THE SOIL AND THE SEED
Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sitting beside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a good meal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, and their smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling. Intermittently, with the unconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remote from our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals the family wants, had brought the day before.
Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy and a still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation of becoming acquainted. The little girl was decidedly taking the initiative.
"How's it come your name is Blair?" she asked, opening fire as soon as they were alone.
The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Why should he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself.
"I don't know," he admitted.
The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought.
"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and my name's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin—but you aren't." She stroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny," she repeated.
"Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not a part of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped.
"Let's play duck on the rock," suggested Florence.
The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets.
"I don't know how."
"That's nothing." The small brunette had the air of one to whom difficulties were unknown. "I'll show you. Papa and I play, and it's lots of fun—only he beats me." She looked about for available material.
"You get that little box up by the house," she directed, "and we'll have that for the rock."
Ben did as ordered.
"Now bring two tin cans. You'll find a pile back of the barn."
Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of "selects," each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of the ingredients of succotash.
"Now watch me," said Florence.
She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on the ground. "This is the rock," she explained. On the top of the box she perched one of the cans, open end up. "And this is the duck—my duck. Do you see?"
The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. "Yes, I see," he said.
Florence came back to the barn. "Now the game is for you to take this other can and knock my duck off. Then we both run, and if you get your can on the box ahead of me, I'm it, and I'll have to knock off your duck. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"All right." And the sport was on.
Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly.
"He, he!" tittered Florence. "You missed!"
He retrieved his duck without comment.
"Try again; you've got three chances."
More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can.
"Missed again!" exulted the little brunette. "You've only one more try." And the brown eyes flashed with mischief.
For the last time Ben stood at position.
"Be careful! you're out if you miss."
Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung his arm overhead clear from the shoulder, and threw with all his might. There was a flash of gaudy paper through the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood, and the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of danger.
For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a moment; then she stamped a tiny foot imperiously.
"Oh, you naughty boy!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, naughty boy!"
Once more Ben's hands were in his pockets. "Why?" he asked innocently.
"Because you don't play right!"
"You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!"
"But not that way." Florence's small chin was high in the air. "I'm going in the house."
Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye.
"Are you very sorry?" she asked.
Ben nodded his head gravely.
There was a moment of indecision. "All right," she said, with apparent reluctance; "but we won't play duck any more. We'll play drop the handkerchief."
The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.
"I don't know how," he admitted once more.
Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.
"Don't Mr. Rankin, or—or anyone—play with you?" she asked.
Ben shook his head.
"All right, then," she said obligingly, "I'll show you."
With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet in diameter.
"You can't cross that place in there," she said.
The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrier presented itself to his vision.
"Why not?" he asked.
Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't," she explained. Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added, "Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there. Anyway, you can't cross!"
Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a moment doubtfully.
"Now," she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you take the handkerchief." She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B" embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me before I notice you—you can kiss me. Do you see?"
Ben could see.
"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.
The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle—that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something—back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.
"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it."
"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"
Ben agreed to the statement.
An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.
"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl. "Papa never does."
The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.
Again there was a lull.
"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.
Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was not well.
"You're it, ain't you?" he hesitated at last.
This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire.
"Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"
Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face grew very white.
"What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily.
Defiant still, the girl held her ground.
"Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid cats always are!"
"But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of."
Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision.
"You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing," she ventured.
Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and the earth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate. At the north end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort of inclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up he lost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he said nothing. The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-pole without accident. Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raised himself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, and jumped.
That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. In a sort of vision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozen ground,—and all through her fault! She shut her eyes, and clasped her hands over her face.
A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further sound, and she slowly opened her fingers. Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing erect before her. There was a smear of dust upon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon his cheek, which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. From beneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers, deliberate and unsmiling.
As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition passed. In an indefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation of disappointment,—a feeling of being deprived of something which was her due. She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew. A moment so the children faced each other.
"Do you still think I'm afraid?" asked the boy at last.
Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin.
"Pooh!" said the girl, "that was nothing!" She tossed her head in derision. "Anyone could do that!"
Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee to shake off the dust, and put it back upon his head. The action took only a half minute, but when the girl looked at him again it hardly seemed he was the same boy with whom she had just played. His eyes were no longer blue, but gray. The chin, too, with an odd trick,—one she was destined to know better in future,—had protruded, had become the dominant feature of his face, aggressive, almost menacing. Except for the size, one looking could scarcely have believed Ben's visage was that of a child.
"What," the boy's hands went back into his pockets, "what wouldn't anyone do, then?" he asked directly.
At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad to occupy some other person's shoes. Obviously, the proper thing for her to do was to admit her fault and clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with her disposition, and she looked about for a suggestion. One came promptly, but at first she did not speak. Then the brown head tossed again.
"Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts out there!" She indicated the pasture near by. "Papa said the other day he'd rather not be the first to try."
The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that Scotty had just imported from an Eastern breeder. They were absolutely unbroken, but every ounce thoroughbreds, and full to the ear-tips of what the Englishman expressively termed "ginger."
To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea that her challenge would be accepted. Implicit trust in her father was one of her virtues, and the mere suggestion that another would attempt to do what he would not, was rankest heresy. But the boy Benjamin started for the barn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved toward the gate. Instinctively Florence took a step after him.
"Really, I didn't mean for you to try," she explained in swift penitence. "I don't think you're afraid!"
Ben opened and closed the gate silently.
"Please don't do it," pleaded the girl. "You'll be hurt!"
But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well have asked the sun to cease shining. Nothing could stop that gray-eyed boy. Without a show of haste he advanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats in the pan, and whistled enticingly. Full often in his short life he had seen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly.
Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest. At first the colt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of its appetite, it drew nearer, then ran frisking away, again drew near. Ben held out the pan, shook it at intervals, displaying its contents to the best advantage. Colt nature could not resist the appeal. The sleek thoroughbred cast aside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle deep into the grain.
Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding the pan near the ground to reach the straps over the ears; then, pausing, looked at the back far above his head. How he was to get up there would have perplexed an observer. For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an idea occurred to him. Once more holding the remnants of the oats near the ground, he waited until the hungry nose was deep amongst them, the head well lowered; then, improving his opportunity, he swung one leg over the sleek neck and awaited developments.
He was not long in suspense. The action was like touching flame to powder; the resulting explosion was all but simultaneous. With a snort, the head went high in air, tossing the grain about like seed, and down the inclined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Benjamin slid to the slippery back. Once there, an instinct told him to grip the rounding flank with his ankles, and clutch the heavy mane.
And he was none too quick. For a moment the colt paused in pure wonder at the audacity of the thing; then, with a neigh, half of anger and half of fear, it sprang away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashing in and out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity on its back meanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey. For a minute, then another, the youngster kept his seat, pulling upon the reins at intervals, gripping together his small knees until the muscles ached. Then suddenly the colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feet firmly into the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shot overhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which fairly drove the breath from his body. But even then, half unconscious as he was, he wouldn't let loose of the reins. Not until the now thoroughly aroused colt had dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the boy and the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap upon the earth.
Florence had watched the scene with breathless interest. While Ben was making his mount, she observed him doubtfully. While he retained his seat, she clapped her hands in glee. Then, with his downfall, a great lump came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to see the outcome, she ran sobbing to the house. A moment later she rushed into the little parlor where her father and Rankin, their cigars finished, were sitting and chatting.
"Papa," she pleaded, "papa, go quick! Ben's killed!"
"Great Cæsar's ghost!" exclaimed Scotty, springing up nervously, and holding the little girl at arm's length. "What's the matter?"
"Ben, Ben, I told you! He tried to ride one of the colts, and he's killed—I know he is!"
"Holy buckets!" Genuine apprehension was in the Englishman's voice. Without waiting for further explanation he shot out of the door, and ran full tilt to the paddock behind the barn. There he stopped, and Rankin coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side watching the approach of a small figure still some rods away. The boy's face and hands were marked with bloodstains from numerous scratches; one leg of his trousers was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when he walked he limped noticeably. All these things the two men observed at a distance. When he came closer, they were forgotten in the look upon his small face. The odd trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forward was now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the upper. In sympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely or cruelly, but with a fixed determination which was all but uncanny. Scotty shifted a bit uncomfortably.
"By Jove!" he remarked, with his usual unconscious expletive, "I'd rather have a tiger-cat on my trail than that youngster, if he was to look that way. What do you suppose he's got in his cranium now?"
Rankin shook his head. "I don't know. He's beyond me."
Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned. He had another bridle in his hand and a fresh pan of oats. As before, he started to pass without a word, but Rankin halted him. "What's the matter with your clothes, Ben?" he queried.
The lad looked at his questioner. "Horse threw me, sir."
"And what are you going to do now?"
"Going to try to ride him again, sir."
Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more severe.
"Ben," he said at last, "did Mr. Baker hire you to break his horses? If I were you I'd put those things away and ask his pardon."
The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly. Obviously, this phase of the matter had not occurred to him. Obviously, too, the point of view must be correct, for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as the grave. The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke volumes; then he turned to Baker.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said.
Scotty caught his cue. "Granted—this time," he answered.
A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully washed, the rents in his trousers temporarily repaired, were ready to go home. Not until the very last moment did Florence appear; then, her face a bit flushed, she came out to the buckboard.
"Good-bye," she said simply. There was a moment's pause; then, with a deepening color, she turned to Ben Blair. "Come again soon," she added in a low tone.