure.  She got all eyes and sat still and listened.  Bein’ like that he plumb made a fool out of Liz.  Kidded her along and wound up by kissing her good-bye.  I didn’t see none of this; I jest heard about it later.  When I come up and started talkin’ jest friendly with Liz she got sore and passed me the frosty stare.  I didn’t think she could be doin’ more than kiddin’ me a bit, so I kept right on and it ended up with Liz sayin’ that all was over between us.”

He paused on his tragedy, set his teeth over a sigh, and went on:  “The feller ain’t no good.  I know that from a chap that come to the house a few hours after Bard left.  Nash was his name—­”

“What!”

“Nash.  Feller built husky around the shoulders—­looks like a fighter.  Know him?”

“Pretty well.  D’you say he come to your house right after Bard left it?”

“Yep.  Why?”

“How long ago was this?”

“About three days.”

“Three days?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“You look like you was goin’ to murder some one, lady.”

Her laughter ended with a jerk and jar.

“Maybe I am.  G’wan!  Tell me some more about what Nash said.”

“Why, he didn’t say much.  Hinted around that maybe Bard had walked off with the piebald hoss he was ridin’.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Lady,” said the other a little coldly, “you say that like you was a friend of Bard’s.”

“Me?  There ain’t nobody around these parts man enough to say to my face that I’m a friend of that tenderfoot.”

“I’m glad of that.  My name’s Ralph Boardman.”

“I’m Sally Fortune.”

“Sure; I’ve heard of you—­a lot.  Say, you couldn’t tip me off where I could hit the trail of Bard?”

“Dunno.  Wait; lemme see.”

She studied, with closed eyes.  What she was thinking was that if Nash had been so close to Bard three days before he was surely on the trail of the tenderfoot and certainly that meeting in her place had not been a casual one.  She set her teeth, thinking of the promise Nash had given to her.  Undoubtedly he had laughed at it afterward.  And now Bard probably lay stretched on his back somewhere among the silent hills looking up to the pitiless brightness of the sky with eyes which could never shut.

The hollow feeling of which Sally had complained to Bert grew to a positive ache, and the tears stood up closer to her eyes.

“Wait around town,” she said in a changed voice.  “I think I heard him say something of riding out, but he’ll be back before long.  That’s the only tip I can give you, partner.”

So she rose and hurried back to the kitchen.

“Bert,” she said, “I’m off for the rest of the day.  You got to handle the place.”

He panted:  “But the heavy rush—­it ain’t started yet.”

“It’s started for me.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Nothin’.  I’m on my way.  S’long, Bert.  Back in the mornin’ bright and early.”

If she could not find Bard at least she could find Nash at the ranch of
Drew, and in that direction she headed her racing horse.