Bunch Grass Part 47

"They're a-huntin' trouble. Likely as not they'll find it, too."

Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences, and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the old man's back-pasture.

Smoky stared at Mintie. Then he said abruptly--

"You look kinder peaky-faced. Anything wrong?"

"Nothing," replied Mintie.

"You ain't a-worryin' about your Pap, air ye? I reckon he kin take keer of himself."

"I reckon he kin; so kin his daughter."

"Shall I put my plug into the barn?"

"We're mighty short of hay," said Mintie inhospitably.

Smoky Jack stared at her and laughed. Then he slipped from the saddle, pulled the reins over the horse's head, and threw the ends on the ground. With a deprecating smile he said softly--

"Air you very extry busy, Mints?"

"Not very extry. Why?"

"I've a notion to read ye something. It come to me las' Sunday week in the middle of the night. An' now it's slicked up to the Queen's taste."

"Poetry?"

"I dunno as it's that--after the remarks you pa.s.sed about that leetle piece I sent to the _Tribune_."

"You sent it? Of all the nerve----! Did they print it?"

Smoky Jack shook his head.

"Never expected they would," he admitted mournfully. "I won't deny that it was kind o'----"

"Slushy?" hazarded Mintie.

"Wal--yes. You'd made all sorts of a dodgasted fool outer me."

"Yer father and mother done that."

"I've said as much to Maw, many's the time. 'Maw' I'd say, 'I ain't a masterpiece--and I know it.' But las' Sunday night I was _in_spired."

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Mintie frowned. With a shy glance and heightened colour the man who had been inspired whispered softly--

"It's ent.i.tled, 'To My Own Brown Bird.'"

"And who's your brown bird?" demanded Mintie sharply.

"As if you didn't know."

"Meanin' me?"

"Couldn't naturally be n.o.body else."

"I'm not yours; and as for bein' brown, why, my skin is white as milk."

"I'll bet my life it is."

"As for bein' a bird, that ain't no compliment. Birds is first cousins to snakes. Never knew that, did ye?"

"Never--s'elp me! Is that really so?"

Covered with mortification, he put the paper back into his pocket.

"Read it," commanded the young lady. "Let's get it over an' done with.

Then, mebbe, I'll help ye to rechristen the durned thing."

Emboldened by this gracious speech, Smoky began in a nasal, drawling voice--

"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide----"

"Ananias!" said Mintie. "You was born in these yere foothills, and raised in 'em; and you've never known enough to git out of 'em."

"Git out of 'em?"

"Git out of 'em," she repeated scornfully. "D'ye think if I was a man I'd stop in such a G.o.d-forsaken place as yours, with nothing but rattlesnakes and coyotes to keep me company? Go on!"

"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide-- I've dwelt in many a stately tower; And now I turn me back to ride To my own brown bird in her humble bower."

"That'll do," said Mintie. "You ain't improved much. Bill Shakespeare can rest easy in his tomb. I've got my ch.o.r.es to do. 'Bout time you was doin' yours."

Smoky Jack, refusing to budge, said jocosely, "Things air fixed up to home. 'Twouldn't worry me any if I never got back till to-morrer."

Mintie frowned and went into the house. Smoky led his horse to the barn with perplexity and distress writ large upon his face.

"Notice to quit," he muttered. Then he grinned pleasantly. "Reckon a perfect gen'leman 'd take the hint and clear out. But I ain't a perfect gen'leman. What in thunder ails the girl?"

It was nearly seven when Pap Ransom reached his corral. Smoky had milked the cow and fed the pigs. In the kitchen Mintie was frying some potatoes and stirring the big pot full of beans and bacon. From time to time Smoky had caught a glimpse of her white ap.r.o.n as she whisked in and out of the kitchen. Although a singularly modest youth, he conceived the idea that Mintie was interested in his doings, whereas we must admit that she was more concerned about her father. However, when she saw Pap ascend the hill, carrying his rifle over his shoulder, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and from that minute she gave to the simple preparations for supper undivided attention.

"Whar's the liver?" said Smoky, as the old man nodded to him.

"Liver?"

"Heard a shot, jest one, and made certain a good buck was on his back."

"I never fired no shot," said Ransom slowly.