A busy little man was David Lannarck in the week that followed. With a horse to break and a speech to make, the time was fully occupied. The colt was quartered at the Gillis barn. Davy stayed with the colt. Of mornings, Landy assisted with the colt's grooming and education. His white mane and tail were washed and brushed and his red coat fairly shone from the attention given. Landy rasped his feet to evenness and cautioned that he would have to be shod if used on hard-surfaced roads. "Potter can shoe him all right," he explained, "but we'll have to send an order for a set of little shoes to fit."
The morning rides were usually on the rather level roadway that led up to Pinnacle Point, but there were sidetrips down ill-defined paths to the little creeks. Landy sometimes went along to advise as to road gaits. The Gillis dogs were constant companions. In fact, since the night of Davy's arrival they waited around until he made his appearance and followed him constantly. Except for the fact that he was scheduled to make a public appearance at Adot next Saturday night, David Lannarck was now enjoying the rest and joys that he had dreamed of and planned when he was oppressed by the mob.
"I am not writing out a speech," Davy explained to Mrs. Gillis as he bent over the pad of paper, pencil in hand. "I am just jotting down some incidents of circus life that the public might want to know. This girl over at the B-line—My, oh, my, but she's got a compelling line of chatter. If she would do the ballyhoo for a Kid Show, she would pack 'em in to bust down the sidewalls. Now this girl said I was to talk about midgets and circuses. What I know about midgets and circuses would fill two books. My problem is to leave out the commonplace routine and tell 'inside stuff.'"
Mrs. Gillis had cleared a side table where Davy, in his high chair, could jot down the items that he would use in his talk. It was while he was thus engaged of afternoons and evenings that Mrs. Gillis heard the life story of the only midget she had ever known.
"My name wasn't always Lannarck," Davy explained one afternoon when Mrs. Gillis detailed something of her ancestry and early childhood. "My name was O'Rahan, and I was christened Daniel. I am Irish—both sides. My Dad was a young, happy-go-lucky Irish lad, a hard worker, a free liver, and surely improvident. Foot-loose and free he joined a party in the rush to the Klondike. Three years later he came back with enough money to fill a pad saddle. And they took it away from him as fast as he had accumulated it.
"He met my mother, Ellen Monyhan, at a party, and he was as speedy at courting as he was at spending. They were married but a short while when the financial crash came. He was ashamed and humiliated but not beaten. He wanted another try at this fascinating game. He went back to the Klondike—and to his death at sea.
"I was born in a hospital in Springfield. My young, heartbroken mother died there. There were no relatives nearer than cousins. In due time I was committed to an orphanage. I have no memory of either parent and my information concerning them is meager and second hand. Now this orphanage was well conducted, but it wasn't a home; it was an institution. With anywhere from thirty to sixty children to care for, it lacked the personal equation. It was mass production—you did things by rote, en-masse—no individuality. But I have no complaint. As a babe and child I was well-fed and clothed, in a uniform common to all.
"And then I started to school along with all the others. But something was happening to me that did not happen to the others. I quit growing. Mentally I was like the others—kept up with my grades—but I never grew taller thanthirty-two inches and never weighed more than thirty-eight pounds. Other children would shoot up like corn stalks, but I stayed right where I had been in the months and years past.
"To me, it was a heart breaking disclosure. I wanted to play ball, to make the team, only to find that as the slow months crept on, I was assigned to the playground of the little kids, babes, toddlers. The balls, bats, mitts, and other playthings were too big for me. But I kept up with my classes in school and maybe the disappointments in sports urged me to win somewhere else. I won the eighth-grade prize in arithmetic and mechanical drawing. And then came high school, and the great disaster, quickly followed by an entrance into an Orphan's Heaven—a home in a private family. In the shifting personnel at the orphanage, there were fewer high-school pupils. We went to a different building over different streets. It was no doubt a singular sight to the residents to see a midget with six-footers, but it was just that way. And it must have been a singular sight to Loron Usark, a big childish lout that lived on Spruce Street. We would pass the end of the alley back of his house and he was out there every day to watch us go by. Now this Loron was too weak, mentally, for school. Ordered around by everybody and pestered and teased by many, the moronic-minded will seek a victim that he can abuse and bend to his own will, and this Loron party was on the lookout. One day he caught me tagging along behind the others. He grabbed me and would have beaten me, but my companions rescued me. After that, I had to be on the lookout. I was marked for slaughter by this fool.
"Mrs. Gillis," Davy changed his tone of voice to a deeper bass, as was his wont when he desired to impress a listener. He shook his pencil at his deeply interested audience of one. "Mrs. Gillis, I've seen a lot of people in my time. Except for old-time circus people and theatrical troopers, I've seen a million more than my share. And you can set thisdown on your mental calendar as an established truth: whenever you see a Big One taunting a Little One, you can set him down as a big coward. And, whenever you see a Dub kidding a Lout, you can be assured that the dub is trying to lift himself above a similar rating.
"Well, this Loron lout finally got me," said Davy, resuming the thread of his life story. "I was on my way back to the orphanage for a book and as I passed the alley he swept me down. They were good sidewalks out there, else he would have broken them in bits as he pounded my head on 'em. He kicked when he could and struck as often as he cared. His exultant cries must have attracted attention, for I was past even an outcry. Finally a lady rushed out of the nearby house and came to the rescue. The lout ran, of course. I stayed put. I couldn't do anything else. The lady gathered me up, carried me into the house, laid me on a couch as I passed out entirely.
"When I came to, a doctor had been there to patch me up and pass judgment on my chances. He had washed off a lot of blood, plastered my cheek, clipped my hair to plaster some more places, eased some body welts, and announced that no bones had been broken. I was in a bed, most of my clothing had been removed, and the lady was offering me a drink of water. I took it.
"Mrs. Gillis," here Davy gave his voice its lowest pitch, "Mrs. Gillis, that woman was Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Lannarck, and I know you won't condemn me or be jealous when I say that she was the kindest, most considerate woman that ever drew the breath of life. There have been a lot of noble women on this troubled earth, doing what they could to ease pain, to keep down strife, and to make the world a better place in which to live. They are all worthy of our praise, but to me, Mrs. Lannarck is sainted, and apart from the rest. Well, the rest of the story is in happier settings and more readable chapters," said Davy, as he noted that Mrs. Gillis was somewhat affected by the recital. "I really suspectthat you would know more about these conditions than I. Personally, I think all women want to manage a home, want to boss the inmates. If there are no children, then they manage the men-folk, or the household pets. And I was Mrs. Lannarck's pet. She used me as a substitute for the children that never came into her life. I was little; I was injured; I was a fit object of her suppressed affections.
"She telephoned Mrs. Philpott, matron at the orphanage, and when she called to see me, Mrs. Lannarck arranged to care for me until I was well. She explained the whole affair to Mr. Lannarck, when he came home to luncheon and that big, grave, silent man accepted her statements without comment. Sick as I was, I heard all this and I too, made some resolutions. I was not going to miss this chance of having a home, and a mother. The very next morning I offered to get up and help her do the dishes. She laughed like a girl, and vetoed my offer. In a day or two I limbered up enough to get into my clothes and I puttered around, offering to do things. My help was declined, but I could see that it had the right effect.
"I didn't go to school for a few days. My face and head were still in bandages. The story of the attack was in the newspaper and the civil authorities committed the moron to an institution for the feeble-minded. Some of the orphan kids visited me and I got them to bring my little set of drawing tools. I was tinkering with these when Mister Lannarck came in. He looked at some of my sketches and asked if I could draft a plan in true proportions. I told him I thought I could, if I had the correct measurements. He put on his coat and left.
"Now Mr. Lannarck was a carpenter-contractor. Not a big one, with an office and a draftsman, bookkeeper and such; just a carpenter with a desk in the front room where he kept his papers. He had little education but his figures were correct. He had built good buildings, but he specialized in repairs—in the upkeep of property—and he had manyclients. He was honest and fair; he made money and saved it. He could read blueprints but he couldn't make 'em. His fingers were all thumbs when it came to outlining.
"Presently he came back with some figures, and about the worst outline I had ever seen. He explained it was a church. It was to have an addition. There was a memorial window to be taken out and placed at the right place in the new part. He had the correct figures and he wanted a rough draft to show 'em. He gave me some big sheets to work on.
"That night, Mrs. Lannarck had to order me to bed, I was that interested. The next morning I was up early. That evening I showed him my outline. He didn't say much. He took the drawings and his own figures to a meeting that night. When he came home he said he had closed the deal, that my outline was what had helped, said it would make money. My, oh, my, but there was a proud boy in a big bed at the Lannarck home that night. That was the first dollar I have ever earned. Of course, I didn't get the dollar, but I got much more.
"It sounds sorta mushy, doesn't it, Mrs. Gillis," said Davy, interrupting the recital. "Kind of a Pollyanna tale with a Horatio Alger finish. But in none of his stories did Alger ever portray a tougher background or give it a bigger skyrocket finish. Just think of it, Mrs. Gillis! Here was a kid with the black thought that he was never to be a man; was never to do a man's work, never to win in any manly contest. Worse yet, he had never seen his father or felt a mother's caress. He never had had a place called home. Do you blame him for horning in?
"Well, it worked out better than I hoped. The next day Mrs. Lannarck began moving the furniture in one of the bedrooms. She emptied dresser drawers, cleared out the closet and brought in other things. Then she invited me up there; told me that she had arranged every thing and this was to be my room, where I could put my things.
"Things? Why, I had come into that home with a bustedhead and not a penny in my pocket. The very clothes that I wore belonged to the county. Except for the little drawing tools I had, you could have put all of my things in a thimble. Yet I was the richest man in Springfield.
"I lived in that room four happy blessed years. They were years of few incidents and no friction. Mrs. Lannarck bought me a complete outfit of clothing, and she was as particular about the details as if it were a bride's trousseau. She even provided me with a weekly allowance, small, to be sure, but there was nothing I needed. I kept right on at school and helped around the house wherever I could. I kept Mr. Lannarck's books, made out his estimates, and drafted his plans. I checked up his payrolls, met his workmen, and his banker. I even met the judge of the court when they adopted me and changed my name.
"I went to church with Mrs. Lannarck, went to Sunday School, and took part in the entertainments. They insisted I was a drawing card and they featured the appearance of a midget on the program. It was all right by me if it met the approval of the Lannarcks.
"During the war, the committee featured me in the Bond Drives. There was a big fellow I teamed up with, named George Ruark. He was nearly a seven-footer and weighed three hundred. I could stand in his two hands as he held them in front of him and urged everybody to back up the war as strongly as I was backed. It made a hit; it got results.
"And then inevitable but unwanted death stalked in, to ruin everything. Mister Lannarck died. He was older than I had thought. He was always careful and honest. He was putting a new roof on the Auditorium when he fell. Maybe it was a stroke. They took him to the hospital. He died on the third day after the fall.
"This was the beginning of the end. A link was broken in the chain. It never mended. Mrs. Lannarck bore up bravely, but I could see that she had lost all earthly joys andsimply awaited her summons. Mr. Lannarck's financial affairs were in good shape. He left quite an estate. The income was ample for our simple needs, but that was not enough. Mrs. Lannarck simply could not go on. She died in a little over a year following the death of her companion. For the second time in my life, I was an orphan.
"But this time I was to have a guardian. I had been legally adopted. I was the heir. I was rich. In the first fifteen years of my life, I had never seen money, never a penny of my own. Now it was the other way. After the funeral I went down to the bank to consult with Mister Gaynor. He handed me a sealed envelope. It was a message from the dear, kind, motherly Mrs. Lannarck. It was a letter of kindly advice, personal and spiritual. She said that she never doubted but that I would walk in the right path, but she made this final appeal. If I never married, never had heirs or dependents, and if there was any of the Lannarck estate left at my death, would I make a will, leaving a portion of it to the Grace Avenue Presbyterian Church, in trust for its upkeep, and a portion to the county orphanage, for the occasional entertainment of its inmates.
"Mrs. Gillis." Davy was the one now affected by the recitals. His voice was lower and slower. "Mrs. Gillis, after reading that message, I hadn't the tears out of my eyes nor my voice cleared up, until I was making that will. Gaynor did the work, he knew how, that was his business, and he made it read just as Mrs. Lannarck had requested. The Trust Department of the bank was made the trustee. One-half of all income from my estate was to be paid to the church, the other half for orphanage entertainment. It stands just that way yet, although the value of the estate has doubled.
"The Lannarck estate was what the bank folks called Income Property. It included two suburban store rooms with apartments above. There were three very good residences, five shares of bank stock, bonds and notes and a considerable bank deposit. I made a resolution then and there,that I would never touch a penny of it, and that resolution has been kept. The income has piled up until it now nearly equals the principal. Poor old Gaynor, the next-best friend I ever had, keeps the income collected and invested, and if this depression would only let up and give him a chance, he could build those Presbyterians a new church and give the orphans a picture show every night.
"Of course I've earned quite a lot of money, meanwhile, but Gaynor keeps that as a separate checking account; says circuses and vaudeville are not a dependable source of income and that I may go broke. This Ralph Gaynor is a wonder in his line, but it's not my kind of a line. He talks of interest, margins of safety, of unearned increments, corporate earnings, and things like that. His is not the big bank, with its long rows of figures. His is just a little 'Dollar-Down' concern, and he owns it all. Just now, in this depression, the Big Fellows are running to him asking, 'What to do?' And he's telling 'em to trim sails and stay close to shore.
"Ralph Gaynor is the second helpful man to come into my life, but when I grew sick and tired of being gawked at, during all my waking hours and resolved to duck away from the mob, I didn't go back to Ralph Gaynor for advice. He just wouldn't understand. The word 'recreation' is not in his vocabulary. Colts, dogs, kid-saddles, horseback riding, Landy's wisecracks, and my present-day joys have no listed values with Ralph Gaynor, and I passed him up. If it were Mrs. Lannarck, she would understand and give it sympathetic approval.
"Well, that's something of the life story of one midget, Mrs. Gillis. Add to this, twelve long summers with circuses and the winters spent in vaudeville (both with their mobs and gawking crowds) and it's almost a completed volume. There is yet one chapter to be added and I want to talk about it to the public. One man, Baron Singer, did more for midgets—little people—than any other person, in all time. He lifted them out of the mediocre; gave themstanding and personality. I never met the Baron, but I want the public to know what great work he did for an underprivileged group. And I will tell 'em Saturday night."
Gillis and Welborn did not return from their mission the next day as they had planned. Sunday passed by without word of their whereabouts. The stay-at-homes wondered if it was to be peace or war with maudling gangsters. Did Welborn's fifty-to-one chance fail? Davy had planned to ride over to the B-line, and go over his speech-plans with his manager and promoter. Now, it seemed necessary that he and Landy ride down to the filling station seeking news of the missing ones. Monday noon, the faithful old Gillis car labored up the hill and came to a stop. Jim and Sam got out to inquire if dinner was ready.
Little was said during the meal as to the outcome of their trip. Jim made a brief explanation that they had been as far as Rawlins, accompanying the sheriff in his disposition of his boarders. The sheriff explained that he wanted to take them past the penitentiary to show them what they missed, and where they would live if they ever came back to this section. He took them all to the railway station, loaded two on the east-bound train and two went west. The sheriff retained the count's car as security for advances made.
That evening, however, after Davy had returned from delivering Welborn his supper, the four gathered in the Gillis sitting room and Jim gave more details. "This man Welborn musta been in the army," he declared. "Musta been a tough old top sergeant, er the general in command, the way he took charge. He managed every detail and managed it right. Everything worked out as planned.
"We kept old Maddy out of the judge's sight, 'en it was well enough that we did, for Judge Withers was pretty hostile towards these crazy galoots that invaded the community and disturbed the peace. He would enforce the sentence, but he listened to the sheriff's complaint that four such prisoners were too many for his cramped quarters, too costly for the results obtained. The judge agreed to suspend sentence on condition that the sheriff would deport 'em and keep 'em deported.
"We didn't have any trouble establishing Maddy's claim to the two sacks of dust. Maddy easily identified 'em and I knew they were his, but what about these gangsters? Would the count surrender title to the damaged car to compensate for rail transportation? And would they agree to leave and never come back? The sheriff had had several interviews with 'em on these matters and had never gained assent to the plan, especially as to the count and his car. The sheriff was bothered, didn't believe it could be done.
"Again it was Welborn who made the plan and gave orders. 'Bring that count in here,' he said, 'and leave me alone with him for about ten minutes. I'll find out if he wants to live or die.' And the sheriff did as Welborn said, and before the ten minutes were up, the count had readily and eagerly accepted all the conditions. We took all of 'em over to court, the judge repeated the sentence, suspended it if they stayed out of the court's jurisdiction. We had 'em in Rawlins and on their way by Sunday noon.
"No, I don't know what Welborn said to the count," was Jim's reply to Davy's eager question. "It must have been potent and terrifying, the way that gangster wet his lips and swollered."
"Did young Goff accept Maddy's gift of the gold dust?" Jim laughed. "That's another Welborn plan and order and it wasn't ignored. This young Goff is a fine fellow. He took good care of Maddy during the whole trip. When we got back to the filling station and Goff was to go on his way,Maddy offered him the dust and he refused it. Here Welborn stepped in. He shook a little out of one sack to make 'em equal; he handed one sack to Mrs. Carter and placed the other in Goff's car. 'You keep that,' he ordered. 'This old man will live longer, happier, more contented in knowing he has a neighbor that he can freely call on for help who will respond to his call. He's got a right to this comfort and satisfaction. You take it.' And young Goff took it."
The next morning David Lannarck was up bright and early, intent on his plans to visit the B-line ranch, but Mrs. Gillis had beat him to the draw. Landy was directed to change the stock cattle over into the ravine pasture while Jim did the milking. Davy would take Welborn's breakfast to him and wait at the Point until Landy, and the dogs, had finished their job.
Like the rest of the men folk at the Gillis ranch, Davy accepted his orders. He saddled the colt, maneuvered him up to the kitchen door for the basket of breakfast, and rode to the Point alone. Early as it was, he found Welborn up the ravine examining the gravel in a sheltered nook.
"I can work this area this winter, when the rest of the valley is covered with snow," Welborn explained as they walked back to the cabin and the basket of breakfast.
"Yes, and if you had a dynamo and electric lights," retorted Davy, "you could work nights. What's all the rush? This stuff will keep."
Welborn laughed, but he grew serious to explain: "I would like to take nine thousand dollars out of this hole by early spring, and as near as I estimate values, I've got the job about half done. There's nearly two hundred ounces in those little sacks. If my partner will be lenient in demanding his share, I think I can get it done this winter."
"If I advance the nine thousand right now, say by the end of the week, will you let up on this drive-drive-drive stuff, and relax and be yourself?" Davy's question was a demand, earnestly stated.
Welborn gave an inquiring look to see if he was being scolded or kidded. He decided that it was neither of these. "Why would you want to do that, Laddie?" he asked in a subdued tone.
"Just to keep a good man from worrying himself to death," retorted the midget. "I want to prevent a funeral, make an asset out of a liability. I want to get a big, fine man back to his normal self. If you will agree to let up on this push-drive-urge stuff; stop long enough to read a book, to laugh at Jiggs or Popeye or Dagwood, or any of the other funnies, go with me over to Adot where the mine-run folks can see what a big, fine upstanding partner I've got, why I'll have that little, old nine thousand in here by Saturday.
"Oh, I know that money is scarce, hard to get just now," Davy explained in response to Welborn's shake of the head, "but this money is idle, and there's plenty of security up in that ravine. It's not the loan, it's the results, I'm wanting. Of course, there's something eating you, some past catastrophe or mistake, that's got you down. You're worried, killing yourself trying to get it corrected. I don't know what it is, and don't want to know, until you are ready. Of course it will work out all right. There'll be a climax, a denouement, as old director Mecklin used to call the final act, and I want you to be right here, in person, in good health and spirits, to join with the rest of us in the applause and cheers."
Welborn had walked over to the window, but not to look out. His head was down, he was taking punishment. Presently he lifted his shoulders and head. There was a smile on his face even if his voice was husky. "In all my varied years, Sonny Boy, I never heard finer compliments mixed up with some real truths. What you've said is worth more to me than your kindly offer of funds. I wouldn't take your money under any condition, it would add complications, but I am going to take your advice. From now on, I'll try to do as you say, try to save myself for the glorious finish that you picture."
The arrival of Jim in the old car and Landy's clamorous calls broke up the conference. Davy hurried out to join hisfriend in their planned trip to the B-line ranch. He was very quiet in the hazards of Brushy Fork, but on arriving at the level stretch beyond he stopped Landy. "What am I going to name this colt, Landy? He's got to have a name, if he's to be taught to do things. Old Boss Fletcher had a name for every elephant in the herd, and they would step right out when their names were called. Horses, dogs, elephants, even the cats quickly learned their names and the short words like 'halt,' 'go,' 'kneel,' 'turn,' and the like. This colt is smart, wants to do things, if you're not too dumb in telling him what you want. But he's got to have a name."
"Alice and I were talkin' about that the other night," replied the ex cow-hand. "She had some flossy ones: Emperor, Commander, President, en sich, but I vetoed that trash, the colt couldn't carry 'em and live. I suggested Red, er Monty, er some sich. Thar we adjourned and left the colt without a moniker. What's yer notion of a name fer this little hoss?"
"I just can't think of the right one," said Davy resignedly. "It wouldn't do to name him after some of the folks around here, that would mix things up. The circus folks have worn out such names as Barnum, Ringling, Robinson, Bailey, Coles, Sells, Barnes, Wallace, and others and they don't fit a small hoss anyhow. I am in hopes that this fine, smart Adine girl at the B-line has some sort of a suggestion. Maybe, she's got a name that will do."
At a favorable place on the narrow road where the travelers could gaze down on a bunch of the B-line cattle quietly grazing and where the morning sun splashed varied colors on the distant hills, Davy pushed his mount in front of old Gravy to halt the party. He flung his hand in a wide sweep to include everything in sight.
"That's Paradise, Landy. It's what I've dreamed about for the last ten years. It's the wide open spaces filled with all the variations in old Nature's book of scenery. And best of all, there's no mob of nit-wits to titter and smirk. It's my Heaven.
"Just now, two things blur the picture; I want to get this speech thing off my hands, and I want to find a resister, a sass-back, a contrary cuss, that will argue back at me. I want to keep him nearby to remind me of old times. Why back two years ago, I used to visit old Polo Garrett, who had the concession in the menagerie tent, just to get cussed out. Polo's vocabulary was limited to sassing back. 'What's eatin' ya?,' 'Git outa here,' 'Who's a-running this dump?' 'Whar do ya git that stuff?' were his mildest phrases. When I got fed up on a bunch of simpering women and their, 'ain't he cute?' stuff, all I had to do was to barge in on Polo and get cussed out and learn that the world wasn't all gush and guff.
"And particularly I need this 'argufyer' right out here now. I'm getting tired of having my own way. The people are too kind, too considerate, regard me as a child to be petted and pampered. There's too much mushy sentiment. A day or two ago, I told Mrs. Gillis my life history. It was mushy and without climax. She wanted to cry over it. This morning, before you came to the Point, I gave Welborn a big going over about his working all the time. And he never sassed back. He should have kicked me out. Instead of that, he agreed with me. Him, a big, strong man that had made a gangster eat his gun and ordered the judge and sheriff what to do! The idea! Him letting a midget order him around! What we need here is a good cusser-outer."
"You're too late," said Landy dryly. "You've missed yer appointment by about forty years. We had a party up state wunst, that filled all yer requirements. Hit was a woman. She'd fuss at the sun fer comin' up, an cuss hit fer goin' down. She buried three husbands en was deserted by several more. At her death, en in honor of the happy event, they named a little crick after her. They called hit Crazy Woman's Crick.... Hi, Potter," Landy called, as they approached the stables of the B-line ranch. "Git that gate opened and throw out yer welcome rug."
"Troubles never come single, they come in bunches," grumbled Potter as he complied. "Two hosses go lame thismornin', en Jim Finch, the grazing commissioner, comes from up on the Mad Trapper Fork a-callin' on us fer help to round up some of old Hull Barrow's misfits of horns, hoofs, and hides, en to add further miseries, here you arrive on the scene. Why, Peaches gave out strict orders, that if old Turkeyneck came prowlin' around, to say, that she wasn't at home at all en to tell the little gent to ride right into the house."
"Who said that?" demanded Davy, with alacrity.
"Why, Peaches, Miss Adine, she said if old Landy—"
"Ye, Ho!" yelled Davy excitedly. "This colt is named. That's it! Peaches! Why didn't we think of that before, Landy?" Davy patted the colt's neck affectionately. "That's your name, old boy, Peaches!"
Hearing the outcry, Adine Lough came out of the house, and down the graveled way. "Good morning," she called. "I was expecting you. My, but he's handsome," she exclaimed, examining the little horse that arched his neck in approval of the inspection. "You look like a gallant cavalier out of the old picture books."
"We've just named him," said Davy proudly. "We named him after you. His name is Peaches."
"Ah, pshaw," said the girl, laughing and blushing. "That's just a nickname that these men out here call me behind my back, of course, and the poor colt deserves a better fate. But come in, both of you, I have good news." The girl led the way into the hall. "You go in and visit with grandpa, Landy, while we talk shop in the library.
"I talked with the Nazarene preacher and he's very enthusiastic over the plan and prospects," Adine explained after they were settled in the workshop. "I told him of the ad, that I was to run in the paper and he's somewhat of an artist and is putting up signs all over town. It augurs a good crowd, the biggest ever to assemble in Adot. He plays an accordion and his wife sings and they have arranged for a quartette of girls to sing a couple of numbers and then you are to talk. The meeting is to be held in Joe Burns's bigwarehouse and it won't hold the people. Now this is not a church meeting, it's an entertainment. You can laugh and applaud at will. You can tell funny stories about circuses or what-have-you, it's informal, go as far as you like!"
"Well, here's how I had mapped out the talk. I'll tell 'em something about midgets," said Davy, "for midgets seem to be a forgotten subject in literature. If you will comb your college library down at Boulder, you'll not find a single book on the subject, and I am not sure that I know enough about 'em to fill out a talk on the subject."
"That's the very subject you ought to talk on. Why I can hardly wait to hear it. Who better can tell it? If you are short of facts, just romance a little, that's allowable where facts are scarce. Tell 'em personal incidents and don't make 'em too solemn or pathetic. Make 'em laugh. Personally, I'm going to get a close-up seat, for in that big barn of a place I doubt if you can reach the outer fringes."
"Well, if the preacher gent can make himself heard, I can too," retorted Davy. "I practiced up on that stuff, there's where I specialized. You see, Miss Adine, when I joined up with the Singer Midgets at Saint Louis, I didn't have an act, a specialty, anything to give the public. I just joined up because Baron Singer was collecting midgets, showing 'em a good time, with no thought of making a profit. But it did make profit. The public wanted to see midgets.
"It was my first contact with my clan. I noticed that midgets didn't change their voices when they reached maturity, still spoke in childish tones. Not having much to do, I practiced voice culture, deepened and strengthened my speech. I made my voice reach to the back seats. It earned me a job. I became the announcer; made the in-front-of-the-curtain talks. In the summer, with the Big Top, I often simulated the ringmaster to make announcements from the center ring. It was a feature all right, seeing a little guy doing a big man's job.
"Oh I'll make 'em hear all right, but what they are to hear is the problem. To the midget stuff I thought I wouldadd a few paragraphs about circus people, the different kinds and what they do. The general public never contacts the real circus people, just the ticket takers, ushers, and roustabouts. They never meet the managers and performers. And because grafters, shilabers, and skin-game artists follow circuses, the public thinks these are a part of it. It's only fair to circus people that this connection be denied."
"Why, I didn't know that," exclaimed Adine, "I just supposed the grafters were a part of it. Here I am, learning a lot of things and school not yet started. Anyhow, I'm going to buy a ticket for Mrs. Carmody and inveigle her to the entertainment. She said circus people ought not be allowed to participate in a church benefit.
"Now you are to come over here Saturday morning. Bring Landy with you, as we can all three ride to Adot in my roadster. There, we will lay the top back, and with you between us, sitting up on the back cushion, we'll parade the town. The door opens at seven o'clock. Performance begins at seven-thirty. Then we come back here for the night and you can ride home Sunday morning. You can talk for an hour if you want to, but you should speak for thirty minutes at least."
"Are you going to live here always?" asked Davy as he slid down off the dictionary and chair at the end of the conference. "What I mean is this, Adine," he added, noting the girl's questioning look. "Are you going to spend your life out here in the sticks, with cattle, horses, and a few yokels that you have to ride miles and miles, before you see two of 'em together?"
"Why, this is my home, I belong here, the same as other young people live with their folks," replied the girl,somewhat startled by the abruptness of the question. "I haven't planned to shift pastures, as grandaddy would say. Why are you asking such an abrupt, personal question?"
"Well, it is sorta personal and rather abrupt," agreed the midget in an appeasing tone. "I should have made the approach with more finesse. Abruptness is one of my defects. But now that I've blundered in, I'd just as well finish. You don't belong out here in the wide open spaces, in these sparse settlements. You belong in the congested areas, where big things are being done, where there's planning, execution, accomplishment. Why, you've taken over both ends of a little hoss trade, laid out all the plans, details and ground work for a community entertainment, and did it with the ease of a big executive lighting a cigarette. You need a big job, in a big place. With your personality and head-work, you can climb up the ladder to the top rung."
"Well, of all things!" said the girl, embarrassed at the unexpected drift, but laughing at the implications. "And this from a guy that has fled the mob and wants me to take his place. Now just what big job have you laid out for me? Running a circus? Managing a theater? Or maybe operating a railroad?"
"You could make a success with any or all of 'em," retorted Davy. "But none of these were in my mind. Some women want a career. Some gain it by their own efforts and some climb to success on a ladder supported by others. Then there is the big majority—many of 'em brilliant and capable—that just settle down in the doldrums of marriage and let their talents rust out in negligence and inattention."
"Then I'm not to marry?"
"You ought to. A gal as attractive, vivacious, and clever as you are, would have to marry—in self-defense, if for no other reason. Marriage need not interfere. It might help. With that hazard and gamble out of the way, it would allow you to expand your talents in planning, executing, and managing in any line you choose."
"And about when do you plan that this defense marriage—this shotgun wedding—is to take place?" questioned Adine scornfully. "And who's the victim?"
"Now that's a candle-flame that I'll keep my fingers out of," said Davy hastily. "Judge Vane told me once a person who advises or mixes in on the marriage relations of others is liable in damages. And anyhow, sane people don't run matrimonial agencies. In that debacle, you're on your own. I'm promoting talent, not running a marriage bureau. And I don't want the side show to dim the performance in the big top. You've got talent, personality, ability to influence others, and whether you are solo in the orchestra or doubling in brass in the matrimonial band makes no difference. You ought to be directing the mob instead of listening to a lone midget."
Adine Lough laughed, not at the text, but the homely comparisons of the little man that, standing hat in hand, was earnestly and seriously throwing bouquets of compliments and darts of poignant facts right in her face. And both the flowers and darts were coming from an unexpected source. With the delicate matrimonial problem swept completely aside, she felt that this new-found friend, in his nation-wide travels and a million contacts, was really sincere in some of his estimates and was trying to be helpful in his blunt, abrupt appraisals. Anyhow, she was reconciled to that view.
"Well, I never had so many compliments in all my life! I didn't know that you were a student of sociology—could estimate capabilities and get everyone in their right groove. I should have been conferring with you, for I have an unsolved problem, bigger than any you've mentioned." Adine had ceased her scorning tones; now she was asking for an answer. She motioned Davy to a footstool.
"Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'"
"My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that isable to do things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of bankruptcy.
"Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready.
"Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers, only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity. And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you think I should seek a job in the congested areas?"
"Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak of two ranches. Where's the other one?"
"Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up the pretense of operating one of his own—wants to compete with Father in management—in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and encourages him in the plan.
"You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built this home.Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name. And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall, Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in the early morning.
"But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now. Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine, as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the footstool.
"Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is already solved."
"We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets, and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in which they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money, and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days, he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously. Thekeyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to try to take it by force.
"Grandmother died before I was born. After her death, and while Father was setting up business over here, the Craigs moved in with Grandaddy. They were young people, brother and sister, Joe and Myrah, and they have been there ever since. Now just who the Craigs are I do not know. There is an old rumor among the cow hands that Grandaddy was paying off some sort of an old romantic debt when he took them in. It must have been a far-flung romance, for the Craigs reputedly came from up in the Wind River district.
"At any rate there they are. Myrah is a good housekeeper and has been a good caretaker of an aged man. Joe was never a cow man. He has a crippled hand. In his young days he roamed the country as a hunter and trapper. He cuts the wood, builds the fires, and runs the errands; just a lackey boy, and is still just that.
"When Father came to Omaha this last time, Grandaddy came over here occasionally. He would bring the keyster and pay the bills. Finally, as Father's stay was prolonged, I persuaded Grandfather to headquarter over here. I fixed up the front room for his convenience. He seems contented with the fireplace and Morris chair. I could have gotten along all right but the matter of finances bothered me. With the banks closed, we have little money available. Even if we had a considerable sum, I wouldn't know where to keep it. A cupboard or desk seemed an insecure place and my financial experience has been limited to a little money purse with small change and probably only one bill. Just now, Grandfather's keyster is the Rock of Gibraltar, the financial prop that is sustaining the whole structure. But what about this prop? How strong is it? Will it outlast the depression? I don't know. I doubt if Father would know, if he were here. Heand Grandaddy might exchange quips or gibes over the matter of sales or production but they didn't broadcast as to funds on hand.
"Truly, I don't care to know how much money is in Grandaddy's keyster, that's his affair. But it's irksome and tragic not to know one's limitations. Tomorrow the whole structure may crumble and fall, for lack of another dollar.
"My relations with Grandaddy are peculiar. He was sorely disappointed that I wasn't a boy. He tolerates me and that's about all. To him, women are a liability, not an asset. He regards them as a necessary evil. If anything important is to be done, it must be done by a man. If he is irritated by some woman's accomplishments he growls out: 'Men fought for and won the territory and women followed in to take possession.' And for this reason it was an easy matter to induce him to come over here with his keyster and take charge. He just couldn't conceive that a girl could manage a business.
"But notwithstanding his disappointments and my timidity, we've gotten along very well. When I go away to school he always slips me a bill or two for spending money. I could feel that he resented my buying a car, yet he pays for my gasoline without complaint. His bias, prejudice, and vindictiveness doesn't apply to the members of his immediate family, but it does apply intensely and vigorously to others. It's this peculiarity that might wreck the works at this critical time.
"It's a family tradition that Grandaddy never went in debt for anything. If he hadn't the cash to pay, he didn't buy. But just now, they are closing out the Bar-O ranch lands, cattle, chattels, and it's ill repute. If Grandaddy knew of this sale, he would spend every dime in that keyster of his, and go in debt as far as he could, in order to own this thing that has been a life's obsession. And if he were to spend this money, be it much or little, this B-line would bebankrupt. I have tried to keep the news of this sale away from Grandaddy just to avoid this catastrophe. If it comes, I am helpless."
During this recital, Adine was seated facing Davy on the footstool. There were lines in her face that Davy had never seen, a near quaver in her voice that he had never heard. The Sir Galahad of the Sawdust Ring had surely found a maiden in dire distress. He wriggled on his seat, mustering comforting words.
"Well, I don't want to offend by poo-pooing your troubles," said Davy as consolingly as he could. "Sickness is always bad, but everything is being done that's possible; your grandfather's acts couldn't work much harm. You don't owe anything to anybody; your needs are few; your expenses are at a minimum. There will be a moratorium on taxes and your few employees would readily accept a note in lieu of cash, and friends like Mrs. Gillis would gladly come to the rescue if quick funds are needed. Frankly, you are a long way from Trouble River and you should not worry about crossing it until you reach the brink.
"And that's that," said the little man, brushing his hands as if the matter were fully settled. "Now tell me about this Bar-O thing. Is this the same affair that Mister Potter spoke of? What's the grazing master got to do, in folding up a ranch? Why would your grandfather get all het up if he heard about it? Where is this Bar-O property? Maybe in this tragic drama, there is a comedy part that I could play."
"There's no comedy in this local drama," said Adine, resuming her challenging attitude. "And you brush the tragedies into the wastebasket like mere dross. A while ago, you were assigning me to big jobs in the congested areas while you were to idle around in the wide open spaces. Just now, I would put you back in some city as a public relations officer, a Mister Fixit, to diagnose and cure personal and community ills. You would fix 'em or discard 'em instantly.
"But, badinage aside, I know very little of the Bar-Oentanglements and complications. It's an old story. Grandaddy knows all about it but he doesn't talk. There are few facts and many rumors. For three generations it's been a sort of a gnaw-bone, to be dug up and chewed on when there's nothing else. It's a musty old tradition, a sort of a remnant of the old days, that present day newsmongers use as a yardstick for comparisons. If a modern domestic complication breaks out, the current gossip outmatches it by the entanglements in the Barrow family. If it's murder, robbery, or arson, some of the Barrows did worse and got away with it.
"Just now, some current chapters are being written. Mister Logan, the receiver of the bank of Adot, has foreclosed a mortgage on the real estate and seeks possession. Mister Finch, the grazing master, always lenient and forebearing, is seeking to recover past due payments. This may be the final chapter. Grim facts are taking the place of hearsay."
"Well, just where is this land of romantic tragedy and domestic infelicity?" questioned Davy. "How come that the movie people haven't taken it over to fit their verbiage: thrilling, stupendous, smashing, wondrous, and so forth?"
"Well, if the movie people have as much trouble getting on the property as the sheriff and Mister Finch are having, they wouldn't get a very clear picture and the story would be limited to their own misfortunes. Up to now, old Hulls Barrow has stood 'em off with a gun. They don't want to kill him and they can't get possession.
"Now this Bar-O ranch is just over the hogback, south of us. There is no road, just a trail over the ridge. The Barrows use the other road. I don't know how big it is. The surveys in these hills stay in the valleys; the lines run from point to promontory. The units are miles, not rods. Tranquil Meadows, a fine area of grassland, is just south of the Bar-O. Had the Silver Falls project been a success, the government would have done the same with the Meadows tract. A road blasted through the hills would have connected the two tracts.
"Old Matt Barrow was one of the early settlers. Grandfather's feud with him had early beginnings. I don't think it was personal, for they rarely met. Grandaddy was outstanding as a law enforcer and here was a petty offender right under his nose. Barrow had no cattle brand until they made him use one. He was uneducated, couldn't spell his own name, and his name, in the records, is spelled in several ways. He had no fences and would employ any misfit or doubtful that came along. He seemed to prey on one side of the ridge and sell on the other. But in all the years he escaped conviction of even a minor offense. In an early day, a lone prospector was missing. Everybody had ideas, but no evidence. Dan Hale's stacks were burned. No evidence. And so it ran through the years.
"Barrow raised two boys. This Hulls, who is standing off the law with a gun, and Archie, who disappeared in about a year after Maizie came. The boys surely must have had a mother, but there is no record or rumor of a death or burial. The same is true of old Clemmy Pruitt, who went there to live. Old Matt Barrow must have maintained a private cemetery and conducted the funerals.
"The boys, Hulls and Archie, grew up to be old bachelors. They carried on in about the same fashion as the old man. Maybe they visited the settlements and got drunk oftener than he did, but the Bar-O continued as a mystery and a sore spot in a neighborhood that was struggling up from primitive ways." Adine paused to chuckle a bit at the midget's interest in the recital. The little man's eyes were glued on the speaker, he missed never a word.
"You are marveling how I know so much about a thing that is based on hearsay and rumors," continued the narrator as she pointed to a manuscript on the table. "There are my notes for my thesis, 'Social Work in Rural Communities.' It's full of notes and comments on the rumors and hearsay about the Barrow family. In every community the exception to the rule is played up as the feature story. In Pittsburghit's steel; in Boston, the Back Bay district gets the headlines; in Charleston, it's the Colonial homes that are featured. The mine-run folks get no mention. Here in Henry County, it's the Barrow family. In my notes, I simply list 'em as rumors, letting the reader be the judge. And now, let's get along to the final chapter.
"Maizie came to the Barrows about ten years ago. Where from, nobody knew, but there were many unconfirmed rumors. It was given out that her last name was Menardi. Whether this was her family name or acquired by marriage, was not stated. Maizie took over—house, corral, and ranch. She made but few changes in the material things, but the two old bachelors and the occasional cow hands were certainly speeded up. Old Jeff Stoups, who had been a retainer since the days of old Matt, quit. 'A woman boss is bad enough, but a hellion is wu's,' was Jeff's statement.
"I have never seen Maizie in all these years. She is rarely away from the Bar-O. Her public appearances are limited to a few rare visits to the stores and a few days spent in court. Mr. Phillips, on her first visit to the drygoods store, described her as dazzling and imperious. Mrs. Phillips describes her as being near thirty years old, tall, rather graceful, regular features, a perpetual sneer, coal-black hair and a coppery skin never seen on another. Her dress was normal, with few adornments. She was bareheaded, wore mannish gloves, and sported large circlet earrings. She differed little in appearance from other women; her voice was low and deep; she could read. She bought books and magazines.
"Our Charley Case (the comedians around the stables call him Flinthead) furnished the caricature of the lady. He was coming back from Grandaddy's south pasture and rode the trail past the Bar-O to see what he could see. He pictured Maizie as wearing overalls, a man's shirt with the tail out, a big slouch hat, and buckskin gloves. She was directing Jeff Stoups about digging a post hole.
"And then came an added feature to the strangepersonnel. About a month after Maizie's arrival, a young man was occasionally seen around the Bar-O. He was neither cow hand nor laborer. His status was that of a constant visitor. He quartered with the family, if Hulls, Archie, and Maizie would be called a family, instead of living at the bunkhouse. Old Jeff referred to him as a dude, but the comment applied to mannerisms rather than clothes. He dressed as a townsman; he frequented the poolroom and Gatty's doggery. He announced his name as Steve Adams, said that he was Maizie's nephew. He played a fancy game of pool and drank in moderation.
"Questioned by the curious, he talked freely but always about places and conditions elsewhere. He knew nothing about local affairs. That summer he made frequent trips. On his return he would report having been to Chicago, Kansas City, Denver. A later checkup revealed that he was telling the truth. And these truthful stories were exasperating. They explained nothing. The Bar-O, with its mixed up domestic complications, was still an isolated enigma.
"That fall was the time of the great train robbery. The event occurred at the same time as the local raid on Gatty's Quart Shop. The world news was minimized by the local affair. We gave it little thought. In the week following, several cattle men headquartered here and at Grandaddy's. They inspected several herds to include the Bar-O outfit. And later still, they raided the Bar-O premises. They were railroad detectives, posing as cattle buyers. They were too late. They got nothing but some bits of evidence that the train robbers had used the Bar-O as a hangout. Maizie explained to the detectives and sheriff that the strangers represented themselves as mineral prospectors. They worked in the hills in the daytime. They left in the evening following the cattle inspection. She reported that her nephew, Steve Adams, was in Chicago, had been there for several weeks. A check up revealed that this was true.
"A further check up revealed that these strangers hadstayed all night at the Unicorn Ranch near Northgate. Abel Sneed, the Unicorn boss, as a matter of precaution went through their 'war bags' while they slept. He found nothing unusual, surely no money.
"What became of this giant sum that was blasted out of the safe after wounding the messenger? Neither the detectives nor anyone else ever found a trace of it. But a further enigma was added to the mystery when a month later Archie Barrow, the younger brother, came to the Records office and made a deed of his undivided share in the Bar-O lands to his brother Hulls. Archie made the statement that he was through, was leaving for the Northwest, and that he would not return.
"Hulls Barrow surely didn't get the Express Company's money. A year or two later Maizie brought him to town to give the bank a mortgage to secure funds to defend Steve Adams, charged with murdering Allie Garrett. Maizie hired a firm of Denver lawyers and the case went through all the complications of venue, trial, and appeal.
"This trial was the community's biggest event, although it had origin in a barroom brawl. During its progress, business was suspended while the public swarmed in, hoping that the truth of the Barrow mysteries might be revealed. The public was disappointed. Steve Adams never took the witness stand, although many thought he had an even chance to convince a jury that he was not the aggressor. The prosecutor was materially aided in the case by Judge Griffith of Laramie. There was no record as to who paid Judge Griffith, but Grandaddy was highly gratified that the accused got a ten-year sentence. He was one man in the community that knew of Griffith's ability as a prosecutor.
"And now that old mortgage is being foreclosed. The Bar-O is on the market at a forced sale. If Grandaddy knew about it, he wouldn't sleep until he owned it. If he were ten years younger he would go over there and shoot it out with Hulls Barrow for the possession. And he needs more landabout as badly as he needs ten thumbs on one hand. He already owns all that joins his, his holdings envelope the Bar-O on three sides. He might covet the grazing rights in the Tranquil Meadows district, but two of our winter grazing meadows will lay idle this winter and our fifty ricks of hay are about four times more than we can use.
"Really, Grandaddy doesn't want more land, wouldn't buy other adjoining land, but he would spend every available cent to get rid of the Barrows. I have two slender, lingering hopes. First, if he does find out about the sale and buys it, that there will still be money left in the keyster. And secondly, if he should buy it, I hope I can persuade him to sell it to some first class, reputable rancher. Someone with a family with whom we can be neighborly and the men folks can exchange work in the busy season."
"How much is this mortgage thing?" questioned Davy, as the lengthy story seemed near the end. "What's due the grazing master? How many cattle are they running? When is this sale? Who can I see about the details? Maybe I could find somebody to take over. And anyhow, don't you worry about expense money. Mrs. Gillis has enough cash-on-hand to take care of all of us, unless this panic grows into a financial cyclone."
"Mister Potter, out at the stables, knows most of the details. Mister Finch and a deputy sheriff were here this morning, talking it over with him. As I understand it, Mister Logan, the bank receiver, bought the land at the sale, but it seems that a bank receiver can't hold the land, he must sell it to make cash assets. Mister Logan has the bank's affairs in good shape, except for this item, and it's got him badly worried. Just now, he thinks it would have been better to have sold the note and mortgage to someone and let the buyer take the grief of getting possession. Anyhow, talk to Mister Potter, he has the answers to most of your questions. See him, by all means," urged Adine Lough as Davy prepared to join the impatient Landy standing at the door.