“No, no, no, don’t shoot,” cried an answering voice. “Oh, be careful. It’s I—Hilma Tree.”
Annixter slid the pistol into his pocket with a great qualm of apprehension. He came forward and met Hilma in the doorway.
“Good Lord,” he murmured, “that sure did give me a start. If I had shot—”
Hilma stood abashed and confused before him. She was dressed in a white organdie frock of the most rigorous simplicity and wore neither flower nor ornament. The severity of her dress made her look even larger than usual, and even as it was her eyes were on a level with Annixter’s. There was a certain fascination in the contradiction of stature and character of Hilma—a great girl, half-child as yet, but tall as a man for all that.
There was a moment’s awkward silence, then Hilma explained:
“I—I came back to look for my hat. I thought I left it here this afternoon.”
“And I was looking for my hat,” cried Annixter. “Funny enough, hey?”
They laughed at this as heartily as children might have done. The constraint of the situation was a little relaxed and Annixter, with sudden directness, glanced sharply at the young woman and demanded:
“Well, Miss Hilma, hate me as much as ever?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she answered, “I never said I hated you.”
“Well—dislike me, then; I know you said that.”
“I—I disliked what you did—tried to do. It made me angry and it hurt me. I shouldn’t have said what I did that time, but it was your fault.”
“You mean you shouldn’t have said you didn’t like me?” asked Annixter. “Why?”
“Well, well—I don’t—I don’t dislike anybody,” admitted Hilma.
“Then I can take it that you don’t dislike me? Is that it?”
“I don’t dislike anybody,” persisted Hilma.
“Well, I asked you more than that, didn’t I?” queried Annixter uneasily. “I asked you to like me, remember, the other day. I’m asking you that again, now. I want you to like me.”
Hilma lifted her eyes inquiringly to his. In her words was an unmistakable ring of absolute sincerity. Innocently she inquired:
“Why?”
Annixter was struck speechless. In the face of such candour, such perfect ingenuousness, he was at a loss for any words.
“Well—well,” he stammered, “well—I don’t know,” he suddenly burst out. “That is,” he went on, groping for his wits, “I can’t quite say why.” The idea of a colossal lie occurred to him, a thing actually royal.
“I like to have the people who are around me like me,” he declared. “I—I like to be popular, understand? Yes, that’s it,” he continued, more reassured. “I don’t like the idea of anyone disliking me. That’s the way I am. It’s my nature.”
“Oh, then,” returned Hilma, “you needn’t bother. No, I don’t dislike you.”
“Well, that’s good,” declared Annixter judicially. “That’s good. But hold on,” he interrupted, “I’m forgetting. It’s not enough to not dislike me. I want you to like me. How about that?”
Hilma paused for a moment, glancing vaguely out of the doorway toward the lighted window of the dairy-house, her head tilted.
“I don’t know that I ever thought about that,” she said.
“Well, think about it now,” insisted Annixter.
“But I never thought about liking anybody particularly,” she observed. “It’s because I like everybody, don’t you see?”
“Well, you’ve got to like some people more than other people,” hazarded Annixter, “and I want to be one of those ‘some people,’ savvy? Good Lord, I don’t know how to say these fool things. I talk like a galoot when I get talking to female girls and I can’t lay my tongue to anything that sounds right. It isn’t my nature. And look here, I lied when I said I liked to have people like me—to be popular. Rot! I don’t care a curse about people’s opinions of me. But there’s a few people that are more to me than most others—that chap Presley, for instance—and those people I do want to have like me. What they think counts. Pshaw! I know I’ve got enemies; piles of them. I could name you half a dozen men right now that are naturally itching to take a shot at me. How about this ranch? Don’t I know, can’t I hear the men growling oaths under their breath after I’ve gone by? And in business ways, too,” he went on, speaking half to himself, “in Bonneville and all over the county there’s not a man of them wouldn’t howl for joy if they got a chance to down Buck Annixter. Think I care? Why, I like it. I run my ranch to suit myself and I play my game my own way. I’m a ‘driver,’ I know it, and a ‘bully,’ too. Oh, I know what they call me—‘a brute beast, with a twist in my temper that would rile up a newborn lamb,’ and I’m ‘crusty’ and ‘pigheaded’ and ‘obstinate.’ They say all that, but they’ve got to say, too, that I’m cleverer than any man-jack in the running. There’s nobody can get ahead of me.” His eyes snapped. “Let ’em grind their teeth. They can’t ‘down’ me. When I shut my fist there’s not one of them can open it. No, not with a chisel.” He turned to Hilma again. “Well, when a man’s hated as much as that, it stands to reason, don’t it, Miss Hilma, that the few friends he has got he wants to keep? I’m not such an entire swine to the people that know me best—that jackass, Presley, for instance. I’d put my hand in the fire to do him a real service. Sometimes I get kind of lonesome; wonder if you would understand? It’s my fault, but there’s not a horse about the place that don’t lay his ears back when I get on him; there’s not a dog don’t put his tail between his legs as soon as I come near him. The cayuse isn’t foaled yet here on Quien Sabe that can throw me, nor the dog whelped that would dare show his teeth at me. I kick that Irish setter every time I
