Bucky O'Connor: A Tale of the Unfenced Border, William MacLeod Raine [good beach reads .txt] 📗

“It is very likely that we shall be under surveillance after a day or two, especially if we are seen around the prison a good deal. Well, we'll slip out the back way to-night, disguised in some other rig, come boldly in by the front door, and rent the rooms next ours. Then we shall be able to go and come, either as ourselves or as our neighbors. It will give us a great deal more liberty.”

“Unless we should get caught. Then we would have a great deal less. What's your notion of a rig-up to disguise us, kid?”

“We might have several, in case of emergencies. For one thing, we could easily be street showmen. You can do fancy shooting and I can do sleight-of-hand tricks or tell fortunes.”

“You would be a gipsy lad?”

The youngster blushed. “A gipsy girl, and you might be my husband.”

“I'm no play actor, even if you are,” said Bucky. “I don't want to be your husband, thank you.”

“All you would have to do is to be sullen and rough. It is easy enough.”

“And you think you could pass for a girl? You're slim and soft enough, but I'll bet you would give it away inside of an hour.”

The boy laughed, and shot a swift glance at O'Connor under his long lashes. “I appeared as a girl in one of the acts of the show for years. Nobody ever suspected that I wasn't.”

“We might try it, but we have no clothes for the part.”

“Leave that to me. I'll buy some to-day while you are looking the ground over for our first assault an the impregnable fortress.”

“I don't know. It seems to me pretty risky. But you might buy the things, and we'll see how you look in them. Better not get all the things at the same store. Sort of scatter your purchases around.”

They separated at the door of the hotel, Frank to choose the materials he needed, and O'Connor to look up O'Halloran and get a permit to visit the prison from the proper authorities. When the latter returned triumphantly with his permit he found the boy busy with a needle and thread and surrounded by a litter of dress-making material.

“I'm altering this to fit me and fixing it up,” he explained.

“Holy smoke! Who taught you to sew?” asked Bucky, in surprise.

“My aunt, Mrs. Hardman. I used to do all the plain sewing on my costumes. Did you see your friend and get your permit?”

“You bet I did, and didn't. Mickey was out, but I left him a note. The other thing I pulled off all right. I'm to be allowed to visit the prison and make a careful inspection of it at my leisure There's nothing like a pull, son.”

“Does the permit say you are to be allowed to steal any one of the prisoners you take a fancy to? asked Frank, with a smile.

“No, it forgot to say that. When do you expect to have that toggery made?”

“A good deal of it is already made, as you see. I'm just making a few changes. Do you want to try on your suit?”

“Is THIS mine?” asked the ranger, picking up with smiling contempt the rather gaudy blouse that lay on a chair.

“Yes, sir, that is yours. Go and put it on and we'll see how it fits.”

Bucky returned a few minutes later in his gipsy uniform, with a deprecating grin.

“I'll have to stain your face. Then you'll do very well,” said Frank, patting and pulling at the clothes here and there. “It's a good fit, if I do say it that chose it. The first thing you want to do when you get out in it is to roll in the dust and get it soiled. No respectable gipsy wears new clothes. Better have a tear or two in it, too.”

“You ce'tainly should have been a girl, the way you take to clothes, Curly.”

“Making up was my business for a good many years, you know,” returned the lad quietly. “If you'll step into the other room for about fifteen minutes I'll show you how well I can do it.”

It was a long half-hour later that Bucky thumped on the door between the rooms. “Pretty nearly ready, kid? Seems to me it is taking you a thundering long time to get that outfit on.”

“How long do you think it ought to take a lady to dress?”

“Ten minutes is long enough, and fifteen, say, if she is going to a dance. You've been thirty-five by my Waterbury.”

“It's plain you never were married, Mr. Innocent. Why, a girl can't fix her hair in less than half an hour.”

“Well, you got a wig there, ain't you? It doesn't take but about five seconds to stick that on. Hurry up, gringo! I'm clean through this old newspaper.”

“Read the advertisements,” came saucily through the door.

“I've read the durned things twice.”

“Learn them by heart,” the sweet voice advised.

“Oh, you go to Halifax!”

Nevertheless, Mr. Bucky had to wait his comrade's pleasure. But when he got a vision of the result, it was so little what he had expected that it left him staring in amazement, his jaw fallen and his eyes incredulous.

The vision swept him a low bow. “How do you like Bonita?” it demanded gaily.

Bucky's eyes circled the room, to make sure that the boy was not hidden somewhere, and came back to rest on his surprise with a look that was almost consternation. Was this vivid, dazzling creature the boy he had been patronizing, lecturing, promising to thrash any time during the past four days? The thing was unbelievable, not yet to be credited by his jarred brain. How incredibly blind he had been! What an idiot of sorts! Why, the marks of sex sat on her beyond any possibility of doubt. Every line of the slim, lissom figure, every curve of the soft, undulating body, the sweep of rounded arm, of tapering waist-line, of well-turned ankle, contributed evidence of what it were folly to ask further proof. How could he have ever seen those lovely, soft-lashed eyes and the delicate little hands without conviction coming home to him? And how could he have heard the low murmur of her voice, the catch of her sobs, without knowing that they were a denial of masculinity?

She was dressed like a Spanish dancing girl, in short kilts, red sash, and jaunty little cap placed sidewise on her head. She wore a wig of black hair, and her face was stained to a dusky, gipsy hue. Over her thumb hung castanets and in her hand was a tambourine. Roguishly she began to sway into a slow, rhythmic dance, beating time with her instruments as she moved. Gradually the speed quickened to a faster