"Oh, that's all right," she assured him. "We all take a fall once in a while. I feel kind of weak and trifling right now—but don't go! No, I want you here for company!"
Bowles had stood up on a pretext of looking after the horses, but Dixie was firm.
"No, you stay," she said, as he explained that she might wish to be alone. "You're out West now, Bowles, and you remember what Hardy Atkins told you—'if a lady asks you to take a letter, take it!' Of course, that was none of Hardy's business, but that's the rule out here, and I want you to come back and sit down. No, not away over there—I want you right up close!"
Bowles came back as readily as a dog, but he did not sit very close. For some reason unknown to himself he assumed that she would be embarrassed, not only by their isolated position but by the intimacies which had arisen between them. Moved by a strong and humane purpose, he had gathered her up in his arms and carried her down the hill; but hardly had he felt her arm about his neck, her breath against his cheek, and her heart against his breast, when the dimensions of his world had suddenly narrowed down, and there was only Dixie Lee and him. And now he was still dazed and breathless, afraid of himself, and not trusting in his strength—and yet he would do anything to please her.
"Come on over here," she coaxed, patting the leaves by her side, and Bowles came as near as he dared. "Now tell me some stories," she said, settling back and closing her eyes. "Ah, this will be fine—tell me something interesting, so I can forget that knee. It sure aches—when I think about it—but I believe there's something in mind-cure. Go ahead and talk. Where'd you learn to ride so well?"
"Oh, that?" beamed Bowles. "Do you think I can ride? Well, I'm not so bad, over the rocks, you know. I used to ride to the hounds. We chased foxes through the woods, leaping stone walls and five-bar gates and all that, and, really, I used to enjoy it. Nothing like cow-punching, of course, but great sport all the same. I remember once we were out at Clarendon——"
He fell into the details of a fox hunt—the first time he had spoken of his past life—and Dixie was careful not to interrupt him. Then he told of his life in the military school, where they taught boys the cavalryman's craft, and Dixie lay quiet and listened. If her knee hurt she did not know it, for she was piecing out his career. School, college, country club, one after the other he alluded to them, but even in his boyish enthusiasm he was careful to mention no names; and as he wandered on with his stories Dixie Lee wondered who he was. Certainly no inconsiderable man in his own country, and yet here he was, an ordinary hired hand, punching cows for forty-five a month. But why? And if he had followed her to the end of the world to win her heart, why did he not talk of love to her, now that they were there together? And when he had taken her in his arms, when he had carried her under the tree and pulled off her boot and tucked his coat under her knee, why had there been no caress, no look, no unnecessary attentions to show that he really cared? Dixie May opened her eyes and gazed out at him through half-closed lashes, and somehow she liked him better—he seemed to be different from the rest.
"Mr. Bowles," she said at last, "you're an awfully interesting man, but there are some things I can't understand. There's something mysterious about you. I know you must be all right, because I met you at Mrs. Melvine's, but at the same time you're hiding out like an ordinary horse-stealing Texican. What are you up to, anyway?"
"Why, I thought you knew all about that," explained Bowles, the old baffling smile coming back into his eyes. "Don't you remember, I told you about it on the train?"
"Yes, I remember, all right," answered Dixie. "But you didn't tell me very much—and then you told me different at Chula Vista. I thought I had a line on you once, but you're too deep for me. What's this I hear about a girl?"