“Say, Miss Hilma.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If that dog turns up again you let me know.”
“Very well, sir.”
Annixter returned to the dining-room and sat down in the chair he had just vacated. “To hell with the dog!” he muttered, enraged, he could not tell why.
When at length he allowed his attention to wander from Hilma Tree, he found that he had been staring fixedly at a thermometer upon the wall opposite, and this made him think that it had long been his intention to buy a fine barometer, an instrument that could be accurately depended on. But the barometer suggested the present condition of the weather and the likelihood of rain. In such case, much was to be done in the way of getting the seed ready and overhauling his ploughs and drills. He had not been away from the house in two days. It was time to be up and doing. He determined to put in the afternoon “taking a look around,” and have a late supper. He would not go to Los Muertos; he would ignore Magnus Derrick’s invitation. Possibly, though, it might be well to run over and see what was up.
“If I do,” he said to himself, “I’ll ride the buckskin.” The buckskin was a half-broken broncho that fought like a fiend under the saddle until the quirt and spur brought her to her senses. But Annixter remembered that the Trees’ cottage, next the dairy-house, looked out upon the stables, and perhaps Hilma would see him while he was mounting the horse and be impressed with his courage.
“Huh!” grunted Annixter under his breath, “I should like to see that fool Delaney try to bust that bronch. That’s what I’d like to see.”
However, as Annixter stepped from the porch of the ranch house, he was surprised to notice a grey haze over all the sky; the sunlight was gone; there was a sense of coolness in the air; the weathervane on the barn—a fine golden trotting horse with flamboyant mane and tail—was veering in a southwest wind. Evidently the expected rain was close at hand.
Annixter crossed over to the stables reflecting that he could ride the buckskin to the Trees’ cottage and tell Hilma that he would not be home to supper. The conference at Los Muertos would be an admirable excuse for this, and upon the spot he resolved to go over to the Derrick ranch house, after all.
As he passed the Trees’ cottage, he observed with satisfaction that Hilma was going to and fro in the front room. If he busted the buckskin in the yard before the stable she could not help but see. Annixter found the stableman in the back of the barn greasing the axles of the buggy, and ordered him to put the saddle on the buckskin.
“Why, I don’t think she’s here, sir,” answered the stableman, glancing into the stalls. “No, I remember now. Delaney took her out just after dinner. His other horse went lame and he wanted to go down by the Long Trestle to mend the fence. He started out, but had to come back.”
“Oh, Delaney got her, did he?”
“Yes, sir. He had a circus with her, but he busted her right enough. When it comes to horse, Delaney can wipe the eye of any cowpuncher in the county, I guess.”
“He can, can he?” observed Annixter. Then after a silence, “Well, all right, Billy; put my saddle on whatever you’ve got here. I’m going over to Los Muertos this afternoon.”
“Want to look out for the rain, Mr. Annixter,” remarked Billy. “Guess we’ll have rain before night.”
“I’ll take a rubber coat,” answered Annixter. “Bring the horse up to the ranch house when you’re ready.”
Annixter returned to the house to look for his rubber coat in deep disgust, not permitting himself to glance toward the dairy-house and the Trees’ cottage. But as he reached the porch he heard the telephone ringing his call. It was Presley, who rang up from Los Muertos. He had heard from Harran that Annixter was, perhaps, coming over that evening. If he came, would he mind bringing over his—Presley’s—bicycle. He had left it at the Quien Sabe ranch the day before and had forgotten to come back that way for it.
“Well,” objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice, “I was going to ride over.” “Oh, never mind, then,” returned Presley easily. “I was to blame for forgetting it. Don’t bother about it. I’ll come over some of these days and get it myself.”
Annixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement wrench and stamped out of the room, banging the door. He found his rubber coat hanging in the hallway and swung into it with a fierce movement of the shoulders that all but started the seams. Everything seemed to conspire to thwart him. It was just like that absentminded, crazy poet, Presley, to forget his wheel. Well, he could come after it himself. He, Annixter, would ride some horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he saw the wheel leaning against the fence where Presley had left it. If it stayed there much longer the rain would catch it. Annixter ripped out an oath. At every moment his ill-humour was increasing. Yet, for all that, he went back to the stable, pushing the bicycle before him, and countermanded his order, directing the stableman to get the buggy ready. He himself carefully stowed Presley’s bicycle under the seat, covering it with a couple of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover.
While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an exclamation and paused in the act of backing the horse into the shafts, holding up a hand, listening.
From the hollow roof of the barn and from the thick velvet-like padding of dust over the ground
