Lost Pueblo (1992) (5 page)

The next morning Janey saw Randolph and her father ride away on their horses, evidently well pleased with themselves over something. Then she went late to her breakfast, finding it necessary to play the actress with the solicitous Mrs. Bennet. She would have to be a brilliant actress, anyway, so she might as well begin. She might develop histrionic ability, and make a name on the stage.

She did not ride that morning. Part of the time she spent in her room, and the other walking in the shade of the cottonwoods.

After lunch Janey tried to read. All the books and magazines she had appeared to be full of humor or tragedy of the younger generation. One after another she slammed them on the floor.

"This business is getting damn serious," ejaculated Janey.

All the preachers, editors, physicians, philosophers, were explaining either how horrible the young people were, or else how misunderstood, or abandoned by money-mad parents to their dark fate. Even college boys and girls were writing about themselves. Something was wrong somewhere; and as the thought struck Janey she found herself reaching for a cigarette. With swift temper she threw the little box against the wall. She would have to quit smoking--which meant nothing at all to Janey. She could quit anything. She remembered, however, that in accordance with the plan to revenge herself upon her father and Randolph, she must smoke like a furnace. So she took the trouble to pick up the cigarettes. Still, she did not smoke one then.

The afternoon slowly waned. It had been an upsetting day for Janey. She had changed a hundred times, like the shifting of a wind vane. But the thing most permanent was the stab to her pride. Not soon would she get over that hurt. She did not realize yet just why or how she had been so mortally offended, but she guessed it would come to her eventually.

For the first time in years Janey missed her mother. Was she self-sufficient as she had supposed? She certainly was not, for she fought an hour against rather strange symptoms, and then succumbed to a good old-fashioned crying spell.

Chapter
3

That evening a little before suppertime, when Randolph walked into the living room, Janey made it a point to be there. She had adorned herself with a gown calculated to make him gasp. She perceived that he had difficulty in concealing his dismay. The day of mental stress, without the usual exercise and contact with the open, had left her pale with faint purple shadows under her eyes. Janey thought she could take care of the rest.

"I'm sorry you were indisposed," said Randolph, solicitously. "I see you haven't been out today. That's too bad."

"It has been a lonely, awful day," replied Janey, pathetically.

"I hope you haven't been very ill. You looked so--so wonderful yesterday. You're pale now. No doubt you've overdone this riding around with the cowboys."

"I guess I'm not so strong as Dad thinks I am. But I'm really not tired that is, physically."

"No? What's wrong then?"

Janey transfixed Randolph with great melancholy eyes. "I'm dying of homesickness. This place is dead. It's a ruin. You could dig right here and find a million bones."

"Dead!... Oh, yes, indeed, it is rather quiet for a girl used to New York," he returned, plainly disappointed. "I rather expected you would like it--for a while, and really, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. I know your father thinks you're having the time of your life."

"I was. But it didn't last. Nothing happens. I imagined there'd be some excitement. Why, I can't even get a kick out of a horse," complained Janey.

"Take care about that," said Randolph, seriously. "Bennet has seen to it that you've had only gentle horses. I heard him rake the cowboys about this. None of their tricks!"

"Mr. Randolph," returned Janey, sweetly explaining, "I didn't mean that kind of a kick. I'd like a horse to run off with me--since there's no man out here to do it."

Janey was blandly innocent, and apparently unconscious of Randolph's slight start and quick look. She was going to enjoy this better than she had expected.

"I--I daresay the cowboys--and all Westerners--couldn't understand you, Miss Janey," rejoined Randolph. "They will exert themselves to amuse you--take care of you. But never dream--of--how--"

"That a New York girl requires some stimulant," interposed Janey. "Oh, I get that. These nice dumb cowboys! I thought they were going to be regular fellows. But, do you know, Mr. Randolph, not a single one of them has attempted to kiss me!"

"Indeed! From what I know of them I think that'd be the last thing they'd attempt. They are gentlemen, Miss Endicott," said Randolph, rather stiffly.

"What's that got to do with kissing a girl?" retorted Janey, hard put to restrain her laughter. "It'd be fun to see their line of work. And in the case of that handsome Zoroaster--well, I might let him get away with it."

Randolph stared at her incredulously, with infinite disapproval.

"Outside of yourself, Mr. Zoroaster is the only good-looking man around the place. And as you don't seem to be aware of my presence here, I'd rather welcome a little attention from him."

"Miss Endicott!" ejaculated Randolph. "You are complimentary--and rather otherwise, all in one breath. It is you who have not been aware of my presence."

"What could you expect?" queried Janey, with a bewildering confusion. "I might flirt with a cowboy. But I couldn't--well throw myself at a man of your intelligence and culture. All the same I've been hoping you'd take me around a little. To your ruins and interesting places. And maybe amuse me in the evenings, or at least do something to kill the awful monotony. In New York you seemed to like me. I daresay Dad has talked about me--queered me with you."

Randolph had been reduced to a state of speechlessness. He actually blushed, and there leaped to his eyes a light that made them very warm and appealing. At this point Mr. Endicott came in. He looked unusually bright and cheerful, but at sight of Janey his smile faded.

"Janey, dear, you look sort of down," he commiserated, kissing her. "I forgot you had a headache or something."

"Dad, I've just been complaining to Phil. But he doesn't care whether I'm sick or homesick, or what."

"Phil!--Homesick?--Why Janey!" exclaimed Mr. Endicott, quite taken aback.

"Dad, will you let me go home?" she asked, mournfully.

"Janey!"

"Don't look like that. What do you think anyway? You've dragged me out to this dead hole. Nothing happens. You said Phil would be tickled pink to run around with me."

"I didn't say anything of the kind," declared her father, turning a little pink himself.

"Oh, I mean words to that effect," replied Janey, airily. "But, as you've seen, he has studiously avoided me--as if I was a pestilence. Left me to the mercy of these cowboys!"

"I'm sure there is a misunderstanding," returned Mr. Endicott, divided between doubt and exultation.

"There certainly is," added Randolph, emphatically. "I hope it isn't too late for me to correct it."

"I'm afraid so," said Janey, with eyes on him. "Else how could I ever have told you?"

"Nonsense," spoke up her father. "Janey, you must be a little off your feed or something."

"Dad, I'm not a horse or a cow--and I would like a little fruit salad or a lobster." Suddenly she clapped her hands. "I've an idea. Perfectly delicious. Let me send for Bert?"

"What? That last faint gasp of the Durland family?"

"Dad, I'd have a perfectly glorious time riding around with him."

"Humph! I don't believe it. You don't know what you do want."

"Please, Daddy. Bert would at least amuse me."

"He would. And us, too. But no, Janey. I can't see it," declared Endicott.

"Very well, Father," agreed Janey. She never called him "Father" except in cases like this. "I've done my best to please you. The consequences will be upon your head."

Endicott grunted, gave Janey a baffled glance and stepped out the open door to view the afterglow of the sunset. Randolph was perturbed. Janey enjoyed the assurance that her new line had been effective. No man could resist subtle flattery!

"Miss Janey--if you--if I--if there has been a misunderstanding--let me make it right," began Randolph, with a sincerity that made Janey feel villainous. "Frankly, I--I didn't think you cared two straws about my work, or the ruins--or me either. So I never asked you. You remember I used to try to interest you in the desert. Indeed there is much here to interest you--if you will only see. Suppose you ride out with me tomorrow."

Janey fixed sad eyes upon his earnest face.

"No, Phil. I told you--it's too late. You'd never have thought of it, if I hadn't gone down and out. I'm sorry, but I can't accept solicited attention."

"You're very unkind, at least," rejoined Randolph, vexed and hurt. "You've scarcely looked at me, since your arrival. Now you complain of my--my neglect. I tell you--to accuse me of indifference is perfectly ridiculous."

Then the little Indian maid called them to supper. When Endicott followed them in and caught a glimpse of Randolph's face he threw up his hands, then he laughed heartily. Janey understood him. It was a return to good humor and the hopelessness of ever doing anything with her. His mirth, however, did not infect Randolph, who scarcely said another word, ate but little, and soon excused himself.

"Say, honey, what'd you do to Phil?" inquired Endicott, genially.

"Nothing."

"Which means a whole lot. Well, tell me."

"I let him know I did like him very much that his indifference has hurt me deeply--and that now--"

"Ah! I see. Now, in the vernacular of your charming crowd there's nothing doing," interrupted her father. "Janey, dear, if I were Phil I'd be encouraged. I remember your mother. When I was most in despair my chances were brightest. Only I didn't know it."

"Dad, I did like Phil," murmured Janey, dreamily.

"It's too bad you don't any more... What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"Perhaps I will feel well enough to ride a little."

"Good. I'm motoring to Flagerstown. I'll be back before dark, I think. I've got important letters and telegrams to send."

"You won't let me wire for Bert Durland?" asked Janey.

"Janey, don't always put me at a disadvantage," returned Endicott, impatiently. "You know I'd let you have anyone or anything--if you convinced me of your need. But, darling, you know Durland would bore you to death. Be honest."

"I suspect he might--after he got here," acknowledged Janey, demurely. "But, Dad, just think of the fun the cowboys would have out of him. And he'd make Phil perfectly wild!"

"Aha! You've said it, my daughter," declared Endicott, clapping his hands. "I had a hunch, as Bennet says... Well, Janey, you must excuse me. I've got to spend the evening writing. You can have a nice quiet hour reading."

"Hour! I can't go to bed for hours."

"Janey, you look perfectly wonderful, ravishing--and--well, indecent in that flimsy white gown. It'd make a first-rate handkerchief for one of these man-sized Westerners. But it's wasted on the desert air."

"Yes, I'm afraid my desire to look well for Phil was wasted," returned Janey. "Men are no good. You can't please them."

"Perhaps the emancipation of women has peeved us," remarked Endicott, slyly.

Janey was curious to see if Randolph would come back to the living room. She hoped he would not, for he appeared to be giving her a taste of something different in masculine reactions. She talked to the Bennets about the cowboys and Randolph, learning more and more for her amusement and interest. They regarded the archaeologist as one of the family and were immensely proud of his work. It might have been gold hunting, for all the store they put on it. Janey began to gather some inkling of the importance of Randolph's discovery of the pueblo claimed by scientists to have existed there centuries past. She began to hope for his success.

Randolph did not appear again and the Bennets retired early. Janey was left to her thoughts, which she found pleasant. Soon she went to her room, and to bed. Though she would not admit it to her father, the quiet of the night, the comfortable feel of wool blankets, the black darkness appealed strongly to her.

What few words and glances it had taken to upset Phillip Randolph! If Janey had not been so outraged her conscience might have given her a twinge. Deep within her dwelt a respect for honesty and simplicity. The idea she had given Randolph--that she had expected and hoped for a little attention from him--had completely floored him. After all it was not much of a deceit. She had expected more than a little. There was something warm and sweet in the thought of his really caring for her like that. Janey believed that no real woman of the present or of the future would ever feel otherwise than stirred at a man's honest love. It was in the race, and the race's progress toward higher things depended upon it. Janey made the mental observation that the world had not progressed very much lately.

Next morning she again delayed going into breakfast purposely to miss Randolph and her father. Janey put on her riding clothes, taking her time about it.

After breakfast the only one of the cowboys around the corrals was Ray.