CHAPTER XIX
Deep lay the snow in Kootenay. All across the prairies the great drifts were like ocean rollers frozen,—against the clumps of timber they were heaped like winter surf, around the cabin curled over to windward like a breaking wave. One could stand upon the comb of that wave, so solid was it; indeed, the Señora La Mancha had chosen the point of vantage from whence to search the trail for some sign of her husband's coming, because he was late afield after stray cattle, and it was long past supper time. Grey clouds were trailing across the moon, casting shadows down which might have been moving men or beasts among the timber; but when the light shone clear again on glittering frosty pines and dead white drifts, it left an aching emptiness as far as the eye could reach against the intense cold, for it was 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. The little Señora was guarded by a robe of beaver skins from her bed, but her head was uncovered, so that the moonlight caught her hair with an icy lustre, and her congealed breath was wafted back, filming over her rosy face with hoar frost. Despite her anxiety for the Blackguard, who might well have been delayed by a serious accident, she felt with every breath the racy intoxicating freshness of the air; so, when a frost-bite stabbed the tip of one ear like a red-hot needle, she only took some powdery snow in her mittened hand to rub the white place red again. After all, a frost-bite is nothing more serious than a sneeze in the hardy West, so Violet La Mancha danced a little dance on the snowdrift, then, warm again to her finger-tips, awaited her husband's coming.
He came at last, galloping up the trail with a lusty yell or so by way of greeting, and, waving her handkerchief in response, the housewife fled indoors to serve a steaming supper. Ten minutes afterwards, when he came floundering in from the stable, and shook the snow from his clothes like a big rough dog, he found the beef and tea set out on the table.
"Feed the brute," said he. "The Wolf could gobble up Mrs. Wolf for an after-thought. Wough, but it's cold,—and you should have heard me cursing the runaway steers."
"That's good, letting off the fireworks where they do no harm, in the open. Why, some men keep all that for the little wife. Sit down, Blackguard, we've got a lovely stew, and three real onions in it. Oh, I've been ever so lonely!"
"Serve you jolly well right for being a cowboy's wife. Lonely, you minx, you'd be lonelier still if I hadn't caught you in time three months ago."
"Three months! three whole big months flown like a dream. Only think! You've cheated me out of three long months of my life, you darling. Now pull those nasty icicles off your moustache, or how can I possibly kiss you?"
"Sweet little lover; we've spent three months in heaven, and only had fresh meat once in all that time."
"Love and fresh meat, 'that's what men are made of.'"
So they supped merrily, and washed up afterwards, both talking at once, and all the time of cattle and domestic details mixed; and then she filled and lit his pipe, he growling amiably of her manifest incompetence in these arts, she being a woman.
"Has the mail come?" he asked.
"Yes; only one wretched paper."
"Give me the wretched paper."
He read a little, while she set a bucket to peel potatoes, using hot water lest the ice should form under her knife.
"Here," he said, "I'm sleepy with the heat of that confounded stove. You take the paper. I'll keep awake best if I peel the potatoes for you."
She looked up, tears swimming in her eyes, "When I was up at the Throne, Mr. Ramsay liked to watch me peeling potatoes."
"What a cad! Well, he gets his deserts—wealth from the Burrows' inventions beyond the very dreams of avarice, and much good may it do him."
"And I have a log-cabin, a nest to keep warm for my big true Blackguard, and thanks to say on my knees to God for love. What does it matter all this stuff in the paper?" She laid it on her lap, watching his comic clumsiness at the peeling. "The world outside doesn't matter one little bit to us."
"Read anyway," he said, grinning, "or you'll drop into poetry next."
"'Horrible Murder,'" she read, yawning. "Oh, I wish it was bedtime. 'Suicide of a Vegetarian.' 'Fuss, Box, & Co. in Bankruptcy.' 'The Railroad Horror.' Hello, here, under the Cavalry heading, there's Dandy Irvine—Sergeant Irvine—got a commission. They've made him an Inspector."
"Good old Dandy! We'll drink his health next time I can buy the ingredients."
"I don't want ingredients," she said, pouting; "he's such a little dear, and you can never keep tidy, however I dust you and scrub. Must I read any more? Well, here's the British Empire column. 'London, February 6—Death of the Spanish Ambassador. We regret to say,'"—
The Blackguard whistled softly.
"Well," she looked up, "what's the matter? Did you know him?"
"Why, that's the Snob."
"The what?"
"My brother. I asked him once whether he'd have a long life or his habits. He had the habits, and I hope he enjoyed them. Poor Snob, I guess he's left me the reversion of his debts." The Blackguard finished peeling the last potato, and handed over the pan. "Will your Grace be pleased to put these potatoes away?"
"What do you mean?"
"Only, my little wife, that you are a Duchess now."
"A Duchess? What nonsense!" Coming across to his chair, she kissed him tenderly upon the forehead. "I'm nothing," she said, with a gay little laugh, "but Mrs. Blackguard."
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