CHAPTER XGUESTS
SQUAWTOOTH CANBY was finding his new rôle a difficult one. As his devoted daughter had expressed it, he was not a “folks snob,” but merely a “money snob,” and a new and inexperienced one at that. The warm hospitality of Squawtooth Ranch was a byword in this section of the country. Any man, vaquero, miner, prospector, homesteader, or the chance wayfarer from the inside of the range was welcome at Squawtooth so long as he showed the slightest evidences of being a gentleman as the term is interpreted in the outland West. Penniless prospectors and underpaid cow-punchers for years had sat at table with the master of the squat old adobe and the master’s daughter, and no member of the household ever had thought of considering them anything but equals. To break the custom of a lifetime is a difficult matter; and to-night Webster Canby found himself perplexed as how to treat his guests. Falcon the Flunky and Hunter Mangan.
He had not known that the first named was to be a guest until shortly before his arrival. He had come afoot five minutes ahead of Mangan, who arrived on horseback. When Manzanita had seenhim walking in from the desert she had told her father that she herself had invited a guest for supper, and there had been little time before The Falcon’s arrival for questions. She introduced him, when he stepped over the high threshold, as Mr. Falcon of the Mangan-Hatton camp.
This was a busy time of year for Squawtooth Canby, and he had not found much opportunity to visit his new friend’s camp. Therefore it was not surprising that he never before had met a man called Mr. Falcon. The visitor was hardly dressed as a member of the camp’s royal family would be—in khaki or corduroy and puttees—but he was nevertheless presentable. Dress clothes of any kind were almost unknown to most of the men who came to Squawtooth, so in this The Falcon was not amiss.
During the short conversation that time allowed the two men before the arrival of Hunt Mangan, nothing was asked and nothing volunteered in regard to The Falcon’s place in the Mangan-Hatton camp. Squawtooth at once realized his guest’s refinement and education. Naturally supposing him to be of importance to the work, else Manzanita would not have invited him to be a guest with Mangan, he was getting on famously when Mangan came.
Manzanita met the contractor at the door and brought him in. Mangan’s eyes widened as he saw Falcon the Flunky, and for a moment he lookedbewilderedly at the girl. Then his native refinement asserted itself, and he shook hands cordially, if a little awkwardly, with Canby and his fellow guest.
At once Manzanita went to help Mrs. Ehrhart with the dinner, leaving the three men together. The Falcon sat listening to the conversation of Canby and Mangan, not offering a word but perfectly at ease. Presently he stepped to the piano, glanced over the music on the rack, and seated himself on the stool.
“Don’t mind if I loosen up a little, do you?” he asked, smiling around at them. “I see a piano so seldom these days that I can’t keep away from one when I do.”
“Sure! Sure!” genially encouraged Squawtooth. “Give us a tune.”
Thereupon Falcon the Flunky played several semi-classical pieces with a touch and feeling that surprised Mangan, who appreciated good music. As he talked with his host he watched the man at the piano. Where had he come from? Who was he? Was he playing the instrument merely to prove that he was socially above the general run of construction laborers?
The Falcon swiveled presently on the stool and sat listening again to the conversation.
“You’re pretty good at that, Mr. Falcon,” volunteered Canby, to whom almost any noise on an instrument meant music.
The Falcon smiled. “Pretty rusty, I imagine. I haven’t touched a piano in three months.”
“We was talkin’ about the new railroad bridge over the Little Albert,” Squawtooth observed. “Mr. Mangan says she’ll hold, but I tell him he don’t realize what a torrent that river c’n be when the snows thaw up in the mountains. What d’you think about ’er, Mr. Falcon?”
“I’ve seen the abutments only once,” replied The Falcon, “but it strikes me that you have grounds for what you say, Mr. Canby. I’m afraid such a bottom as this sandy country will give is not going to be——”
“Right there’s the idea. They ain’t goin’ deep enough, and them abutments are too light. But o’ course they know more about it than I do.”
The ghost of a smile was playing over Hunt Mangan’s lips. While he was not vitally concerned with the bridge contract or its outcome, he knew that Foster & Bean, who were doing the quarry work, were unsurpassed in their line, and he had perfect confidence in their judgment.
Canby continued to explain the treachery of the sand-bottom rivers of the West as he knew them, speaking to his supporter. Mangan said nothing, but watched and wondered about Falcon the Flunky.
That he should voice any opinion at all about railroad work surprised him, but that he should have tried to display a knowledge of a part of suchwork altogether foreign to that of the Mangan-Hatton Company, evidently his first experience, was more puzzling still. And he was not a fool! Then the young man began to talk, and Mangan listened. His sentences displayed a technical knowledge of railroad building which was not at Mangan’s command. Mangan knew his own end of the work and nothing more. He was not an engineer, merely a good rock man and a dirt mover. But Falcon the Flunky talked like a man who had studied every phase of railroad construction, from the preliminary survey of a proposed route to the laying of the steel. He talked not from a contractor’s viewpoint, but from that of a high-salaried man employed by the company whose money was being invested, and who demanded that all phases of the work tend toward one ultimate idea, the excellence of their railroad.
Was this young man a spy in the employ of the Gold Belt Cut-off? Was he, at his age, a technical expert come to pose as a common laborer and report the progress of the work? If so, why had he chosen the Mangan-Hatton outfit as his headquarters? There was nothing wrong with the Mangan-Hatton work, Mangan could have sworn. No, he was no spy. He would not have exposed his knowledge of railroad building if he were that. Unless he had thrown overboard all his plans, and was doing this solely to convince Canby that hewas as good as the best of them. And Manzanita could be the only excuse for such a foolish play at that.
It was not until after dinner—supper as it invariably was called at Squawtooth—that Canby and Mangan found themselves alone, Manzanita having taken The Falcon away to show him that ever interesting marvel on a ranch, “the cutest little calf, born only last night.” The cattleman and the contractor were left on the broad Spanish veranda, smoking cigars. Mangan’s host cleared his throat apologetically.
“I expect I hadn’t oughta ask it, Mr. Mangan,” he began; “but, d’ye know, I never heard tell o’ Mr. Falcon until to-night! He got here just before you did, and I didn’t know he was comin’ until he was openin’ the gate. Little Apple didn’t tell me anything about ’im, and I didn’t ask. Oughtn’t to be askin’ you, I reckon, but it seems funny I never heard you mention ’im. Am I impolite? Who is he? Smart as a cricket, ain’t he?”
“I must confess,” replied Hunt Mangan slowly, “that I know very little about him myself.” The contractor spoke abstractedly. He was thinking of “Little Apple,” of which “Manzanita” is the Spanish equivalent. He never before had heard the girl called that.
“Been with you long?”
“Oh, Fal—er—Mr. Falcon, eh? Why, he’s been with us since we came to Squawtooth.”
“Seems to me I’ve seen ’im somewheres. Say—I got it! Wasn’t he the fella that come into the ho-tel the day I rode to Opaco to see you, before you’d moved out? Wasn’t he the fella that was pardners with the man you give a dollar to—to eat on?”
“I—I believe he did come to me that day.”
Squawtooth Canby’s craggy eyebrows came down. “Why, you pretty near didn’t hire him, ’cause he said he wasn’t much of a skinner!”
“I believe something like that came up,” conceded Hunt after a pause, during which he had hoped the cowman would continue speaking.
“And you give ’im the job o’ flunky—pot-walloper!”
Again the pause; and finally the contractor had to admit it.
“Well, by cripes!” exclaimed Squawtooth, his bushy brows drawn lower still. Then he raised them suddenly and eyed his guest with a look of shrewdness.
“Hunt,” he accused, “you’re keepin’ somethin’ back. And whether it’s polite er not, I gotta know it now. Come acrost. What’s the fella’s name? Who is he? What’s he doin’ for you?”
“Really, Mr. Canby, I’ve told you all I know about him.”
“You c’n tell me what he’s doin’ for you, I reckon.”
“He’s working in the kitchen,” Mangan was obliged to admit reluctantly.
“Did you ever get his name? He wouldn’t give it down at Opaco that time.”
“He is still on the books as Falcon the Flunky, as I wrote him down when he got the job. He’s drawn no pay as yet, so there has been no check made out to him. Really, I can tell you nothing more about him.”
“Funny deal! How’d Nita get acquainted with ’im?”
Mangan told of the meeting, without embellishment.
“Huh! Funny! I beg yer pardon, Hunt. Come on out now an’ I’ll show ye our new pipe line to the new ’falfy field I’m layin’ off.”
Squawtooth’s guests had taken their leave, walking side by side toward the lights of the camp twinkling across the black desert, Mangan leading his saddle horse.
“Manzanita!”—from the front veranda.
“Yes, pa?”
“Come out here a little, will ye? I wanta have a littlehablawith ye.”
The girl stepped over the high threshold and stood in the dark beside her father.
“Set down,” he said, relighting his cigar.
She sat in a reed chair beside him.
“Daughter,” he began, “tell me what ye know ’bout Falcon the Flunky.”
“Oh! So Mr. Mangan——”
“Stop right here, Nita!”
She was silent a little. “Yes, I shouldn’t have started that,” she confessed. “Hunt’s all right. If he said anything at all, you forced it out of him.”
“I did—sorta agin’ my will, at that. But I hadta know. It wasn’t curiosity and pokin’ into another man’s affairs. It concerned you, and I had a right to know. Wasn’t much said. I chopped it off and waited for you to tell me. Go on.”
“Well, didn’t you like him?”
“M’m—I thought I was questionin’ you, Nita?”
“I’m not on the carpet, am I, pa? If there’s anything to be discussed, why not just talk and question each other and answer each other?”
“Well, then, what if I did like ’im?”
“That’s why I asked him to come.”
“Don’t get ye.”
“I wanted you to meet him, not knowing he is a camp flunky, and like him for himself. Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I admit I kinda took to the boy, though all the time I thought I’d seen ’im before somewheres. And I had.” He explained briefly. “He’s smart, and he’s got education. He’sthere! From an ignorant man’s viewpoint, I’d say he knows more railroad buildin’ in a minute than Hunt Mangan does in a year. In a big way, I mean. But that’s neither here ner there. Who is he?”
“Pa, I actually can’t tell you any more about him than Hunter Mangan could. And I know that was next to nothing.”
“You mean ye don’t even know his name?”
“I don’t.”
“Ner where he’s from, ner who his folks are, ner what he did before he come out here and went to flunkyin’?”
“No, pa.”
“Well, by cripes! And ye invite ’im over here to supper!”
“Why, is that so strange, pa? Hundreds of strangers have been guests at Squawtooth.”
“Desert rats—not tramps!”
“Did The Falcon strike you as a no good, Pa Squawtooth?”
Canby puffed his cigar till the end of it glowed like a little moon through the smoke screen of a forest fire.
“Manzanita——”
“Yes, pa?”
“Has—now—Hunter Mangan ever ast ye to marry ’im?”
“You embarrass me. But I can’t tell a lie. He has not.”
“He likes ye plenty, Nita.”
“I hope he does. I certainly like him.”
“But ye said ye wasn’t goin’ to.”
“I say many things. I’m older now than when I made that remark. And even then I was not displeased with him; I was put out at the thought of a railroad crossing Squawtooth.”
“Don’t care now, do ye, Nita?”
“Not so much, pa. I begin to realize that other people in the world must live, and that railroads are necessary to their prosperity and happiness. Everybody can’t be fortunate enough to live at dear old Squawtooth.”
“Uh-huh. What if Hunt Mangan was to ask ye to marry ’im, Manzanita?—if ye don’t resent my impertinence.”
“I’d refuse, of course.”
“Refuse! ‘Of course!’ Why ‘of course?’”
“I don’t love him.”
“Who do ye love, daughter?”
“You.”
“Uh-huh—ye’d better! Who else?”
“That podheaded little Mart.”
“Who else?”
Silence answered this for a time. “Perhaps you are impertinent, after all,” said Manzanita demurely at last.
“I don’t mean to be. I’m yer pa.”
“I don’t know that I love anybody else—the—the way I guess you mean, pa.”
“Mangan’s a fine fella,” said her father after another intermission.
“He is. But I don’t love him. Even if I did, pa, you’ve made me ’fess up that he hasn’t asked me to be his wife.”
“Has—now—Falcon the Flunky ast ye?”
“How embarrassing you can be, pa! No! No! No!”
“Ain’t sore, are ye, daughter?”
“Of course not, silly! No railroad man has asked me to marry him. Every vaquero in the country has asked me half a dozen times, I guess.”
“Uh-huh—I imagined so. Now about this Falcon the Flunky ag’in, daughter: he’s a kind of a winner, ain’t he? Kinda mysterious, eh? All that? And good to look upon—smart an’ all. What would ye say if he was to ast ye to marry ’im?”
“Pa, I positively refuse to answer such a question! Why, I’m surprised at you!”
“Ye didn’t say as much when I ast ye what ye’d say if Hunt Mangan was to ast ye.”
“Perhaps you’ve worn out my patience!”
“Perhaps—maybe so. We’ll drop it, then. Le’s go to bed. It’s pretty near eleven—three hours later’n my bedtime.”