A Girl of the Plains Country

								

and her eyes followed him as he stepped to the side of the stage.
What she saw was a tall man of fifty, in the sort of clothes she was
beginning to be familiar with—flannel shirt, trousers tucked into
cowboy boots, and a sombrero, which he took off now, uncovering
thick, crinkled hair of a wonderful black-and-silver sheen. His face
was tanned and bearded; it had a look of calm about the brows and
temples; but the very deep blue eyes looked as though there was
always a twinkle in them. He smiled at the little girl, but spoke to
the man in the front seat.
City people, the Van Brunts. Hank knew that the wife and mother had
died suddenly on the way out. To the elegant gentleman, handsome,
with the marks of dissipation in his face, and the sleeping baby
looking so strangely out of place in his arms, Hank said a little
doubtfully:
“Mr. Van Brunt? Pearsall’s my name. I’ve brought the ambulance for
you folks. It’s right across there.”
The young man climbed out and shifted to get a hand free to offer,
answering in a low tone, and with great courtesy:
“We’re very glad to get here, Mr. Pearsall. This is my aunt, Miss
Valeria Van Brunt,” and Pearsall turned to help down a small,
silver-haired, fine-featured lady with a high, delicate nose and
brilliant black eyes behind gold-rimmed nose-glasses. From the tiny
jet bonnet to the high-heeled slippers and silk stockings, her
fashionable clothing was dim with plains dust, and as she looked
about at Mesquite—just a stage station, a bunch of shanties huddled
together on the bald plain—she cried accusingly:
“Dear me, Charles! Is this the place? Why, it isn’t a town at all!”
Her nephew answered something, in that low, courteous tone of his,
Hank didn’t hear what.
Among them, they seemed to have forgotten that there was another
passenger to disembark at Mesquite. Pearsall realized with sure,
swift sympathy, that the child was used to being forgotten; he put
up his arms and lifted down little Hilda Van Brunt. They were all on
the ground then, their luggage dumped beside them, and the stage
jingled away.
“Is there any hotel?” Miss Valeria demanded. “We ought to have some
rest—and dinner.”
“It’ll be all right,” the ranch manager said quickly. “I’ve fixed
for you. The ambulance is ready, and—”
“Ambulance!” Miss Valeria interrupted. “Is anybody hurt or—or
sick—or anything like that? We certainly can’t—”
“An ambulance is the regular family vehicle on all the ranches
around here, ma’am,” Pearsall explained. “You’ll find it mighty
comfortable traveling. I aim to have you get in now and drive out a
piece to a good camping place. We’ll have our supper there. There’s
plenty good bedding. And we’ll get a soon start in the morning.
No—well, nothing that you folks would call a hotel, here. You’ll
find it better that way.”
The baby on Van Brunt’s shoulder roused without a whimper, opened