Suzanna by Harry Sinclair Drago Read Free Book Online

“Another time I shall please you better.”
    Pérez had dropped his boasting tone, and as he turned to his horse and mounted, Suzanna sighed uneasily. This man understood the art of love! She called to him as he reached the middle of the stream. Pérez wheeled his horse at sound of her voice.
    â€œYour pistol, señor,” Suzanna cried. With a muscular toss she hurled it through the air to him. Pérez caught it deftly, and bowing, rode off without backward glance.
    The man had his audience, as he half-suspected. Suzanna had not been prepared for his manner of leave-taking, and her eyes followed him as he rode away. Even when he was well across the stream, she believed that he would turn back, for a word at least. In this she was disappointed, for Pérez surmised her thought, and he was well enough versed in the ways of women to know that the unusual always succeeds with them.
    Suzanna drew a deep breath as he passed out of sight. “Madre de Dios,” she murmured, “There goes a real caballero!”
    Suzanna stood where she was for a spell, contemplating the fact that life along the San Carmelo River was vastly more interesting than it was at the Rancho de Gutierrez . The man had taken her breath away, a sensation hard work had never produced.
    As the minutes passed, and she realized that the stranger was not coming back, she fell to her knees, and picking up the mogador, brushed away the sand which clung to it. And then, with a purely feminine gesture, she held it up to her waist to get the effect of it.
    â€œBless the saints,” she whispered to herself, “there cannot be anything more beautiful. And yet, he talks of even finer things. Truly, the man who selected this was no fool. He must have looked at many before he made his choice.”

CHAPTER VI
THE SURPRISING HISTORY OF A PIECE OF SILK
    S UZANNA ’ S thoughts were far from fishing as she stretched her length upon the moss-covered bank. beside the sluggish San Carmelo. As she lay there, day-dreaming, a crackling of brush behind her caused her to sit up in some agitation. Her first thought was that Pérez was returning. Quickly hiding the silk, she sat stiffly and waited. Imagine her surprise, then, when a six months’ old cinnamon cub broke from cover almost at her feet.
    The bear was not less frightened than she. Turning tail, he dashed back into the manzanita which bordered the river.
    Suzanna’s fear soon left her, and she became possessed of a mad desire to own that little cub. A large field of wheat lay beyond the narrow strip of underbrush, and she knew if she could drive the cub into it, that he would have little chance of getting away. Seizing Pico’s lead rope, and fashioning it into a crude lariat, she dashed after the fleeing bear.
    The cub made slower progress through the chaparral than did the girl. The noise of her coming, and her cries of pain as briars and thorns tore her skin, cost the bear his wits, and abandoning his native caution he bounded into the wheat field. The grain had been harvested some weeks ago, and the new shoots were only up some foot and a half.
    Suzanna caught sight of the bear as soon as she was out of the brush, and with a wild halloo she set after him.
    Thanks to her masculine attire, she soon managed to draw up on the cub. Judging herself close enough to slip the noose over his head, she sailed it through the air. The treacherous ground upset her, and she sprawled her length. The force with which she landed rung a grunt from her lips.
    The sound was a new one to the cub’s ears, and his curiosity not to be denied, he turned, impudently, and surveyed her. When Suzanna sat up the bear was still there, resting on his haunches.
    The girl grinned at him as she rubbed her tortured body. “So, my fine fellow,” she cried, “you sit and laugh at me, eh? You wait!”
    Cautiously regaining her rope and coiling it, she sprang toward him, but the bear was not