The young West Pointer thought what a shame it was that such a pretty girl should pronounce the “i” long; doubtless she said “masakree,” too. But how pretty she was! He could not recall having seen such a beauty in a month of Sundays. He hoped the C. O. would keep his detachment at the Billings ranch for a long time.
He had heard Billings and some of the cowhands mention Chita and he had expected to see, if he saw her at all, a raw-boned slattern with large, red hands, and so he was not prepared for the dainty beauty that burst upon his astonished vision. God, what a mother she must have had, thought the lieutenant, appraising Billings; but he felt that he could have enjoyed her more had he been deaf, for he had not yet been of the West a sufficient length of time to accustom his ears to the naive pronunciation of the frontier, so different from his native Bostonese.
The young lieutenant to the contrary notwithstanding, it may not be truthfully said that Wichita Billings was dainty; she was beautiful, yes, but with a certain strength and robustness, a definite self-reliance, that does not perfectly harmonize with the truest conception of daintiness. She was entirely feminine and her hands and feet were small, but they were strong looking hands and she stood squarely upon her two feet in her little high-heeled boots. Her well-moulded jaw was a strong jaw and her laughing eyes were brave without boldness.
No, dainty was not the word; but then, perhaps, Lieutenant Samuel Adams King was influenced not by the Back Bay background of yesterday so much as he was by that nearer background composed of rough cavalrymen and pipe-smoking, tobacco-chewing women of the old frontier. By comparison with these the girl was as dainty as a violet in a cabbage patch, especially when she was pensive, as she often was, or when she was smiling, and she was smiling quite as often as she was pensive, in fact, at almost any time when she was not talking. Then the illusion was shattered.
However, strange as it may seem, Lieutenant King found himself drawing the girl into conversation even though every word, or at least every other word, jangled discordantly upon his cultured nerves. It seemed beyond the pale of remotest possibility that any human being could mispronounce so many words, at least so it seemed to Lieutenant King, and at the same time possess such tonal qualities of voice that it became a pleasure to listen to her murder the English language; and so, when they had reached the ranch house he managed to monopolize her.
Her father had wanted to send a couple of men out after her horse, but she had objected, saying that “the ol’ fool” would come in at feeding time, and if he didn’t it would be good riddance anyway; but while they were discussing the matter the horse suddenly appeared galloping down the very hill from which Wichita had come a few moments before.
“What in tarnation’s the matter with thet cayuse anyways?” demanded Billings. “Acts most like he’d seed a silver tip, or a ghost.”
The horse was running rapidly toward the ranch, occasionally casting a backward look toward the hilltop. Wichita Billings knew perfectly what Buckskin had seen.
“Reckon as how you fellers better ride up there,” said Billings to the two hands, “an’ see what all might be there.”
“They ain’t nothin’ there,” said Wichita. “Didn’t I jest come from there? The ol’ son-of-a-gun’s been actin’ thet away all day—he’s jest plumb loco.”