CHAPTER VIITHE SANITY OF THE WILD
Summer, tan-colored, musical with note of katydid and cicada, and the constant purr of the south wind, was upon the prairie country. Under the eternal law of necessity,—the necessity of sunburnt, stunted grass,—the boundaries of the range extended far in every direction. The herds bearing the Box R brand no longer fed in one body, but scattered far and wide. Often for a week at a time the men did not sleep under cover. Morning and night, when a semblance of dew was upon the blighted grass, the cattle grazed. The life was primitive and natural almost beyond belief in a world of artificial civilization; but it was independent, care-free, and healthy.
The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost as bare as the palm of a hand. Only one object relieved the impression of desolation, and that was a tree. It stood carefully fenced about in the drain from the big artesian well,—a vivid blot of green against the dun background. The first year after he came, Rankin had imported it,—a goodly sized soft maple; and in the pathway of constantly trickling water, it had grown and prospered. It was the only tree for miles and milesabout, except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and wild plums that flanked the infrequent creeks,—creeks which in Summer, save in deepest holes, reverted to mere dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed a rough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when her housework was finished, dozed and sewed and dozed again, apparently as forgetful as the cowboys upon the prairies that beyond her vision were great cities where countless thousands of human beings sweltered and struggled in desperate competition for daily bread.
So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a coolness like a benediction took the place of heat. The south wind gradually died down with the descending sun, until immediately following the setting it was absolutely still; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the break of day.
Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker stretched out like boys upon a pile of hay in the latter's yard. The big man had just arrived; the old buckboard, with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood just as he had driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that he had come for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. Rankin slowly filled and lit his pipe, drew thereon until the glow from the bowl was reflected upon his face, and blew a great cloud of smoke out into the gathering dusk.
"Baker," he asked at last, "what are we going to do for the education of these youngsters of ours? We can't let them grow up here like savages."
Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head comfortably in his hand.
"I've thought of that," he answered, "and there seems to me only one of two things to do—either move into civilization, or import a pedagogue." A pause, and a whimsical inflection came into his voice. "Unfortunately, however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time."
Rankin smoked a minute in silence. "How would it do to move into civilization six months of the year—the Winter six?" he suggested.
Scotty considered for a moment. "Do you mean that seriously?" he asked.
"Yes."
By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a cigarette skilfully. "How about the stock here while we're gone," he said hesitatingly. "Do you suppose we'd find anything left when we came back in the Spring?"
Rankin crowded the half-burned tobacco down into the pipe-bowl with his little finger. "I don't think you got the idea," he explained. "My plan was for you to go East in the Fall and put the kids in school. I'd stay here and see that everything ran smoothly while you were gone. Mrs. Baker has said a dozen times that she wanted a change—for a time, anyway."
Scotty threw one long leg over the other. "As usual you're right, Rankin," he said slowly. "The Lord knows Mollie gets restless enough at times. People were like ants in a hill where she was raised, and that life was a part of her." He took a last puff at the cigarette, and with a toss sent the smoking stump spinning like a firefly into the darkness. "And Flossie can't grow up wild—I know that. I'll talk your suggestion over with Molliefirst, but I think I'd be safe in saying right now that we'll accept."
For a moment Rankin did not speak; then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe upon his heel.
"Excuse me if I keep going back to something unpleasant, Baker," he said slowly, "but in considering the matter there's one thing I don't want you to forget." Then, after a meaning pause, he went on: "It's the same reason I had for not introducing Ben in the first place."
Scotty drew out his book of rice-paper again almost involuntarily.
"I'd thought of that this time," he said; then paused to finger a gauzy sheet absently. "I don't see why I should consider it now, though—seeing I didn't before."
Rankin said nothing, and conversation lapsed. Irresistibly, but so gradually as to be all but unconscious, the spirit of the prairie night—a sensation, a conception of infinite vastness, of unassailable serenity—stole over and took possession of the men. The ambitious and manifold artificial needs for which men barter their happiness, their sense of humanity, even life itself, seemed beyond belief out there alone with the stars, with the prairie night-wind singing in the ears; seemed so puny that they elicited only a smile. The lust of show, of extravagance, follies, wisdoms, man's loves and hates—how their true proportions stand revealed against the eternal background of immeasurable distance, in nature's vast scheme!
Scotty cleared his throat. "I used to think, when I first came here, that I'd been a fool; but now, somehow, at times like this, I wonder if I didn't blunder into thewisest act of my life." The prairie spirit had taken hold of him. "And the longer I stay the more it grows upon me that such a life as this, where one's success is not the measure of another's failure, is the only one to live. It is the only life," he added after a pause.
Rankin said nothing.
Scotty was silent for a moment, but the mood was too strong for him to remain so, and he went on.
"I know the ordinary person would laugh if I said it, but really, I believe I'm developing a distaste for money. It's simply another term for caste; and that word, with the unreasoning superiority it implies, has somehow become hateful to me." He looked up into the night.
"I used to think I was happy back in England. I had my home and my associates; born so, because their fathers were friends of my father, their grandfathers of my grandfather's class. As a small landlord I had my gentlemanly leisure; but as well as I know my name, I realize now that I could never return to that life again. Looking back, I see its intolerable narrowness, its petty smugness. By comparison it's like the relative clearness of the atmosphere there and here. There, perhaps I could see a few miles: here, I look away over leagues and leagues of distance. It's symbolic." The voice paused; the face, turned directly toward his companion's, tried in the half-darkness to read its expression. "I've been in this prairie country long enough now to realize that financially I've made a mistake. I can earn a living, and that's all; but nevertheless I'm happy—happier than I ever realized it was possible for me to be. I've got enough—more wouldbe a burden to me. If I have a trouble in the world, it's because I see the inevitable prospect of money in the future,—money I don't want, for I'm an only son and my father is comparatively wealthy. Without turning his hand, his rent-roll is five thousand pounds a year. He's getting along in life. Some day—it may be five years, it may be fifteen—he will die and leave it to me. I am to maintain and pass on the family name, the family dignity. It was all cut and dried generations back, generations before I was born."
Still Rankin said nothing. For any indication he gave, the other's revelation might have been only that he had a hundred dollars deposited in the savings bank against a rainy day.
But Scotty was now fairly under headway. He stripped his reserve and confidence bare.
"You see now why I'm glad to consider your proposition. Whatever I believe myself must be of secondary importance. I've others to think about—Florence and her mother. Flossie is only a child, but Mollie is a woman, and has lived her life in sight of the brazen calf. She doesn't realize, she never can realize, that it is of brass and not of gold. Personally, I believe, as I believe in my own existence, that Flossie would be immeasurably happier if she never saw the other side of life,—the artificial side,—but lived right here, knowing what we taught her and developing like a healthy animal; perhaps, when the time came, marrying a rancher, having her own home, her own family interests, and living close to nature. But it can't be. I've got to develop her, cultivate her, fit her for anysociety." The voice paused, and the speaker turned his face away.
"God knows,—and He knows also that I love her dearly,—that looking into the future I wish sometimes she were the daughter of another man."
The minutes passed. The ponies shifted restlessly and then were still. In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned its minor song, while near or far away—no human ear could measure the distance—a prairie owl gave its weird cry. Then silence fell as before.
Once more Scotty turned, facing his companion.
"I've a question to ask you, Rankin; may I ask it without offence?"
The big man nodded. By the starlight Baker caught the motion.
"You told me once that you were a college man, and that you had a Master's degree. From the very first you started cattle-raising on a big scale. You must have had money. Still, such being the case, you left culture and civilization far behind and came here to choose a life absolutely different. I have told you why I wish to educate my daughter. But why, feeling as you must have felt and must still feel, since you're here, why do you wish to educate this waif boy you've picked up? By all the standards of convention, he is at the very bottom of the social scale. Why do you want to do this?"
It was a psychological moment. Even in the semi-darkness, Rankin felt the other's eyes fixed piercingly upon him. He passed his hand over his face; he seemed about to speak. But the habit of reticence was too strongupon him. Even the inspiration of the Englishman's confidence was not sufficient to break the seal of his own reserve. He arose slowly and shook the clinging wisps of hay from his clothes.
"For somewhat the same reason as your own," he answered at last. "Ben, like Flossie, is a child, an odd old child to be sure, but nevertheless a child. I have no reason to know that when he grows up his beliefs will be my beliefs. He must see both sides of the coin, and judge for himself."
The speaker paused, then walked slowly over to the old buckboard. "It's getting late, and I've got a long drive home." With an effort he mounted into the seat and picked up the reins. "Good-night."
Scotty hesitated a moment, and then said, "Good-night."
CHAPTER VIIITHE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN
Twelve years slipped by. Short as they seemed to those actually living them, they had brought great material changes. No longer did the ranch cattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under stress of competition, they browsed within the confines of miles upon miles of galvanized fencing. Neighbors, as Rankin said, were near now. There were four within a radius of twenty miles. To be sure, there was still plenty of land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri,—open rough land, gradually rising in elevation, where a traveller could journey for days and days without seeing a human face. But this was not then a part of the so-called "cattle ranges." In the parlance of the country, that was "West,"—a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but as yet giving no indication of ever becoming of practical use.
The Box R Ranch had evolved along with the others, and always well in advance. The house now boasted six rooms; the barn and stock-sheds had at a distance the appearance of a town in themselves; the collection of haying implements—mowers, loaders, stackers—was almost complete enough to stock a jobbing house. The herd itself hadaugmented, despite its annual reduction, until one artesian well was inadequate to supply water; and fifteen miles north, at the extreme limit of his home-ranch, Rankin had sunk another well, making a sort of sub-station of that point. From it an observer with good eyes could see the outlines of the modern Big B Ranch property, built on the old site, and ostensibly operated by a long-legged Yankee, Rob Hoyt by name, but in reality owned, as had been the remnant of stock Tom Blair left behind him, by saloon-keeper Mick Kennedy.
The ranch force had changed very little. Rankin, stouter by a quarter-hundred weight, shaggier of eyebrows and with an accentuated droop in the upper eyelids, and if possible an increased taciturnity, still lived his daytime life mainly on wheels. The old buckboard had finally succumbed, but its counterpart, mud-spattered and weather-bleached, had taken its place. In the kitchen, Ma Graham still presided, her accumulated avoirdupois seeming to have been gathered at the expense of her lord, who in equal ratio thinner and more weazened, danced attendance as of old. Only one of the former cowboys now remained. That one, strange to say, was Grannis, the "man from nowhere," who had apparently taken root at last. Regularly on the last day of each month he drew his pay, and without a word of explanation or comment disappeared upon the back of a cow-pony, to reappear, perhaps in ten hours, perhaps in sixty, dead broke, with a thirst seemingly unappeasable, but quite non-committal concerning his experience, apparently satisfied and ready to take up the dull routine of his life again.
Last of all, Benjamin Blair. Precisely as the boy had given promise, the youth had developed. He was now mature in size, in poise, in action. Long of leg, long of arm, long of face, he stood a half head above Rankin, who had been the tallest man upon the place. Yet he was not awkward. Physically he was of the type, but magnified, to which all cowboys belong; and no one would ever call him awkward or uncouth.
There had been less change upon the Baker ranch. Scotty was not an expansionist. Scarcely a score more horses grazed in his paddock than of old. The barn, though often repaired, was still of sod and thatch. The house contained the original number of rooms. The experiment with trees had never been repeated. If possible, the man himself had altered even less than his surroundings. Scrupulously fresh-shaven each day, fortified beyond the compound lenses of his spectacles, a stranger would have guessed him anywhere from thirty-five to fifty.
Time had not dealt as kindly with Mrs. Baker. She seemed to have aged enough for both herself and her husband. Notwithstanding the fact that for the first eight years of the twelve, the family had spent half their time in the East, she had grown careless of her appearance. True to his instincts, Scotty still dressed for dinner in his antiquated evening clothes; but pathetic as was the example, it had long ceased to stimulate her. The last four years had been dead years with Mollie Baker. The future held but one promise. She referred to it daily, almost hourly; and at such times only would a trace of youth and beauty return to the one-time winsome face. She lookedforward and dreamed of an event after which she would do certain things upon which she had set her heart; when, as she said, she would begin to live. It seemed to Scotty ghastly to speak about that event, for it was the death of his father.
The last member of the family had developed with the child's promise, and at seventeen Florence was beautiful; not with a conventional prettiness, but with a vital feminine attraction. All that the mother had been, with her dark, oval face, her mass of walnut-brown hair, her great dark eyes, her uptilted chin, the daughter was now; but with added health and an augmented femininity that the mother had never known. Moreover, she had an independence, a dominance, born perhaps of the wild prairie influence, that at times made her parents almost gasp. Except in the minute details of their daily existence, which habit had made unchangeable, she ruled them absolutely. Even Rankin had become a secondary factor. Scotty probably would have denied the assertion emphatically, yet at the bottom of his consciousness he realized that had she told him to sell everything he possessed for what he could get and return to old Sussex he would have complied. Considering Mollie's daily plaint, it was a constant source of wonder to him that the girl did not do this; but she seemed wholly satisfied with things as they were. For exercise and excitement she rode almost every horse upon the place—rode astride like a man. For amusement she read everything she could lay hands upon, both from the modest Baker library and from the larger and more creditable collection which Rankin had importedfrom the East. This was the first real library that had ever entered the State, and, subject for speculation, it had uniformly the front fly-leaves remaining as mere stubs, as though the pages had been torn out by a hurried hand. What name was it that had been in those hundreds of volumes? For what reason had it been so carefully removed? The girl had often speculated thereon, and fitted theory after theory; but never yet, wilful as she was, had she had the temerity to ask the only person who could have given explanation,—Rankin himself.
In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an instinctive love of a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was not in the least deceived when, during a lull at the dinner-table one evening late in the Fall, she broke in with an irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark.
"I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding this morning." The dark eyes turned upon her father quizzically, humorously. "They seem to be very plentiful."
"Yes," said Scotty; "they always are in the Fall."
Florence ate for a moment in silence.
"Did you ever think how much sport we could have if we owned a couple of hounds?" she asked.
Scotty was silent; but Mollie threw up her hands in horror. "You don't really mean that you want any of those hungry-looking dogs around, do you, Flossie?" she protested pettishly. "Seems as though you'd be satisfied with riding the horses tomboy style without going to hunting rabbits that way."
The daughter's color heightened and the matter dropped; but Scotty knew the main attack was yet tocome. He had learned from experience the methods of his daughter in attaining an object.
Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shaded lamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining of a headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even more pronounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watching the door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloom formed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenly about his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek was laid against his own.
"Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice.
For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into the brown eyes. "Why?" he asked.
"Because,"—her voice was low, her answering look was steady,—"because it won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away—move back into civilization."
For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheek against her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair. Scotty followed her with his eyes.
"Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked.
Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip of rice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of a peace-offering.
"No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can't change. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got to take her away—for good."
Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until theflame had burned well along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned it to a stump.
"Aren't you happy here, Flossie?" he asked gently.
The girl's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked past him absently.
"Really, for once in my life," she answered seriously, "I spoke quite unselfishly. I was thinking only of mamma." There was a pause, and a deeper concentration in the brown eyes. "As for myself, I hardly know. Yes, I do know. I'm happy now, but I wouldn't be long. The life here is too narrow; I'd lose interest in it. At last I'd have a frantic desire, one I couldn't resist, to peep just over the edge of the horizon and take part in whatever is going on beyond." She smiled. "I might run away, or marry an Indian, or do something shocking!"
Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger.
"Can't you think of anything that would interest you and broaden your life enough to make it pleasant?" he ventured.
This time mirth shone upon the girl's face, and a laugh sounded in her voice.
"Papa, papa," she said, "I didn't think that of you! Are you so anxious to get rid of your daughter?" As swiftly as it had come, the smile vanished, leaving in its place a softer and warmer color.
"I'm not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, "to pretend not to understand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the world I could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with him and be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrong disposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyes sparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I could care for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and did them better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where others are. No, I never could live here."
Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed a stray speck of dust from his sleeve.
"In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father," he remarked quietly.
The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up she threw her arms impulsively about her father's neck.
"Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world like you! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek again and again. But for the first time in her life that Florence could remember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself.
"Nevertheless," he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could never marry a man like your father,—one who had no desire to be known of men, but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make you happy. You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of his movements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into the wrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurt me, Florence."
The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. She dropped her face into her hands.
"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed, there was nothing to be said.
Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid face downward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to the floor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to his sleeping-room he paused.
"You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds, Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you have them." He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about our leaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped it wouldn't be necessary for a while yet." He paused, fingering the knob absently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish."
This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, the girl sobbed as though her heart would break.
CHAPTER IXA RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE
Florence got her dogs promptly. They were two big mouse-colored grayhounds, with tails like rats and protruding ribs. They were named "Racer" and "Pacer," and were warranted by their late owner to out-distance any rabbit that ever drew breath. The girl felt that an event as important as a coursing should be the occasion of a gathering of the neighboring ranchers; but at the mere suggestion her conventional mother threw up her hands in horror. It was bad enough for her daughter to go out alone, but as the one woman among all that lot of cowboys—it was too much for her to endure. Finally, as a compromise, Florence agreed to invite only the people of the Box R Ranch to the first event. So the invitations for a certain day, composed with fitting formality, were sent, and in due time were ceremoniously accepted.
The chase was scheduled to begin soon after daybreak, and before that time Rankin and Ben Blair were at the Baker house. They wore their ordinary clothes of wool and leather, but Scotty appeared in a wonderful red hunting-coat, which, though a bit moth-eaten in spots, nevertheless showed glaringly against the brown earth of the ranch-house yard.
With the exception of the dogs, which were kept properly hungry for the hunt, and Mollie, who had washed her hands of the whole affair, the party all had breakfast, Scotty himself serving the coffee with the skill of a head-waiter. Then the old buckboard, carefully oiled and tightened for the occasion, was gotten out, a team of the fastest, wiriest mustangs the Box R possessed was attached, and Rankin and Baker upon the seat, Florence and Ben, well-mounted, trailing behind, the party sallied forth. In order to avoid fences they had agreed to go ten miles to the south before beginning operations. There a great tract of government land, well grazed but untouched by the hand of man, gave all but unlimited room.
The morning was beautiful and clear beyond the comprehension of city dwellers, a typical day of prairie Dakota in late Fall. Far out over the broad expanse, indefinite as to distance, the rising sun seemed resting upon the very rim of the world. All about, near at hand, stretching into the horizon, glistening, sparkling, innumerable frost crystals, product of the past night, gleamed like scattered gems, showing in their coloring every blended shade of the rainbow. The glory of it all appealed to the girl, and throwing back her head she drew in deep breaths of the tonic air.
"I'm going to miss these mornings terribly when I'm gone," she said soberly.
Ben Blair scrutinized the backs of the two men in the buckboard with apparent interest.
"I didn't know you intended leaving," he said. "Where are you going?"
Florence regarded her companion from the corner of her eye.
"I'm going away for good," she said.
Ben shifted half around in the saddle and folded back the rim of his big sombrero.
"For good, you say?"
The girl's brown eyes were cast down demurely. "Yes, for good," she repeated.
They had been losing ground. Now in silence they galloped ahead, the regular muffled patter of their horses' feet upon the frozen sod sounding like the distant rattle of a snare-drum. Once again even with the buckboard, they lapsed into a walk.
"You haven't told me where you're going," repeated Blair.
The question seemed to be of purest politeness, as a host inquires if his visitor has rested well; yet for a dozen years they two had lived nearest neighbors, and had grown to maturity side by side. She concluded there were some phases of this silent youth which she had not yet learned.
"We haven't decided where we're going yet," she replied. "Mamma wants to go to England, but papa and I refuse to leave this country. Then daddy wants to live in a small town, and I vote for a big one. Just now we're at deadlock."
A smile started in Ben's blue eyes and spread over his thin face.
"From the way you talk," he said, "I have a suspicion the deadlock won't last long. If I stretch my imagination a little I can guess pretty close to the decision."
Florence was sober a moment; then a smile flashed over her face and left the daintiest of dimples in either cheek.
"Maybe you can," she said.
For the second time they galloped ahead and caught up with the slower buckboard.
"Florence," Ben threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and faced his companion squarely, "I've heard your mother talk, and of course I understand why she wants to go back among her folks, but you were raised here. Why do you want to leave?"
The girl hesitated, and ran her fingers through her horse's mane.
"Mamma's been here against her will for a good many years. We ought to go for her sake."
Ben made a motion of deprecation. "What I want to know is the real reason,—your own reason," he said.
The warm blood flushed Florence's face. "By what right do you ask that?" she retorted. "You seem to forget that we've both grown up since we went to school together."
Ben looked calmly out over the prairie.
"No, I don't forget; and I admit I have no right to ask. But I may ask as a friend, I am sure. Why do you want to go?"
Again the girl hesitated. Logically she should refuse to answer. To do otherwise was to admit that her first answer was an evasion; but something, an influence that always controlled her in Ben's presence, prevented refusal. Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was, there was about him a force that dominated her, even as shedominated her parents, and, worst of all—to her inmost self she admitted the fact—it fascinated her as well. With all her strength she rebelled against the knowledge and combated the influence, but in vain. Instead of replying, she chirruped to her horse. "It seems to me," she said, "it's just as well to begin hunting here as to go further. I'm going on ahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin."
With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her bridle-rein, saying carelessly: "Pardon me, but you forget something you were going to tell me."
The girl's brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time there was no hesitation in her reply.
"Very well, since you insist, I'll answer your question; but don't be surprised if I offend you." A dainty hand tugged at the loosened button of her riding-glove. "I'm going away, for one reason, because I want to be where things move, and where I don't always know what is going to happen to-morrow." She turned to her companion directly. "But most of all, I'm going because I want to be among people who have ambitions, who do things, things worth while. I am tired of just existing, like the animals, from day to day. I was only a young girl when we were going to school, but now I know why I liked that life so well. It was because of the intense activity, the constant movement, the competition, the evolution. I like it! I want to be a part of it!"
"Thank you for telling me," said Ben, quietly.
But now the girl was in no hurry to hasten on. She forgot that her explanation was given under protest. It had become a confession.
"Up to the last few years I never thought much about the future—I took it for granted; but since then it has been different. Unconsciously, I've become a woman. All the little things that belong to women's lives, too small to tell, begin to appeal to me. I want to live in a good house and have good clothes and know people. I want to go to shops and theatres and concerts; all these things belong to me and I intend to have them."
"I think I understand," said Ben, slowly. "Yes, I'm sure I understand," he repeated.
But the girl did not heed him. "Last of all, there's another reason," she went on. "I don't know why I shouldn't speak it, as well as think it, for it's the greatest of all. I'm a young woman. I won't remain such long. I don't want to be a spinster. I know I'm not supposed to say these things, but why not? I want to meet men, men of my own class, my parents' class, men who know something besides the weight of a steer and the value of a bronco,—some man I could respect and care for." Again she turned directly to her companion. "Do you wonder I want to change, that I want to leave these prairies, much as I like them?"
It was long before Ben Blair spoke. He scarcely stirred in his seat; then of a sudden, rousing, he threw his leg back over the saddle.
"No," he said slowly, "I don't wonder—looking at things your way. It's all in the point of view. But perhaps yours is wrong, maybe you don't think of the other side of that life. There usually is another side to everything, I've noticed." He glanced ahead. A half-mile on,the blackboard had stopped, and Scotty was standing up on the seat and motioning the laggards energetically.
"I think we'd better dust up a little. Your father seems to have struck something interesting."
Florence seemed inclined to linger, but Scotty's waving cap was insistent, and they galloped ahead.
They found Rankin sitting upon the wagon seat, smoking impassively as usual; but the Englishman was upon the ground holding the two hounds by the collars. Behind the big compound lenses his eyes were twinkling excitedly, and he was smiling like a boy.
"Look out there!" he exclaimed with a jerk of his head, "over to the west. We all but missed him! Are you ready?"
They all looked and saw, perhaps thirty rods away, a grayish-white jack-rabbit, distinct by contrast with the brown earth. The hounds had also caught sight of the game and pulled lustily at their collars.
Instantly Florence was all excitement. "Of course we're ready! No, wait a second, until I see about my saddle." She dismounted precipitately. "Tighten the cinch a bit, won't you, Ben? I don't mind a tumble, but it might interfere at a critical moment." She put her foot in his extended hand, and sprang back into her seat. "Now, I'm ready. Come on, Ben! Let them go, papa! Be in at the finish if you can!" and, a second behind the hounds, she was away. Simultaneously, the great jack-rabbit, scenting danger, leaped forward, a ball of animate rubber, bounding farther and farther as he got under full motion, speeding away toward the blue distance.
The chase that followed was a thing to live in memory. From the nature of the land, gently rolling to the horizon without an obstruction the height of a man's hand, there was no possibility of escape for the quarry. The outcome was as mathematically certain as a problem in arithmetic; the only uncertain element was that of time. At first the jack seemed to be gaining, but gradually the greater endurance of the hounds began to count, and foot by foot the gap between pursuers and pursued lessened. In the beginning the rabbit ran in great leaps, as though glorying in the speed that it would seem no other animal could equal, but very soon his movements changed; his ears were flattened tight to his head, and, with every muscle strained to the utmost, he ran wildly for his life.
Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they might. In the all but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of the old buckboard could be heard a quarter of a mile. Alternately losing and gaining ground as they cut off angles and followed the diameter instead of the circumference of the great circles the rabbit described, the drivers were always within sight. Closer behind the hounds and following the same course, Florence rode her thoroughbred like mad, with Ben Blair at her side. The pace was terrific. The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and cut keenly at their faces. The tattoo of the horses' feet upon the hard earth was continuous. Beneath her riding-cap, the girl's hair was loosened and swept free in the wind. Her color was high, her eyes sparkled. Never before had the man at her side seen her so fair to gaze upon; but despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, therewas a jarring note in her beauty. Deep in his nature, ingrained, elemental, was the love of fair play. Though he was in the chase and a part of it, his sympathies were far from being with the hounds. That the girl should favor the strong over the weak was something he could not understand—a blemish that even her beauty did not excuse.
A quarter-hour passed. The sun rose from the lap of the prairie and scattered the frost-crystals as though they had been mist. The chase was near its end. All moved more slowly. A dozen times since they had started, it seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that in another second all would be over; but each time the rabbit had escaped, had at the last instant shot into the air, while the hounds rushed harmlessly beneath, and, ere they recovered, had gained a goodly lead again in a new course. But now that time was past, and he was tired and weak. It was a straight-away race, with the hounds scarcely twenty feet behind. Back of the latter, perhaps ten rods, were the riders, still side by side as at first. Their horses were covered with foam and blowing steadily, but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly. Bringing up the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the buckboard. Thus they approached the finish.
Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit. Standing in his stirrups, Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched the scene. The twenty feet lessened to eighteen, to fifteen, and, turning his head, the man looked at his companion. Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye an expression of anticipation,—anticipation of the end, anticipation of a death,—the death of a weaker animal!
A determination which had been only latent became positive with Blair. He urged on his horse to the uttermost and sprang past his companion. His right hand went to his hip and lingered there. His voice rang out above the sound of the horses' feet and of their breathing.
"Hi, there, Racer, Pacer!" he shouted. "Come here!"
There was no response from the hounds; no sign that they had heard him. They were within ten feet of the rabbit now, and no voice on earth could have stopped them.
"Pacer! Racer!" shouted Ben. There was a pause, and then the quick bark of a revolver. A puff of dust arose before the nose of the leading dog.
Again no response, only the steadily lessening distance.
For a second Ben Blair hesitated; but it was for a second only. Florence watched him, too surprised to speak, and saw what for a moment made her doubt her own eyes. The hand that held the big revolver was raised, there was a report, then another, and the two dead hounds went tumbling over and over with their own momentum upon the brown prairie. Beyond them the rabbit bounded away into distance and safety.
Without a word Ben Blair drew rein, returned the revolver to its holster, and came back to where the girl had stopped.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I'll pay you for the dogs, if you like." A pause and a straight glance from out the blue eyes. "I couldn't help doing what I did."
Having in mind the look he had last seen upon the girl's face, he expected an explosion of wrath; but he wasdestined to surprise. There was silence, instead, while two great tears gathered slowly in her soft eyes, and brimmed over upon the brown cheeks.
"I don't want you to pay for the dogs; I'm glad they're gone." She brushed back a straggling lock of hair. "It's a horrid sport, and I'll never have anything to do with it again." A look that set the youth's heart bounding shot out sideways from beneath the long lashes. "I'm very glad you did—what you did."
Just then the noisy old buckboard, with Rankin and Scotty clinging to the seat, drove up and stopped short, with a protest from every joint of the ancient vehicle.
CHAPTER XTHE DOMINANT ANIMAL
The chance to sell his stock, ostensibly his reason for delaying departure, came to Scotty Baker much more quickly than he had anticipated. Within a week after the hunt—in the very first mail he received, in fact—came an offer from a Minneapolis firm to take every scrap of horse-flesh he could spare. With much compunction and a doleful face he read the letter aloud in the family council.
"That means 'go' for sure, I suppose," he commented at its conclusion.
Involuntarily Florence laughed. "You look as though you'd just got word that the whole herd had stampeded over a ravine, instead of having had a wave of good fortune," she bantered. "I believe you'd still back out if you could."
Scotty's face did not lighten. "I know I would," he admitted.
"We'll not give you the chance, though," broke in Mollie, with the first indication of enthusiasm she had shown in many a day. "Florence and I will begin packing right away, and you can carry the things along with you when you drive the horses to town."
Scotty looked at his wife steadily and caught the trace of excitement in her manner.
"Yes, that is a good suggestion," he replied slowly. "It's liable to turn cold any time now, and as long as we're going it may as well be before Winter sets in." He filled a stubby meerschaum pipe with tobacco, and put on cap and coat preparatory to going out of doors. "I spoke to Rankin about the place the other day," he added, "and he says he'll take it and pay cash whenever I'm ready. I'll drive over and see him this morning."
Rankin was not at home—so Ma Graham told Scotty when he arrived—and probably he wouldn't return till afternoon; but Ben was around the barn somewhere, more than likely out among the broncos. He usually was, when he had nothing else in particular to do.
Following her direction the Englishman loitered out toward the stock quarters, looked with interest into the big sheds where the haying machinery was kept, stopped to listen to the rush of water through the four-inch pipe of the artesian well, lit his pipe afresh, and moved on reflectively to the first of the great stock-yards that stretched beyond. A tight board fence, ten feet high, built as a windbreak on two sides, obstructed his way; and he started to walk around it. At the end the windbreak merged into a well-built fence of six wires, and, a wagon's breadth between, a long row of haystacks, built as a further protection against the wind. These, together with the wires, formed the third side of the yard. Leaning on the latter, Scotty looked into the enclosure, at first carelessly, then with interest. A moment later, without making hispresence known, he stepped back to the hay, and, selecting a pile of convenient height, sat down in the sunshine to watch.
What he saw was a tall slim young man, in chaparejos and sombrero, the inevitable "repeater" at his hip, solitarily engaged in the process of breaking a bronco. Ordinarily in this cattle-country the first time one of these wiry little ponies is ridden is on a holiday or a Sunday, whenever a company of spectators can be secured to assist or to applaud; but this was not Ben Blair's way. By nature solitary, whenever possible he did his work as he took his pleasure, unseen of men. At present, as he went methodically about his business, he had no idea that a person save Ma Graham was within miles, or that anyone anywhere had the slightest interest in what he was doing.
"Yard One," as the cowboys designated this corral, was the most used of any on the ranch. Save for a single stout post set solidly in its centre, it was entirely clear, and under the feet of hundreds of cattle had been tramped firm as a pavement. At present it contained a half-dozen horses, and one of these, a little mustang that was Ben's particular pride, he was just saddling when Scotty appeared; the others, a wild-eyed, evil-looking lot, scattering meantime as far as the boundaries of the corral would permit.
Very deliberately Ben mounted the pony, hitched up the legs of his leather trousers, folded back the brim of the big sombrero, and critically inspected the ponies before him. One of them, a demoniacal looking buckskin, appeared more vixenish than the others, and very promptly the youth made this selection; but to get in touchof the wily little beast was another matter. Every time the rancher made a move forward the herd found it convenient likewise to move, and to the limit of the corral fence. Once clear around the yard the rider humored them; and Scotty, the spectator, felt sure he must be observed. But Ben never looked outside the fence.
Starting to make the circle a second time, the rancher spoke a single word to the little mustang and they moved ahead at a gallop. Instantly responsive, the herd likewise broke into a lope, maintaining their lead. Twice, three times, faster and faster, the rider and the riderless completed the circle, the hard ground ringing with the din, the dust rising in a filmy cloud; then of a sudden the figure on the mustang passed from inaction into motion, the left hand on the reins tightened and turned the pony's head to the side, straight across the diameter of the circle. Simultaneously the right dropped to the lariat coiled on the pummel of the saddle, loosed it, and swung the noose at the end freely in air. On galloped the broncos, unmindful of the trick—on around the limiting fence, until suddenly they found almost in their midst the animal, man, whom they so feared, whom they were trying so to escape. Then for a moment there was scattering, reversal, confusion, a denser cloud of dust; but for one of their number, the buckskin, it was too late. Ben Blair rose in his stirrups, the rawhide rope that had been circling above his sombrero shot out, spread, dropped over the uplifted yellow head. The little mustang the man rode recognized the song of the lariat; well he knew what would follow. In anticipation he stopped dead; his front legs stiffened.There was a shock, a protest of straining leather which Scotty could hear clear beyond the corral, as, checked under speed, the buckskin rose on his hind-feet and all but lost his balance. That instant was Blair's opportunity. He turned his mustang swiftly and headed straight for the centre-post, dragging the struggling and half-strangled bronco; he rode around the post, sprang from the saddle, took a skilful half-hitch in the lariat—and the buckskin was a prisoner.
Scotty polished his glasses excitedly. He was wondering how the sleek young men with whom he would soon be mingling in the city would go at a job like that; and he smiled absently.
To "snub" the bronco up to the post so that he could scarcely turn his head was an easy matter. To exchange the bridle to the new mount was also comparatively simple. To adjust the great saddle, with the unwilling victim struggling like mad, was a more difficult task; but eventually all these came to pass, and Ben paused a moment to inspect his handiwork. To a tenderfoot observer it might have seemed that the battle was about over; but as a matter of fact it had scarcely begun. To chronicle on paper that a certain person on a certain day rode a certain bronco for the first time sounds commonplace; but to one who has seen the deviltry lurking in those wild prairie ponies' eyes, who knows their dogged fighting disposition, the reality is very different.
Only a moment Ben Blair paused. Almost before Scotty had got his spectacles back to his nose he saw the long figure spring into the saddle, observed that the lariatwhich had held the bronco helpless to the post had been removed, and knew that the fight was on in earnest.
And emphatically it was on. With his first leap the pony went straight into the air, to come down with a mighty jolt, stiff-legged; but Ben Blair sat through it apparently undisturbed. If ever an animal showed surprise it was the buckskin then. For an instant he paused, looked back at the motionless rider with eyes that seemed almost green, then suddenly started away at full speed around the corral as though Satan himself were in pursuit.
Instantly with the diminutive horse swift anger took the place of surprise. Scotty, the spectator, could read it in the tightening of the rippling muscles beneath the skin, in the toss of the sleek head. Fear had passed long ago, if the little beast had ever really known the sensation. It was now merely animal against animal, dogged obstinacy against dogged tenacity, a fight until one or the other gave in, no quarter asked or accepted.
As before, the bronco was the aggressor. One by one, so swiftly that they formed a continuous movement, he tried all the tricks which instinct or ingenuity suggested. He bucked, his hind-quarters in the air until it seemed he would reverse. He reared up until his front feet were on the level of a man's head, until Scotty held his breath for fear the animal would lose his balance backward; but when he resumed the normal he found the man, ever relentless, firmly in place, impassively awaiting the next move. He grew more furious with each failure. The sweat oozed out in drops that became trickling streams beneath the short hair. His breath came more quickly,whistling through the wide nostrils. A new light came into the gray-green eyes and flashed from them fiendishly. As suddenly as he had made his previous attacks he played his last trump. Like a ball of lead he dropped in his tracks and tried to roll; but the great saddle prevented, and when he sprang up again, there, as firmly seated as before, was the hated man upon his back.
Then overpowering and unreasoning anger, the wrath of a frenzied lion in a cage, of a baited bull in a ring, took possession of the buckskin. He went through his tricks anew, not methodically as before, but furiously, desperately. The sweat churned into foam beneath the saddle and between his legs. He screamed like a demon, until the other broncos retreated in terror, and Scotty's hair fairly lifted on his head. But one idea possessed him—to kill this being on his back, this hated thing he could not move or dislodge. A suggestion of means came to him, and straight as a line he made for the high board fence. There was no misunderstanding his purpose.
Then for the first time Ben Blair roused himself. The hand on the rein tightened, as the lariat had tightened, until the small head with the dainty ears curled back in a half-circle. Simultaneously the long rowels of a spur bit deep into the foaming flank, the swish of a quirt sounded keenly, a voice broke out in one word of command, "Whoa!" and repeated, "Whoa!"
It was like thunder out of a clear sky, like an unseen blow in the dark. Within three feet of the fence the bronco stopped and stood trembling in every muscle, expecting he knew not what.
It was the man's time now—the beginning of the end.
"Get up!" repeated the same authoritative voice, and the hand on the bit loosened. "Get up!" and rowel and quirt again did their work.
In terror this time the bronco plunged ahead, felt the guiding rein, and started afresh around the circle of the corral fence. "Get up!" repeated Ben, and like a streak of yellowish light they spun about the trail. Round and round they went, the body of the man and horse alike tilted in at an angle, the other ponies plunging to clear the way. Scotty counted ten revolutions; then he awaited the end. It was not long in coming. Of a sudden, as before, directly in front of where he sat, the bridle-reins tightened, and he heard the one word, "Whoa!" and pony and rider stopped like figures in clay. For a moment they stood motionless, save for their labored breathing; then very deliberately Ben Blair dismounted. Not a movement did the buckskin make, either of offence or to escape; he merely waited. Still deliberately, the man removed the saddle and bridle, while not a muscle of the bronco's body stirred. Scotty watched the scene in fascination. Every trace of anger was out of the pony's gray-green eyes now, every indication of terror as well. Dozens of horses the Englishman had seen broken; but one like this—never before. It was as though in the last few minutes an understanding had come about between this fierce wild thing and its conqueror; as though, like every human being with whom he came in contact, the latter had dominated by the sheer strength of his will. It was all but uncanny.
Slowly Blair laid the bridle beside the saddle, and stepping over to his late mount he patted the damp neck and gently stroked the silken muzzle.
"I think, old boy, you'll remember me when we meet again," Scotty heard him say. "Good luck to you meantime," and with a last pat he picked up his riding paraphernalia and started for the sheds.
Scotty stood up. "Hello," he called.
Ben halted and turned about, looking his surprise.
"Well, in the name of all that's proper!" he ejaculated slowly; "where'd you drop down from?"
Scotty smiled broadly; frank admiration for the dusty cowboy was in his gaze.
"I didn't drop down at all; I walked around here about half an hour ago. You were rather preoccupied at the time and didn't notice me."
Blair came back to the fence and swung over the saddle and bridle. "You took in the whole show then?" he asked. A trace of color came into his face, as he vaulted over the rails. "I hope you enjoyed it."
Scotty observed the latest feat, unconscious as its predecessor, with augmented admiration. "I certainly did," he said, and the subject was dropped.
The two men walked together toward the ranch-house.
"I came over to see Rankin," remarked the Englishman, "but I'm afraid I'll have to wait a bit."
"I guess you will," replied Ben. "He went up to the north well this morning. They're building some sheds up there, and he's superintending the job. He's as liable to forget about dinner as not. Nothing I can do for you, is there?"
Scotty thrust his hands into his pockets.
"No, I guess not. I came over to see about selling him my place. We're going to leave in a few days."
Ben Blair made no comment, and for a moment they walked on in silence; then an idea suddenly occurred to the Englishman.
"Come to think of it," he said, "there is something you can do for me. Bill and I have got to drive all the stock over to the station. I'd be a thousand times obliged if you would help us."
For a half-dozen steps Blair did not answer; then he turned fairly to his companion.
"You won't be offended if I refuse?" he asked.
"No, certainly not."
"Well, then, I don't want to help you myself, but I'll get Grannis to go with you. He'll be just as useful."
Ordinarily, despite his assertion to the contrary, Scotty would have been offended; but he knew this long youth quite too well to misunderstand.
"Would you mind telling me why you refuse?" he said at last.
Ben shifted the heavy saddle to his other shoulder.
"No, I don't mind," he said bluntly. "I won't help you because I don't want you to go."
Scotty pondered, and a light dawned on his slow-moving brain. He looked at Ben sympathetically. "My boy," he said, "I'm sorry for you; by Jove! I am."
They were even with the horse-barn now, and without a word Ben went in and hung up the saddle, each stirrupupon a nail. Relieved of his load he came back, slapping the dust from his clothes with his big gauntlets.
"If it's a fair question," he asked, "why do I merit your sympathy?"
The Englishman's hands went deeper into his pockets.
"Why?" He all but stared. "Because you haven't a ghost of a chance with Florence. She'd laugh at you!"
Ben's blue eyes were raised to a level with the other's glasses. "She'd laugh at me, you think?" he asked quietly.
Scotty shifted uneasily. "Well, perhaps not that," he retracted, "but anyway, you haven't a chance. I like you, Ben, and I'm dead sorry that she is different. She comes, if I do say it, of a good family, and you—" of a sudden the Englishman found himself floundering in deep water.
"And I am—an unknown," Ben finished for him.
At that moment Scotty heartily wished himself elsewhere, but wishing did not help him. "Yes, to put it baldly, that's the word. It's unfortunate, damned unfortunate, but true, you know."
Ben's eyes did not leave the other man's face. "You've talked with her, have you?" he asked.
Scotty fidgeted more than before, and swore silently that in future he would keep his compassions to himself.
"No, I've never thought it necessary so far; but of course—"
Ben Blair lifted his head. "Don't worry, Mr. Baker, I'll tell her my pedigree myself. I supposed she already knew—that everybody who had ever heard of me knew."
Scotty forgot his nervousness. "You'll—tell her yourself, you say?"
"Certainly."
The Englishman said nothing. It seemed to him there was nothing to say.
For a moment there was silence. "Mr. Baker," said Blair at last, "as long as we've started on this subject I suppose we might as well finish it up. I love your daughter; that you've guessed. If I can keep her here, I'll do so. It's my right; and if there's a God who watches over us, He knows I'll do my best to make her happy. As to my mother, I'll tell her about that myself—and consider the matter closed."
Again there was silence. As before, there seemed to the Englishman nothing to say.
Blair turned toward the ranch-house. "I saw Ma Graham motioning for dinner quite a while ago," he said. "Let's go in and eat."