It was the interest sparkling in her brown eyes which made the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger outdistance Carver Standish III in his haste to ask her for the grand march. Carver, in white trousers and an air a little too p.r.o.nounced to be termed self-possession, was leisurely crossing the floor toward her when his chap-clad rival of Cinnamon Creek slid past him unceremoniously and reached Priscilla first. Even then Carver could not believe she would choose a forest ranger in place of him; and his anger was by no means cooled when he heard her say as though in answer to an apology:

"Oh, but you see I can dance with Carver any day, and I've never danced with a forest ranger in my life. I was just hoping you'd ask me when you came!"

Baffled, Carver sought Vivian in the corner whence he had come. Weak as Vivian was at times, he said to himself, in the matter of a.s.sociates she showed better judgment than some other girls he might name. Vivian did not turn him down. Secretly she was devoutly thankful he had rescued her from a persistent Biering cow boy to whom she had not been introduced, and with whom, had an introduction been procured, she did not care to dance.

Before Carver had come, she had watched Mary talking with that freakish Miss b.u.mps, Priscilla chatting with a dozen different ranchmen, cow boys, and Bear Canyon children, and Virginia attending to the needs of a fretful baby while its mother went cookie-hunting to the family rig.

In her heart of hearts Vivian envied them all. Inwardly she longed to be one with whom all others felt at ease; but outwardly it was far easier to echo Carver's vindictive mood, and agree with him, as they went to take their places in the ever-lengthening line, that never in her life had she seen such people.

Mr. Samuel Wilson with Miss b.u.mps as a partner and Mr. Benjamin Jarvis with Mary led the march, which three times made the circle of the new barn before breaking into an hilarious two-step. Mr. Samuel Wilson's phonograph groaned and wheezed bravely from its platform; three great bon-fires outside made the great barn glow with light; the babies in the straw-filled bins slumbered on while their fathers and mothers grew young again.

Carver, scorning a two-step, was teaching Vivian a new dance introduced at Gordon the winter before. Pretty as it was, it was strangely inappropriate in Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn, and served to separate Carver and Vivian still farther from their fellow guests. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger watched them until the straight line between his eyebrows grew deeper and deeper. Then he left Miss Martha b.u.mps with the excuse of bringing her a gla.s.s of cider, and started across the floor. It was too bad, he was thinking to himself, for a likeable chap like that young Standish to get in bad. A good-natured word might give him a hint, and no one be the wiser.

Carver and Vivian did not notice his approach. They were resting from their dance, and talking together in tones low yet perfectly audible to one who might be pa.s.sing by.

"Did you ever see such queer people in your life?" the tall ranger heard Vivian say, and Carver's rejoinder made the straight line between his brows even deeper than before. Apparently there was double need for his friendly hint.

"Some five hundred, _believe me_!" said the third Carver Standish.

The scorn in his voice was born of petulance rather than of sn.o.bbishness, but no such kindly discrimination would be made by any sharp-eared guest of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger lost no time.

"If I were you," he said frankly but pleasantly to the amazed Carver Standish, "I'd be a bit more careful about what I said. You see, here in Wyoming it's not considered good form to talk about your host and his guests. If they heard you, it mightn't be comfortable. And, besides, it seems to me it would be better to dance with other folks. That's why I came to ask you if you'd dance the next dance with me, Miss Winters."

Carver and Vivian were too discomfited to be gracious. Like many persons more mature than they, they sought to cover embarra.s.sment and to gain control of the situation by bad manners.

"I hardly think," said Carver Standish III stiffly, "that I need any coaching on behavior from you!"

And before the ranger had time to reply, had he contemplated such action, Vivian was ready with her self-defense.

"I rather guess New Englanders have about as good manners as Wyoming people," she said scathingly, "at least judging from those I've seen!"

The reply of the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger was brief and to the point.

"I always thought so myself until to-night," he said.

Then he bowed politely, procured a gla.s.s of cider for the waiting Miss b.u.mps, who was tatting during the interval, and quietly took his leave.

But his words, angrily received though they had been, bore fruit, for Carver Standish III danced not only with Miss Martha b.u.mps but also with Mrs. Samuel Wilson who was twice his size; and Vivian, heartily ashamed of herself and seeking redemption in her own eyes, accepted the Biering cow boy without a show of an introduction, and danced with him three times during the evening, not to mention her hearty acceptance of d.i.c.k and Alec and Joe.

It was late when Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn-warming broke up, and later when the guests rode and drove away down the canyon. In Mr. Crusoe's rig, save from one occupant, conversation and laughter never ceased until they turned down the avenue of cottonwoods. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger came in for his share of the observations from all but Vivian--his general superiority over the other rangers, his good English, the interesting line between his eyes, and his air of having seen the world. Miss b.u.mps was admired and complimented. The stature of the biggest Biering cow boy brought forth exclamations. The capacity of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as a host received loud praise. In short, no one was omitted, even to the youngest Wilson baby, who had looked so adorable as he lay asleep in the bin.

It had been a memorable evening, Aunt Nan said, as they gathered around the big fire which Hannah had kept for them, for a last half hour before bed-time. She thought they all needed just such an occasion, so that they might carry back home with them a knowledge of real Wyoming hospitality which knew no strangers. Of course, they had seen it all summer long, she added, smiling at Virginia, but the courtesy of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis had made them one with all Elk Creek Valley and Bear Canyon.

"I've been thinking all the evening of the little poem we learned last Christmas, Virginia," she said. "You know, the one about the fire. I guess the big bon-fires at Mr. Jarvis' made me think of it, and now this one at home brings it back again. You remember it, don't you?"

Virginia did remember. She repeated it softly while they watched the flames and listened. Vivian, in her corner, was glad no one could see the red which crept into her cheeks.

"'I watched a log in the fire-place burning, Wrapped in flame like a winding sheet, Giving again with splendid largess The sun's long gift of treasured heat--

"'Giving again in the fire's low music The sound of wind on an autumn night, And the gold of many a summer sunrise Garnered and given out in light.

"'I watched a log in the fire-place burning-- Oh, if I, too, could only be Sure to give back the love and laughter That Life so freely gave to me!'"

"That's what the people out here do," said Aunt Nan after a little when Virginia had finished. "They're not afraid to give back the 'love and laughter' which Life has given them. I think we reserved New Englanders can learn a lesson from Mr. Jarvis and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and all the other people we met and be more willing to give back what we've had given to us."

For a long hour after she had gone to bed Vivian remembered the lesson she might have learned from the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and would not; the love and laughter she might have given the guests of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis and did not. Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she lay looking through the tent opening at the mountains--great, silent souls beneath the stars. They gave back--just _everything_, she thought.

"Can't you sleep, Vivian?" Virginia whispered from her bed across the tent. "What's the matter?"

Vivian told half the truth.

"It's that poem," she said petulantly. "Of course it's lovely, but I can't get it out of my mind, and I hate to have things run through my head like that!"

CHAPTER XVI

THE CINNAMON CREEK FOREST RANGER

"No, Vivian," a.s.sured Virginia for at least the tenth time, "there aren't any cattle on those hills. You just turn up the Bear Canyon road where we went after the bear, and go till you reach the creek. It's only a mile from here. Then if you feel a bit nervous about riding Siwash up the mountain, why tie him to a tree and walk. Perhaps 'twill be easier anyway, for you'll find the kinnikinnick just after you leave the creek. It will be redder in the open places, so hunt for those. You'll love it for Christmas boxes. If it weren't for Caesar, I'd go with you, but I want to finish the third book before Mary goes. Is it at the creek Carver's going to meet you?"

"There or at the crossroads," explained Vivian, as she mounted Siwash. "He went to town this morning with Donald, but he said he'd be back in plenty of time. I tried to 'phone, but I guess there must be something wrong. I couldn't get any one, and it didn't buzz at all. But I know he'll be there, and I'm not a bit afraid of Siwash. Good-by."

Virginia stood on the porch and watched Vivian ride down the lane before returning to Caesar. She was wondering if anything could be the matter, if, perhaps, something had happened at the barn-warming the evening before to displease Vivian. She had seemed so unlike herself all the morning.

But, she concluded wisely, few days were cloudless, and even an almost perfect house-party had its ups and downs. She and Donald had both discovered that. So many different personalities were bound to collide occasionally, and one couldn't be happy always. An afternoon on the mountain was sure to make Vivian's world bright again.

Meanwhile Vivian neared the crossroads. Carver was not there. A scanning of the prairie showed him nowhere in sight. She would ride up the canyon to the ford and wait there, she said to herself. When she rode, her thoughts were less troublesome, and it was far easier to stick to her resolve.

Last evening, just as Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' guests were dispersing, she had made a hasty engagement with Carver to meet her the following afternoon and go for kinnikinnick up Cinnamon Creek. The search for kinnikinnick was not, however, her real reason for wishing to see Carver. If her courage did not fail her, and if her sudden resolve did not wane in the light of day, as resolves so often do, she was going to ask Carver to ride with her up Cinnamon Creek to the ranger's cabin, and there help her to apologize for their rudeness. To admit her regret to Carver would be even more difficult than to apologize to the ranger, and she was not at all sure that she should wish to do so in severely practical daylight.

Yet daylight had come--it was early afternoon of the next day--and she was still ready if Carver would only come. She allowed Siwash to sink his warm nose in the amber waters of the ford while she waited. It was very still up there. In fact, only Virginia's repeated a.s.surances that there were no cattle on the hills and her own knowledge that a homesteader's cabin was just out of sight beyond the quaking-asps on her left, made Vivian endure that stillness, broken only by the hurrying creek waters and the lazy humming of tiny, hidden insects.

To her right rose the mountain wall, dark with pine and spruce, though here and there a flaming service-berry or a hawthorn broke through the evergreens like sudden fire. The tangle of trees and shrubs seemed impenetrable, and yet Virginia had told of a trail which led from the creek not three rods from the ford--led up, up, up for five miles until it reached the Cinnamon Creek Station.

Why did not Carver come? She wished she could be as patient as Siwash who stood knee deep in the ford, hung his s.h.a.ggy, homely head, and stole a nap gratefully. For the twentieth time Vivian rehea.r.s.ed her speeches, the one to Carver and the other to the insulted ranger. That is, he had every cause to be insulted, though her memory of the smile with which he had received her thrust would seem to dispute his justifiable indignation.

Perhaps here in the mountains people were not so easily insulted. They, the mountains, were so big and generous that they made one ashamed of littleness.

Being sure of the speeches, she grew more and more impatient. Carver, waiting in Elk Creek for a stock train to load up with its living freight, was even more uneasy than she. He could not leave Donald and there was no way of letting Vivian know that he could not meet her at the ford. At last, having convinced himself that he could not help matters, he sat down on the station platform, disturbed in spirit and conscience, and hoped that Vivian had already turned back home.

But Vivian did not turn back. It grew hot by the ford, and she decided to tie Siwash in the shadow of some quaking-asps across the creek, and go up the trail herself to a shady place. Carver would see Siwash and call to her if she did not hear him come.

It was cool and shady beneath the trees that bordered the rocky trail. She would willingly have rested had not her eyes spied the red berries of some kinnikinnick growing on either side of the path. Farther away in an open s.p.a.ce she saw more and larger. They were far prettier than holly for Christmas boxes, and would be so different to her friends back East. She loved the tiny leaves and graceful trailing of the vines, which seemed hardly st.u.r.dy enough to hold the big, round, jolly-looking berries.

Virginia was right. They did grow more luxuriantly in the infrequent open places, and she climbed farther and farther up the mountain side, seeking like Hansel and Gretel for bigger berries than she had found. Sometimes she stood still and listened. The silence made a queer catch in her throat. Had it not been for her eagerness to find more and better kinnikinnick, and her knowledge that the homesteader's cabin was very near, she would have been frightened. But Carver must be there very soon, and though she often left the trail, the sound of the creek was proof against her being lost. Her own woodsman instinct was not strong, but Virginia had told her always to trust the creek, which would ever lead one down whence she had come.

Once her heart almost stopped beating. Away in the top of a great spruce she heard a hammering sound. It echoed through the silent woods like great blows of an ax, and some long moments pa.s.sed before Vivian could a.s.sure her frightened heart that it was only a flicker searching for his dinner.