The Range Boss
by Charles Alden Seltzer · English · Gutenberg #25754 · 406,184 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Range Boss
Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
Illustrator: Frank E. Schoonover
Release date: June 10, 2008 [eBook #25754]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25754
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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[Illustration: Randerson watches the newcomers [Page 2]]
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THE RANGE BOSS
BY
CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
AUTHOR OF
THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK E. SCHOONOVER
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
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Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1916
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Published September, 1916
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Copyrighted in Great Britain
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I At Calamity Crossing 1
II The Sympathetic Rescuer 12
III At the Flying W 33
IV A Memory of the Rider 42
V Love vs. Business 56
VI A Man and His Job 65
VII How an Insult Was Avenged 78
VIII What Uncle Jepson Heard 97
IX "Somethin's Gone Out of Them" 104
X The Law of the Primitive 111
XI Hagar's Eyes 130
XII The Rustlers 143
XIII The Fight 160
XIV The Rock and the Moonlight 166
XV The Runaway Comes Home 184
XVI Two Are Taught Lessons 188
XVII The Target 202
XVIII The Gunfighter 217
XIX Ready Gun and Clean Heart 233
XX The Bubble--Dreams 245
XXI One Too Many 254
XXII Into Which a Girl's Trouble Comes 265
XXIII Banishing a Shadow 278
XXIV Realizing a Passion 291
XXV A Man Is Born Again 313
XXVI A Dream Comes True 328
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ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Randerson watches the newcomers Frontispiece
"I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W" 64
The twilight was split by a red streak 96
The grim, relentless figure behind him grew
grotesque and gigantic in his thoughts 320
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THE RANGE BOSS
CHAPTER I
AT CALAMITY CROSSING
Getting up the shoulder of the mesa was no easy job, but judging from the
actions and appearance of wiry pony and rider it was a job that would be
accomplished. For part of the distance, it is true, the man thought it
best to dismount, drive the pony ahead of him, and follow on foot. At
length, however, they reached the top of the mesa, and after a breathing
spell the man mounted and rode across the table-land.
A short lope brought pony and rider to a point where the mesa sloped down
again to meet a plain that stretched for miles, to merge into some
foothills. A faint trail came from somewhere through the foothills, wound
over the plain, and followed a slope that descended to a river below the
rider, crossed the stream, led over a level, up another slope, to another
plain, and so away into the distance.
Up and down the river the water ran deeply in a canyon, the painted
buttes that flanked it lending an appearance of constriction to its
course, but at the crossing it broadened formidably and swirled
splashingly around numerous rocks that littered its course.
The man's gaze rested briefly on the river and the crossing.
"She's travelin' some, this mornin'," he said aloud, mentally referring
to the water. "I reckon that mud over there must be hub deep on a
buckboard," he added, looking at the level on the opposite side of the
crossing. "I'd say, if anybody was to ask me, that last night's rain has
made Calamity some risky this mornin'--for a buckboard." He drew out a
silver timepiece and consulted it with grave deliberation. "It's eleven.
They'd be due about now--if the Eight O'clock was on time--which she's
never been knowed to be." He returned the timepiece to the pocket and
rode along the edge of the mesa away from the river, his gaze
concentrated at the point where the trail on the plains below him
vanished into the distant foothills. A little later he again halted the
pony, swung crossways in the saddle and rolled a cigarette, and while
smoking and watching drew out two pistols, took out the cylinders,
replaced them, and wiped and polished the metal until the guns glittered
brightly in the swimming sunlight. He considered them long before
restoring them to their places, doubt in his gaze. "I reckon she's been
raised a lot different," was his mental conclusion.
"But anyway, I reckon there ain't nothin' in Poughkeepsie's name to give
anyone comin' from there any right to put on airs." He tossed the butt of
the cigarette away and frowned, continuing his soliloquy: "The Flyin' W
ain't no place for a lady. Jim Pickett an' Tom Chavis ain't fit for no
lady to look at--let alone talkin' to them. There's others, too. Now, if
she was comin' to the Diamond H--why, shucks! Mebbe she wouldn't think
I'm any better than Pickett an' Chavis! If she looks anything like her
picture, though, she's got sense. An'--"
He saw the pony flick its ears erect, and he followed its gaze to see on
the plain's trail, far over near where it melted into the foothills, a
moving speck crawling toward him.
He swung back into the saddle and smilingly patted the pony's neck.
"You was expectin' them too, wasn't you, Patches? I reckon you're a right
knowin' horse!"
He wheeled the pony and urged it slowly back over the mesa, riding along
near the edge until he reached a point behind a heavy post-oak thicket,
where he pulled the pony to a halt. From here he would not be observed
from the trail on the plains, and he again twisted in the saddle, sagging
against the high pommel and drawing the wide brim of his hat well over
his eyes, shading them as he peered intently at the moving speck.
He watched for half an hour, while the speck grew larger in his vision,
finally assuming definite shape. He recognized the buckboard and the
blacks that were pulling it; they had been inseparable during the past
two years--for Bill Harkness, the Flying W owner, would drive no others
after his last sickness had seized him, the sickness which had finally
finished him some months before. The blacks were coming rapidly,
shortening the distance with the tireless lope that the plains' animal
uses so effectively, and as they neared the point on the mesa where the
rider had stationed himself, the latter parted the branches of the
thicket and peered between them, his eyes agleam, the color deepening in
his face.
"There's four of them in the buckboard," he said aloud, astonished, as
the vehicle came nearer; "an' Wes Vickers ain't with them! Now, what do
you think of that! Wes told me there'd be only the girl an' her aunt an'
uncle. It's a man, too, an' he's doin' the drivin'! I reckon Wes got
drunk an' they left him behind." He reflected a moment, watching with
narrowed eyes, his brows in a frown. "That guy doin' the drivin' is a
stranger, Patches," he said. "Why, it's mighty plain. Four in the
buckboard, with them bags an' trunks an' things, makes a full house, an'
there wasn't no room for Wes!" He grinned.
The buckboard swung close to the foot of the slope below him, and he
eagerly scrutinized the occupants, his gaze lingering long on the girl on
the seat beside the driver. She had looked for one flashing instant
toward him, her attention drawn, no doubt, by the fringing green of the
mesa, and he had caught a good glimpse of her face. It was just like the
picture that Wes Vickers had surreptitiously brought to him one day some
weeks before, after Harkness' death, when, in talking with Wes about the
niece who was now the sole owner of the Flying W, and who was coming soon
to manage her property, he had evinced curiosity. He had kept the
picture, in spite of Vickers' remonstrances, and had studied it many
times. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and was
supremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her.
Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. He
was strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompanied
her from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westerner
would ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion--the cream-colored
Stetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spangles
around the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowing
colored tie--blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist,
yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he could
hear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight at
the knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And--here the observer's
eyes gleamed with derision--as the buckboard passed, he had caught a
glimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculous
boots.
He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along the
edge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at a
point just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush that
he might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and its
occupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and the
blacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voice
distinctly.
"What a rough, grim country!" she said. "It is beautiful, though."
"She's a knowin' girl," mused the rider, strangely pleased that she
should like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been born
here.
"Don't you think so, Willard?" added the girl.
The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly:
"I suppose it's well enough--for the clodhoppers that live here."
The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. "I reckon I
ain't goin' to like Willard a heap, Patches," he said to the pony; "he's
runnin' down our country." He considered the girl and the driver gravely,
and again spoke to the pony. "Do you reckon he's her brother, Patches? I
expect it ain't possible--they're so different."
"Do you think it is quite safe?" The girl's voice reached him again; she
was looking at the water of the crossing.
"Vickers said it was," the driver replied. "He ought to know." His tone
was irritable.
"He's her brother, I reckon," reflected the man on the mesa; "no lover
would talk that way to his girl." There was relief in his voice, for he
had been hoping that the man was a brother.
"Vickers said to swing sharply to the left after passing the middle,"
declared the driver sonorously, "but I don't see any wagon tracks--that
miserable rain last night must have obliterated them."
"I reckon the rain has _obliterated_ them," grinned the rider, laboring
with the word, "if that means wipin' them out. Leastways, they ain't
there any more."
"I feel quite sure that Mr. Vickers said to turn to the right after
passing the middle, Willard," came the girl's voice.
"I certainly ought to be able to remember that, Ruth!" said the driver,
gruffly. "I heard him distinctly!"
"Well," returned the girl with a nervous little laugh, "perhaps I was
mistaken, after all." She placed a hand lightly on the driver's arm. And
the words she spoke then were not audible to the rider, so softly were
they uttered. And the driver laughed with satisfaction. "You've said it!"
he declared. "I'm certainly able to pilot this ship to safety!" He pulled
on the reins and spoke sharply to the blacks. They responded with a jerk
that threw the occupants of the buckboard against the backs of the seats.
The rider's eyes gleamed. "Hush!" he said, addressing no one in
particular. "Calamity's goin' to claim another victim!" He raised one
hand to his lips, making a funnel of it. He was about to shout at the
driver, but thought better of the idea and let the hand drop. "Shucks,"
he said, "I reckon there ain't any real danger. But I expect the boss
gasser of the outfit will be gettin' his'n pretty quick now." He leaned
forward and watched the buckboard, his lean under jaw thrown forward, a
grim smile on his lips. He noted with satisfaction that the elderly
couple in the rear seat, and the girl in the front one, were holding on
tightly, and that the driver, busy with the reins, was swaying from one
side to the other as the wagon bumped over the impeding stones of the
river bed.
The blacks reached the middle of the stream safely and were crowding of
their own accord to the right, when the driver threw his weight on the
left rein and swung them sharply in that direction. For a few feet they
traveled evenly enough but when they were still some distance from the
bank, the horse on the left sank quickly to his shoulders, lunged, stood
on his hind legs and pawed the air impotently, and then settled back,
snorting and trembling.
Too late the driver saw his error. As the left horse sank he threw his
weight on the right rein as though to remedy the accident. This movement
threw him off his balance, and he slipped off the seat, clawing and
scrambling; at the instant the front of the buckboard dipped and sank,
disappearing with a splash into the muddy water. It had gone down awry,
the girl's side high out of the water, the girl herself clinging to the
edge of the seat, out of the water's reach, the elderly couple in the
rear also safe and dry, but plainly frightened.
The girl did not scream; the rider on the mesa noted this with
satisfaction. She was talking, though, to the driver, who at first had
disappeared, only to reappear an instant later, blowing and cursing, his
head and shoulders out of the water, his ridiculous hat floating serenely
down stream, the reins still in his hands.
"I reckon he's discovered that Vickers told him to swing to the right,"
grinned the rider from his elevation. He watched the driver until he
gained the bank and stood there, dripping, gesticulating, impotent rage
consuming him. The buckboard could not be moved without endangering the
comfort of the remaining occupants, and without assistance they must
inevitably stay where they were. And so the rider on the mesa wheeled his
pony and sent it toward the edge of the mesa where a gentle slope swept
downward to the plains.
"I reckon I've sure got to rescue her," he said, grinning with some
embarrassment, "though I'm mighty sorry that Willard had to get his new
clothes wet."
He spoke coaxingly to the pony; it stepped gingerly over the edge of the
mesa and began the descent, sending stones and sand helter-skelter before
it, the rider sitting tall and loose in the saddle, the reins hanging, he
trusting entirely to the pony's wisdom.
CHAPTER II
THE SYMPATHETIC RESCUER
Halfway down the slope, the rider turned and saw that Willard and the
occupants of the buckboard were watching him. The color in his cheeks
grew deeper and his embarrassment increased, for he noted that the girl
had faced squarely around toward him, had forgotten her precarious
position; her hands were clasped as though she were praying for his
safety. The aunt and uncle, too, were twisted in their seat, leaning
toward him in rigid attitudes, and Willard, safe on his bank, was
standing with clenched hands.
"Do you reckon we're goin' to break our necks, you piebald outlaw," the
rider said to the pony. "Well," as the animal whinnied gently at the
sound of his voice, "there's some people that do, an' if you've got any
respect for them you'll be mighty careful."
The descent was accomplished in a brief time, and then Patches and his
rider went forward toward the mired buckboard and its occupants, the pony
unconcernedly, its rider, having conquered his embarrassment, serene,
steady of eye, inwardly amused.
When he reached the water's edge he halted Patches. Sitting motionless in
the saddle, he quietly contemplated the occupants of the buckboard. He
had come to help them, but he was not going to proffer his services until
he was sure they would be welcomed. He had heard stories of the
snobbishness and independence of some Easterners.
And so he sat there long, for the occupants of the buckboard, knowing
nothing of his intentions, were in their turn awaiting some word from
him.
No word came. He looked down, interestedly watching Patches drink. Then,
when the pony had finished, he looked up, straight at the girl. She was
sitting very erect--as erect as she could in the circumstances, trying
hard to repress her anger over his inaction. She could see that he was
deliberately delaying. And she met his gaze coldly.
He looked from the girl to Willard. The Easterner was examining a small
pistol that he had drawn from a yellow holster at his waist, so high on
his waist that he had been compelled to bend his elbow in an acute angle
to get it out. His hands were trembling, whether from the wetting he had
received or from doubt as to the rider's intentions, was a question that
the rider did not bother with. He looked again at the girl. Doubt had
come into her eyes; she was looking half fearfully at him, and he saw
that she half suspected him of being a desperado, intent on doing harm.
He grinned, moved to mirth.
She was reassured; that smile had done it. She returned it, a little
ruefully. And she felt that, in view of the circumstances, she might
dispense with formalities and get right down to business. For her seat
was uncomfortable, and Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson were anxious, to say
nothing of Willard, who had placed his pistol behind him, determined, if
the man turned out to be a highwayman, to defend his party to the last.
But still the rider did not move. There was no hurry; only Willard seemed
to be really suffering, for the winter's chill had not yet gone out of
the air. But then, Willard had earned his ducking.
The girl cleared her throat. "We have had an accident," she informed the
rider, her voice a little husky.
At this word he swept his hat from his head and bowed to her. "Why, I
reckon you have, ma'am," he said. "Didn't you have no driver?"
"Why, yes," returned the girl hesitatingly, for she thought she detected
sarcasm in his voice, and she had to look twice at him to make sure--and
then she couldn't have told. "The gentleman on the bank, there, is our
driver."
"The gentleman on the bank, eh?" drawled the rider. And now for the first
time he seemed to become aware of Willard's presence, for he looked
narrowly at him. "Why, he's all wet!" he exclaimed. "I expect he come
pretty near drownin', didn't he, ma'am?" He looked again at the girl,
astonishment in his eyes. "An' so he drove you into that suck-hole, an'
he got throwed out! Wasn't there no one to tell him that Calamity ain't
to be trusted?"
"Mr. Vickers told us to keep to the right after reaching the middle,"
said the girl.
"I distinctly understood him to say the left, Ruth," growled Willard.
The rider watched the girl's face, saw the color come into it, and his
lips twitched with some inward emotion. "I reckon your brother's right,
ma'am. Vickers wanted to drownd you-all."
"Mr. Masten isn't my brother," denied the girl. The color in her face
heightened.
"Well, now," said the rider. He bent his head and patted the pony's mane
to hide his disappointment. Again, so it seemed to the girl, he was
deliberately delaying, and she bit her lips with vexation.
Willard also seemed to have the same thought, for he shouted angrily:
"While you are talking there, my man, I am freezing. Isn't there some way
for you to get my party and the wagon out of there?"
"Why, I expect there's a way," drawled the rider, fixing Masten with a
steady eye; "I've been wonderin' why you didn't mention it before."
"Oh Lord!" said Masten to the girl, his disgust making his voice husky,
"can you imagine such stupidity?"
But the girl did not answer; she had seen a glint in the rider's eyes
while he had been looking at Masten which had made her draw a deep
breath. She had seen guile in his eyes, and subtlety, and much humor.
Stupidity! She wondered how Masten could be so dense!
Then she became aware that the rider was splashing toward her, and the
next instant she was looking straight at him, with not more than five
feet of space between them. His gaze was on her with frank curiosity, his
lean, strong face glowing with the bloom of health; his mouth was firm,
his eyes serene, virility and confidence in every movement of his body.
And then he was speaking to her, his voice low, gentle, respectful, even
deferential. He seemed not to have taken offense at Willard, seemed to
have forgotten him.
"I reckon you-all will have to ride out of here on my horse, ma'am," he
said, "if you reckon you'd care to. Why, yes, I expect that's right; I'd
ought to take the old lady an' gentleman first, ma'am," as the girl
indicated them.
He backed his pony and smiled at Aunt Martha, who was small, gray, and
sweet of face. He grinned at her--the grin of a grown boy at his
grandmother.
"I reckon you'll go first, Aunty," he said to her. "I'll have you high
an' dry in a jiffy. You couldn't ride there, you know," he added, as Aunt
Martha essayed to climb on behind him. "This Patches of mine is
considerable cantankerous an' ain't been educated to it. It's likely he'd
dump us both, an' then we'd be freezin' too." And he glanced sidelong at
Willard.
Aunt Martha was directed to step on the edge of the buckboard. Trembling
a little, though smiling, she was lifted bodily and placed sidewise on
the saddle in front of him, and in this manner was carried to the bank,
far up on the slope out of the deep mud that spread over the level near
the water's edge, and set down gently, voicing her thanks.
Then the rescuer returned for Uncle Jepson. On his way to join Aunt
Martha, Uncle Jepson, who had watched the rider narrowly during his talk
with Willard, found time to whisper:
"I had a mule once that wasn't any stubborner than Willard Masten."
"You don't recollect how you cured him of it?"
"Yes sir, I do. I thumped it out of him!" And Uncle Jepson's eyes glowed
vindictively.
"I reckon you've got a heap of man in you, sir," said the rider. He set
Uncle Jepson down beside Aunt Martha and turned his pony back toward the
river to get his remaining passenger. Masten waved authoritatively to
him.
"If it's just the same to you, my man, I'll assist Miss Ruth to land.
Just ride over here!"
The rider halted the pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gravely
contemplating the driver across the sea of mud that separated them.
"Why, you ain't froze yet, are you!" he said in pretended astonishment.
"Your mouth is still able to work considerable smooth! An' so you want to
ride my horse!" He sat, regarding the Easterner in deep, feigned
amazement. "Why, Willard," he said when it seemed he had quite recovered,
"Patches would sure go to sun-fishin' an' dump you off into that little
ol' suck-hole ag'in!" He urged the pony on through the water to the
buckboard and drew up beside the girl.
Her face was crimson, for she had not failed to hear Masten, and it was
plain to the rider that she had divined that jealously had impelled
Masten to insist on the change of riders. Feminine perverseness, or
something stronger, was in her eyes when the rider caught a glimpse of
them as he brought his pony to a halt beside her. He might now have made
the mistake of referring to Masten and thus have brought from her a quick
refusal to accompany him, for he had made his excuse to Masten and to
have permitted her to know the real reason would have been to attack her
loyalty. He strongly suspected that she was determined to make Masten
suffer for his obstinacy, and he rejoiced in her spirit.
"We're ready for you now, ma'am."
"Are you positively certain that Patches won't go to 'sunfishing' with
me?" she demanded, as she poised herself on the edge of the buckboard. He
flashed a pleased grin at her, noting with a quickening pulse the deep,
rich color in her cheeks, the soft white skin, her dancing eyes--all
framed in the hood of the rain cloak she wore.
He reached out his hands to her, clasped her around the waist and swung
her to the place on the saddle formerly occupied by Aunt Martha. If he
held her to him a little more tightly than he had held Aunt Martha the
wind might have been to blame, for it was blowing some stray wisps of her
hair into his face and he felt a strange intoxication that he could
scarcely control.
And now, when she was safe on his horse and there was no further danger
that she would refuse to ride with him, he gave her the answer to her
question:
"Patches wouldn't be unpolite to a lady, ma'am," he said quietly, into
her hair; "he wouldn't throw you."
He could not see her face--it was too close to him and his chin was
higher than the top of her head. But he could not fail to catch the mirth
in her voice:
"Then you lied to Willard!"
"Why, yes, ma'am; I reckon I did. You see, I didn't want to let Patches
get all muddied up, ridin' over to Willard."
"But you are riding him into the mud now!" she declared in a strangely
muffled voice.
"Why, so I am, ma'am," he said gleefully; "I reckon I'm sure a box-head!"
He handed her down a minute later, beside Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha,
and he lingered another moment near her, for his proximity to her had set
his blood tingling, and there was an unnamable yearning in his breast to
be near her. He had passed hours in looking upon her picture, dreaming of
this minute, or another like it, and now that his dream had come true he
realized that fulfilment was sweeter than anticipation. He was hugely
pleased with her.
"She's a lot better lookin' than her picture," he told himself as he
watched her. She had her back to him, talking with her relatives, but she
did not need to face him to arouse his worship. "Didn't I know she was
little," he charged himself, estimating her height, "she won't come
anywhere near reachin' my shoulder."
He had not forgotten Masten. And a humorous devil sported in his eye as
he wheeled his pony and fixed his gaze on that gentleman.
"Speciments travel around most anywheres," he reflected. "This here's a
swell head with a grouch. I reckon he ain't a serious friend of hers, or
she wouldn't have stood for me rescuin' her when he offered himself that
generous." The recollection convulsed him, and he bowed his head over the
pony's neck to hide the laugh. When he looked up, it was to see Masten
standing rigid, watching him, wrath on his face.
"I suppose I'm to stand here and freeze while you sit over there and
laugh your fool head off!" shouted the Easterner. "I've got some dry
clothing in my trunk on the wagon, which I might put on, if I could
induce you to hurry a little."
"Why, shucks. I come mighty near forgettin' you, Willard," said the
rider. "An' so you've got other clothes! Only they're in your trunk on
the buckboard, an' you can't get 'em. An' you're freezin' an' I'm
laughin' at you. You've got a heap of trouble, ain't you, Willard. An'
all because you was dead set on goin' to the left when you ought to have
gone to the right."
"Do hurry! Wont you, please?" said the girl's voice, close to his
stirrup.
He looked guiltily at her, for he had been about to say some vitriolic
things to Masten, having almost lost patience with him. But at her words
his slow good nature returned.
"I'm sure goin' to hurry, ma'am."
He urged the pony into the water again, rode to the buckboard, stepped
off, and kneeling in the seat reached into the water and worked with the
harness. Then, walking along the wagon tongue, which was slightly out of
the water, he again reached into the water and fumbled with the harness.
Then he stepped back, slapped the blacks and urged them with his voice,
and they floundered out of the water and gained the bank, where they
stood shaking the water from their glistening bodies.
He mounted his pony again and rode to the rear of the buckboard. Taking
the braided hair rope that hung from the pommel of his saddle he made a
hitch around the center of the rear axle. Then he wheeled his pony until
it faced away from the buckboard, rode the length of the rope carefully,
halted when it was taut, and then slowly, with his end of the rope
fastened securely to the saddle horn, pulled the buckboard to a level on
the river bottom.
Returning to the rear of the buckboard he unfastened the rope, coiled it,
and rode to the bank, catching the blacks and leading them up the slope
beyond where the girl, her aunt and uncle stood. He gently asked Uncle
Jepson to hold the blacks, for fear they might stray, and then with a
smile at the girl and Aunt Martha, he returned to the buckboard. There he
uncoiled his rope again and attached one end of it to the tongue of the
wagon, again, as before, riding away until the rope grew taut. Then, with
a word to the pony, the wagon was drawn through the water to the edge of
the sea of mud.
This mud looked treacherous, but it was the only way out; and so, after a
pause for rest, he urged the pony on again. The buckboard traveled its
length--then lurched into a rut and refused to move another foot, in
spite of the straining of the pony and its rider's urgings.
The rider paused, turned in the saddle and scratched his head in
perplexity.
"I reckon we've run ag'in a snag, Patches," he said. He scrutinized the
slopes. "I expect we'll have to try one of them, after all," he decided.
"You were foolish to try to draw the wagon out with that thing, in the
first place," loudly criticized Masten. "If you had hitched the horses to
the wagon after you had pulled it out of the hole, why--"
The rider looked at the fault-finder, his eyes narrowed.
"Why, if it ain't Willard!" he said, amazed. "Standin' there, workin' his
little old jaw ag'in! An' a-mournin' because I ain't goin' to get my feet
wet! Well, shucks. I reckon there ain't nothin' to do now but to get the
blacks an' hitch 'em onto the wagon. There's a heap of mud there, of
course, but I expect some mud on them right pretty boots of yours
wouldn't spoil 'em. I'll lead the blacks over an' you can work your jaw
on 'em."
"Thanks," said Masten, sneering, "I've had enough wettings for one day. I
have no doubt that you can get the wagon out, by your own crude methods.
I shall not interfere, you may be sure."
He stalked away from the water's edge and ascended the slope to a point
several feet in advance of the wagon. Standing there, he looked across
the mud at the girl and the others, as though disdaining to exchange
further words with the rider.
The latter gazed at him, sidelong, with humorous malice in his glance.
Then he wheeled his pony, rode back toward the wagon, veered when almost
to it and forced the pony to climb the slope, thus getting Masten between
the rope and the mud. He pulled the rope taut again, swinging wagon
tongue and wheels at a sharp angle toward him, drove the spurs into the
flanks of the pony and headed it toward the mud level, swinging so that
the rope described a quarter circle. It was a time-honored expedient
which, he expected, would produce the jerk releasing the wagon.
If he expected the action would produce other results, the rider gave no
indication of it. Only the girl, watching him closely and seeing a hard
gleam in his eyes, sensed that he was determined to achieve a double
result, and she cried out to Masten. The warning came too late. The taut
rope, making its wide swing, struck Masten in the small of the back,
lifted him, and bore him resistlessly out into the mud level, where he
landed, face down, while the wagon, released, swished past him on its way
to freedom.
The rider took the wagon far up the sloping trail before he brought it to
a halt. Then, swinging it sideways so that it would not roll back into
the mud, he turned and looked back at Masten. The latter had got to his
feet, mud-bespattered, furious.
The rider looked from Masten to the girl, his expression one of
hypocritical gravity. The girl's face was flushed with indignation over
the affront offered her friend. She had punished him for his jealousy,
she had taken her part in mildly ridiculing him. But it was plain to the
rider when he turned and saw her face, that she resented the indignity
she had just witnessed. She was rigid; her hands were clenched, her arms
stiff at her sides; her voice was icy, even, though husky with suppressed
passion.
"I suppose I must thank you for getting the wagon out," she said. "But
that--that despicable trick--" Her self-control deserted her. "I wish I
were a man; you would not go unpunished!"
There was contrition in his eyes. For an infinitesimal space he regretted
the deed, and his active mind was already framing an excuse. And then out
of the tail of his eye he saw Uncle Jepson winking violent applause at
him, and a broad grin suffused his face. He made some effort to suppress
it, but deepening wrinkles around his eyes contradicted the gravity of
his lips.
"Why, I wasn't reckonin' to hurt him, ma'am," he said. "You see, he was
right in the way, an' I reckon I was feelin' a bit wild right at that
minute, an'--" His gaze went to Masten, who was scraping mud from his
garments with a small flat stone. The rider's eyes grew wide; more
wrinkles appeared around them.
"Why, I've spoiled his white shirt," he said as though speaking to
himself, his voice freighted with awe. And then, as Masten shook a
threatening fist at him, he suddenly yielded to the mirth that was
consuming him and he bowed his head.
It was Uncle Jepson's warning shout that impelled him to raise his head.
He saw Masten coming toward him, clawing at the foolish holster at his
waist, his eyes flashing murder, his teeth bared in a snarl.
"You, Patches!" said the rider, his voice coming with a cold, quick snap.
And the piebald pony, his muscles and thews alive with energy in an
instant, lunged in answer to the quick knee-press, through the mud,
straight at Masten.
So it was a grim and formidable figure that Masten looked up at before he
could get his weapon out of his holster. The lean face of the rider was
close to his own, the rider's eyes were steady, blue, and so cold that
they made Masten forget the chill in the air. And one of the heavy
pistols that the rider carried was close to Masten's head, its big muzzle
gaping forebodingly at him, and the rider's voice, as he leaned from the
saddle, came tense and low. The girl could not hear:
"Listen to this gospel, you mud-wallowin' swine," he said. "This is a
man's country, an' you play a man's game or you lose out so quick it'll
make you dizzy! You been playin' kid all through this deal. You're
grumblin' an' whinin' ever since I set eyes on you from the edge of the
mesa, there. That little girl thinks you're all wool an' a yard wide. You
come across, clean--you hear me! You shape up to man's size or I'll hunt
you up an' tear the gizzard out of you! You jam that there cap-shooter
back where it belongs or I'll take it away from you an' make you eat it!
You hear me!"
The pistol went back; Masten's face was ashen beneath the mud on it.
"Now grin, you sufferin' shorthorn!" came the rider's voice again, low as
before. "Grin like you'd just discovered that I'm your rich uncle come
from Frisco with a platter full of gold nuggets which I'm set on you
spendin' for white shirts. Grin, or I'll salivate you!"
It was a grin that wreathed Masten's lips--a shallow, forced one. But it
sufficed for the rider. He sat erect, his six-shooter disappearing
magically, and the smile on his face when he looked at the girl, had
genuine mirth in it.
"I've apologized to Willard, ma'am," he said. "We ain't goin' to be cross
to each other no more. I reckon you c'n forgive me, now, ma'am. I sure
didn't think of bein' mean."
The girl looked doubtfully at Masten, but because of the mud on his face
could see no expression.
"Well, I'm glad of that," she said, reddening with embarrassment. "I
certainly would not like to think that anyone who had been so
accommodating as you could be so mean as to deliberately upset anyone in
the mud." She looked downward. "I'm sorry I spoke to you as I did," she
added.
"Why, I'm sorry too, ma'am," he said gravely. He urged his pony through
the mud and brought it to a halt beside her. "If you'd shake hands on
that, ma'am, I'd be mighty tickled."
Her hand went out to him. He took it and pressed it warmly, looking at
it, marveling at it, for the glove on it could not conceal its
shapeliness or its smallness. He dropped it presently, and taking off his
hat, bowed to her.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said; "I'll be seein' you ag'in some time. I hope
you'll like it here."
"I am sure I shall."
He grinned and turned away. Her voice halted him.
"May I know who has been so kind to us in our trouble?"
He reddened to the roots of his hair, but faced her.
"Why, I reckon you'll know, ma'am. I'm King Randerson, foreman of the
Diamond H, up the crick a ways. That is," he added, his blush deepening,
"I was christened 'King.' But a while ago a dago professor who stayed
overnight at the Diamond H tipped the boys off that 'King' was Rex in
Latin lingo. An' so it's been Rex Randerson since then, though mostly
they write it '_W-r-e-c-k-s_.' There's no accountin' for notions
hereabouts, ma'am."
"Well, I should think not!" said the lady, making mental note of the
blueness of his eyes. "But I am sure the boys make a mistake in spelling
your name. Judging from your recent actions it should be spelled
'_R-e-c-k-l-e-s-s_.' Anyway, we thank you."
"The same to you, ma'am. So long."
He flashed a smile at Aunt Martha; it broadened as he met Uncle Jepson's
eyes; it turned to a grin of derision as he looked at Masten. And then he
was splashing his pony across the river.
They watched him as he rode up the slope on the opposite side; they held
their breath as pony and rider climbed the steeper slope to the mesa.
They saw him halt when he reached the mesa, saw him wave his hat to them.
But they did not see him halt the pony after he had ridden a little way,
and kiss the palm of the hand that had held hers.
CHAPTER III
AT THE FLYING W
It fell to Uncle Jepson to hitch the blacks to the buckboard--in a frigid
silence Masten had found his trunk, opened it and drawn out some very
necessary dry clothing; then marching behind a thick clump of alder, he
proceeded to make the change. After this he climbed down to the river and
washed the mud from visible portions of his body. Then he returned to the
buckboard, to find the others waiting for him. In a strained silence he
climbed up to the seat beside Ruth, took up the reins, and sent the
blacks forward.
It was ten miles to the Flying W ranchhouse, and during the ride the
silence was broken only once. That was when, at about the fifth mile,
Ruth placed a hand on Masten's arm and smiled at him.
"I really think Mr. Randerson _was_ sorry that he upset you in the mud,
Willard," she said gently. "I don't think he did it to be mean. And it
was so manly of him to apologize to you." She laughed, thinking that time
had already removed the sting. "And you really _did_ look funny, Willard,
with the mud all over you. I--I could have laughed, myself, if I hadn't
felt so indignant."
"I'll thank you to not refer to it again, Ruth," he said crossly.
She flushed and looked straight ahead of her at the unfolding vistas that
their passage revealed: at the undulating plains, green with bunch-grass
that the rain of the night before had washed and reinvigorated; into
gullies where weeds grew thick; peering into arroyos--visible memories of
washouts and cloudbursts; glimpsing barrancas as they flashed by;
wondering at the depth of draws through which the trail led; shivering at
the cacti--a brilliant green after the rain--for somehow they seemed to
symbolize the spirit of the country--they looked so grim, hardy, and
mysterious with their ugly thorns that seemed to threaten and mock. She
shrank, too, when the buckboard passed the skeleton of a steer, its
bleached bones ghastly in the sunlight, but she smiled when she saw a sea
of soap-weed with yellow blossoms already unfolding, and she looked long
at a mile-wide section of mesquite, dark and inviting in the distance.
She saw a rattler cross the trail in front of the buckboard and draw its
loathsome length into a coil at the base of some crabbed yucca, and
thereafter she made grimaces at each of the ugly plants they passed. It
was new to her, and wonderful. Everything, weird or ugly, possessed a
strange fascination for her, and when they lurched over the crest of a
hill and she saw, looming somberly in the distance in front of her, a
great cottonwood grove, with some mountains behind it, their peaks
gleaming in the shimmering sunlight, thrusting above some fleecy white
clouds against a background of deep-blue sky, her eyes glistened and she
sat very erect, thrilled. It was in such a country that she had longed to
live all the days of her life.
Somehow, it gave her a different viewpoint. The man who had accommodated
them back at the river seemed to fit very well here. The spirit of the
young, unfettered country was in his eyes, in his serene manner; he was
as hardy and rugged as this land from which he had sprung.
* * * * *
When the buckboard came to a halt in the Flying W ranchhouse yard, Ruth
Harkness' first emotion was one of a great happiness that the Harknesses
had always been thrifty and neat, and also that Uncle William had
persisted in these habits. She had greatly feared, for during the last
day of her ride on the train she had passed many ranchhouses and she had
been appalled and depressed by the dilapidated appearance of their
exteriors, and by the general atmosphere of disorder and shiftlessness
that seemed to surround them. So many of them had reminded her of the
dwelling places of careless farmers on her own familiar countryside, and
she had assured herself that if the Flying W were anything like those
others she would immediately try to find a buyer, much as she wished to
stay.
But the first glance at the Flying W convinced her that her fears had
been groundless. The ranchhouse was a big two-story structure built of
heavy timber, with porches in front and rear, and wide cornices, all
painted white and set on a solid foundation of stone. It looked spacious
and comfortable. The other buildings--stables, bunkhouse, messhouse,
blacksmith shop, and several others--did not discredit the ranchhouse.
They all were in good repair. She had already noted that the fences were
well kept; she had seen chickens and pigs, flowers and a small garden;
and behind the stable, in an enclosure of barbed wire, she had observed
some cows--milkers, she was certain.
The ranchhouse was well sheltered by timber. The great cottonwood grove
that she had seen from the plains was close to the house on the south; it
extended east and west for perhaps half a mile, and a grove of firs rose
to the north, back of the pasture fence. The general character of the
land surrounding the house was a sort of rolling level. The foothills
belonging to the mountains that she had seen while approaching the
ranchhouse were behind the cottonwood grove. She had seen, too, that the
river they had crossed at the ford which Wes Vickers had called
"Calamity" was not more than a mile from the house, and therefore she
concluded that it doubled widely. Later, she learned from Vickers that
her conclusion was correct, and that the river was called "Rabbit Ear."
Why it was called that she was never able to discover.
When the buckboard came to a halt, two men who had been seated in the
doorway of one of the buildings--she discovered, later, that it was the
bunkhouse--got up, lazily, and approached the buckboard. Ruth felt a
pulse of trepidation as they sauntered close to the wagon. Vickers had
told her nothing directly concerning the character of the men at the
ranch, but during their conversation at Red Rock that morning he had
mentioned that the "boys are a good lot, taken together, but they's some
that don't measure up." And she wondered whether these two came under
that final vague, though significant classification.
Their appearance was against them. The one in advance, a man of medium
height, looked positively villainous with his long, drooping black
mustache and heavy-thatched eyebrows. He eyed the occupants of the
buckboard with an insolent half-smile, which the girl thought he
tried--in vain--to make welcoming.
The other was a man of about thirty; tall, slender, lithe, swarthy, with
thin, expressive lips that were twisted upward at one corner in an
insincere smirk. This taller man came close to the wagon and paused in an
attitude of quiet impudence.
"I reckon you're Ruth Harkness--the ol' man's niece?" he said.
"Yes," returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men.
"Well," said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made her
pulse skip a beat, "you're a stunner for looks, anyway." He reached out
his hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do,
although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten.
"You're welcome to the Flyin' W," said the man, breaking an awkward
silence. "Tom Chavis is special glad to see a pretty woman around these
parts."
She felt, in his eyes more than his words, a veiled significance. She
reddened a little, but met his gaze fairly, her eyes unwavering.
"Who is Tom Chavis?" she asked.
"I'm reckonin' to be Tom Chavis," he said, studying her. He waved a hand
toward the other man, not looking at him. "This is my friend Jim Pickett.
We was foreman an' straw boss, respective, under Bill Harkness."
She could not help wishing that her uncle had discharged the two men
before his death. She was wondering a little at Masten's silence; it
seemed to her that he must see her embarrassment, and that he might
relieve her of the burden of this conversation. She looked quickly at
him; he appeared to be unconcernedly inspecting the ranchhouse. Perhaps,
after all, there was nothing wrong with these men. Certainly, being a man
himself, Masten should be able to tell.
And so she felt a little more at ease.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Chavis," she said. "Your friend Mr. Pickett
too." She indicated Masten with a nod of her head toward him. "This is
Mr. Willard Masten, a very dear friend of mine." The color in her face
deepened with the words.
Chavis had looked twice at Masten before Ruth spoke. He looked again now,
meeting the Easterner's eyes. Chavis had been ready to sneer at Masten
because of his garments--they were duplicates of those he had worn before
the ducking, and quite as immaculate--but something in the Easterner's
eyes kept the sneer back; his own eyes gleamed with a quick,
comprehensive fire, and he smiled. In the buckboard, fresh from that
civilization which Chavis was ready to scorn, he had recognized a kindred
spirit. There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reached
over Ruth to grasp Masten's hand.
"An' so this is Willard, a very dear friend of yourn, eh? Well, now, I'm
sure glad, an' I reckon him an' me will get on." He urged Pickett forward
and introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance.
Then he, too, grinned.
Ruth was gratified. These men were rough, but they had been quick to
recognize and appreciate Masten's good qualities. They had gone more than
half way in welcoming him. Of course, there was Chavis' bold allusion to
a "pretty woman," but the very uncouthness of the men must be the
explanation for that breach of etiquette. She was much relieved.
Masten was suave and solicitous. He jumped out of the buckboard and
helped her down, performing a like service for Aunt Martha. Uncle Jepson
got out himself. Then, as Ruth hesitated an instant, Masten bent over
her.
"You must be tired, dear. Go in and explore the house. Get some
refreshment and take a rest. I'll attend to the baggage and the horses."
He gave her a gentle pressure of the hand, and, followed by Uncle Jepson
and Aunt Martha, she went indoors.
CHAPTER IV
A MEMORY OF THE RIDER
A quiet satisfaction shone from Ruth's eyes when, accompanied by Aunt
Martha and Uncle Jepson, she completed her inspection of the ranchhouse.
"It isn't all that could be desired," she told Aunt Martha, "but it is
better than I expected."
"It's comfortable, dearie," mildly smiled Aunt Martha.
"An' big enough for a feller to stretch his legs in," added Uncle Jepson.
He was sitting in a big chair at one of the front windows of the
sitting-room, having already adjusted himself to his new surroundings,
and was smoking a short briar pipe and looking out of the window at the
bunkhouse, in front of which stood Pickett, Chavis, and Masten, talking
and laughing.
While Ruth and her relatives had been inspecting one of the upstairs
rooms, she had heard the men bringing the baggage in, had heard them
clumping up the stairs and setting the trunks down. Then they went out,
and a little later, peering from one of the windows upstairs, Ruth had
seen Masten and the other two walking toward the stable. They were
talking pleasantly; their liking for each other seemed to be mutual. Ruth
was delighted, but Uncle Jepson had frowned several times when looking at
them.
"I cal'late them two critters'll bear a heap of watchin'," he said now.
"They don't look honest."
"Jep," said Aunt Martha before Ruth could speak, "you're always
criticising folks."
"It's in their faces drat 'em," insisted Uncle Jepson. He turned a
vindictive eye on his niece. "If I'd have been fifty year younger I'd
have give that Chavis a durn good thrashin' for sayin' what he did to you
about pretty gals. Durn his hide, anyhow! That there Wil--"
"I felt that way myself, at first," smiled Ruth. "Afterwards, though, I
felt differently. I suppose they were glad to see the new owner. Perhaps
they haven't seen a lady in a long time."
"There's ways of showin' gladness," contended Uncle Jepson. "I cal'late
if I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldn't look at her like I wanted to
carry her off to the mountains."
"Jep, they're only cowboys--they don't know any different," remonstrated
Aunt Martha.
"They don't, eh?" sniffed Uncle Jepson. "I cal'late that feller, Rex
Randerson, is some different, ain't he? There's a gentleman, Ruth. You
didn't see him makin' no ox-eyes. An' I'll bet you wouldn't ketch him
gettin' thick with them two plug-uglies out there!"
Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse of
Aunt Martha's brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware of
Uncle Jepson's dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepson's
testiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation.
Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worth
while. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back near
Poughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, and
she felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed at
sixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them.
That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence for
Ruth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality of
the Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness of
this life inviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit,
either to the space or to the flights that one's soul might take, and in
the solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and the
spell of nature.
She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with the
Creator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett and
Chavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much with
them--"looking over the range," he told her--and only in the evening did
he find time to devote to her.
Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruth's
arrival. Apparently, in spite of Randerson's prediction, Vickers did not
get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He
gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W
as range boss for nearly five years.
Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightly
stoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed from
the same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruth's uncle
had written her to that effect the year before during his illness,
stating that without Vickers' help he would be compelled to sell the
ranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after her
acquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed that
he never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she would
find Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldom
awake at night when he returned.
He had said little to her regarding the men. "They 'tend to business,"
was his invariable response when she sought to question him. "It's a
pretty wild life," he told her when one day about two weeks after her
coming she had pressed him; "an' the boys just can't help kickin' over
the traces once in a while."
"Chavis and Pickett good men?" she asked.
"You saw anything to show you they ain't?" he said, with a queer look at
her.
"Why, no," she returned. But her cheeks reddened.
He looked at her with a peculiar squint. "Seems like Masten runnin' with
them shows that they ain't nothin' wrong with them," he said.
She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over the
expression in Vickers' eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her own
first impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepson's later condemnation of
them, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she felt
certain that Masten could care for himself.
With Masten absent with Chavis and Pickett nearly every day, Ruth had
much time to herself. The river attracted her, and she rode to it many
times, on a slant-eyed pony that Vickers had selected for her, and which
had been gentled by a young cowpuncher brought in from an outlying camp
solely for that purpose by the range boss. The young puncher had been
reluctant to come, and he was equally reluctant to go.
"This here cayuse," he said to Vickers, when the latter instructed him to
return to his outfit, saying that Miss Ruth thought she could now ride
the pony without trouble, "is got a heap of devilment in him, yet--which
ought to come out."
"Miss Ruth's got a fellow," said the range boss, in seeming irrelevance.
But the young puncher sneered a malignant denial and rode away to his
camp.
There were fourteen other men employed by the Flying W. Ruth met them at
various times. Invariably they were looking for strays. They seemed--some
of them--content to look at her; others, bolder, manufactured ingenuous
pretexts to talk; but--all were gentlemen.
She arose one morning during the third week of her stay at the ranch, to
be greeted by one of those perfect days that late spring brings. It had
been dry for a week, with a hint of receding chill in the air, and the
comfort of a wrap was still felt. But on this morning the sun was showing
his power, and a balmy south breeze that entered her window was burdened
with the aroma of sage, strong and delicious. She got out of bed and
looked out of the window. It was a changed world. Summer had come
overnight. No morning in the East had ever made her feel quite like this.
Out on the front porch later in the morning, with Chavis and Pickett
standing near, she asked Masten to ride with her.
He seemed annoyed, but spoke persuasively.
"Put it off a day, won't you, Ruth? There's a good girl. I've promised to
go to Lazette with the boys this morning, and I don't want to disappoint
them." Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he added: "Where did
you want to ride?"
"Why," she said, hoping that, after all, he might change his mind, "I'm
only going to the box canyon, down the river. There's such a pretty
stretch of timber there."
He smiled indulgently. "I'll try to meet you there, this afternoon about
three, if I can make it. But don't wait longer." He turned his back to
her and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett.
She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near the
corral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepson
standing near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. She
forced a smile and went into the house.
A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river.
She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spite
of the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face during
their talk.
It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, and
she made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly two
o'clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to a tree. Seating
herself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait.
It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch,
impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was about
to rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofs
near her.
With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the direction
from which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying to
appear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. He
did care, after all, enough to part with his companions--for her sake.
She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when she
heard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands to
keep from turning to face him.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his
feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to
dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips.
Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom
Chavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did not
fear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at him
composedly, for she half suspected that Masten had sent him, fearing that
she _would_ wait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up and
faced Chavis.
"Mr. Masten couldn't come, I suppose?" she said.
"That's right," he said, looking at her oddly; "he couldn't come. You
see, he's sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan's, over in
Lazette, an' he couldn't very well break away."
"A biscuit shooter!" she said, uncomprehendingly.
"Sure. I reckon that back East you'd call her a waitress, or somethin'. I
ain't admirin' his taste none. She ain't nowheres near as good-lookin' as
you."
Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made her
physically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But the
sensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed,
the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her.
"Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?" she asked icily.
"Why, no. I did it on my own hook. I knowed you'd be waitin'--I heard you
makin' the date with Willard, this mornin'. An' I figgered that what was
fair for one was fair for another. So I sneaked away from Willard an'
come here. I've taken quite a shine to you, ma'am; you've sure got me
some flustered. An' I reckon--" here he took a step toward her and
grinned significantly "that I'll make a rattlin' good substitute for
Willard."
She struck at him, blindly, savagely. She felt her open hand strike his
cheek, heard him curse, and then, in a daze she was running toward her
pony. She did not turn, but furiously raced the animal across the plains
toward the ranchhouse.
She was calmer when she reached the house, but went directly to her room,
where she changed her clothes and sat for a long time at one of the
windows, looking toward the river--and toward Lazette.
Downstairs, Uncle Jepson, who from a window of the bunkhouse had seen her
come in, had followed her into the house, to remark grumblingly to Aunt
Martha:
"Willard didn't meet her, drat him!"
Ruth passed a miserable night, thinking over Chavis' words. The man might
have been lying. Obviously, common fairness demanded that she tell Masten
of the circumstance. On one thing she was determined: that Chavis should
leave the ranch, whether he had lied to her or not. She would have
instructed Vickers to attend to that, but Vickers had gone again to Red
Rock on business, and would not return for two or three days. She would
wait until Vickers returned to discharge Chavis, but she must tell Masten
of the insult, for she yearned to see Chavis punished.
She waited until after breakfast the following morning, and then she
induced Masten to walk with her, under pretext of examining the flower
beds. Reaching them, she faced him fairly.
"Willard," she said, her lips white and stiff, "there must be no
double-dealing between you and me. Tom Chavis told me yesterday that you
are interested in a waitress in Lazette. Is that true?"
He started, flushed darkly, and then smiled blandly.
"Tom Chavis is romancing, my dear. If there is a waitress in Lazette I
have not seen her." He seized her by the shoulders and spoke earnestly.
"I am interested in Ruth Harkness, my dear. You surely don't believe such
a story, do you, Ruth?"
He looked at her so frankly that her jealousy took wings, and she blushed
and lowered her eyes. She raised them again, almost instantly, however;
they were glowing vindictively.
"Tom Chavis came to the box canyon at three yesterday afternoon," she
said firmly. "He insulted me. I want you to discharge him; Vickers is not
here to do it. And I do not want to see him again."
He pressed his lips together and avoided her gaze, and a slow red stole
into his face. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
"Tom Chavis is a valuable man here, Ruth," he said. "If the insult was
one that can be overlooked, you would do well to let the matter rest. But
be assured that I shall have a talk with Chavis, and you may believe that
he will not repeat the offense." He patted her shoulder. "In the
meantime," he said, with a hurt expression in his eyes, "do have some
faith in me."
Reassured, convinced that she had done him an injustice in believing Chavis,
she passed the remainder of the day in comparative light-heartedness.
But when the awesome darkness of the West settled over the country, and
deep, stirring thoughts came to her on her pillow, she found herself
thinking of the rider of the river. He grew very vivid in her thoughts,
and she found herself wondering,--remembering the stern manliness of his
face,--whether he, listening to the story of Chavis' insult from her lips,
would have sought to find excuses for her insulter.
CHAPTER V
LOVE VS. BUSINESS
On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson were
sitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was reading
and thinking--thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap.
Masten was smoking a cigar--one of the many that he had brought with
him--and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Masten
seemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silent
during long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed and
immaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country,
where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication of
effeminacy.
Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in the
first place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party in
Poughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the country
gallants at the party as he had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seen
since coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he had
quite captivated her, and after their engagement--which had been a rather
matter-of-fact affair--she had not found it possible to refuse him
permission to accompany her to the West.
"Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?" Masten inquired at last.
"Neighbor!" Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing
her place. "Why, I didn't know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond
H!"
Masten's lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant
memories.
"A nester," he said, and then added after a pause--"and his daughter.
Only two miles from here, across the river. There's a trail, through a
break in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of the
river. The man's name is Catherson--Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he was
something of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to steal
Flying W cattle. He's an old savage."
"And the daughter?" inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.
"Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She's pretty, though."
"How old is she, Willard?"
"A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge."
"I shall visit them tomorrow," declared Ruth.
"Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be--living in that
wilderness!" said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the
tops of her glasses.
"Everything is wild in this country," said Masten, a slight sneer in his
voice. "The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech." He
delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent
preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by
saying sharply:
"Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room
table!"
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth
interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson's opportunity
was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail,
suddenly exclaimed:
"Some one is coming!"
During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and
seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it
was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly
at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told
he had divined what was in her mind.
It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all
recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that
peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he
dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.
Plainly there was something on Vickers' mind, for he smiled mechanically
as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.
"Well, I'm back," he said. He looked at Ruth. "There's somethin' I'd like
to say to you. It's business. If you'd rather hear it private--"
"I think there is nothing--" she began.
"Well," he said, "I've got to leave here."
Ruth's face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. Aunt
Martha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleam
was in his eyes.
"Isn't that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?" questioned Ruth after
a silence.
"Well, mebbe it is, to you," said Vickers, with some embarrassment. "But
the fact is, I've been thinkin' of goin' for a long time--about a year to
be exact. I was goin' before your uncle died, but I kept holdin' on
because he wanted me to. You see, ma'am, I've got a mother back East.
She's been poorly for quite a while now, an' has been wantin' me to come.
I've been puttin' it off, but it's got to the point where it can't be put
off any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an' he says
that she can't last a heap longer. So--I'm goin'."
"That's too bad," sympathized Ruth. "You ought to go, and go quickly."
"I'm aimin' to, ma'am. But I've got to tell you somethin' before I go. Me
an' your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap."
"Yes," said Ruth; "he told me that he liked and trusted you."
"Well, you'll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, we
was talkin' of him goin'. He knowed it, ma'am. We was talkin' about the
ranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. 'What'll I do for a range boss when
you're gone?' he asked me. 'I won't go till you ain't here any more,' I
tells him. An' he grinned. 'I'm goin' to leave the Flyin' W to my niece,
Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie,' he says. 'I'd like her to stay an' run
it--if she likes it here. You'll be gone then, an' who in Sam Hill will
be range boss then?' I told him I didn't have no thoughts on the subject,
an' he continues: 'Rex Randerson, Vickers--he'll be range boss. Do you
understand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randerson
would be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An' if
you've got any say-so after I'm gone, an' Ruth wants to keep the ranch,
you tell her that--that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be range
boss after Wes Vickers don't want it any more.' That's what he said,
ma'am; them's his very words."
Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth's
cheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still,
Randerson hadn't really used him ill at the river, and besides, he had
apologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also,
she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward Tom
Chavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in her
unsophisticated mind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten to
jealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers' gaze, fixed curiously upon her.
"Could you recommend this man--Randerson?" she asked.
"Why, ma'am, he's got the best reputation of any man in these parts!"
"But is he efficient?"
"Meanin' does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He's got the best
head for range work of any man in the country! He's square, ma'am. An'
there ain't no man monkeyin' with him. I've knowed him for five years,
an' I ain't ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin'"--and here
he scratched his head and grinned reminiscently--"when he gets the devil
in him which he does occasionally, ma'am--an' goes to jokin', ma'am. But
they're mostly harmless jokes, ma'am; he's never hurt nobody, bad. But he
got a level head--a heap leveler than a lot of folks that--"
"I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth," said Masten. He
did not look at her, and his words were expressionless.
"Mister man," said Vickers evenly, "what do you know about Tom Chavis?"
Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face
slowly reddening.
"He's foreman now, isn't he?" he said. "It seems that Harkness trusted
him that much."
"There's a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister," said Vickers.
Masten's voice was almost a sneer.
"Why don't you tell Chavis that?"
"I've told him, Mister--to his face." Vickers' own face was growing dark
with wrath.
"You were range boss after Harkness' death," persisted Masten. "Why
didn't you discharge Chavis?"
"I'm askin' the new boss for permission to do it now," declared Vickers.
"It'll be a good wind-up for my stay here."
"We shall keep Chavis for the present," said Ruth. "However," she added
firmly, "he shall not be range boss. I do not like him."
Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with
his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster.
Masten's face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched,
so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings,
however, he retained his self-control.
"Of course, it is your affair, Ruth," he said. "I beg your pardon for
offering the suggestion."
But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walking
toward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had gone
to a distant part of the range.
Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on the
porch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson,
and then he took Ruth's hand and held it long.
"You'll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl," he
said. "I'm ridin' over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his new
job. Don't make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An' if any
trouble comes sneakin' around you, take it to Rex; he'll stick on the
right side till hell freezes over."
[Illustration: "I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W"]
CHAPTER VI
A MAN AND HIS JOB
Just what Ruth's sensations were the next morning she could not have
told. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation.
Also, she could account for it--she wanted to see Randerson. But her
reason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom,
though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairs
she devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson well
enough to wish to see him merely on that account--that was ridiculous, in
spite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, for
she had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was too
practical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet by
afternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason for
certainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding.
She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself--at least, she
could not find him. She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon that
he had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over a
shallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a wood
through which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for some
distance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe house
stood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and was
debating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out of
the door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. The
dog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantly
wheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs at
it.
"Nig, you ol' duffer, git in hyeh where you b'long! Can't you see that
that there's a _lady!_" came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog,
still growling, but submissive, drew off.
Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. A
girl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of some
checkered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too small
for her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, her
hair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had been
combed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean,
though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, in
spite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strange
mixture of admiration and defiance.
"Dad ain't hyeh this mornin'," she volunteered as Ruth climbed off her
pony.
"I came to see you," said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over the
pony's head and advanced, holding out a hand. "I am Ruth Harkness," she
added, "the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month,
and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?"
"I reckon," said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth to
take her hand. But she drew it away immediately. "I've heard of you," she
said; "you're a niece of that ol' devil, Bill Harkness." She frowned. "He
was always sayin' dad was hookin' his doggoned cattle. Dad didn't steal
'em--ol' Bill Harkness was a liar!" Her eyes glowed fiercely. "I reckon
you'll be sayin' the same thing about dad."
"No indeed!" declared Ruth. "Your dad and I are going to be friends. I
want to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad with
stealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. I
want to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W and
get acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren't you going to invite me
inside? I would if you came to visit me, you know." She smiled winningly.
The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which,
Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished but
clean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near a
rough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her hands
hanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the ragged
apron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning to
realize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grew
conscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor's
raiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own--though Ruth's was merely a
simple riding habit of brown corduroy.
Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted to
discover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions were
as she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worse
than she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth's
wisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealth
of delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was in
question. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end of
that time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with the
girl's pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again.
Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fine
raiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from the
East, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in the
least needed by her--an incumbrance, rather--and which, she hinted, might
become the property of another, if suitable in size.
The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside the
pony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of both
that gave promise of future sincere friendship.
"Good-bye, Hagar," said the Flying W girl.
"Good-bye, lady," said the girl. "Ruth," she changed, as the Flying W
girl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruth
rode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in her
eyes.
Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode
first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the
buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted
him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the
front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson
came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson's face.
"I cal'late you've got here," he said.
"Looks mighty like it," returned the horseman. "You reckon my new boss is
anywheres around?"
"She's gone off ridin'," Uncle Jepson told him. "It's likely she'll be
back shortly."
"I reckon I'd better wait," said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.
"There's plenty of sittin' room on the porch here," invited Uncle Jepson,
indicating the chairs.
"Thank you--reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters."
He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches
halted:
"I cal'late you'd better wait here."
"If you insist," said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of
the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them
was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the
plains; and the twinkle in Randerson's eyes as his met Uncle Jepson's was
not to be mistaken.
"So Vickers has gone," said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. "He's a
mighty fine man."
"Willard wanted Chavis to have his job," whispered Uncle Jepson.
"You don't say!" Randerson's eyes gleamed. "An' Miss Ruth didn't want
him, I reckon." He caught Uncle Jepson's nod. "She's allowin' that she's
goin' to be boss. But of course she would," he added. He stood up, for
Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him.
He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something
near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He
stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most
comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked
up at him and smiled.
"I reckon you like it here?" he said gently to Aunt Martha.
"I like it very much. But there are differences--after Poughkeepsie. One
doesn't notice them so much at first."
"I expect you find it sort of rough here," he said, looking at her. "They
tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together--that there's
conveniences. There ain't a heap of conveniences here." He pronounced the
word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on
his best manners.
"No--no conveniences," said Aunt Martha. "But it's a wonderful country,
my boy--wonderful!"
A pulse of something shot through him at the word, "boy."
"I'm glad you like it," he said gravely.
Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over the
rims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. For
she saw something in this figure of a new type that sat before
her--something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at--nor
his leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, the
high-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were the
badges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she saw
them not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet
fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling
honesty that radiated from him, she saw--and admired. But above all she
saw the boy in him--the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of
grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.
"You were born here?" she asked.
"In Colfax, ma'am."
"Is that a city?"
"Bless yu', ma'am, no. It's a county."
"And you were born on a ranch, then."
"Yes, ma'am."
She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and
he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an
impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep
was his admiration of her.
"And your parents?"
"Both dead, ma'am." A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and
she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth
coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the
screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his
bare head.
"If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you," she said.
He blushed crimson. "Why, ma'am--" he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in,
and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.
"Oh!" she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she
had seen him from afar, "you are here already!"
"I expect it's me, ma'am," he said gravely. "You see, Wes Vickers stopped
at the Diamond H last evenin', an' I come right over."
It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer
was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to
exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been
given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step
over that line, and his manner showed it.
"Well," she said, "I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss
Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation,
that you will be able to fill his place acceptably."
"Thank you, ma'am. I reckon I'm to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?"
He paused. "Or mebbe the foreman's shanty?"
"Why," she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so
strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day.
"Why, I don't know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I
suppose you will stay here too."
"All right, ma'am; I'll be takin' my war-bag in." He was evidently
feeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. He
got his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shouldered
it, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth's voice
stopped him.
"Oh," she said, "your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in the
northwest corner."
"Thank you, ma'am." He went in.
"Come down when you have straightened around," she called to him, "I want
to talk with you about some things."
"I'll have to put Patches away, ma'am," he said, "I'd sure have to come
down, anyway."
That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smoking
his pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle off
Patches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talk
and smoke with Uncle Jepson.
While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was
lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door.
Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.
"One of the boys, I reckon," said Randerson.
Uncle Jepson chuckled. "It's Willard," he said. He peered into
Randerson's face for some signs of emotion. There were none.
"I'd clean forgot him," said Randerson.
Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson,
but ignored Randerson.
Supper was announced soon after Masten's entrance, and Uncle Jepson led
Randerson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tin
washbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury,
and then led the new range boss inside.
If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Masten
and the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson's
manner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign did
he indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity.
Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find his
conduct faultless. He had not Masten's polish, of course, that was not to
be expected. But she noticed this--it was quickly impressed upon her--he
was not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy grace
of movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemed
to relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene.
And last--the knowledge pleased her more than anything else--he continued
to keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he made
them see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It was
his job to be here, and he had no illusions.
CHAPTER VII
HOW AN INSULT WAS AVENGED
As the days passed, it became plain to Ruth, as it did to everyone else
on the ranch--Chavis, Pickett, and Masten included--that Vickers had not
talked extravagantly in recommending Randerson. Uncle Jepson declared
that "he took right a-hold," and Aunt Martha beamed proudly upon him
whenever he came within range of her vision.
There was no hitch; he did his work smoothly. The spring round-up was
carried to a swift conclusion, the calves were branded and turned loose
again to roam the range during the summer; the corral fences were
repaired, new irrigation ditches were laid, others extended--the numerous
details received the attention they merited, and when summer came in
earnest, the Flying W was spick and span and prospering.
Chavis and Pickett still retained their old positions, but Ruth noticed
that they did not spend so much of their time around the bunkhouse as
formerly, they seemed to have work enough to keep their time fully
employed. Nor did Masten accompany them very often. He seemed to take a
new interest in Ruth; he found various pretexts to be near her, and Ruth
secretly congratulated herself on her wisdom in securing her new range
boss. She had scarcely expected such amazing results.
She was conscious of a vague disappointment, though. For she would have
liked to see more of her range boss. Twice, under pretense of wanting to
look over the property, she had accompanied him to outlying cow camps,
and she had noted that the men seemed to like him--they called him "Rex,"
and in other ways exhibited their satisfaction over his coming. Several
times she had observed meetings between him and Chavis and Pickett;
invariably Chavis was sullen and disagreeable in his presence, and a
number of times she had seen Pickett sneer when Randerson's back was
turned. No one had told her of the open enmity that existed between
Pickett and Randerson; the latter had not hinted of it.
And Randerson was at the ranchhouse even less frequently than his
predecessor; he spent much of his time with the outfit. But he came in
one afternoon, after Ruth's friendship with Hagar Catherson had
progressed far, and met the nester's daughter on the porch as he was
about to enter the house.
By ingenious artifice and persuasion Ruth had induced the girl to accept
for her own many of the various garments in the alluring trunk, and Ruth
herself had been surprised at the wonderful transformation in her
appearance when arrayed in them. Hagar was attired this afternoon in a
dark-blue riding habit, with short skirt--shortened by Aunt Martha--riding
boots, a waist with a low collar and a flowing tie, and a soft hat that
Ruth had re-made for her. She had received lessons in hair-dressing, and
her brown, wavy tresses were just obstinate enough, through long neglect,
to refuse to yield fully to the influence of comb and brush; they bulged
under the brim of the soft hat, and some stray wisps persisted in blowing
over her face.
She had just taken leave of Ruth who, at the instant Randerson stepped on
the porch, was standing inside the doorway, watching her. She had given
the girl a trinket that had long been coveted by her, and Hagar's eyes
were bright with delight as she took leave of her friend. They grew even
brighter when she saw Randerson on the porch, and a swift color suffused
her face.
The girl stood still, looking at the range boss. A sudden whim to
discover if he recognized her, took possession of her--for she had known
him long and he had been a friend to her father when friends were few;
she stood looking straight at him.
He gave her one quick, penetrating glance, and then stepped back,
astonishment and recognition in his eyes. Then he took a quick step
forward and seized her hands, holding her at arm's length, his eyes
leaping in admiration.
"Why, if it ain't Hagar Catherson!" he said, wonder in his voice. "Have
you just got out of a fairy book?"
Old friendship was speaking here; Ruth could not fail to understand that.
But he had not yet finished. "Why, I reckon--" he began. And then he saw
Ruth, and his lips wreathed in a delighted grin. "You're the fairy,
ma'am." And then he sobered. "Shucks. I'm talkin' nonsense, ma'am. I've
come to tell you that the grass ain't what it ought to be where we've
been, an' tomorrow we're drivin' past here to go down the river." He was
still holding Hagar's hands, and now he seemed to realize that perhaps he
had been too effusive, and he flushed and dropped them. "You was just
goin', I reckon," he said to the girl. And at her nod, and a quick,
pleased glance from her eyes, he added: "Tell your dad that I'm comin'
over to see him, pretty soon. I'd have been over before, but I've been
sort of busy."
"We've been a-hopin' you'd come," answered Hagar. And with another smile
at Ruth she stepped off the porch and mounted her pony.
Randerson went directly to his room, and Ruth stood for a long time at
the door, watching Hagar as she rode her pony over the plains. There was
a queer sensation of resentment in her breast over this exhibition of
friendship; she had never thought of them knowing each other. She smiled
after a while, however, telling herself that it was nothing to her. But
the next time that she saw Hagar she ascertained her age. It was
seventeen.
The outfit came in the next morning--fourteen punchers, the horse-wrangler
having trouble as usual with the _remuda_, the cook, Chavis, and Pickett.
They veered the herd toward the river and drove it past the ranchhouse and
into a grass level that stretched for miles. It was near noon when the
chuck wagon came to a halt near the bunkhouse door, and from the porch of
her house Ruth witnessed a scene that she had been anticipating since her
first day in the West--a group of cowboys at play.
Did these men of the plains know that their new boss had been wanting to
see them in their unrestrained moments? They acted like boys--more
mischievous than boys in their most frolicsome moods. Their movements
were grotesque, their gestures extravagant, their talk high-pitched and
flavored with a dialect that Ruth had never heard. They were "showing
off"; the girl knew that. But she also knew that in their actions was
much of earnestness, that an excess of vigor filled them. They were like
their horses which now unleashed in the corral were running, neighing,
kicking up their heels in their momentary delight of freedom.
The girl understood and sympathized with them, but she caught a glimpse
of Chavis and Pickett, sitting close together on a bench at the front of
the messhouse, talking seriously, and a cloud came over her face. These
two men were not light-hearted as the others. What was the reason? When
she went into the house a few minutes later, a premonition of impending
trouble assailed her and would not be dismissed.
She helped Aunt Martha in the kitchen. Uncle Jepson had gone
away--"nosin' around," he had said; Masten had ridden away toward the
river some time before--he had seemed to ride toward the break in the
canyon which led to the Catherson cabin; she did not know where Randerson
had gone--had not seen him for hours.
Hilarious laughter reached her, busy in the kitchen, but it did not
banish the peculiar uneasiness that afflicted her. And some time later,
when the laughter ceased and she went to the window and looked out, the
cowboys had vanished. They had gone in to dinner. But Chavis and Pickett
still sat on their bench, talking. Ruth shivered and turned from the
window.
She was in better spirits shortly after dinner, and went out to the
stable to look at her pony. Because of the coming of the _remuda_ she had
thought it best to take her pony from the corral, for she feared that in
company with the other horses her own animal would return to those
ungentle habits which she disliked.
She fed it from some grain in a bin, carried some water in a pail from
the trough at the windmill, and stood at the pony's head for some time,
watching it. Just as she was about to turn to leave the stable, she felt
the interior darken, and she wheeled quickly to see that the door had
closed, and that Jim Pickett stood before it, grinning at her.
For a moment her knees shook, for she could not fail to interpret the
expression of his face, then she heard a gale of laughter from the
direction of the bunkhouse, and felt reassured. But while she stood, she
heard the sounds of the laughter growing gradually indistinct and
distant, and she gulped hard. For she knew that the cowboys were riding
away--no doubt to join the herd.
She pretended to be interested in the pony, and stroked its mane with a
hand that trembled, delaying to move in the hope that she might be
mistaken in her fears and that Pickett would go away. But Pickett did not
move. Glancing at him furtively, she saw that the grin was still on his
face and that he was watching her narrowly. Then, finding that he seemed
determined to stay, she pretended unconcern and faced him, meeting his
gaze fearlessly.
"Is there something that you wanted to talk to me about, Pickett?" she
questioned.
"Yes, ma'am," he said respectfully, though his voice seemed slightly
hoarse, "I've got a letter here which I want you to read to me--I just
can't sorta make out the writin'."
She almost sighed with relief. Leaving the stall she went to Pickett's
side and took from his hand a paper that he held out to her. And now, in
her relief over her discovery that his intentions were not evil, it
suddenly dawned on her that she had forgotten that the door was closed.
"It is dark here," she said; "open the door, please."
Instead of answering, he seized the hand holding the paper, and with a
swift pull tried to draw her toward him. But her muscles had been tensed
with the second fear that had taken possession of her, and she
resisted--almost broke away from him. His fingers slipped from her wrist,
the nails scratching the flesh deeply, and she sprang toward the door.
But he was upon her instantly, his arms around her, pinning her own to
her sides, and then he squeezed her to him, so tightly that the breath
almost left her body, and kissed her three or four times full on the
lips. Then, still holding her, and looking in her eyes with an expression
that filled her with horror, he said huskily:
"Lord, but you're a hummer!"
Then, as though that were the limit of his intentions, he released her,
laughed mirthlessly and threw the door open.
She had spoken no word during the attack. She made no sound now, as she
went toward the house, her face ashen, her breath coming in great gasps.
But a few minutes later she was in her room in the ranchhouse, on her
bed, her face in the pillow, sobbing out the story of the attack to Aunt
Martha, whose wrinkled face grew gray with emotion as she listened.
Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room,
looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her.
"Why, what has happened?" Masten took a few steps and stood in front of
her, looking down at her.
"Aunty will tell you." Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly.
Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before he
reached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost a
sneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in the
kitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity.
"Well?" he said, questioningly.
"It is most outrageous," began Aunt Martha, her voice trembling. "That
man, Pickett, came upon Ruth in the stable and abused her shamefully. He
actually kissed her--three or four times--and--Why, Mr. Masten, the
prints of his fingers are on her wrists!"
Ruth, in the sitting-room, waited, almost in dread, for the explosion
that she knew would follow Aunt Martha's words.
None came, and Ruth sank back in her chair, not knowing whether she was
relieved or disappointed. There was a long silence, during which Masten
cleared his throat three times. And then came Aunt Martha's voice, filled
with mingled wonder and impatience:
"Aren't you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not to
go unpunished."
"Thunder!" he said fretfully, "what on earth _can_ I do? You don't expect
me to go out and _fight_ that man, Pickett. He'd kill me!"
"Mebbe he would," said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, "but he
would know that Ruth was engaged to a _man!_" There was a silence. And
again came Aunt Martha's voice:
"There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women.
But it seems that times have changed mightily."
"This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder," replied Masten.
"There is no more reason why I should go out there and allow Pickett to
kill me than there is a reason why I should go to the first railroad, lay
my head on the track and let a train run over me. There is law in this
country, aunty, and it can reach Pickett."
"Your self-control does you credit, Mr. Masten." Aunt Martha's voice was
low, flavored with sarcasm. Masten turned abruptly from her and went in
to Ruth. Her face was still in her hands, but she felt his presence and
involuntarily shrank from him.
He turned his head from her and smiled, toward the stable, and then he
laid a hand on Ruth's shoulder and spoke comfortingly.
"It's too bad, Ruth. But we shall find a way to deal with Pickett without
having murder done. Why not have Randerson discharge him? He is range
boss, you know. In the meantime, can't you manage to stay away from
places where the men might molest you? They are all unprincipled
scoundrels, you must remember!"
He left her, after a perfunctory caress which she suffered in silence.
She saw him, later, as he passed her window, talking seriously to Chavis,
and she imagined he was telling Chavis about the attack. Of course, she
thought, with a wave of bitterness, Chavis would be able to sympathize
with him. She went to her room shortly afterward.
The sun was swimming in a sea of saffron above the mountains in the
western distance when Ruth again came downstairs. Hearing voices in the
kitchen she went to the door and looked. Aunt Martha was standing near
the kitchen table. Randerson was standing close to her, facing her,
dwarfing her, his face white beneath the deep tan upon it, his lips
straight and hard, his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched; she could see
the corded muscles of his lean under-jaw, set and stiff. Aunt Martha's
hands were on his sleeves; her eyes were big and bright, and glowing with
a strange light.
They did not see Ruth, and something in their attitudes kept her from
revealing herself; she stood silent, listening, fascinated.
"So he done that!" It was Randerson's voice, and it made Ruth's heart
feel heavy and cold within her, for in it was contempt, intolerance, rage
suppressed--she felt that the words had come through clenched teeth. "I
reckon I'll be seein' Pickett, aunty."
And then he patted Aunt Martha's shoulders and started for the back door.
Ruth heard him open it; he must have been standing on the threshold when
he spoke again. And this time he spoke in a drawl--slow, gentle:
"I reckon I'll go wash. It was mighty dusty ridin' today. I passed
Calamity, aunty. There ain't no mud there any more; Willard wouldn't get
mussed up, now. The suck-hole ain't a foot deep any more."
"You're a scapegrace," said Aunt Martha severely. Ruth felt that she was
shaking a deprecatory finger at him. "Your manners have been neglected."
But Aunt Martha's voice gave the words an exactly opposite meaning, and
Ruth blushed.
There had been a dread fear in Ruth's heart. For she had seen warning of
impending tragedy in Randerson's face when she had looked at him. It
seemed to have passed. His, "I reckon I'll be seein' Pickett," meant,
perhaps, that he would discharge the man. Relieved, she went upstairs
again and sat in a chair, looking out of a window.
A little later she saw several of the cowboys come in. She saw Pickett
standing near a corner of the bunkhouse. She watched him closely, for
there was something strange in his actions. He seemed to be waiting for
something, or somebody. Occasionally he leaned against the corner of the
bunkhouse, but she noted that he kept turning his head, keeping a lookout
in all directions. Again a premonition of imminent trouble oppressed her.
And then she saw Randerson going from the ranchhouse toward the men who
were congregated in front of the bunkhouse; saw Pickett's right hand fall
to his side as though it rested on a holster, and she started out of her
chair, for illumination now came to her.
Half way to the bunkhouse, Randerson was met by Uncle Jepson. She saw
Randerson stop, observed that Uncle Jepson seemed to say something to
him. She could not, of course, hear the words, "Look out, Randerson;
Pickett's layin' for you," but she saw Randerson lay a hand on Uncle
Jepson's shoulder.
And then he continued on his way.
She saw Randerson go close to Pickett, noted that the other men had all
turned and were watching the two. Randerson seemed to be speaking, to
Pickett; the latter had faced him. Then, as she breathlessly watched, she
saw Pickett reach for his gun. Randerson leaped. Pickett's gun did not
come out, Randerson's hand had closed on Pickett's wrist.
There was a brief, fierce struggle, blows were struck, and then the men
sprang apart. Ruth saw Randerson's right arm describe a rapid
half-circle; she seemed to hear a thud as his fist landed, and Pickett
reeled and fell sideways to the ground, close to the wall of the
bunkhouse. She heard him curse; saw him reach again for the gun at his
hip. The toe of Randerson's right boot struck Pickett's hand, driving it
away from the holster; the hand was ground into the dust by Randerson's
boot. And then, so quickly that she could not follow the movement,
Randerson's gun was out, and Pickett lay still where he had fallen.
Presently Ruth saw Pickett get up, still menaced by Randerson's gun.
Cursing, crouching, evidently still awaiting an opportunity to draw his
gun, Pickett began to walk toward the ranchhouse, Randerson close behind
him. At a safe distance, the other men followed--Ruth saw Masten and
Chavis come out of the bunkhouse door and follow also. The thought struck
her that they must have witnessed the incident from a window. She saw
them all, the cowboys at a respectable distance, Pickett and Randerson in
front, with Masten and Chavis far behind, come to a halt. She
divined--she believed she had suspected all along--what the march to the
ranchhouse meant, but still she did not move, for she feared she could
not stand.
Ruth was roused, however, by Randerson's voice. It reached her, sharp,
cold, commanding. Evidently he was speaking to Aunt Martha, or to Uncle
Jepson, who had gone into the house:
"Tell Miss Ruth to come here!"
Ruth obeyed. A moment later she stood on the front porch, looking at them
all. This scene seemed unreal to her--the cowboys at a distance, Masten
and Chavis in the rear, looking on, Pickett near the edge of the porch,
his face bloated with impotent rage, his eyes glaring; the grim figure
that Randerson made as he stood near Pickett, gun in hand, his eyes
narrowed, alert. It seemed to her to be a dream from which she would
presently awaken, trembling from the horror of it.
And then again she heard Randerson's voice. It was low, but so burdened
with passion that it seemed to vibrate in the perfect silence. There was
a threat of death in it:
"You can tell Miss Ruth that you're never goin' to play the skunk with a
woman ag'in!"
Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze shifted from
Randerson to him, that Pickett's manner was not what it should be. He was
not embarrassed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough.
For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson's voice,
there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearly
concealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere to
her--there was even no flavor of shame in them:
"I'm sorry I done what I did, ma'am."
"I reckon that's all, Pickett. You draw your time right now."
Randerson sheathed his pistol and turned slightly sidewise to Pickett,
evidently intending to come up on the porch.
Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half out
of its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett's mind,
Randerson had turned slightly at Pickett's movement. There was a single
rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak,
by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two
continuous. Pickett's hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his
knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at
Randerson's feet.
Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming toward
her, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that lay
almost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm--she thought it
was Uncle Jepson--and she was led toward the door. At the threshold she
paused, for Randerson's voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness,
reached her:
"Do you want to take his end of this?" Ruth turned. Randerson was
pointing to Pickett's body, ghastly in its prone slackness. He was
looking at Chavis.
Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. For
there was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruth
was drawn into the house.
[Illustration: The twilight was split by a red streak]
CHAPTER VIII
WHAT UNCLE JEPSON HEARD
Every detail of the killing of Jim Pickett remained vivid in Ruth's
recollection. She felt that she would never forget it. But her horror
gradually abated, and at the end of a week she was able to look at
Randerson without shuddering. During the week she had evaded him. And he,
divining the state of her feelings, kept away from the house as much as
possible.
Masten's demeanor on hearing of the insult that had been offered her by
Pickett had seemed that of a man who was lacking in courage: at the time
she had not been able to make it conform to her ideas of a man's duty to
the woman he had promised to marry--or to any woman. She had heard him
speak of reason in connection with the affair, as though there were no
such thing in the world as rage so justifiable as to make a man yearn to
inflict punishment upon another man who had attacked his woman. He had
looked upon the matter cold-bloodedly, and she had resented that. But now
that she had been avenged, she felt that she had been wrong. It had been
such a trivial thing, after all; the punishment seemed monstrous in
comparison with it. She had seen Pickett's movement when Randerson had
momentarily turned his back to him, but she had also seen Randerson's
retaliatory movement. She had known then, that Randerson had expected
Pickett's action, and that he had been prepared for it, and therefore it
seemed to her that in forcing the trouble Randerson had not only foreseen
the ending but had even courted it.
Remorse over her momentary doubt of Masten's motive in refusing to call
Pickett to account, afflicted her. He had been wiser than she; he had
traced the line that divided reason from the primitive passions--man from
beast. His only reference to the incident--a wordless one, which she felt
was sufficiently eloquent--came when one day, while they were standing
beside the corral fence, looking at the horses, they saw Randerson riding
in. Masten nodded toward him and shook his head slowly from side to side,
compressing his lips as he did so. And then, seeing her looking at him,
he smiled compassionately, as though to say that he regretted the killing
of Pickett as well as she.
She seized his arm impulsively.
"I was wrong, Willard," she said.
"Wrong, dear?" he said. "It wasn't your fault."
"But I thought--things about you that I shouldn't have thought. I felt
that you ought to have punished Pickett. I am glad, now, that you
didn't." She shuddered, and looked again at Randerson, just dismounting
at the bunkhouse, paying no attention to them.
"Then you wouldn't have me like him?" He indicated Randerson.
"No," she said.
He gave her shoulder a slight pressure, and turning his head, smiled
triumphantly.
Later, when they had walked to a far corner of the pasture, talking
confidentially and laughing a little, he halted and drew her close to
him.
"Ruth," he said, gently, "the world is going very well for you now. You
are settled here, you like it, and things are running smoothly. Why not
take a ride over to Lazette one of these days. There is a justice of the
peace over there. It won't need to be a formal affair, you know. Just on
the quiet--a sort of a lark. I have waited a long time," he coaxed.
She smiled at his earnestness. But that spark which he had tried in vain
to fan into flame still smoldered. She felt no responsive impulse; a
strange reluctance dragged at her.
"Wait, Willard," she said, "until after the fall round-up. There is no
hurry. We are sure of each other."
They went on toward the ranchhouse. When they passed the bunkhouse, and
through the open door saw Randerson and Uncle Jepson sitting on a bench
smoking, Ruth quickened her step, and Masten made a grimace of hatred.
* * * * *
Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused long
enough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randerson's expression did not
change; it was one of grave expectancy.
"You was sayin'--" he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson.
"That the whole darned deal was a frame-up," declared Uncle Jepson. "I
was settin' in the messhouse along in the afternoon of the day of the
killin'--smokin' an' thinkin', but most of the time just settin', I
cal'late, when I heard Chavis an' Pickett talkin' low an' easy outside.
They was a crack in the wall, an' I plastered one ear up ag'in it, an'
took in all they was sayin'. First, they was talkin' about the bad
feelin' between you an' Pickett. Pickett said he wanted to 'git' you, an'
that Masten wanted to get you out of the way because of what you'd done
to him at Calamity. But I reckon that ain't the real reason; he's got
some idea that you an' Ruth--"
"Shucks," said Randerson impatiently.
"Anyway," grinned Uncle Jepson, "for some reason, he don't want you
hangin' around. Far as I could gather, Pickett wanted some excuse to have
you fire him, so's he could shoot you. He talked some to Masten about it,
an' Masten told him to tackle Ruth, but not to get too rough about it,
an' not to go too far."
"Great guns! The low-down, mean, sneakin'--" said Randerson. His eyes
were glowing; his words came with difficulty through his straightened
lips.
"Masten wouldn't take it up, he told Pickett," went on Uncle Jepson.
"He'd put it up to you. An' when you'd tackle Pickett about it, Pickett
would shoot you. If they was any chance for Chavis to help along, he'd do
it. But mostly, Pickett was to do the job. I cal'late that's about
all--except that I layed for you an' told you to look out."
"You heard this talk after--after Pickett had--"
"Of course," growled Uncle Jepson, a venomous flash in his eyes, slightly
reproachful.
"Sure--of course," agreed Randerson. He was grim-eyed; there was cold
contempt in the twist of his lips. He sat for a long time, silent,
staring out through the door, Uncle Jepson watching him, subdued by the
look in his eyes.
When he spoke at last, there was a cold, bitter humor in his voice.
"So that's Willard's measure!" he said. "He grades up like a side-winder
slidin' under the sagebrush. There's nothin' clean about him but his
clothes. But he's playin' a game--him an' Chavis. An' I'm the guy they're
after!" He laughed, and Uncle Jepson shivered. "She's seen one killin',
an' I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, she'll see another:
Chavis'." He stopped and then went on: "Why, I reckon Chavis dyin'
wouldn't make no more impression on her than Pickett dyin'. But I reckon
she thinks a heap of Willard, don't she, Uncle Jep?" "If a girl
promises--" began Uncle Jepson.
"I reckon--" interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and looked
grimly out at the horses in the corral.
"Do you reckon she'd--" Randerson began again, after a short silence.
"No," he answered the question himself, "I reckon if you'd tell her she
wouldn't believe you. No good woman will believe anything bad about the
man she loves--or thinks she loves. But Willard--"
He got up, walked out the door, mounted Patches and rode away. Going to
the door, Uncle Jepson watched him until he faded into the shimmering
sunshine of the plains.
"I cal'late that Willard--"
But he, too, left his speech unfinished, as though thought had suddenly
ceased, or speculation had become futile and ridiculous.
CHAPTER IX
"SOMETHIN'S GONE OUT OF THEM"
As Randerson rode Patches through the break in the canyon wall in the
afternoon of a day about a week after his talk with Uncle Jepson in the
bunkhouse, he was thinking of the visit he intended to make. He had
delayed it long. He had not seen Abe Catherson since taking his new job.
"I reckon he'll think I'm right unneighborly," he said to himself as he
rode.
When he reached the nester's cabin, the dog Nig greeted him with
vociferous affection, bringing Hagar to the door.
"Oh, it's Rex!" cried the girl delightedly. And then, reproachfully: "Me
an' dad allowed you wasn't comin' any more!"
"You an' dad was a heap mistaken, then," he grinned as he dismounted and
trailed the reins over the pony's head. "I've had a heap to 'tend to," he
added as he stepped on the porch and came to a halt, looking at her.
"Why, I reckon the little kid I used to know ain't here any more!" he
said, his eyes alight with admiration, as he critically examined her
garments from the distance that separated her from him--a neat house
dress of striped gingham, high at the throat, the bottom hem reaching
below her shoe-tops; a loose-fitting apron over the dress, drawn tightly
at the waist, giving her figure graceful curves. He had never thought of
Hagar in connection with beauty; he had been sorry for her, pitying
her--she had been a child upon whom he had bestowed much of the unselfish
devotion of his heart; indeed, there had been times when it had assumed a
practical turn, and through various ruses much of his wages had been
delicately forced upon the nester. It had not always been wisely
expended, for he knew that Catherson drank deeply at times.
Now, however, Randerson realized that the years must inevitably make a
change in Hagar. That glimpse he had had of her on the Flying W
ranchhouse porch had made him think, but her appearance now caused him to
think more deeply. It made constraint come into his manner.
"I reckon your dad ain't anywhere around?" he said.
"Dad's huntin' up some cattle this mornin'," she told him. "Shucks," she
added, seeing him hesitate, "ain't you comin' in?"
"Why, I've been wonderin'" and he grinned guiltily "whether it'd be
exactly proper. You see, there was a time when I busted right in the
house without waitin' for an invitation--tickled to get a chance to
dawdle a kid on my knee. But I reckon them dawdle-days is over. I
wouldn't think of tryin' to dawdle a _woman_ on my knee. But if you think
that you're still Hagar Catherson, an' you won't be dead-set on me
dawdlin' you--Why, shucks, I reckon I'm talkin' like a fool!" And his
face blushed crimson.
Her face was red too, but she seemed to be less conscious of the change
in herself than he, though her eyes drooped when he looked at her.
He followed her inside and formally took a chair, sitting on its edge and
turning his hat over and over in his hands, looking much at it, as if it
were new and he admired it greatly.
But this constraint between them was not the only thing that was new to
him. While she talked, he sat and listened, and stole covert glances at
her, and tried to convince himself that it was really Hagar that was
sitting there before him.
But before long he grew accustomed to the strangeness of the situation,
and constraint dropped from him. "Why, I reckon it's all natural," he
confided to her. "Folks grow up, don't they? Take you. Yesterday you was
a kid, an' I dawdled you on my knee. Today you're a woman, an' it makes
me feel some breathless to look at you. But it's all natural. I'd been
seein' you so much that I'd forgot that time was makin' a woman of you."
She blushed, and he marveled over it. "She can't see, herself, how she's
changed," he told himself. And while they talked he studied her, noting
that her color was higher than he had ever seen it, that the frank
expression of her eyes had somehow changed--there was a glow in them,
deep, abiding, embarrassed. They drooped from his when he tried to hold
her gaze. He had always admired the frank directness of them--that told
of unconsciousness of sex, of unquestioning trust. Today, it seemed to
him, there was subtle knowledge in them. He was puzzled and disappointed.
And when, half an hour later, he took his leave, after telling her that
he would come again, to see her "dad," he took her by the shoulders and
forced her to look into his eyes. His own searched hers narrowly. It was
as in the old days--in his eyes she was still a child.
"I reckon I won't kiss you no more, Hagar," he said. "You ain't a kid no
more, an' it wouldn't be square. Seventeen is an awful old age, ain't
it?"
And then he mounted and rode down the trail, still puzzled over the
lurking, deep glow in her eyes.
"I reckon I ain't no expert on women's eyes," he said as he rode. "But
Hagar's--there's somethin' gone out of them."
He could not have reached the break in the canyon leading to the plains
above the river, when Willard Masten loped his horse toward the Catherson
cabin from an opposite direction.
Hagar was standing on the porch when he came, and her face flooded with
color when she saw him. She stood, her eyes drooping with shy
embarrassment as Masten dismounted and approached her. And then, as his
arm went around her waist, familiarly, he whispered:
"How is my little woman today?"
She straightened and looked up at him, perplexity in her eyes.
"Rex Randerson was just hyeh," she said. "I wanted to tell him about you
wantin' me to marry you. But I thought of what you told me, an' I didn't.
Do you sure reckon he'd kill you, if he knowed?"
"He certainly would," declared Masten, earnestly. "No one--not even your
father--must know that I come here to see you."
"I reckon I won't tell. But Miss Ruth? Are you sure she don't care for
you any more?"
"Well," he lied glibly; "she has broken our engagement. But if she knew
that I come here to see you she'd be jealous, you know. So it's better
not to tell her. If you do tell her, I'll stop coming," he threatened.
"It's hard to keep from tellin' folks how happy I am," she said. "Once, I
was afraid Rex Randerson could see it in my eyes--when he took a-hold of
my arms hyeh, an' looked at me."
Masten looked jealously at her. "Looked at you, eh?" he said. "Are you
sure he didn't try to do anything else--didn't _do_ anything else? Like
kissing you, for instance?"
"I'm certain sure," she replied, looking straight at him. "He used to
kiss me. But he says I'm a woman, now, an' it wouldn't be square to kiss
me any more." Her eyes had drooped from his.
"An' I reckon that's right, too, ain't it?" She looked up again, not
receiving an answer. "Why, how red your face is!" she exclaimed. "I ain't
said nothin' to hurt you, have I?"
"No," he said. But he held her tightly to him, her head on his shoulder,
so that she might not see the guilt in his eyes.
CHAPTER X
THE LAW OF THE PRIMITIVE
Randerson continued his policy of not forcing himself upon Ruth. He went
his way, silent, thoughtful, attending strictly to business. To Ruth,
watching him when he least suspected it, it seemed that he had grown more
grim and stern-looking since his coming to the Flying W. She saw him,
sometimes, laughing quietly with Uncle Jepson; other times she heard him
talking gently to Aunt Martha--with an expression that set her to
wondering whether he were the same man that she had seen that day with
the pistol in hand, shooting the life out of a fellow being. There were
times when she wavered in her conviction of his heartlessness.
Since Ruth had announced her decision not to marry Masten until after the
fall round-up, she had not seen so much of him. He rode alone, sometimes
not even asking her to accompany him. These omissions worked no great
hardship on her, for the days had grown hot and the plains dry and dusty,
so that there was not so much enjoyment in riding as formerly. Besides,
she knew the country rather well now, and had no need to depend upon
Masten.
Chavis had severed his connection with the Flying W. He had ridden in to
the ranchhouse some weeks ago, found Ruth sitting on the porch, announced
that he was "quittin'" and wanted his "time." She did not ask him why he
wanted to quit so pleased was she with his decision, but he advanced an
explanation while she counted the money due him.
"Things don't suit me here," he said venomously. "Randerson is too
fresh." He looked at her impudently. "Besides," he added, "he stands in
too well with the boss."
She flushed with indignation. "You wouldn't dare say that to _him_!" she
declared.
He reddened darkly. "Meanin' what he done to Pickett, I reckon," he
sneered. "Well, Randerson will be gettin' his'n some day, too!"
Ruth remembered this conversation, and on a day about a month later when
she had gone riding alone, she saw Randerson at a distance and rode
toward him to tell him, for she had meant to, many times.
Evidently Randerson had seen her, too, for he had already altered his
pony's course when she wheeled hers. When their ponies came to a halt
near each other it was Randerson who spoke first. He looked at her
unsmilingly over his pony's head.
"I was ridin' in to the house to see you, ma'am. I thought you ought to
know. This mornin' the boys found two cows with their hoofs burned, an'
their calves run off."
"Their hoofs burned!" she exclaimed. "Why, who would be so inhuman as to
do that? But I suppose there was a fire somewhere, and it happened that
way."
"There was a fire, all right," he said grimly. "Some one built it, on
purpose. It was rustlers, ma'am. They burned the hoofs of the mothers so
the mothers couldn't follow when they drove their calves off--like any
mother would." He eyed her calmly. "I reckon it was Chavis, ma'am. He's
got a shack down the crick a ways. He's been there ever since you paid
him off. An' this mornin' two of the boys told me they wanted their time.
I was goin' in to get it for them. It's likely they're goin' to join
Chavis."
"Well, let them," she said indignantly. "If they are that kind of men, we
don't want them around!"
He smiled now for the first time. "I reckon there ain't no way to stop
them from goin', ma'am. An' we sure don't want them around. But when they
go with Chavis, it's mighty likely that we'll miss more cattle."
She stiffened. "Come with me," she ordered; "they shall have their money
right away."
She urged her pony on, and he fell in beside her, keeping his animal's
muzzle near her stirrup. For he was merely an employee and was filled
with respect for her.
"I suppose I could have Chavis charged with stealing those two calves?"
she asked, as they rode. She looked back over her shoulder at him and
slowed her pony down so that he came alongside.
"Why, yes, ma'am, I reckon you could. You could charge him with stealin'
them. But that wouldn't prove it. We ain't got any evidence, you see. We
found the cows, with the calves gone. We know that Chavis is in the
country, but we didn't see him doin' the stealin'; we only think he done
it."
"If I should complain to the sheriff?"
"You could do that, ma'am. But I reckon it's a waste of time."
"How?"
"Well, you see, ma'am, the sheriff in this county don't amount to a
heap--considered as a sheriff. He mostly draws his salary an' keeps out
of trouble, much as he can. There ain't no court in the county nearer
than Las Vegas, an' that's a hundred an' fifty miles from here. An',
mostly, the court don't want to be bothered with hearin' rustler
cases--there bein' no regular law governin' them, an' conviction bein'
hard to get. So the sheriff don't bother."
"But there must be some way to stop them from stealing!" she said
sharply.
"I reckon there's a way, ma'am." And now she heard him laugh, quietly,
and again she turned and looked at him. His face grew grave again,
instantly. "But I reckon you wouldn't approve of it, ma'am," he added.
"I would approve of most any method of stopping them--within reason!" she
declared vindictively, nettled by his tone.
"We mostly hang them, ma'am," he said. "That's a sure way of stoppin'
them."
She shuddered. "Do you mean that you hang them without a court
verdict--on your own responsibility?"
"That's the way, ma'am."
"But doesn't the sheriff punish men who hang others in that manner?" she
went on in tones of horror.
His voice was quietly humorous. "Them sort of hangin's ain't advertised a
heap. It's hard to find anybody that will admit he had a hand in it.
Nobody knows anything about it. But it's done, an' can't be undone. An'
the rustlin' stops mighty sudden."
"Oh," she exclaimed, "what a barbarous custom!"
"I reckon it ain't exactly barbarous, ma'am," he contended mildly. "Would
you have the rustlers go on stealin' forever, an' not try to stop them?"
"There are the courts," she insisted.
"Turnin' rustlers off scot-free, ma'am. They can't hold them. An' if a
rustler is hung, he don't get any more than is comin' to him. Do you
reckon there's a lot of difference between a half dozen men hangin' a man
for a crime he's done, than for one man, a judge for instance, orderin'
him to be hung? If, we'll say, a hundred men elect a judge to do certain
things, is it any more wrong for the hundred men to do them things than
for the man they've elected to do them? I reckon not, ma'am. Of course,
if the hundred men did somethin' that the judge hadn't been elected to
do, why then, it might make some difference."
"But you say there is no law that provides hanging for rustling." She
thought she had him.
"The men that elected the judge made the laws," he said. "They have a
right to make others, whenever they're needed."
"That's mob law," she said with a shiver. "What would become of the world
if that custom were followed everywhere?"
"I wouldn't say that it would be a good thing everywhere. Where there's
courts that can be got at easy, there'd be no sense to it. But out here
there's no other way for a man to protect his property. He's got to take
the law into his own hands."
"It is a crude and cold-blooded way."
She heard him laugh, and turned to see him looking at her in amusement.
"There ain't no refinement in punishment, ma'am. Either it's got to shock
some one or not get done at all. I reckon that back East you don't get to
see anyone punished, or hung. You hear about it, or you read about it,
an' it don't seem so near you, an' that kind of takes the edge off it.
Out here it comes closer, an' it seems a lot cruel. But whether a man's
punished by the law or by the men who make the law wouldn't make a lot of
difference to the man--he'd be punished anyway."
"We won't talk about it any further," she said. "But understand, if there
are any cattle thieves caught on the Flying W they must not be hanged.
You must capture them, if possible, and take them to the proper
officials, that they may have a fair trial. And we shall abide by the
court's decision. I don't care to have any more murders committed here."
His face paled. "Referrin' to Pickett, I reckon, ma'am?" he said.
"Yes." She flung the monosyllable back at him resentfully.
She felt him ride close to her, and she looked at him and saw that his
face was grimly serious.
"I ain't been thinkin' of the killin' of Pickett as murder, ma'am.
Pickett had it comin' to him. You was standin' on the porch, an' I reckon
you used your eyes. If you did, you saw Pickett try to pull his gun on me
when my back was turned. It was either him or me, ma'am."
"You anticipated that he would try to shoot you," she charged. "Your
actions showed that."
"Why, I reckon I did. You see, I've knowed Pickett for a long time."
"I was watching you from an upstairs window," she went on. "I saw you
when you struck Pickett with your fist. You drew your pistol while he was
on the ground. You had the advantage--you might have taken his pistol
away from him, and prevented any further trouble. Instead, you allowed
him to keep it. You expected he would try to shoot you, and you
deliberately gave him an opportunity, relying upon your quickness in
getting your own pistol out."
"I give him his chance, ma'am."
"His chance." There was derision in her voice. "I have talked to some of
the men about you. They say you are the cleverest of any man in this
vicinity with a weapon. You deliberately planned to kill him!"
He rode on, silently, a glint of cold humor in his eyes. He might now
have confounded her with the story of Masten's connection with the
affair, but he had no intention of telling her. Masten had struck the
blow at him--Masten it must be, who would be struck back.
However, he was disturbed over her attitude. He did not want her to think
that he had killed Pickett in pure wantonness, for he had not thought of
shooting the man until Uncle Jepson had warned him.
"I've got to tell you this, ma'am," he said, riding close to her. "One
man's life is as good as another's in this country. But it ain't any
better. The law's too far away to monkey with--law like you're used to.
The gun a man carries is the only law anyone here pays any attention to.
Every man knows it. Nobody makes any mistakes about it, unless it's when
they don't get their gun out quick enough. An' that's the man's fault
that pulls the gun. There ain't no officials to do any guardin' out here;
you've got to do it yourself or it don't get done. A man can't take too
many chances--an' live to tell about it. When you know a man's lookin'
for you, yearnin' to perforate you, it's just a question of who can shoot
the quickest an' the straightest. In the case of Pickett, I happened to
be the one. It might have been Pickett. If he wasn't as fast as me in
slingin' his gun, why, he oughtn't to have taken no chance. He'd have
been plumb safe if he'd have forgot all about his gun. I don't reckon
that I'd have pined away with sorrow if I hadn't shot him."
She was much impressed with his earnestness, and she looked quickly at
him, nearly convinced. But again the memory of the tragic moment became
vivid in her thoughts, and she shuddered.
"It's too horrible to think of!" she declared.
"I reckon it's no picnic," he admitted. "I ain't never been stuck on
shootin' men. I reckon I didn't sleep a heap for three nights after I
shot Pickett. I kept seein' him, an' pityin' him. But I kept tellin'
myself that it had to be either him or me, an' I kind of got over it.
Pickett _would_ have it, ma'am. When I turned my back to him I was hopin'
that he wouldn't try to play dirt on me. Do you reckon he oughtn't to
have been made to tell you that he had been wrong in tacklin' you? Why,
ma'am, I kind of liked Pickett. He wasn't all bad. He was one of them
kind that's easy led, an' he wasn't a heap responsible; he fell in with
the wrong kind of men--men like Chavis. I've took a lot from Pickett."
"You might have shown him in some other way that you liked him," she said
with unsmiling sarcasm. "It seems to me that men who go about thinking of
shooting each other must have a great deal of the brute in them."
"Meanin' that they ain't civilized, I reckon?"
"Yes. Mr. Masten had the right view. He refused to resort to the methods
you used in bringing Pickett to account. He is too much a gentleman to
act the savage."
For an instant Randerson's eyes lighted with a deep fire. And then he
smiled mirthlessly.
"I reckon Mr. Masten ain't never had anybody stir him up right proper,"
he said mildly. "It takes different things to get a man riled so's he'll
fight--or a woman, either. Either of 'em will fight when the right thing
gets them roused. I expect that deep down in everybody is a little of
that brute that you're talkin' about. I reckon you'd fight like a tiger,
ma'am, if the time ever come when you had to."
"I never expect to kill anybody," she declared, coldly.
"You don't know what you'll do when the time comes, ma'am. You've been
livin' in a part of the country where things are done accordin' to hard
an' fast rules. Out here things run loose, an' if you stay here long
enough some day you'll meet them an' recognize them for your own--an'
you'll wonder how you ever got along without them." He looked at her now
with a subtle grin. But his words were direct enough, and his voice rang
earnestly as he went on: "Why, I reckon you've never been tuned up to
nature, ma'am. Have you ever hated anybody real venomous?"
"I have been taught differently," she shot back at him. "I have never
hated anybody."
"Then you ain't never loved anybody, ma'am. You'd be jealous of the one
you loved, an' you'd hate anybody you saw makin' eyes at them."
"Well, of all the odd ideas!" she said. She was so astonished at the turn
his talk had taken that she halted her pony and faced him, her cheeks
coloring.
"I don't reckon it's any odd idea, ma'am. Unless human nature is an odd
idea, an' I reckon it's about the oldest thing in the world, next to love
an' hate." He grinned at her unblushingly, and leaned against the saddle
horn.
"I reckon you ain't been a heap observin', ma'am," he said frankly, but
very respectfully. "You'd have seen that odd idea worked out many times,
if you was. With animals an' men it's the same. A kid--which you won't
claim don't love its mother--is jealous of a brother or a sister which it
thinks is bein' favored more than him, an' if the mother don't show that
she's pretty square in dealin' with the two, there's bound to be hate
born right there. What do you reckon made Cain kill his brother, Abel?
"Take a woman--a wife. Some box-heads, when their wife falls in love with
another man, give her up like they was takin' off an old shoe, sayin'
they love her so much that they want to see her happy--which she can't
be, she says, unless she gets the other man. But don't you go to
believin' that kind of fairy romance, ma'am. When a man is so willin' to
give up his wife to another man he's sure got a heap tired of her an'
don't want her any more. He's got his eye peeled for Number Two, an' he's
thankin' his wife's lover for makin' the trail clear for the matrimonial
wagon. But givin' up Number One to the other man gives him a chance to
pose a lot, an' mebbe it's got a heap of effect on Number Two, who sort
of thinks that if she gets tied up to such a sucker she'll be able to
wrap him around her finger. But if he loves Number Two, he'll be mighty
grumpy to the next fellow that goes to makin' sheeps eyes at her."
"That is a highly original view," she said, laughing, feeling that she
ought to be offended, but disarmed by his ingenuousness. "And so you
think that love and hate are inseparable passions."
"I reckon you can't know what real love is unless you have hated, ma'am.
Some folks say they get through life without hatin' anybody, but if
you'll look around an' watch them, you'll find they're mostly an
unfeelin' kind. You ain't one of them kind, ma'am. I've watched you, an'
I've seen that you've got a heap of spirit. Some of these days you're
goin' to wake up. An' when you do, you'll find out what love is."
"Don't you think I love Mr. Masten?" she said, looking at him
unwaveringly.
He looked as fairly back at her. "I don't reckon you do, ma'am. Mebbe you
think so, but you don't."
"What makes you think so?" she demanded, defiantly.
"Why, the way you look at him, ma'am. If I was engaged to a girl an' she
looked at me as critical as you look at him, sometimes, I'd sure feel
certain that I'd drawed the wrong card."
Still her eyes did not waver. She began to sense his object in
introducing this subject, and she was determined to make him feel that
his conclusions were incorrect--as she knew they were.
"That is an example of your wonderful power of observation," she said,
"the kind you were telling me about, which makes you able to make such
remarkable deductions. But if you are no more correct in the others than
you are in trying to determine the state of my feelings toward Mr.
Masten, you are entirely wrong. I _do_ love Mr. Masten!"
She spoke vehemently, for she thought herself very much in earnest.
But he grinned. "You're true blue," he said, "an' you've got the grit to
tell where you stand. But you're mistaken. You couldn't love Masten."
"Why?" she said, so intensely curious that she entirely forgot to think
of his impertinence in talking thus to her. "Why can't I love Mr.
Masten?"
He laughed, and reddened. "Because you're goin' to love me, ma'am," he
said, gently.
She would have laughed if she had not felt so indignant. She would have
struck him as she had struck Chavis had she not been positive that behind
his words was the utmost respect--that he did not intend to be
impertinent--that he seemed as natural as he had been all along. She
would have exhibited scorn if she could have summoned it. She did nothing
but stare at him in genuine amazement. She was going to be severe with
him, but the mild humor of his smile brought confusion upon her.
"You don't lack conceit, whatever your other shortcomings," she managed,
her face rosy.
"Well now, I'm thankin' you, ma'am, for lettin' me off so easy," he said.
"I was expectin' you'd be pretty hard on me for talkin' that way. I've
been wonderin' what made me say it. I expect it's because I've been
thinkin' it so strong. Anyway, it's said, an' I can't take it back. I
wouldn't want to, for I was bound to tell you some time, anyway. I reckon
it ain't conceit that made me say it. I've liked you a heap ever since I
got hold of your picture."
"So that is where the picture went!" she said. "I have been hunting high
and low for it. Who gave it to you?"
"Wes Vickers, ma'am." There was disgust in his eyes. "I never meant to
mention it, ma'am; that was a slip of the tongue. But when I saw the
picture, I knowed I was goin' to love you. There ain't nothin' happened
yet to show that you won't think a lot of me, some day."
"You frighten me," she mocked.
"I reckon you ain't none frightened," he laughed. "But I expect you're
some disturbed--me sayin' what I've said while you're engaged to Masten.
I'm apologizing ma'am. You be loyal to Masten--as I know you'd be,
anyway. An' some day, when you've broke off with him, I'll come
a-courtin'."
"So you're sure that I'm going to break my engagement with Masten, are
you?" she queried, trying her best to be scornful, but not succeeding
very well. "How do you know that?"
"There's somethin' that you don't see that's been tellin' me, ma'am.
Mebbe some day that thing will be tellin' you the same stuff, an' then
you'll understand," he said enigmatically.
"Well," she said, pressing her lips together as though this were to be
her last word on the subject; "I have heard that the wilderness sometimes
makes people dream strange dreams, and I suppose yours is one of them."
She wheeled her pony and sent it scampering onward toward the ranchhouse.
He followed, light of heart, for while she had taunted him, she had also
listened to him, and he felt that progress had been made.
CHAPTER XI
HAGAR'S EYES
Randerson had been in no hurry to make an attempt to catch the rustlers
whose depredations he had reported to Ruth. He had told the men to be
doubly alert to their work, and he had hired two new men--from the
Diamond H--to replace those who had left the Flying W. His surmise that
they wanted to join Chavis had been correct, for the two new men--whom he
had put on special duty and had been given permission to come and go when
they pleased--had reported this fact to him. There was nothing to do,
however, but to wait, in the hope that one day the rustlers would attempt
to run cattle off when one or more of the men happened to be in the
vicinity. And then, if the evidence against the rustlers were convincing
enough, much would depend on the temper of himself and the men as to
whether Ruth's orders that there should be no hanging would be observed.
There would be time enough to decide that question if any rustlers were
caught.
He had seen little of the Easterner during the past two or three weeks.
Masten rarely showed himself on the range any more--to Randerson's
queries about him the men replied that they hadn't seen him. But
Randerson was thinking very little about Masten as he rode through the
brilliant sunshine this afternoon. He was going again to Catherson's, to
see Hagar. Recollections of the change that had come over the girl were
disquieting, and he wanted to talk to her again to determine whether she
really had changed, or whether he had merely fancied it.
Far down the river he crossed at a shallow ford, entered a section of
timber, and loped Patches slowly through this. He found a trail that he
had used several times before, when he had been working for the Diamond H
and necessity or whim had sent him this way, and rode it, noting that it
seemed to have been used much, lately.
"I reckon old Abe's poundin' his horses considerable. Why, it's right
plain," he added, after a little reflection, "this here trail runs into
the Lazette trail, down near the ford. An' Abe's wearin' it out, ridin'
to Lazette for red-eye. I reckon if I was Abe, I'd quit while the
quittin's good." He laughed, patting Patches' shoulder. "Shucks, a man
c'n see another man's faults pretty far, but his own is pretty near
invisible. You've rode the Lazette trail a heap, too, Patches," he said,
"when your boss was hittin' red-eye. We ain't growin' no angels' wings,
Patches, which would give us the right to go to criticizin' others."
Presently he began to ride with more caution, for he wanted to surprise
Hagar. A quarter of a mile from the cabin he brought Patches to a halt on
a little knoll and looked about him. He had a good view of the cabin in
the clearing, and he watched it long, for signs of life. He saw no such
signs.
"Abe's out putterin' around, an' Hagar's nappin', I reckon--or tryin' on
her new dresses," he added as an after-thought.
He was about to ride on, when a sound reached his ears, and he drew the
reins tight on Patches and sat rigid, alert, listening.
The perfect silence of the timber was unbroken. He had almost decided
that his ears had played him a trick when the sound came again, nearer
than before--the sound of voices. Quickly and accurately he determined
from which direction they came, and he faced that way, watching a narrow
path that led through the timber to a grass plot not over a hundred feet
from him, from which he was screened by some thick-growing brush at his
side.
He grinned, fully expecting to see Abe and Hagar on the path presently.
"Abe's behavin' today," he told himself as he waited. "I'll sure surprise
them, if--"
Suddenly he drew his breath sharply, his teeth came together viciously,
and his brows drew to a frown, his eyes gleaming coldly underneath. For
he saw Willard Masten coming along the path, smiling and talking, and
beside him, his arm around her waist, also smiling, but with her head
bent forward a little, was Hagar Catherson.
The color slowly left Randerson's face as he watched. He had no nice
scruples about eavesdropping at this moment--here was no time for
manners; the cold, contemptuous rage that fought within him was too deep
and gripping to permit of any thought that would not center about the two
figures on the path. He watched them, screened by the brush, with the
deadly concentration of newly aroused murder-lust. Once, as he saw them
halt at the edge of the grass plot, and he observed Masten draw Hagar
close to him and kiss her, his right hand dropped to the butt of his
pistol at his right hip, and he fingered it uncertainly. He drew the hand
away at last, though, with a bitter, twisting smile.
Five minutes later, his face still stony and expressionless, he
dismounted lightly and with infinite care and caution led Patches away
from the knoll and far back into the timber. When he was certain there
was no chance of his being seen or heard by Masten and Hagar, he mounted,
urged Patches forward and made a wide detour which brought him at length
to the path which had been followed by Masten and Hagar in reaching the
grass plot. He loped the pony along this path, and presently he came upon
them--Hagar standing directly in the path, watching him, red with
embarrassment which she was trying hard to conceal; Masten standing on
the grass plot near her, staring into the timber opposite; Randerson,
trying to appear unconcerned and making a failure of it.
"It's Rex!" ejaculated the girl. Her hands had been clasped in front of
her; they dropped to her sides when she saw Randerson, and her fingers
began to twist nervously into the edges of her apron. A deep breath,
which was almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. "I thought it was Dad!"
she said.
Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, for
at her exclamation he turned swiftly. His gaze met Randerson's, his
shoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steady
ones that watched him.
His composure returned quickly, however, and he smiled blandly, but there
was a trace of derision in his voice:
"You've strayed off your range, haven't you, Randerson?" he said
smoothly.
"Why, I reckon I have." Randerson's voice was low, almost gentle, and he
smiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately looked
downward.
"I expect dad must be gone somewhere--that you're lookin' for him,"
Randerson said. "I thought mebbe I'd ketch him here."
"He went to Red Rock this mornin'," said the girl. She looked up, and
this time met Randerson's gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of
casualness had set her fears at rest. "Mr. Masten come over to see him,
too."
The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten as
though for confirmation, and the latter nodded.
"Catherson is hard to catch," he said. "I've been over here a number of
times, trying to see him." His voice was a note too high, and Randerson
wondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would have
suspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a trifle
grim.
"I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger," he returned. "He's always
gallivantin' around the country when somebody wants to see him." He
smiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity.
"It's getting along in the afternoon, Hagar," he said. "Dad ought to be
amblin' back here before long." His face grew grave at the frightened
light in her eyes when he continued: "I reckon me an' Masten better wait
for him, so's he won't dodge us any more." He cast a glance around him.
"Where's your cayuse?" he said to Masten.
"I left him down near the ford," returned the other.
"Right on your way back to the Flyin' W," said Randerson, as though the
discovery pleased him. "I'm goin' to the Flyin' W, too, soon as I see
Catherson. I reckon, if you two ain't got no particular yearnin' to go
prowlin' around in the timber any longer, we'll all go back to
Catherson's shack an' wait for him there. Three'll be company, while it'd
be mighty lonesome for one."
Masten cleared his throat and looked intently at Randerson's
imperturbable face. Did he know anything? A vague unrest seized Masten.
Involuntarily he shivered, and his voice was a little hoarse when he
spoke, though he attempted to affect carelessness:
"I don't think I will wait for Catherson," he said, "I can see him
tomorrow, just as well."
"Well, that's too bad," drawled Randerson. "After waitin' this long, too!
But I reckon you're right; it wouldn't be no use waitin'. I'll go too, I
reckon. We'll ride to the Flyin' W together."
"I don't want to force my company on you, Randerson," laughed Masten
nervously. "Besides, I had thought of taking the river trail--back toward
Lazette, you know."
Randerson looked at him with a cold smile. "The Lazette trail suits me
too," he said; "we'll go that way."
Masten looked at him again. The smile on Randerson's face was
inscrutable. And now the pallor left Masten's cheeks and was succeeded by
a color that burned. For he now was convinced and frightened. He heard
Randerson speaking to Hagar, and so gentle was his voice that it startled
him, so great was the contrast between it and the slumbering threat in
his eyes and manner:
"Me an' Masten is goin' to make a short cut over to where his horse is,
Hagar; we've changed our minds about goin' to the shack with you. We've
decided that we're goin' to talk over that business that he come here
about--not botherin' your dad with it." His lips straightened at the
startled, dreading look that sprang into her eyes. "Dad ain't goin' to
know, girl," he assured her gravely. "I'd never tell him. You go back to
the shack an' pitch into your work, sort of forgettin' that you ever saw
Mr. Masten. For he's goin' away tonight, an' he ain't comin' back."
Hagar covered her face with her hands and sank into the grass beside the
path, crying.
"By God, Randerson!" blustered Masten, "what do you mean? This is going
too--"
A look silenced him--choked the words in his throat, and he turned
without protest, at Randerson's jerk of the head toward the ford, and
walked without looking back, Randerson following on Patches.
When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just before
entering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in the
grass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear was
the light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of her
shoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face corded
as they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha had
told him of Pickett's attack on Ruth.
He watched silently while Masten got on his horse, and then, still
silent, he followed as Masten rode down the path, across the river,
through the break in the canyon wall and up the slope that led to the
plains above. When they reached a level space in some timber that fringed
the river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was brought
to a halt by Randerson's voice:
"We'll get off here, Masten."
Masten turned, his face red with wrath.
"Look here, Randerson," he bellowed; "this ridiculous nonsense has gone
far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don't know why,
unless you'd selected the girl yourself--"
"That's ag'in you too," interrupted Randerson coldly. "You're goin' to
pay."
"You're making a lot of fuss about the girl," sneered Masten. "A man--"
"You're a heap careless with words that you don't know the meanin' of,"
said Randerson. "We don't raise men out here that do things like you do.
An' I expect you're one in a million. They all can't be like you, back
East; if they was, the East would go to hell plenty rapid. Get off your
horse!"
Masten demurred, and Randerson's big pistol leaped into his hand. His
voice came at the same instant, intense and vibrant:
"It don't make no difference to me _how_ you get off!"
He watched Masten get down, and then he slid to the ground himself, the
pistol still in hand, and faced Masten, with only three or four feet of
space separating them.
Masten had been watching him with wide, fearing eyes, and at the menace
of his face when he dismounted Masten shrank back a step.
"Good Heavens, man, do you mean to shoot me?" he said, the words
faltering and scarcely audible.
"I reckon shootin' would be too good for you." Again Randerson's face had
taken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was written
on it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would be
done in good time.
"I ain't never claimed to be no angel," he said. "I reckon I'm about the
average, an' I've fell before temptation same as other men. But I've
drawed the line where you've busted over it. Mebbe if it was some other
girl, I wouldn't feel it like I do about Hagar. But when I tell you that
I've knowed that girl for about five years, an' that there wasn't a mean
thought in her head until you brought your dirty carcass to her father's
shack, an' that to me she's a kid in spite of her long dresses and her
newfangled furbelows, you'll understand a heap about how I feel right
now. Get your paws up, for I'm goin' to thrash you so bad that your own
mother won't know you--if she's so misfortunate as to be alive to look at
you! After that, you're goin' to hit the breeze out of this country, an'
if I ever lay eyes on you ag'in I'll go gunnin' for you!"
While he had been speaking he had holstered the pistol, unstrapped his
cartridge belt and let guns and belt fall to the ground. Then without
warning he drove a fist at Masten's face.
The Easterner dodged the blow, evaded him, and danced off, his face
alight with a venomous joy. For the dreaded guns were out of Randerson's
reach, he was a fair match for Randerson in weight, though Randerson
towered inches above him; he had had considerable experience in boxing at
his club in the East, and he had longed for an opportunity to avenge
himself for the indignity that had been offered him at Calamity. Besides,
he had a suspicion that Ruth's refusal to marry before the fall round-up
had been largely due to a lately discovered liking for the man who was
facing him.
"I fancy you'll have your work cut out for you, you damned meddler!" he
sneered as he went in swiftly, with a right and left, aimed at
Randerson's face.
The blows landed, but seemingly had no effect, for Randerson merely
gritted his teeth and pressed forward. In his mind was a picture of a
girl whom he had "dawdled" on his knee--a "kid" that he had played with,
as a brother might have played with a younger sister.
CHAPTER XII
THE RUSTLERS
At about the time Randerson was crossing the river near the point where
the path leading to Catherson's shack joined the Lazette trail, Ruth
Harkness was loping her pony rapidly toward him. They passed each other
within a mile, but both were unconscious of this fact, for Randerson was
riding in the section of timber that he had entered immediately after
crossing the river, and Ruth was concealed from his view by a stretch of
intervening brush and trees.
Ruth had been worried more than she would have been willing to admit,
over the presence of Chavis and his two men in the vicinity, and that
morning after she had questioned a puncher about the former Flying W
foreman, she had determined to ride down the river for the purpose of
making a long distance observation of the "shack" the puncher and
Randerson had mentioned as being inhabited by Chavis. That determination
had not been acted upon until after dinner, however, and it was nearly
two o'clock when she reached the ford where she had passed Randerson.
The puncher had told her that Chavis' shack was about fifteen miles
distant from the Flying W ranchhouse, and situated in a little basin near
the river, which could be approached only by riding down a rock-strewn
and dangerous declivity. She had no intention of risking the descent; she
merely wanted to view the place from afar, and she judged that from the
edge of a plateau, which the puncher had described to her, she would be
able to see very well.
When she passed the ford near the Lazette trail, she felt a sudden qualm
of misgiving, for she had never ridden quite that far alone--the ford was
about ten miles from the ranchhouse--but she smiled at the sensation,
conquering it, and continued on her way, absorbed in the panoramic view
of the landscape.
At a distance of perhaps a mile beyond the ford she halted the pony on
the crest of a low hill and looked about her. The country at this point
was broken and rocky; there was much sand; the line of hills, of which
the one on which her pony stood was a part, were barren and uninviting.
There was much cactus. She made a grimace of abhorrence at a clump that
grew near her in an arid stretch, and then looked beyond it at a stretch
of green. Far away on a gentle slope she saw some cattle, and looking
longer, she observed a man on a horse. One of the Flying W men, of
course, she assured herself, and felt more secure.
She rode on again, following a ridge, the pony stepping gingerly. Another
half mile and she urged the pony down into a slight depression where the
footing was better. The animal made good progress here, and after a while
they struck a level, splotched with dry bunch-grass, which rustled
noisily under the tread of the pony's hoofs.
It was exhilarating here, for presently the level became a slope, and the
slope merged into another level which paralleled the buttes along the
river, and she could see for miles on the other side of the stream, a
vista of plain and hills and mountains and forest so alluring in its
virgin wildness; so vast, big, and silent a section that it awed her.
When she saw the sun swimming just above the peaks of some mountains in
the dim distance, she began to have some doubts of the wisdom of making
the trip, but she pressed on, promising herself that she would have a
brief look at the shack and the basin, and then immediately return. She
had expected to make much better time than she had made. Also, she had
not anticipated that a fifteen-mile ride would tire her so. But she
believed that it was not the ride so far, but the prospect of another
fifteen-mile ride to return, that appalled her--for she had ridden much
since her coming to the Flying W, and was rather hardened to it. In one
of his letters to her, her uncle had stated that his men often rode sixty
miles in a day, and that he remembered one ride of ninety miles, which a
cowpuncher had made with the same pony in twenty-two hours of straight
riding. He had told her that the tough little plains pony could go any
distance that its rider was able to "fork" it. She believed that, for the
little animal under her had never looked tired when she had ridden him to
the ranchhouse at the end of a hard day.
But these recollections did not console her, and she urged the pony on,
into a gallop that took her over the ground rapidly.
At last, as she was swept around a bend in the plateau, she saw spreading
beneath her a little valley, green-carpeted, beautiful. A wood rose near
the river, and at its edge she saw what she had come to see--Chavis'
shack.
And now she realized that for all the knowledge that a look at Chavis'
shack would give her, she might as well have stayed at the Flying W. She
didn't know just what she had expected to see when she got here, but what
she did see was merely the building, a small affair with a flat roof, the
spreading valley itself, and several steers grazing in it.
There were no other signs of life. She got off the pony and walked to the
edge of the plateau, discovering that the valley was much shallower than
she thought it would be, and that at her side, to the left, was the
declivity that the puncher had told her about. She leaned over the edge
and looked at it.
It was not so steep as she had expected when listening to the puncher's
description of it. But she thought it looked dangerous. At the point from
which she viewed it, it was not more than fifteen or twenty feet below
her. It cut into the plateau, running far back and doubling around toward
her, and the stretch below her, that was within range of her eyes, was
almost level. The wall of the cut on which she stood was ragged and
uneven, with some scraggly brush thrusting out between the crevices of
rocks, and about ten feet down was a flat rock, like a ledge, that
projected several feet out over the level below.
She was about to turn, for she had seen all she cared to see, when an
impulse of curiosity urged her to crane her neck to attempt to peer
around a shoulder of the cut where it doubled back. She started and
turned pale, not so much from fright as with surprise, for she saw a
horse's head projecting around the shoulder of the cut, and the animal
was looking directly at her. As she drew back, her breath coming fast,
the animal whinnied gently.
Almost instantly, she heard a man's voice:
"My cayuse is gettin' tired of loafin', I reckon." Ruth held her breath.
The voice seemed to come from beneath her feet--she judged that it really
had come from beneath the rock that projected from the wall of the cut
below her. And it was Chavis' voice!
Of course, he would not be talking to himself, and therefore there must
be another man with him. At the risk of detection, and filled with an
overwhelming curiosity to hear more she kneeled at the edge of the cut
and listened intently, first making sure that the horse she had seen
could not see her.
"I reckon Linton didn't pull it off--or them Flyin' W guys are stickin'
close to the herd," said another voice. "He ought to have been here an
hour ago."
"Linton ain't no rusher," said Chavis. "We'll wait."
There was a silence. Then Chavis spoke again:
"Flyin' W stock is particular easy to run off. Did I tell you? B---- told
me"--Ruth did not catch the name, she thought it might have been Bennet,
or Ben--"that the girl had give orders that anyone ketched runnin' off
Flyin' W stock wasn't to be hung!" Ruth heard him chuckle. "Easy boss,
eh, Kester?" He sneered. "Ketch that damned Flyin' W outfit hangin'
anybody!"
Kester was one of the men who had quit the day that Ruth had met
Randerson, when the latter had been riding in for the money due them. It
did not surprise Ruth to discover that Kester was with Chavis, for
Randerson had told her what might be expected of him. Linton was the
other man.
Nor did it surprise Ruth to hear Chavis talking of stealing the Flying W
stock. But it angered her to discover that her humane principles were
being ridiculed; she was so incensed at Chavis that she felt she could
remain to hear him no longer, and she got up, her face red, her eyes
flashing, to go to her pony.
But the pony was nowhere in sight. She remembered now, her heart sinking
with a sudden, vague fear, that she had neglected to trail the reins over
the animal's head, as she had been instructed to do by the puncher who
had gentled the pony for her; he had told her that no western horse,
broken by an experienced rider, would stray with a dragging rein.
She gave a quick, frightened glance around. She could see clearly to the
broken section of country through which she had passed some time before,
and her glance went to the open miles of grass land that stretched south
of her. The pony had not gone that way, either. Trembling from a sudden
weakness, but driven by the urge of stern necessity, she advanced
cautiously to the edge of the cut again and looked over.
Her pony was standing on the level below her, almost in front of the rock
under which had been Chavis and Kester! It had evidently just gone down
there, for at the instant she looked over the edge of the cut she saw
Chavis and Kester running toward it, muttering with surprise.
For one wild, awful instant, Ruth felt that she would faint, for the
world reeled around her in dizzying circles. A cold dread that seized her
senses helped her to regain control of herself presently, however, and
scarcely breathing she stole behind some dense weeds at the edge of the
cut, murmuring a prayer of thankfulness for their presence.
What Chavis and Kester had said upon seeing the pony, she had not heard.
But now she saw crafty smiles on their faces; Chavis' was transfigured by
an expression that almost drew a cry of horror from her. Through the
weeds she could see their forms, and even hear the subdued exclamation
from Chavis:
"It's the girl's cayuse, sure. I'd know it if I saw it in the Cannibal
islands. I reckon she's been snoopin' around here somewheres, an' it's
sloped! Why, Kester!" he cried, standing erect and drawing great, long
breaths, his eyes blazing with passion as for an instant she saw them as
they swept along the edge of the cut, "I'd swing for a kiss from them
lips of hers!"
"You're a fool!" declared Kester. "Let the women alone! I never knowed a
man to monkey with one yet, that he didn't get the worst of it."
Chavis paid no attention to this remonstrance. He seized Ruth's pony by
the bridle and began to lead it up the slope toward the plateau. Kester
laid a restraining hand on his arm. He spoke rapidly; he seemed to have
become, in a measure, imbued with the same passion that had taken
possession of Chavis.
"Leave the cayuse here; she'll be huntin' for it, directly; she'll come
right down here. Give her time."
Chavis, however, while he obeyed the suggestion about leaving the pony
where it was, did not follow Kester's suggestion about waiting, but began
to run up the slope toward the plateau, scrambling and muttering. And
Kester, after a short instant of silent contemplation, followed him.
Ruth no longer trembled. She knew that if she was to escape from the two
men she would have to depend entirely upon her own wit and courage, and
in this crisis she was cool and self-possessed. She waited until she saw
the two men vanish behind the shoulder of the cut where she had seen the
horse's head, and then she clambered over the edge of the wall, grasping
some gnarled branches, and letting herself slide quickly down. In an
instant she felt her feet come in contact with the flat rock under which
the men had been when she had first heard them talking. It seemed a great
distance to the ground from the rock, but she took the jump bravely, not
even shutting her eyes. She landed on all fours and pitched headlong,
face down, in the dust, but was up instantly and running toward her pony.
Seizing the bridle, she looped it through her arm, and then, pulling at
the animal, she ran to where the horses of the two men stood, watching
her, and snorting with astonishment and fright. With hands that trembled
more than a little, she threw the reins over their heads, so that they
might not drag, and then, using the quirt, dangling from her wrist by a
rawhide thong, she turned their heads toward the declivity and lashed
them furiously. She watched them as they went helter-skelter, down into
the valley, and then with a smile that might have been grim if it had not
been so quavering, she mounted her own animal and rode it cautiously up
the slope toward the plateau.
As she reached the plateau, her head rising above its edge, she saw that
Chavis and Kester were a good quarter of a mile from her and running
toward some timber a few hundred yards beyond them.
With a laugh that was almost derisive, Ruth whipped her pony and sent it
flying over the plateau at an angle that took her almost directly away
from the running men. She had been riding only a minute or two, however,
when she heard a shout, and saw that the men had stopped and were facing
in her direction, waving their hands at her. They looked grotesque--like
jumping jacks--in the sudden twilight that had fallen, and she could not
withhold a smile of triumph. It did not last long, for she saw the men
begin to run again, this time toward the cut, and she urged her pony to
additional effort, fearful that the men might gain their ponies and
overtake her.
And now that the men were behind her, she squared her pony toward the
trail over which she had ridden to come here, determined to follow it,
for she felt that she knew it better than any other.
The pony ran well, covering the ground with long, agile jumps. For about
two miles she held it to its rapid pace, and then, looking backward for
the first time she saw the plateau, vast, dark and vacant, behind her,
and she drew the pony down, for she had come to the stretch of broken
country and realized that she must be careful.
She shuddered as she looked at the darkening world in front of her. Never
had it seemed so dismal, so empty, and at the same time so full of
lurking danger. The time which precedes the onrush of darkness is always
a solemn one; it was doubly solemn to Ruth, alone, miles from home, with
a known danger behind her and unknown dangers awaiting her.
Fifteen miles! She drew a long breath as the pony scampered along;
anxiously she scanned the plains to the south and in front of her for
signs of Flying W cattle or men. The cattle and horseman that she had
previously seen, far over on the slope, had vanished, and it looked so
dismal and empty over there that she turned her head and shivered.
There seemed to be nothing in front of her but space and darkness. She
wondered, gulping, whether Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha were worried
about her. They would be, of course, for she had never stayed like this
before. But, she thought, with a pulse of joy, they would be lighting the
lamps presently, and when she got to the big level beyond the ford, she
would be able to see the lights, and the sight of them would make her
feel better. She had never realized before how companionable a horse
felt, and as her pony ran on, she began to give some attention to his
work, noting how his muscles rippled and contracted, how his sides
heaved, with what regularity his legs moved. Involuntarily, she felt of
his shoulder--it was moist, and the muscles under the smooth hair writhed
like living things. She laughed, almost hysterically, for the touch made
her feel that she was not alone--she was with the most faithful of man's
friends, and she knew that the little animal under her would do his best
for her--would run himself to death in her service, if she insisted.
She had a glorious start over her pursuers. They would never catch her.
Twice, after she entered the broken stretch she looked back, but could
see no sign of them. She did not know that at that moment Chavis and
Kester, enraged and disgusted over the trick she had played on them, were
riding slowly through the valley toward their shack.
She was almost through the broken stretch when the pony stumbled. She
pulled quickly on the reins, and the pony straightened. But instantly she
felt its forelegs stiffen, felt it slide; the thought came to her that it
must have slid on a flat rock or a treacherous stretch of lava. It
struggled like a cat, to recover its balance, grunting and heaving with
the effort, but went down, finally, sideways, throwing her out of the
saddle.
She had anticipated the fall and had got her feet out of the stirrups,
and she alighted standing, braced for the shock. Her left foot struck the
top of a jagged rock, slipped, doubled under her, and she felt a sharp,
agonizing pain in the ankle. For a moment she paid no attention to it,
however, being more concerned for the pony, but when she noted that the
animal had got up, seemingly none the worse for the fall, she suddenly
realized that the ankle pained her terribly, and she hopped over to a
flat rock and sat on it, to examine the injury. She worked the ankle
rapidly back and forth, each movement bringing tears to her eyes. She had
almost forgotten about her pursuers, and when she thought of them she got
up and limped toward the pony, which had wandered a little away from
where it had fallen.
And now the pony, which had performed so nobly for her during the miles
she had ridden to reach this spot, suddenly seemed determined to undo all
his service by yielding to a whim to avoid capture.
She tried threats, flattery, cajolery. Twice more she hobbled painfully
near him, and each time he unconcernedly walked away. The third time, he
allowed her to come very close, and just when she felt that success was
very near, he snorted with pretended fright, wheeled, and slashed out
with both hoofs at her and galloped off a full quarter of a mile. She
could see him standing and looking at her, his ears erect, before the
darkness blotted him from view altogether.
She tried again, groping her way painfully over rocks, slipping,
stumbling, holding her breath from fear of snakes--but she could not find
the pony. And then, white, shaking, clammy from her dread of the
darkness, the awesome silence, and the possibility of Chavis and Kester
finding her here, she groped blindly until she found a big rock rising
high above its fellows, and after a struggle during which she tore the
skin from her hands and knees, she climbed to its top and crouched on it,
shuddering and crying. And she thought of Randerson; of his seriousness
and his earnestness when he had said:
"I reckon you don't know hate or fear or desperation.... Out here things
run loose, an' if you stay here long enough, some day you'll meet them
an' recognize them for your own--an' you'll wonder how you ever got along
without them."
Well, she hated now; she hated everything--the country included--with a
bitterness that, she felt, would never die. And she had felt fear, too,
and desperation. She felt them now, and more, she felt a deep humility,
and she felt a genuine respect for Randerson--a respect which more than
counterbalanced her former repugnance toward him for the killing of
Pickett. For she knew that a while ago, if she had had a pistol with her,
she would have killed Chavis and Kester without hesitation.
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIGHT
At about the time that Chavis and Kester had discovered Ruth's pony and
had clambered up the slope in search of the girl, the two figures on the
timber-fringed level near the break in the canyon wall were making
grotesque shadows as they danced about in the dying sunlight.
Masten's science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evade
many of Randerson's heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They had
hurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, though
Masten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little,
feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists.
A great many of his blows had reached their mark also. Randerson's face
was covered with livid lumps and welts. But he seemed not to mind them,
to be unconscious of them, for on his lips was still the dogged smile
that had reached them soon after the fight had started, and in his eyes
was the same look of cold deliberation and unrelenting purpose.
He had spoken no word since the fight began; he had taken Masten's
heaviest punches without sign or sound to indicate that they had landed,
always crowding forward, carrying the battle to his adversary, refusing
to yield a step when to yield meant to evade punishment. Passion, deep
and gripping, had made him for the moment an insensate automaton; he was
devoid of any feeling except a consuming desire to punish the despoiler
of his "kid."
But he was holding this passion in check; he was its master--it had not
mastered him; he had made it a vassal to his deliberation. To have
unleashed it all at once would have made him too eager, would have
weakened him. He had chosen this punishment for Masten, and he would see
that it was sufficient.
But, as Randerson had well known, Masten was no mean opponent. He stepped
in and out rapidly, his blows lacking something in force through his
inability to set himself. But he landed more often than Randerson; he
blocked and covered cleverly; he ducked blows that would have ended the
fight had they struck him with their full force.
Masten had been full of confidence when the fight started. Some of that
confidence had gone now. He was beginning to realize that he could not
beat Randerson with jabs and stinging counters that hurt without
deadening the flesh where they struck; nor could he hope to wear the
Westerner down and finally finish him. And with this realization came a
pulse of fear. He began to take more risks, to set himself more firmly on
his feet in order to give his blows greater force when they landed. For
he felt his own strength waning, and he knew what the end would be,
should he no longer be able to hold Randerson off.
He went in now with a left jab, and instead of dancing back to avoid
Randerson's counter, he covered with the left, swiftly drawn back from
the jab, and hooked his right to Randerson's face. The blow landed
heavily on Randerson's jaw, shaking him from head to foot. But he shook
his head as though to dissipate the effect of it, and came after Masten
grimly. Again Masten tried the maneuver, and the jab went home
accurately, with force. But when he essayed to drive in the right, it was
blocked, and Randerson's right, crooked, rigid, sent with the force of a
battering ram, landed fairly on Masten's mouth, with deadening, crushing
effect.
It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook under
him, sagging limply. His lips, where the blow had landed, were smashed,
gaping hideously, red-stained. Randerson was after him relentlessly.
Masten dared not clinch, for no rules of boxing governed this fight, and
he knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beaten
quickly. So he trusted to his agility, which, though waning, answered
well until he recovered from the effects of the blow.
And then, with the realization that he was weakening, that the last blow
had hurt him badly, came to Masten the sickening knowledge that Randerson
was fighting harder than ever. He paid no attention to Masten's blows,
not even attempting to fend them off, but bored in, swinging viciously.
His blows were landing now; they left deadened flesh and paralyzed
muscles as marks of their force.
Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slipped
to one side or the other. It was unavailing. Blows were coming at him now
from all angles, ripping, tearing, crashing blows that seemed to increase
in force as the fight went on. One of them caught Masten just below the
ear on the right side. He reeled and went to his haunches, and dizzy,
nauseated, he sat for an instant, trying to fix the world correctly in
his vision, for it was all awry--trees, the plains, himself--all were
dancing. Dimly he sensed the form of Randerson looming over him. He still
was able to grasp the danger that menaced him, and reeling, he threw
himself headlong, to escape Randerson, landing on his side on the ground,
and with an inarticulate shriek of fury, he pulled the small caliber
pistol from his hip pocket, aimed it at the shadowy form of his adversary
and pressed the trigger.
And then it seemed that an avalanche had struck him; that he was whirled
along by it, then buried under it.
Evidently he had been buried for a long time, for when he opened his eyes
the dense blackness of the Western night had descended. He felt a dull,
heavy pain in his right wrist, and he raised it--it seemed to have been
crushed. He laid the hand down again, with a groan, and then he heard a
voice. Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure of his conqueror standing
over him.
"I reckon I've handed it to you pretty bad," said Randerson. "But you had
it comin' to you. If you hadn't tried to play the skunk at the last
minute, you'd have got off easier. I reckon your hand ain't so active as
it's been--I had to pretty near stamp it off of you--you would keep
pullin' the trigger of that pop-gun. Do you reckon you c'n get up now,
an' get on your horse?"
Masten felt himself lifted; he did not resist. Then he felt the saddle
under him; he made an effort and steadied himself. Then, still only half
conscious he rode, reeling in the saddle, toward a light that he saw in
the distance, which, he dimly felt, must come from the Flying W
ranchhouse.
CHAPTER XIV
THE ROCK AND THE MOONLIGHT
Randerson did not leave the scene of the fight immediately. He stood for
a long time, after buckling on his belt and pistols, looking meditatively
toward the break in the canyon beyond which was Catherson's shack.
"Did the dresses have anything to do with it?" he asked himself, standing
there in the darkness. "New dresses might have--puttin' foolish notions
in her head. But I reckon the man--" He laughed grimly. He had thought it
all over before, back there on the path when he had been talking to
Masten and Hagar. He reflected again on it now. "Lookin' it square in the
face, it's human nature. We'll allow that. We'll say a man has feelin's.
But a man ought to have sense, too--or he ain't a man. If Masten was a
boy, now, not realizin', there'd be excuses. But he's wised up.... If his
intentions had been honorable--but he's engaged to Ruth, an' they
couldn't. I reckon he'll pull his freight now. Catherson would sure muss
him up some."
He mounted his pony and rode toward the Flying W ranchhouse. Halfway
there he passed Masten. The moon had risen; by its light he could see the
Easterner, who had halted his horse and was standing beside it, watching
him. Randerson paid no heed to him.
"Thinkin' it over, I reckon," he decided, as he rode on. Looking back,
when he reached the house, he saw that Masten was still standing beside
his horse.
At the sound of hoof beats, Uncle Jepson came out on the porch and peered
at the rider. Randerson could see Aunt Martha close behind him. Uncle
Jepson was excited. He started off the porch toward Randerson.
"It's Randerson, mother!" he called shrilly back to Aunt Martha, who was
now on the porch.
In a brief time Randerson learned that Ruth had gone riding--alone--about
noon, and had not returned. Randerson also discovered that the girl had
questioned a puncher who had ridden in--asking him about Chavis' shack
and the basin. Randerson's face, red from the blows that had landed on
it, paled quickly.
"I reckon she's takin' her time about comin' in," he said. "Mebbe her
cayuse has broke a leg--or somethin'." He grinned at Uncle Jepson. "I
expect there ain't nothin' to worry about. I'll go look for her."
He climbed slowly into the saddle, and with a wave of the hand to the
elderly couple rode his pony down past the bunkhouse at a pace that was
little faster than a walk. He urged Patches to slightly greater speed as
he skirted the corral fence, but once out on the plains he loosened the
reins, spoke sharply to the pony and began to ride in earnest.
Patches responded nobly to the grim note in his master's voice. With
stretching neck and flying hoofs he swooped with long, smooth undulations
that sent him, looking like a splotched streak, splitting the night. He
ran at his own will, his rider tall and loose in the saddle, speaking no
further word, but thinking thoughts that narrowed his eyes, made them
glint with steely hardness whenever the moonlight struck them, and caused
his lips to part, showing the clenched teeth between them, and shoved his
chin forward with the queer set that marks the fighting man.
For he did not believe that Ruth's pony had broken a leg. She had gone to
see Chavis' shack, and Chavis--
One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot of
recklessness. Into depressions, over rises, leaping rocks and crashing
through chaparral clumps, scaring rattlers, scorpions, toads, and other
denizens to wild flight, he went, with not a thought for his own or his
rider's safety, knowing from the ring in his master's voice that speed,
and speed alone, was wanted from him.
After a five mile run he was pulled down. He felt the effects of the
effort, but he was well warmed to his work now and he loped, though with
many a snort of impatience and toss of the head, by which he tried to
convey to his master his eagerness to be allowed to have his will.
On the crest of a hill he was drawn to a halt, while Randerson scanned
the country around him. Then, when the word came again to go, he was off
with a rush and a snort of delight, as wildly reckless as he had been
when he had discovered what was expected of him.
They flashed by the ford near the Lazette trail; along a ridge, the crest
of which was hard and barren, making an ideal speedway; they sank into a
depression with sickening suddenness, went out of it with a clatter, and
then went careening over a level until they reached a broken stretch
where speed would mean certain death to both.
Patches was determined to risk it, but suddenly he was pulled in and
forced to face the other way. And what he saw must have made him realize
that his wild race was ended, for he deflated his lungs shrilly, and
relaxed himself for a rest.
Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a gigantic
rock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidently
been watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she was
pale and frightened--frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he might
not be a friend.
This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill with
relief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenly
stiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock.
He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to a
clump of bunch-grass near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until she
struggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gaze
intent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and then
she drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands.
"Oh," she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked up
at him. "Why," she added, "I have been here since before dark! And it
must be after midnight, now!"
"It's about nine. Where's your horse?"
"Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I saw
Chavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me,
and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn't
catch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killed
him! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awful
darkness, and--Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "I
never was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!"
"I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the
snakes, an' the dark, an' things."
She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her,
and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling.
"I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some," he added, "for
they're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darkness
on purpose to scare you."
"How can you joke about it?" she demanded resentfully.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said with quick contrition. "You see, I was glad
to find you. An' you're all right now, you know."
"Yes, yes," she said, quickly forgiving. "I suppose I _am_ a coward."
"Why, no, ma'am, I reckon you ain't. Anybody sittin' here alone, a woman,
especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They'd seem real.
I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin'."
"It hurts terribly," she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at him
plaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leather
seems like an iron band around it." She looked pleadingly at him. "Won't
you please take it off?"
His embarrassment was genuine and deep.
"Why, I reckon I can, ma'am," he told her. "But I ain't never had a heap
of experience--" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "with
boots--boots, that is, that was on swelled ankles."
"Is it necessary to have experience?" she returned impatiently.
"Why, I reckon not, ma'am." He knelt beside her and grasped the boot,
giving it a gentle tug. She cried out with pain and he dropped the boot
and made a grimace of sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you, ma'am."
"I know you didn't"--peevishly. "Oh," she added as he took the boot in
hand again, this time giving it a slight twist; "men are _such_ awkward
creatures!"
"Why, I reckon they are, ma'am. That is, one, in particular. There's
times when I can't get my own boots on." He grinned, and she looked icily
at him.
"Get hold of it just above the ankle, please," she instructed evenly and
drew the hem of her skirt tightly. "There!" she added as he seized the
limb gingerly, "now pull!"
He did as he had been bidden. She shrieked in agony and jerked the foot
away, and he stood up, his face reflecting some of the pain and misery
that shone in hers.
"It's awful, ma'am," he sympathized. "Over at the Diamond H, one of the
boys got his leg broke, last year, ridin' an outlaw, or tryin' to ride
him, which ain't quite the same thing--an' we had to get his boot off
before we could set the break. Why, ma'am; we had to set on his head to
keep him from scarin' all the cattle off the range, with his screechin'."
She looked at him with eyes that told him plainly that no one was going
to sit on _her_ head--and that she would "screech" if she chose. And then
she spoke to him with bitter sarcasm:
"Perhaps if you _tried_ to do something, instead of standing there,
telling me something that happened _ages_ ago, I wouldn't have to sit
here and endure this awful m-m-misery!"
The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. "Why, I
reckon it _must_ hurt like the devil, ma'am." He looked around
helplessly.
"Haven't you got something that you might take it off with?" she demanded
tearfully. "Haven't you got a knife?"
He reddened guiltily. "I clean forgot it ma'am." He laughed with
embarrassment. "I expect I'd never do for a doctor, ma'am; I'm so excited
an' forgetful. An' I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had to
cut Hiller's boot off. That was the man I was tellin' you about. He--"
"Oh, dear," she said with heavy resignation, "I suppose you simply _must_
talk! Do you _like_ to see me suffer?"
"Why, shucks, I feel awful sorry for you, ma'am. I'll sure hurry."
While he had been speaking he had drawn out his knife, and with as much
delicacy as the circumstances would permit, he accomplished the
destruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to be
careful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot was
withdrawn, showing her stockinged foot, puffed to abnormal proportions.
She looked at it askance.
"Do you think it is b-broken?" she asked him, dreading.
He grasped it tenderly, discovered that the ankle moved freely, and after
pressing it in several places, looked up at her.
"I don't think it's broke, ma'am. It's a bad sprain though, I reckon. I
reckon it ought to be rubbed--so's to bring back the blood that couldn't
get in while the boot was on."
The foot was rubbed, he having drawn off the stocking with as much
delicacy as he had exhibited in taking off the boot. And then while
Randerson considerately withdrew under pretense of looking at Patches,
the stocking was put on again. When he came back it was to be met with a
request:
"Won't you please find my pony and bring him back?"
"Why, sure, ma'am." He started again for Patches, but halted and looked
back at her. "You won't be scared again?"
"No," she said. And then: "But you'll hurry, won't you?"
"I reckon." He was in the saddle quickly, loping Patches to the crest of
a hill near by in hopes of getting a view of the recreant pony. He got a
glimpse of it, far back on the plains near some timber, and he was about
to shout the news to Ruth, who was watching him intently, when he thought
better of the notion and shut his lips.
Urging Patches forward, he rode toward Ruth's pony at a moderate pace.
Three times during the ride he looked back. Twice he was able to see
Ruth, but the third time he had swerved so that some bushes concealed him
from her. He was forced to swerve still further to come up with the pony,
and he noted that Ruth would never have been able to see her pony from
her position.
It was more than a mile to where the animal stood, and curiously, as
though to make amends for his previous bad behavior to Ruth, he came
trotting forward to Randerson, whinnying gently.
Randerson seized the bridle, and grinned at the animal.
"I reckon I ought to lam you a-plenty, you miserable deserter," he said
severely, "runnin' away from your mistress that-a-way. Is that the way
for a respectable horse to do? You've got her all nervous an' upset--an'
she sure roasted me. Do you reckon there's any punishment that'd fit what
you done? Well, I reckon! You come along with me!"
Leading the animal, he rode Patches to the edge of the timber. There,
unbuckling one end of the reins from the bit ring, he doubled them,
passed them through a gnarled root, made a firm knot and left the pony
tied securely. Then he rode off and looked back, grinning.
"You're lost, you sufferin' runaway. Only you don't know it."
He loped Patches away and made a wide detour of the mesa, making sure
that he appeared often on the sky line, so that he would be seen by Ruth.
At the end of half an hour he rode back to where the girl was standing,
watching him. He dismounted and approached her, standing before her, his
expression one of grave worry.
"That outlaw of yours ain't anywhere in sight, ma'am," he said. "I reckon
he's stampeded back to the ranchhouse. You sure you ain't seen him go
past here?"
"No," she said, "unless he went way around, just after it got dark."
"I reckon that's what he must have done. Some horses is plumb mean. But
you can't walk, you know," he added after a silence; "I reckon you'll
have to ride Patches."
"You would have to walk, then," she objected. "And that wouldn't be
fair!"
"Walkin' wouldn't bother me, ma'am." He got Patches and led him closer.
She looked at the animal, speculatively.
"Don't you think he could carry both of us?" she asked.
He scrutinized Patches judicially. A light, which she did not see, leaped
into his eyes.
"Why, I didn't think of that. I reckon he could, ma'am. Anyway, we can
try it, if you want to."
He led Patches still closer. Then, with much care, he lifted Ruth and
placed her in the saddle, mounting behind her. Patches moved off.
After a silence which might have lasted while they rode a mile, Ruth
spoke.
"My ankle feels very much easier."
"I'm glad of that, ma'am."
"Randerson," she said, after they had gone on a little ways further; "I
beg your pardon for speaking to you the way I did, back there. But my
foot _did_ hurt terribly."
"Why, sure. I expect I deserved to get roasted."
Again there was a silence. Ruth seemed to be thinking deeply. At a
distance that he tried to keep respectful, Randerson watched her, with
worshipful admiration, noting the graceful disorder of her hair, the
wisps at the nape of her neck. The delicate charm of her made him thrill
with the instinct of protection. So strong was this feeling that when he
thought of her pony, back at the timber, guilt ceased to bother him.
Ruth related to him the conversation she had overheard between Chavis and
Kester, and he smiled understandingly at her.
"Do you reckon you feel as tender toward them now as you did before you
found that out?"
"I don't know,"
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