CHAPTER I
MR. BOWLES

It was a fine windy morning in March and Dixie Lee, of Chula Vista, Arizona, was leaving staid New York at the gate marked "Western Limited." A slight difference with the gatekeeper, who seemed to doubt every word she said, cast no cloud upon her spirits, and she was cheerfully searching for her ticket when a gentleman came up from behind. At sight of the trim figure at the wicket, he too became suddenly happy, and it looked as if the effete East was losing two of its merriest citizens.

"Oh, good-morning, Miss Lee!" he said, bowing and smiling radiantly as she glanced in his direction. "Are you going out on this train?"

"Why – yes," she replied, gazing into her handbag with a preoccupied frown. "That is, if I can find my ticket!"

She found it on the instant, but the frown did not depart. She had forgotten the young man's name. It was queer how those New York names slipped her memory – but she remembered his face distinctly. She had met him at some highbrow affair – it was a reception or some such social maelstrom – and, yes, his name was Bowles!

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bowles," she exclaimed as he gallantly took her bag; but a furtive glance at his face left her suddenly transfixed with doubts. Not that his expression changed – far from that – but a fleeting twinkle in his eyes suggested some hidden joke.

"Oh, isn't your name Bowles?" she stammered. "I met you at the Wordsworth Club, you know, and – "

"Oh, yes – quite right!" he assured her politely. "You have a wonderful memory for names, Miss Lee. Shall we go on down to your car?"

Dixie Lee regarded the young man questioningly and with a certain Western disfavor. He was one of those trim and proper creatures that seemed to haunt Wordsworth societies, welfare meetings, and other culture areas known only to the cognoscente and stern-eyed Eastern aunts. In fact, he seemed to personify all those qualities of breeding and education which a long winter of compulsory "finishing" had taught her to despise; and yet – well, if it were not for his clothes and manners and the way he dropped his "r's" he might almost pass for human. But she knew his name wasn't Bowles.

There had been a person there by the name of Bowles, but the hostess had mumbled when she presented this one – and they had talked quite a little, too. She glanced at him again and a question trembled on her lips; but names were nothing out where she came from, and she let it go for Bowles.

The hypothetical Mr. Bowles was a tall and slender young man, of a type that ordinarily maddened her beyond all reason and prompted her to say cruel things which she was never sorry for afterward. He had a clear complexion, a Cupid's bow mouth, and eyes as innocent as a girl's. They were of a deep violet hue, very soft and soulful, and had a truly cultured way of changing – when he talked – to mirror a thousand shades of interest, courtesy and concern; but the way they had flickered when he took over the name of Bowles suggested a real man behind the veil. His manners, of course, were irreproachable; and not even a haberdasher could take exception to his clothes. He was, in fact, attired strictly according to the mode, in a close-fitting suit of striped gray, with four-inch cuffs above his box-toed shoes, narrow shoulders, and a low-crowned derby hat, now all the rage but affected for many years only by Dutch comedians.

When he removed this hat, which he did whenever he stood in her presence, he revealed a very fine head of hair which had been brushed straight back from his forehead until each strand knew its separate place; and yet, far from being pleased at this final evidence of conscientious endeavor, Dixie May received him almost with a sniff.

"And are you really on your way to Arizona, Miss Lee?" he inquired, carefully leaving the "r" out of "are" and putting the English on "really." "Why, how fortunate! I am going West myself! Perhaps we can renew our acquaintance on the way. Those were jolly stories you were telling me at the Wordsworth Club – very improperly, to be sure, but all the more interesting on that account. About the round-up cook, you know, and the man who couldn't say 'No.' Nothing like that in California, I suppose. I'm off for Los Angeles, myself."

"All right," answered Dixie Lee, waving California airily aside; "Arizona is good enough for me! Say, I'm going to ask this man where my section is."

She fished out her Pullman ticket and showed it to a waiting porter, who motioned her down the train.

"The fourth car, lady," he said. "Car Number Four!"

"Car Four!" cried Bowles, setting down the suitcase with quite a dramatic start. "Why – why, isn't this remarkable, Miss Lee? To think that we should take the same train – on the same day – and then have the very same car! But, don't you know, you never finished that last story you were telling me – about the cowboy who went to the picnic – and now I shall demand the end of it. Really, Miss Lee, I enjoyed your tales immensely – but don't let me keep you waiting!"

He hurried on, still commenting upon the remarkable coincidence; and as a memory of the reception came back to her and she recalled the avid way in which this same young man had hung upon her words, a sudden doubt, a shrewd questioning, came over the mind of Dixie Lee. Back in Arizona, now, a man with any git-up-and-git to him might – but, pshaw, this was not Arizona! And he was not that kind of man! No, indeed! The idea of one of these New York Willies doing the sleuth act and tagging her to the train!

At the same time Dixie Lee had her misgivings about this correct young man, because she knew his name was not Bowles. More than that, his language displeased her, reminding her as it did of her long winter's penance among the culturines. Three days more of highbrow conversation would just about finish her off – she must be stern, very stern, if she would avert the impending disaster! So she stabbed her neatly-trimmed little sombrero with a hatpin and waited for Mr. Bowles.

"Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" he purled as he made bold to sit down beside her.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, showing her white teeth in a simpering smile. "Simply heavenly. Don't you know, it reminds me of those lines in Wordsworth – you remember – I think it was in his 'Idiot Boy.' Oh, how do they go?"

She knitted her brows and Mr. Bowles regarded her thoughtfully.

"Perhaps it was in his 'Lines Written in Early Spring,'" he suggested guardedly.

"No," she insisted. "It was in 'The Idiot Boy' – either that or in 'Lines Written to the Same Dog.' I forget which. Anyway, it told all about the rain, you know, and the clouds – and all that. Don't you remember? I thought you were full of Wordsworth."

This last, was thrown out for a bait, to get Mr. Bowles to extend himself, but it failed of its effect. A somber smile took the place of the expected frenzy and he muttered half to himself as he gazed out of the window.

"What's that you say?" she questioned sharply.

"Oh, pardon me," he exclaimed, recovering himself with a sudden access of manner; "I was talking to myself, don't you know? But, really, I am pretty full of Wordsworth; so, if you don't mind, we'll talk about something else. My aunt, you know, is a great devotee of all the nature poets, and I attend the meetings to please her. It's an awful bore sometimes, too, I assure you; that's why your face was so welcome to me when I chanced to see you at the club-rooms. That lecturer was such a conceited ass and those women were so besotted in their admiration of him that I looked around to see if there was a single sane and reasonable creature in the room – and there you were, as stern and uncompromising as an angel and – oh, well, I formed a different conception of angels, right there. You were so delightfully humorous too, when Mrs. Melvine introduced us – and, well, really, Miss Lee, you are partly responsible for my leaving New York. I never fully realized before what our Western country must be like; I never dreamed that there was a place to flee to when the conventions of society grew irksome; but when you told me of your ranch, and the cowboys, and all the wonderful happenings of that wild and carefree life I – I made up my mind to chuck the whole thing, don't you know, and strike out for myself."

"Oho!" breathed Dixie Lee, squinting down her eyes and regarding him with a shrewd smile. "So you're running away to be a cowboy, eh? Going West to fight the Indians! Well, well! But let me ask you one question, Mr. Bowles – if that's your name – I trust you don't plan to begin your depredations in my part of the country; because if you do – "

"Oh, my dear Miss Lee," protested Mr. Bowles, "you have quite a mistaken idea, I assure you. Really, now, I hope you give me credit for more discretion than that. The fact is, I have an old college friend on a ranch in California and, though I have not taken my aunt entirely into confidence, I am really going out to make him a visit. It's all very well, you know, to read about sunsets in Wordsworth, but why not go out into the Far West and see the sun set indeed? That's what I say, but of course I would not offend her – she simply thinks my health is failing and I need a Western trip."

"Oh!" said Dixie Lee quietly. "So you've got an aunt, too, eh? What did you say her name was?"

"Why, Mrs. – er – Bowles!"

"But why Mrs. Er-Bowles?" queried Dixie May, relentlessly. "Why not Mrs. Bowles straight? Now, you know, Mr. Bowles, it looks very much to me as if – "

"Her former name was Earl," interposed Mr. Bowles suavely, and carefully leaving out the "r." "My father's brother married a very dear friend of ours, a Mrs. Earl, and I sometimes call her so still – inadvertently, you know. I am an orphan now and Mrs. Earl – ah, Bowles – has taken me as a son. But you can readily understand how a young man of my age and disposition might not always fall in with a somewhat elderly lady's views of life, especially in regard to cultural influences, and while I love her very dearly and wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world – "

"Yes, it's too bad about you!" observed Dixie Lee heartlessly; and then for quite a while she looked out of the car window as drab and dirty tenements slipped by and the train plunged into a tunnel.

"How far West are you going?" she inquired, waking up suddenly from her reverie. "Lemme see your ticket. Um-m! Well, we travel together as far as Albuquerque, New Mex, and there we say 'Good-by.' I reckon California is about your size, Mr. Bowles, but don't you make any mistake and drop off in Arizona or the cowboys will scare you up some. As for the rest of it, I don't care what name a man goes by, but I see you are down on your ticket here as 'Houghton.'"

There was a challenge in her voice; but Bowles was not dismayed.

"Now, really, Miss Lee," he began, "why quibble over the accident of a name? Whether my name is Houghton, as I have signed it here, or Bowles, has nothing to do with the case. The fact is, I am suffering from an excess of aunts and Wordsworth, much in the same way that you are, perhaps, and my heart has gone out to the West. Be a good fellow now and help me out. Tell me about the country and what I would better do; and, though it is a small return, you shall have one more devoted slave to worship at your feet."

A fleeting smile came into his eyes as he delivered himself of this last, and the queen of the Bat Wing Ranch paused suddenly to make sure there was no mistake. It would be hard indeed to find oneself laughed at by a suède New Yorker, and yet – well, he seemed to mean it, too.

"Rise up, then, Sir Knight," she said, tapping him lightly with her sombrero; "and be mighty particular to change cars when we get to Albuquerque – otherwise the Chula Vista cowboys will make you hard to catch."