Thus keeping a
speculative watch on all persons of
possible
managerial
aspect, Octavia, with a catching
breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware of
Teddy Westlake hurrying along the
platform in the
direction of the train -- of Teddy Westlake or his sun-
browned ghost in cheviot, boots and leather-girdled hat
-- Theodore Westlake, Jr.,
amateur polo (almost)
champion, all-round
butterfly and cumberer of the soil;
but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determined
Teddy than the one she had known a year ago when last
she saw him.
He perceived Octavia at almost the same time, deflected
his course, and steered for her in his old, straightforward
way. Something like awe came upon her as the strange-
ness of his
metamorphosis was brought into closer range;
the rich, red-brown of his
complexion brought out so
vividly his straw-coloured
mustache and steel-gray eyes.
He seemed more
grown-up, and, somehow, farther away.
But, when he spoke, the old,
boyish Teddy came back
again. They had been friends from childhood.
"Why, 'Tave!" he exclaimed,
unable to reduce
his
perplexity to coherence. " How -- what -- when --
where?"
"Train," said Octavia; "necessity; ten minutes ago;
home. Your
complexion's gone, Teddy. Now, how --
what -- when -- where?"
"I'm
working down here," said Teddy. He cast side
glances about the station as one does who tries to combine
politeness with duty.
"You didn't notice on the train," he asked, "an old
lady with gray curls and a poodle, who occupied two
seats with her bundles and quarrelled with the conductor,
did you?"
"I think not," answered Octavia, reflecting. "And
you haven't, by any chance, noticed a big, gray-
mustached
man in a blue shirt and six-shooters, with little flakes of
merino wool sticking in his hair, have you?"
"Lots of 'em," said Teddy, with symptoms of mental
delirium under the
strain. Do you happen to know any
such individual?"
"No; the
description is
imaginary. Is your interest
in the old lady whom you describe a personal one?"
"Never saw her in my life. She's painted entirely
from fancy. She owns the little piece of property where I
earn my bread and butter - the Rancho de las Sombras.
I drove up to meet her according to
arrangement with
her lawyer."
Octavia leaned against the wall of the
telegraph office.
Was this possible? And didn't he know?
"Are you the
manager of that ranch?" she asked
weakly.
"I am," said Teddy, with pride.
"I am Mrs. Beaupree," said Octavia
faintly; "but my
hair never would curl, and I was
polite to the conductor."
For a moment that strange,
grown-up look came back,
and removed Teddy miles away from her.
"I hope you'll excuse me," he said, rather awkwardly.
"You see, I've been down here in the chaparral a year.
I hadn't heard. Give me your checks, please, and I'll
have your traps loaded into the wagon. Jos?will follow
with them. We travel ahead in the buckboard."
Seated by Teddy in a feather-weight buckboard, behind
a pair of wild, cream-coloured Spanish ponies, Octavia
abandoned all thought for the exhilaration of the present.
They swept out of the little town and down the level road
toward the south. Soon the road dwindled and dis-
appeared, and they struck across a world carpeted with
an endless reach of curly mesquite grass. The wheels
made no sound. The
tireless ponies bounded ahead at
an
unbrokengallop. The
temperate wind, made fragrant
by thousands of acres of blue and yellow wild flowers,
roared
gloriously in their ears. The
motion was a锟絩ial,
ecstatic, with a thrilling sense of perpetuity in its effect.
Octavia sat silent, possessed by a feeling of elemental,
sensual bliss. Teddy seemed to be wrestling with some
internal problem.
"I'm going to call you madama," he announced as the
result of his labours. "That is what the Mexicans will
call you -- they're nearly all Mexicans on the ranch,
you know. That seems to me about the proper thing."
"Very well, Mr. Westlake," said Octavia, primly.
"Oh, now," said Teddy, in some
consternation, "that's
carrying the thing too far, isn't it?"
"Don't worry me with your
beastlyetiquette. I'm
just
beginning to live. Don't
remind me of anything
artificial. If only this air could be bottled! This much
alone is worth coming for. Oh, look I there goes a deer!"
"Jack-rabbit," said Teddy, without turning his head.
"Could I -- might I drive?" suggested Octavia, pant-
ing, with rose-tinted cheeks and the eye of an eager child.
"On one condition. Could I -- might I smoke? "
"Forever!" cried Octavia,
taking the lines with solemn
joy. "How shall I know which way to drive?"
"Keep her sou' by sou'east, and all sail set. You see
that black speck on the
horizon under that lowermost
Gulf cloud? That's a group of live-oaks and a land-
mark. Steer halfway between that and the little hill to
the left. I'll
recite you the whole code of driving rules
for the Texas
prairies: keep the reins from under the
horses' feet, and swear at 'em frequent."
"I'm too happy to swear, Ted. Oh, why do people
buy yachts or travel in palace-cars, when a buckboard
and a pair of plugs and a spring morning like this can
satisfy all desire?"
"Now, I'll ask you," protested Teddy, who was futilely
striking match after match on the dashboard, "not to
call those denizens of the air plugs. They can kick out
a hundred miles between
daylight and dark." At last
he succeeded in snatching a light for his cigar from the
flame held in the hollow of his hands.
"Room!" said Octavia,
intensely. "That's what
produces the effect. I know now what I've wanted --
scope -- range -- room! "
"Smoking-room," said Teddy, unsentimentally. "I
love to smoke in a buckboard. The wind blows the smoke
into you and out again. It saves exertion."
The two fell so naturally into their
old-time goodfellow-
ship that it was only by degrees that a sense of the strange-
ness of the new relations between them came to be felt.
"Madama," said Teddy, wonderingly, "however did
you get it into your bead to cut the crowd and come down
here? Is it a fad now among the upper classes to trot
off to sheep ranches instead of to Newport?"
"I was broke, Teddy," said Octavia,
sweetly, with her
interest centred upon steering
safely between a Spanish
dagger plant and a clump of chaparral; "I haven't a
thing in the world but this ranch -- not even any other
home to go to."
"Come, now," said Teddy,
anxiously but ineredu-
lously, "you don't mean it?"
"When my husband," said Octavia, with a shy slurring
of the word, "died three months ago I thought I had a
reasonable
amount of the world's goods. His lawyer
exploded that theory in a sixty-minute fully illustrated
lecture. I took to the sheep as a last
resort. Do you
happen to know of any
fashionable caprice among the
gilded youth of Manhattan that induces them to abandon
polo and club windows to become
managers of sheep
ranches?"
"It's easily explained in my case," responded Teddy,
promptly. "I had to go to work. I couldn't have earned
my board in New York, so I chummed a while with old
Sandford, one of the
syndicate that owned the ranch before
Colonel Beaupree bought it, and got a place down here.
I wasn't
manager at first. I jogged around on ponies and
studied the business in detail, until I got all the points in
my head. I saw where it was losing and what the reme-
dies were, and then Sandford put me in
charge. I get a
hundred dollars a month, and I earn it."
"Poor Teddy!" said Octavia, with a smile.
"You needn't. I like it. I save half my wages, and
I'm as hard as a water plug. It beats polo."
"Will it furnish bread and tea and jam for another out-
cast from civilization?"
"The spring shearing," said the
manager, "just cleaned
up a
deficit in last year's business. Wastefulness and
inattention have been the rule
heretofore. The autumn
clip will leave a small profit over all expenses. Next
year there will be jam."
When, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the ponies
rounded a gentle, brush-covered hill, and then swooped,
like a double cream-coloured
cyclone, upon the Rancho
de las Sombras, Octavia gave a little cry of delight. A
lordly grove of
magnificent live-oaks cast an area of
grateful, cool shade,
whence the ranch had drawn its
name, "de las Sombras" -- of the shadows. The house,
of red brick, one story, ran low and long beneath the trees.
Through its middle, dividing its six rooms in half, extended
a broad,
archedpassageway,
picturesque with flowering
cactus and
hanging red earthern jars. A "
gallery," low
and broad, encircled the building. Vines climbed about
it, and the
adjacent ground was, for a space, covered with
transplanted grass and shrubs. A little lake, long and
narrow, glimmered in the sun at the rear. Further away
stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, the corrals,
wool sheds and shearing pens. To the right lay the low
hills, splattered with dark patches of chaparral; to the
left the unbounded green
prairie blending against the blue
heavens.
"It's a home, Teddy," said Octavia, breathlessly;
that's what it is -- it's a home."
"Not so bad for a sheep ranch," admitted Teddy, with
excusable pride. "I've been tinkering on it at odd times."
A Mexican youth
sprang from somewhere in the grass,
and took
charge of the creams. The
mistress and the
manager entered the house.
"Here's Mrs. MacIntyre," said Teddy, as a placid,
neat,
elderly lady came out upon the
gallery to meet
them. "Mrs. Mac, here's the boss. Very likely she
will be
wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beans after
her drive."
Mrs. MacIntyre, the
housekeeper, as much a fixture
on the place as the lake or the live-oaks, received the
imputation of the ranch's resources of
refreshment with
mild
indignation, and was about to give it
utterance when
Octavia spoke.
"Oh, Mrs. MacIntyre, don't apologize for Teddy.
Yes, I call him Teddy. So does every one whom he
hasn't duped into
taking him
seriously. You see, we
used to cut paper dolls and play jackstraws together ages
ago. No one minds what he says."