In the Garden of the Gods
BY WILLIAM McLEOD RAINE
When one is in the Garden of the Gods one should be, I suppose, in Elysian humor. My mood, to the contrary, for private reasons of my own, was thunderous. I lay on my elbow among the kinni-kinic where I had flung myself down in the shade of a silver spruce. But the sun was higher now, and its rare, untempered beat was on me. Naturally I used the shifting orb as a text on the futility of life. What was the use of arranging things comfortably when they always disarranged themselves as promptly as possible? Now, there was Katherine—
The sound of a revolver cracked into my sombre discontent. Hard on its echoes came the slap of running feet, and, as I guessed, the swish of petticoats. A raucous command to stop brought me to my feet instantly. It also brought the runner to a halt just out of my sight beyond the shoulder of the hill.
“I dare you to touch me,” panted a high-pitched voice that struck in me a bell of recognition.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” replied he of the hoarse bellow, soothingly. “You know that mighty well.”
“If you put a finger on me I’ll cry for help.”
“There wouldn’t anybody hear, Miss,” replied the heavy bass.
“You—you coward!” Her voice was like a whip.
“Oh, you can call me anything you like but you got to go along with me, Miss,” he said sullenly.