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Updated: June 7, 2025
She looked a long time at the characters, the long-tailed M's, the close, sharp v's, the t's crossed with a savage, downward stab. She was quiet as long as she only looked. When she read the blood in her brain raced faster and confused her. She stopped at the bottom of the first page. "I can't think what he means." "It's pretty plain what he means," her mother said. "About all those letters.
With hands that trembled she turned the pages of the book she was holding upside down, then with disgust at her stupidity she righted it and ran her finger down the long line of V's.
There was a thrill in the taming more thrills than dollars, for until the war overseas brought eager buyers, the net profits of the horse ranch would scarcely have paid for Mary V's clothes and school and what she demurely set down as "recreation." But Sudden loved it, and Mary V loved it, and Mary V's mother loved whatever they loved. So the Rolling R was home.
If you'll tell me how much you're out ?" "That's all right. It's on me, for falling so easy for one of Mary V's spasms. I was led to believe you had actually started for the ranch in which case I was justified in supposing you had come to grief somewhere en route. We'll let it go." He cleared his throat, glanced at Johnny from under his eyebrows, took a cigar out of a drawer, and bit off the end.
Mary V's father, whom men for some unaccountable reason called "Sudden" when he was not present, crawled out from under the rear end of his battered touring car when Mary V's moccasins and the fluttering hem of blue kimono moved within his range of vision.
Over the low ground to the west a flight of bombers appeared, bellowing. In mass formation they rushed out above the sea. Far to the right and high up, a second formation of man-made birds appeared suddenly. It dived steeply from invisibility toward the water. Over the horizon to the left there came V's of bomber-planes, one after another, by dozens and by hundreds.
Johnny struggled up to declare passionately. "You give that here, Bud Norris. Worry sorry they don't even rhyme!" "Aw, ferget that stuff! Witless wight's all right, ain't it? I claim Mary V's some poetry writer. Don't you go actin' up jealous. She ain't got the jingle, mebby, but she shore is there with the big idee."
Well, Lady Clonbrony got over all this, and got over the history of a letter about a chimney that was on fire, a week ago, at the Duke of V's old house, in Brecknockshire.
A slim chance but still she might." "Slim chance is right!" Bill stated with feeling. During this colloquy Mary V's ears might have burned, had Mary V not been too thoroughly engrossed with her own emotions to be sensitive to the emotions of others. Mary V was pounding along toward Black Ridge or Snake Ridge, as some preferred to call it. She was tired, of course.
Stirrups depended from the lateral sticks that kept the V's in position. The horse's bridles were mostly composed of hair, in some instances, however, they were of leather worked and stamped into elaborate designs; these were, no doubt, the fruits of their foray among the Mexican pueblas. We were mounted man fashion, each riding by the side of the Indian who claimed us as his property.
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