And Tresler’s prophecy was more than fulfilled. Asthey came they saw the rancher rise from his seat. He faced them, a tall, awesome figure in his long, full dressing-gown. His large, clean-cut head, his gray, clipped beard, the long aquiline nose, and, overshadowing all, his staring, red eyes; even on Arizona he had a damping effect.
“Well?” he questioned, as the men halted before him. Then, as no answer was forthcoming, he repeated his inquiry. “Well?”
And Arizona stepped to the front. “Wal, boss, it’s this a-ways,” he began. “These rustlers, I guess——”
But the blind man cut him short. The frowning brows drew closer over the sightless eyes, which were focussed upon the cowpuncher with a concentration more overpowering than if their vision had been unimpaired.
“Eh? So you’ve been listening to young Orr,” he said, with a quietness in marked contrast to the expression of his face. “And you want to get after them?” Then he shook his head, and the curious depression of his brows relaxed, and a smile hovered round his mouth. “No, no, boys; it’s useless coming to me. Worse than useless. You, Arizona, should know better. There are not enough ranches round here to form a lynching party, if one were advisable. And I can’t spare men from here. Why, to send enough men from here to deal with this gang would leave my place at their mercy. Tut, tut, it is impossible. You must see it yourselves.”
“But you’ve been robbed before, sir,” Arizona broke out in protest.
“Yes, yes.” There was a grating of impatience in the blind man’s voice, and the smile had vanished. “And I prefer to be robbed of a few beeves again rather than run the chance of being burned out by those scoundrels. I’ll have no argument about the matter. I can spare no hand among you. I’ll not police this district for anybody. You understand—for anybody. I will not stop you—any of you”—his words came with a subtle fierceness now, and were directed at Arizona—“but of this I assure you, any man who leaves this ranch to set out on any wild-goose chase after these rustlers leaves it for good. That’s all I have to say.”
Arizona was about to retort hotly, but Tresler, who was standing close up to him, plucked at his shirt-sleeve, and, strangely enough, his interference had its effect. The man glared round, but when he saw who it was that had interrupted him, he made no further effort to speak. The wild man of the prairie was feeling the influence of a stronger, or, at least, a steadier nature than his own. And Jake’s lynx eyes watching saw the movement, and he understood.
The men moved reluctantly away. Their moody looks and slouching gait loudly voiced their feelings. No words passed between them until they were well out of ear-shot. And Tresler realized now the wonderful power of brain behind the sightless eyes of the rancher. Now, he understood something of the strength which had fought the battle, sightless though he was, of those early days; now he comprehended the man who could employ a man of Jake’s character, and havestrength enough to control him. That afternoon’s exhibition made a profound impression on him.
Their supper was finished before they set out for the house, and now the men, murmuring, discontented, and filled with resentment against the rancher, loafed idly around the bunkhouse. They smoked and chewed and discussed the matter as angry men who are thwarted in their plans will ever do. Tresler and Joe alone remained quiet. Tresler, for the reason that a definite plan was gradually forming in his brain out of the chaos of events, and Joe because he was watching the other for his own obscure reasons.
The sun had set when Tresler separated himself from his companions. Making his way down past the lower corrals he took himself to the ford. Joe thoughtfully watched him go.
Seated on a fallen tree-trunk Tresler pondered long and deeply. He was thinking of Joe’s information that the sheriff had at last set up a station at Forks. Why should he not carry his story to him? Why should he not take this man into his confidence, and so work out the trapping of the gang? And, if Jake were——
He had no time to proceed further. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels, followed, a moment later, by the splash of a horse crossing the ford. He turned in the direction whence the sound came, and beheld Bessie hauling a buckboard up the bank of the river; at the same instant he recognized the only occupant of the vehicle. It was Diane returning from her errand of mercy.
Tresler sprang to his feet. He doffed his prairie hatas the buckboard drew abreast of him. Nor was he unmindful of the sudden flush that surged to the girl’s cheeks as she recognized him. Without any intention Diane checked the mare, and, a moment later, realizing what she had done, she urged her on with unnecessary energy. But Tresler had no desire that she should pass him in that casual fashion, and, with a disarming smile, hailed her.
“Don’t change a good mind, Miss Marbolt,” he cried.
Whereat the blush returned to the girl’s cheek intensified, for she knew that he had seen her intention. This time, however, she pulled up decidedly, and turned a smiling face to him.
“This is better than I bargained for,” he went on. “I came here to think the afternoon’s events out, and—I meet you. I had no idea you were out.”
“I felt that Bess wanted exercise,” the girl answered evasively.
Without asking herself why, Diane felt pleased at meeting this man. Their first encounter had been no ordinary one. From the beginning he seemed to link himself with her life. For her their hours of acquaintance might have been years; years of mutual help and confidence. However, she gathered her reins up as though to drive on. Tresler promptly stayed her.
“No, don’t go yet, Miss Marbolt, please. Pleasures that come unexpectedly are pleasures indeed. I feel sure you will not cast me back upon my gloomy thoughts.”
Diane let the reins fall into her lap.
“So your thoughts were gloomy; well, I don’twonder at it. There are gloomy things happening. I was out driving, and thought I would look in at Mosquito Reach. It has been razed to the ground.”
“You have been to see—and help—young Orr’s mother and sister? I know it. It was like you, Miss Marbolt,” Tresler said, with a genuine look of admiration at the dark little face so overshadowed by the sun-hat.
“Don’t be so ready to credit me with virtues I do not possess. We women are curious. Curiosity is one of our most pronounced features. Poor souls—their home is gone. Utterly—utterly gone. Oh, Mr. Tresler, what are we to do? We cannot remain silent, and yet—we don’t know. We can prove nothing.”
“And what has become of them—I mean Mrs. Orr and her daughter?” Tresler asked, for the moment ignoring the girl’s question.
“They have gone into Forks.”
“And food and money?”
“I have seen to that.” Diane shrugged her shoulders to make light of what she had done, but Tresler would not be put off.
“Bless you for that,” he said, with simple earnestness. “I knew I was right.” Then he reverted abruptly to her question. “But we can do something; the sheriff has come to Forks.”
“Yes, I know.” Diane’s tone suddenly became eager, almost hopeful. “And father knows, and he is going to send in a letter to Fyles—Sheriff Fyles is the great prairie detective, and is in charge of Forks—welcoming him, and inviting him out here. He isgoing to tell him all he knows of these rustlers, and so endeavor to set him on their track. Father laughs at the idea of the sheriff catching these men. He says that they—the rustlers—are no ordinary gang, but clever men, and well organized. But he thinks that if he gets Fyles around it will save his property.”
“And your father is wise. Yes, it will certainly have that effect; but I, too, have a little idea that I have been working at, and—Miss Marbolt, forgive the seeming impertinence, but I want to discuss Jake again; this time from a personal point of view. You dislike Jake; more, you have shown me that you fear him.”
The girl hesitated before replying. This man’s almost brusque manner of driving straight to his point was somewhat alarming. He gave her no loophole. If she discussed the matter with him at all it must be fully, or she must refuse to answer him.
“I suppose I do fear him,” she said at last with a sigh. Then her face suddenly lit up with an angry glow. “I fear him as any girl would fear the man who, in defiance of her expressed hatred, thrusts his attentions upon her. I fear him because of father’s blindness. I fear him because he hopes in his secret heart some day to own this ranch, these lands, all these splendid cattle, our fortune. Father will be gone then. How? I don’t know. And I—I shall be Jake’s slave. These are the reasons why I fear Jake, Mr. Tresler, since you insist on knowing.”
“I thank you, Miss Marbolt.” The gentle tone at once dispelled the girl’s resentment. “You have suspicions which may prove to be right. It was forthis reason I asked you to discuss Jake. One thing more and I’ll have done. This Joe Nelson, he is very shrewd, he is in close contact with you. How far is he to be trusted?”
“To any length; with your life, Mr. Tresler,” the girl said with enthusiasm. “Joe is nobody’s enemy but his own, poor fellow. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have long since realized that when things bother me so that I cannot bear them all alone, it is Joe that I look to for help. He is so kind. Oh, Mr. Tresler, you cannot understand the gentleness, the sympathy of his honest old heart. I am very, very fond of Joe.”
The man abruptly moved from his stand at the side of the buckboard, and looked along the trail in the direction of the ranch. His action was partly to check an impulse which the girl’s manner had roused in him, and partly because his quick ears had caught the sound of some one approaching. He was master of himself in a moment, however, and, returning, smiled up into the serious eyes before him.
“Well, Joe shall help me,” he said. “He shall help me as he has helped you. If——” he broke off, listening. Then with great deliberation he came close up to the buckboard. “Miss—Diane,” he said, and the girl’s lids lowered before the earnestness of his gaze, “you shall never—while I live—be the slave of Jake Harnach.”
Nor had Tresler time to move away before a tall figure rounded the bend of the trail. In the dusk he mistook the newcomer for Jake, then, as he saw how slim he was, he realized his mistake.
The man came right up to the buckboard with swift, almost stealthy strides. The dark olive of his complexion, the high cheek-bones, the delicately chiseled, aquiline nose, the perfectly penciled eyebrows surmounting the quick, keen, handsome black eyes; these things combined with the lithe, sinuous grace of an admirably poised body made him a figure of much attraction.
The man ignored Tresler, and addressed the girl in the buckboard in a tone that made the former’s blood boil.
“The boss, him raise hell. Him say, ‘I mak’ her wish she not been born any more.’ Him say, ‘Go you, Anton, an’ find her, an’ you not leave her but bring her back.’ Ho, the boss, your father, he mad. Hah?” The half-breed grinned, and displayed a flashing set of teeth. “So I go,” he went on, still smiling in his impudent manner. “I look out. I see the buckboard come down to the river. I know you come. I see from there back”—he pointed away to the bush—“you talk with this man, an’ I wait. So!”
Diane was furious. Her gentle brown eyes flashed, and two bright patches of color burned on her cheeks. The half-breed watched her carelessly. Turning to Tresler she held out her hand abruptly.
“Good-night, Mr. Tresler,” she said quietly. Then she chirruped to her light-hearted mare and drove off.
Anton looked after her. “Sacre!” he cried, with a light shrug. “She is so mad—so mad. Voilà!” and he leisurely followed in the wake of the buckboard.
And Tresler looked after him. Then it was that histhoughts reverted to the scene in the saloon at Forks. So this was Anton—“Black” Anton—the man who had slid into the country without any one knowing it. He remembered Slum Ranks’s words and description. This was the man who had the great Jake’s measure.
Although the murder of Manson Orr caused a wide-spread outcry, it ended at that in so far as the inhabitants of the district were concerned. There were one or two individuals who pondered deeply on the matter, and went quietly about a careful investigation, and of these Tresler was the most prominent. He found excuse to visit the scene of the outrage; he took interest in the half-breed settlement six miles out from Mosquito Bend. He hunted among the foot-hills, even into the obscurer confines of the mountains; and these doings of his were the result of much thought, and the work of much time and ingenuity; for everything had to be done without raising the suspicion of anybody on the ranch, or for that matter, off it. Being a “green” hand helped him. It was really astonishing how easily an intelligent man like Tresler could get lost; and yet such was the deplorable fact. Even Arizona’s opinion of him sank to zero, while Jake found a wide scope for his sneering brutality.
As the days lengthened out into a week, and then a fortnight passed and nothing more was heard of Red Mask, the whole matter began to pass out of mind, and gradually became relegated to the lore of the country. It was added to the already long list of barroomstories, to be narrated, with embellishments, by such men as Slum or the worthy Forks carpenter.
The only thing that stuck in people’s minds, and that only because it added fuel to an already deep, abiding, personal hatred, was the story of Julian Marbolt’s treatment of young Archie Orr, and his refusal to inaugurate a vigilance party. The blind man’s name, always one to rouse the roughest side of men’s tongues, was now cursed more bitterly than ever.
And during these days the bunkhouse at Mosquito Bend seethed with revolt. But though this was so, underneath all their most bitter reflections the men were not without a faint hope of seeing the career of these desperadoes cut short; and this hope sprang from the knowledge of the coming of the sheriff to Forks. The faith of Arizona and the older hands in the official capacity for dealing with these people was a frail thing, but the younger set were less sceptical.
And at last Julian Marbolt’s tardy invitation to Fyles was despatched. Tresler had watched and waited for the sending of that letter; he had hoped to be the bearer of it himself. It would have given him the opportunity of making this Fyles’s acquaintance, which was a matter he desired to accomplish as soon as possible, without drawing public attention to the fact. But in this he was disappointed, for Jake sent Nelson. Nor did he know of the little man’s going until he saw him astride of his buckskin “shag-an-appy,” with the letter safely bestowed in his wallet.
This was not the only disappointment he experienced during that fortnight. He saw little or nothing ofDiane. To Tresler, at least, their meeting at the ford was something more than a recollection. Every tone of the girl’s voice, every look, every word she had spoken remained with him, as these things will at the dawn of love. Many times he tried to see her, but failed. Then he learned the meaning of their separation. One day Joe brought him a note from Diane, in which she told him how Black Anton had returned to her father and poured into his only too willing ears a wilfully garbled story of their meeting at the ford. She told him of her father’s anger, and how he had forbidden her to leave the house unattended by at least one of his two police—Anton and Jake. This letter made its recipient furious, but it also started a secret correspondence between them, Joe Nelson proving himself perfectly willing to act as go-between. And this correspondence was infinitely pleasant to Tresler. He treasured Diane’s letters with a jealous care, making no attempt to disguise the truth from himself. He knew that he was falling hopelessly in love—had fallen hopelessly in love.
This was the position when the evening of the day came on which the rancher’s invitation to Fyles had been despatched. The supper hash had been devoured by healthy men with healthy appetites. Work was practically over, there was nothing more to be done but feed, water, and bed down the horses. And Joe Nelson had not yet returned from Forks; he was at least five hours overdue.
Arizona, practically recovered from his wound, was carefully soaping his saddle, and generally preparinghis accoutrements for return to full work on the morrow. He had grown particularly sour and irritable with being kept so long out of the saddle. His volcanic temper had become even more than usually uncertain.
His convalescence threw him a good deal into Tresler’s company, and a sort of uncertain friendship had sprung up between them. Arizona at first tolerated him, protested scathingly at his failures in the craft, and ended by liking him; while the other cordially appreciated the open, boisterous honesty of the cowpuncher. He was equally ready to do a kindly action, or smite the man hip and thigh who chanced to run foul of him. Tresler often told him that his nationality was a mistake, that instead of being an American he should have been born in Ireland.
Just now the prospect of once more getting to work had put Arizona in high good temper, and he took his comrades’ rough chaff good-naturedly, giving as good as he got, and often a little better.
Jacob Smith had been watching him for some time, and a thoughtful grin had quietly taken possession of his features.
“Soapin’ yer saddle,” he observed at last, as the lean man happened to look up and see the grinning face in the doorway of the bunkhouse. “Guess saddles do git kind o’ slippery when you ain’t slung a leg over one fer a whiles. Say, best soap the knees o’ yer pants too, Arizona. Mebbe y’ll sit tighter.”
“Wal,” retorted Arizona, bending to his work again, “I do allow ther’s more savee in that tip than mostgener’ly slobbers off’n your tongue. I’ll kind o’ turn it over some.”
Jacob’s grin broadened. “Guess I should. Your plug ain’t been saddled sence you wus sent sick. Soft soap ain’t gener’ly in your line; makes me laff to see you handlin’ it.”
“That’s so,” observed the other, imperturbably. “I ’lows it has its uses. ’Tain’t bad fer washin’. Guess you ain’t tried it any?”
At that moment Raw Harris came across from the barn. He lounged over to an upturned box and sat down.
“Any o’ you fellers seen Joe Nelson along yet?” he asked as he leisurely filled his pipe.
“Five hours overdue,” said Tresler, who was cleaning out the chambers of his revolver.
“Joe ain’t likely to git back this night,” observed Arizona. “He’s a terror when he gits alongside a saloon. Guess he’s drank out one ranch of his own down Texas way. He’s the all-firedest bag o’ tricks I’ve ever see. Soft as a babby is Joe. Honest? Wal, I’d smile. Joe’s that honest he’d give up his socks ef the old sheep came along an’ claimed the wool. Him an’ me’s worked together ’fore. He’s gittin’ kind o’ old, an’ ain’t as handy as he used to be. Say, he never told you ’bout that temperator feller, Tresler, did he?”
Tresler shook his head, and paused in his work to relight his pipe.
“It kind o’ minds me to tell you sence we’re talkin’ o’ Joe. It likely shows my meanin’ when I sez he’s that soft an’ honest, an’ yet crazy fer drink. You see,it wus this a-ways. I wus kind o’ foreman o’ the ‘U bar U’s’ in Canada, an’ Joe wus punchin’ cows then. The boys wus sheer grit; good hands, mind you, but sudden-like.”
Arizona ceased plastering the soap on his saddle and stood erect. His gaunt figure looked leaner than ever, but his face was alight with interest in the story he was about to narrate, and his great wild eyes were shining with a look that suggested a sort of fierce amusement. Teddy Jinks lounged into view and stood propped against an angle of the building.
“Git on,” said Lew, between the puffs at his pipe.
Arizona shot a quick, disdainful glance at the powerful figure of the parson’s progeny, and went on in his own peculiar fashion fashion—
“Wal, it so happened that the records o’ the ‘U bar U’s’ kind o’ got noised abroad some, as they say in the gospel. Them coyotes as reckoned they wus smart ’lowed as even the cattle found a shortage o’ liquid by reason of an onnatural thirst on that ranch. Howsum, mebbe ther’ wus reason. Old Joe, he wus the daddy o’ the lot. Jim Marlin used to say as Joe most gener’ly used a black lead when he writ his letters; didn’t fancy wastin’ ink. Mebbe that’s kind o’ zaggerated, but I guess he wus the next thing to a fact’ry o’ blottin’ paper, sure.
“Wal, I reckon some bald-faced galoot got yappin’, leastways there wus a temperance outfit come right along an’ lay hold o’ the boss. Say, flannel-mouthed orators! I guess that feller could roll out more juicy notions on the subject o’ drink in five minutes than ahigh-pressure locomotive could blow off steam through a five-inch leak in ha’f a year. He wus an eddication in langwidge, sir, sech as ’ud per-suade a wall-eyed mule to do what he didn’t want, and wa’n’t goin’ to do anyways.
“I corralled the boys up in the yard, an’ the feller got good an’ goin’. He spotted Joe right off; fixed him wi’ his eye an’ focussed him dead centre, an’ talked right at him. An’ Joe wus iled—that iled he couldn’t keep a straight trail fer slippin’. Say, speakin’ metaphoric, that feller got the drop on pore Joe. He give him a dose o’ syllables in the pit o’ the stummick that made him curl, then he follered it right up wi’ a couple o’ slugs o’ his choicest, ’fore he could straighten up. Then he sort o’ picked him up an’ shook him with a power o’ langwidge, an’ sot him down like a spanked kid. Then he clouted him over both lugs with a shower o’ words wi’ capitals, clumped him over the head wi’ a bunch o’ texts, an’ thrashed him wi’ a fact’ry o’ trac’ papers. Say, I guess pore Joe wouldn’t ’a’ rec’nized the flavor o’ whisky from blue pizen when that feller had done; an’ we jest looked on, feelin’ ’bout as happy as a lot o’ old hens worritin’ to hatch out a batch o’ Easter eggs. Say, pore Joe wus weepin’ over his sins, an’ I guess we wus all ’most ready to cry. Then the feller up an’ sez, ‘Fetch out the pernicious sperrit, the nectar o’ the devil, the waters o’ the Styx, the vile filth as robs homes o’ their support, an’ drives whole races to perdition!’ an’ a lot o’ other big talk. An’, say, we fetched! Yes, sir, we fetched like a lot o’ silly, skippin’ lambs. We brought out six bottles o’the worstest rotgut ever faked in a settlement saloon, an’ handed it over. After that I guess we wus feelin’ better. Sez we, feelin’ kind o’ mumsy over the whole racket, it ain’t right, we sez, to harbor no sperrit-soaked, liver-pickled tag of a decent citizen’s life around this layout; an’ so we took Joe Nelson to the river and diluted him. After that I ’lows we lay low. I did hear as some o’ the boys said their prayers that night, which goes to show as they wus feelin’ kind o’ thin an’ mean. Ther’ wa’n’t a feller ther’ but wus dead swore off fer a week.
“Guess it wus most the middle o’ the night when Jim Yard comes to my shack an’ fetched me out. He told me there wus a racket goin’ on in the settlement. That temperator wus down ther’ blazin’ drunk an’ shootin’ up the town. Say, I felt kind o’ hot at that. Yup, pretty sulphury an’ hot, an’ I went right out, quiet like, and fetched the boys. Them as had said their prayers wus the first to join me. Wal, we went along an’ did things with that.—Ah, guess Jake’s comin’ this way; likely he wants somethin’.”
Arizona turned abruptly to his saddle again, while all eyes looked over at the approaching foreman. Jake strode up. Arizona took no notice of him. It was his way of showing his dislike for the man. Jake permitted one glance—nor was it a friendly one—in his direction, then he went straight over to where Tresler was sitting.
“Get that mare of yours saddled, Tresler,” he said, “and ride into Forks. You’ll fetch out that skulkin’ coyote, Joe Nelson. You’ll fetch him out, savee?Maybe he’s at the saloon—sure he’s drunk, anyway. An’ if he ain’t handed over that letter to the sheriff, you’ll see to it. Say, you’d best shake him up some; don’t be too easy.”
“I’ll bring him out,” replied Tresler, quietly.
“Hah, kind o’ squeamish,” sneered Jake.
“No. I’m not knocking drunken men about. That’s all.”
“Wal, go and bring him out,” snarled the giant. “I’ll see to the rest.”
Tresler went off to the barn without another word. His going was almost precipitate, but not from any fear of Jake. It was himself he feared. This merciless brute drove him to distraction every time he came into contact with him, and the only way he found it possible to keep the peace with him at all was by avoiding him, by getting out of his way, by shutting him out of mind, whenever it was possible.
In a few minutes he had set out. His uneasy mare was still only half tamed, and very fresh. She left the yards peaceably enough, but jibbed at the river ford. The inevitable thrashing followed, Tresler knowing far too much by now to spare her. Just for one moment she seemed inclined to submit and behave herself, and take to the water kindly. Then her native cussedness asserted itself; she shook her head angrily, and caught the bar of the spade-bit in her great, strong teeth, swung round, and, stretching her long ewe neck, headed south across country as hard as she could lay heels to the ground.
Tresler fought her every foot of the way, but it wasuseless. The devil possessed her, and she worked her will on him. By the time he should have reached Forks he was ten miles in the opposite direction.
However, he was not the man to take such a display too kindly, and, having at length regained control, he turned her back and pressed her to make up time. And it made him smile, as he rode, to feel the swing of the creature’s powerful strides under him. He could not punish her by asking for pace, and he knew it. She seemed to revel in a rapid journey, and the extra run taken on her own account only seemed to have warmed her up to even greater efforts.
It was nearly ten o’clock when he drew near Forks; and the moon had only just risen. The mare was docile enough now, and raced along with her ears pricked and her whole fiery disposition alert.
The trail approached Forks from the west. That is to say, it took a big bend and entered on the western side. Already Tresler could see the houses beyond the trees silhouetted in the moonlight, but the nearer approach was bathed in shadow. The trail came down from a rising ground, cutting its way through the bush, and, passing the lights of the saloon, went on to the market-place.
He checked the mare’s impetuosity as he came down the slope. She was too valuable for him to risk her legs. With all her vices, he knew there was not a horse on the ranch that could stand beside the Lady Jezebel on the trail.
She propped jerkily as she descended the hill. Every little rustle of the lank grass startled her, and gave herexcuse for frivolity. Her rider was forced to keep a watchful eye and a close seat. A shadowy kit fox worried her with its stealthy movements. It kept pace with her in its silent, ghostly way, now invisible in the long grass, now in full view beside the trail; but always abreast.
Half-way down the trail both horse and rider were startled seriously. A riderless horse, saddled and bridled, dashed out of the darkness and galloped across them. Of her own accord Lady Jezebel swung round, and, before Tresler could check her, had set off in hot pursuit. For once horse and rider were of the same mind, and Tresler bent low in the saddle, ready to grab at the bridle when his mare should overhaul the stranger.
In less than a minute they were abreast of their quarry. The stranger’s reins were hanging broken from the bit, and Tresler grabbed at them. Nor could he help a quiet laugh, when, on pulling up, he recognized the buckskin pony and quaint old stock saddle of Joe Nelson. And he at once became alive to the necessity of his journey. What, he wondered, had happened to the little choreman?
Leading the captive, he rode back to the trail and pushed on toward the village. But his adventures were not over yet. At the bottom of the hill the mare, brought up to a stand, reared and shied violently. Then she stood trembling like an aspen, seizing every opportunity to edge from the trail, and all the while staring with wild, dilated eyes away out toward the bush on the right front. Her rider followed the direction of hergaze to ascertain the cause of the trouble. For some minutes he could distinguish nothing unusual in the darkness. The moon had not as yet attained much power, and gave him very little assistance; but, realizing the wonderful acuteness of a horse’s vision, he decided that there nevertheless was something to be investigated. So he dismounted, and adopting the common prairie method of scanning the sky-line, he dropped to the ground.
For some time his search was quite vain, and only the mare’s nervous state encouraged him. Then at length, low down in the deep shadow of the bush, something caught and held his attention. Something was moving down there.
He lay quite still, watching intently. Something of the mare’s nervous excitement gripped him. The movement was ghostly. It was only a movement. There was nothing distinct to be seen, nothing tangible; just a weird, nameless something. A dozen times he asked himself what it was. But the darkness always baffled him, and he could find no answer. He had an impression of great flapping wings—such wings as might belong to a giant bat. The movement was sufficiently regular to suggest this, but the idea carried no conviction. There, however, his conjectures ended.
At last he sprang up with a sharp ejaculation, and his hand went to his revolver. The thing, or creature, whatever it was, was coming slowly but steadily toward him. Had he not been sure of this, the attitude of the horses would have settled the question for him.Lady Jezebel pulled back in the throes of a wild fear, and the buckskin plunged madly to get free.
He had hardly persuaded them to a temporary calmness, when a mournful cry, rising in a wailing crescendo, split the air and died away abruptly. And he knew that it came from the advancing “movement.”
And now it left the shadow and drew out into the moonlight. And the man watching beheld a dark heap distinctly outlined midway toward the bush. The wings seemed to have folded themselves, or, at least, to have lowered, and were trailing on the ground in the creature’s wake. Presently the whole thing ceased to move, and sat still like a great loathsome toad—a silent, uncanny heap amidst the lank prairie grass. And somehow he felt glad that it was no longer approaching.
The moments crept by, and the position remained unchanged. Then slowly, with an air of settled purpose, the creature raised itself on its hind legs, and, swaying and shuffling, continued its advance. In an instant Tresler’s revolver leapt from its holster, and he was ready to defend himself. The attitude was familiar to him. He had read stories of the bears in the Rockies, and they came home to him now as he saw his adversary rear itself to its full height. His puzzlement was over; he understood now. He was dealing with a large specimen of the Rocky Mountain grizzly.
Yes, there could be no mistaking the swaying gait, the curious, snorting breathing, the sadly lolling head and slow movements. He remembered each detail with an exactness which astonished him, and wasthrilled with the bristling sensation which assails every hunter when face to face with big game for the first time in his life.
He raised his gun, and took a long, steady aim, measuring the distance with deliberation, and selecting the animal’s breast for his shot. Then, just as he was about to fire, the brute’s head turned and caught the cold, sharp moonlight full upon its face. There was a momentary flash of white, and Tresler’s gun was lowered as though it had been struck down.
The moonlight had revealed the grotesque features of Joe Nelson!
Tresler returned his gun to its holster precipitately, and his action had in it all the chagrin of a man who has been “had” by a practical joker. His discomfiture, however, quickly gave way before the humor of the situation, and he burst into a roar of laughter.
He laughed while he watched his bear drop again to his hands and knees, and continue to crawl toward him, till the tears rolled down his cheeks. On came the little fellow, enveloped in the full embracing folds of a large brown blanket, and his silent dogged progress warned Tresler that, as yet, his own presence was either unrealized or ignored in the earnestness of his unswerving purpose. And the nature of that purpose—for Tresler had fully realized it—was the most laughable thing of all. Joe was stalking his buckskin pony with the senseless cunning of a drunken man.
At last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailed the little choreman in the midst of his laughter.
“Ho! You, Joe!” he called. “What the blazes d’you think you’re doing?”
There was no reply. For all heed the man underthe blanket gave, he might have been deaf, dumb and blind. He just came steadily on.
Tresler shouted again, and more sharply. This time his summons had its effect. It brought an answer—an answer that set him off into a fresh burst of laughter.
“Gorl darn it, boys,” came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket, “’tain’t smart, neither, playin’ around when a feller’s kind o’ roundin’ up his plug. How’m I goin’ to cut that all-fired buckskin out o’ the bunch wi’ you gawkin’ around like a reg’ment o’ hoboes? Ef you don’t reckon to fool any, why, some o’ you git around an’ head him off from the rest of ’em. I’d do it myself on’y my cussed legs has given out.”
“Boys, eh?” Tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirth sufficiently to answer, “Why, man, it’s the whisky that’s fooling you. There are no ‘boys,’ and no ‘bunch’ of horses here. Just your horse and mine; and I’ve got them both safe enough. You’re drunk, Joe—beastly drunk.”
Joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, but trying hard to steady himself. He focussed his eyes with much effort upon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward like a man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swaying plank. He all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reached him, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aid of a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. And while Tresler turned to pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man’s angry tones snapped out at himin what was intended for a dignified protest. In spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinct enough, though his voice was thick. After all, as he said, it was his legs that had given way.
“Guess you’re that blazin’ ‘tenderfoot’ Tresler,” he said, with all the sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. “Wal, say, Mr. a’mighty Tresler, ef it wa’n’t as you wus a ‘tenderfoot,’ I’d shoot you fer sayin’ I wus drunk. Savee? You bein’ a ‘tenderfoot,’ I’ll jest mention you’re side-tracked, you’re most on the scrap heap, you’ve left the sheer trail an’ you’re ditched. You’ve hit a gait you can’t travel, an’ don’t amount to a decent, full-sized jackass. Savee? I ain’t drunk. It’s drink; see? Carney’s rotgut. I tell you right here I’m sober, but my legs ain’t. Mebbe you’re that fool-headed you don’t savee the difference.”
Tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. He had wasted too much time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. He quite realized that Joe knew what he was about, if his legs werehors-de-combat, for, after delivering himself of this, his unvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of a sitting posture.
Tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders.
“What’s this?” he asked sharply.
Joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment.
“’Tain’t yours, anyway,” he said. Then he added with less anger, and some uncertainty, “Guess I slept some down at the bushes. Durned plug got busy’stead o’ waitin’ around. The fool hoss ain’t got no manners anyways.”
“Manners? Don’t blither.” Tresler seized him by the coat collar and yanked him suddenly upon his feet. “Now, hand over that letter to Sheriff Fyles. I’ve orders to deliver it myself.”
Joe’s twisted face turned upward with a comical expression of perplexity. The moonlight caught his eyes, and he blinked. Then he looked over at the horses, and, shaking his head solemnly, began to fumble at his pockets.
“S-Sheriff F-Fyles,” he answered doubtfully. He seemed to have forgotten the very name. “F-Fyles?” he repeated again. “Letter? Say, now, I wus kind o’ wonderin’ what I cum to Forks fer. Y’ see I mostly git around Forks fer Carney’s rotgut. Course, ther’ wus a letter. Jest wher’ did I put that now?” He became quite cheerful as he probed his pockets.
Tresler waited until, swaying and even stumbling in the process, he had turned out two pockets; then his impatience getting the better of him, he proceeded to conduct the search himself.
“Now see here,” he said firmly, “I’ll go through your pockets. If you’ve lost it, there’ll be trouble for you when you get back. If you’d only kept clear of that saloon you would have been all right.”
“That’s so,” said Joe humbly, as he submitted to the other’s search.
Tresler proceeded systematically. There was nothing but tobacco and pipe in the outside pockets of his coat. His trousers revealed a ten-cent piece and adollar bill, which the choreman thanked him profusely for finding, assuring him, regretfully, that he wouldn’t have left the saloon if he had known he had it. The inside pocket of the coat was drawn blank of all but a piece of newspaper, and Tresler pronounced his verdict in no measured terms.
“You drunken little fool, you’ve lost it,” he said, as he held out the unfolded newspaper.
Joe seemed past resentment with his fresh trouble. He squinted hard to get the newspaper into proper focus.
“Say,” he observed meekly, “I guess it wus in that, sure. Sure, yes,” he nodded emphatically, “I planted it that a-ways to kep it from the dirt. I ’member readin’ the headin’ o’ that paper. Et wus ’bout some high-soundin’ female in New Yo——”
“Confound it!” Tresler was more distressed for the little man than angry with him. He knew Jake would be furious, and cast about in his mind for excuses that might save him. The only one he could think of was feeble enough, but he suggested it.
“Well, there’s only one thing to do; we must ride back, and you can say you lost the letter on the way out, and have spent the day looking for it.”
Joe seemed utterly dejected. “Sure, yes. There’s on’y one thing to do,” he murmured disconsolately. “We must ride back. Say, you’re sure, plumb sure it ain’t in one of my pockets? Dead sure I must ’a’ lost it?”
“No doubt of it. Damn it, Joe, I’m sorry. You’ll be in a deuce of a scrape with Jake. It’s all that cursed drink.”
“That’s so,” murmured the culprit mournfully. His face was turned away. Now it suddenly brightened as though a fresh and more hopeful view of the matter had presented itself, and his twisted features slowly wreathed themselves into a smile. His deep-set eyes twinkled with an odd sort of mischievous humor as he raised them abruptly to the troubled face of his companion.
“Guess I kind o’ forgot to tell you. I gave the sheriff that letter this mornin’ ’fore I called on Carney. Mebbe, ef I’d told you ’fore I’d ’a’ saved you——”
“You little——”
Tresler could find no words to express his exasperation. He made a grab at the now grinning man’s coat collar, seized him, and, lifting him bodily, literally threw him on to the back of his buckskin pony.
“You little old devil!” he at last burst out; “you stay there, and back you go to the ranch. I’ll shake the liquor out of you before we get home.”
Tresler sprang into his saddle, and, turning his mare’s head homeward, led the buckskin and its drunken freight at a rattling pace. And Joe kept silence for a while. He felt it was best so. But, in the end, he was the first to speak, and when he did so there was a quiet dryness in his tone that pointed all he said.
“Say, Tresler, I’m kind o’ sorry you wus put to all that figgerin’ an’ argyment,” he said, shaking up his old pony to bring him alongside the speedy mare. “Y’ see ye never ast me ’bout that letter. Kind o’ jumped me fer a fool-head at oncet. Which is most gener’ly the nature o’ boys o’ your years. Conclusions is mostly hasty, but I ’lows they’re reas’nable in theirplaces—which is last. An’ I sez it wi’out offense, ther’ ain’t a blazin’ thing born in this world that don’t reckon to con-clude fer itself ’fore it’s rightly begun. Everything needs teachin’, from a ‘tenderfoot’ to a New York babby.”
Joe’s homily banished the last shadow of Tresler’s ill-humor. The little man had had the best of him in his quiet, half-drunken manner; a manner which, though rough, was still irresistible.
“That’s all right, Joe. I’m no match for you,” he said with a laugh. “But, setting jokes on one side, I think you’re in for trouble with Jake. I saw it in his eye before I started out.”
“I don’t think. Guess I’m plumb sure,” Joe replied quietly.
“Then why on earth did you do it?”
Joe humped his back with a movement expressive of unconcern.
“It don’t matter why. Jake’s nigh killed me ha’f a dozen times. One o’ these days he’ll fix me sure. He’ll lace hell out o’ me to-morrow, I’m guessin’, an’ when it’s done it won’t alter nothin’ anyways. I’ve jest two things in this world, I notion, an’—one of ’em’s drink. ’Tain’t no use in sayin’ it ain’t, ’cos I guess my legs is most unnateral truthful ’bout drink. Say, I don’t worrit no folk when I’m drunk; guess I don’t interfere wi’ no one’s consarns when I’m drunk; I’m jest kind o’ happy when I’m drunk. Which bein’ so, makes it no one’s bizness but my own. I do it ’cos I gits a heap o’ pleasure out o’ it. I know I ain’t worth hell room. But I got my notions, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter budgefer no one.” Joe’s slantwise mouth was set obstinately; his little eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight, and his whole attitude was one of a man combating an argument which his soul is set against.
As Tresler had no idea of arguing the question and remained silent, the choreman went on in a modified tone of morbid self-sympathy sympathy—
“When the time comes around I’ll hand over my checks wi’out no fuss nor botheration; guess I’ll cash in wi’ as much grit as George Washington. I don’t calc’late as life is wuth worritin’ over anyways. We don’t ast to be born, an’, comin’ into the world wi’out no by-your-leave, I don’t figger as folks has a right to say we’ve got to take a hand in any bluff we don’t notion.”
“Perhaps you’ve a certain amount of right on your side.” Tresler felt that this hopeless pessimism was rather the result of drink than natural to him. “But you said you had two things that you considered worth living for?”
“That’s so. I ain’t goin’ back on what I said. It’s jest that other what set me yarnin’. Say, guess you’re mostly a pretty decent feller, Tresler, though I ’lows you has failin’s. You’re kind o’ young. Now I guess you ain’t never pumped lead into the other feller, which the same he’s doin’ satisfact’ry by you? You kind o’ like most fellers?”
Tresler nodded.
“Jest so. But I’ve noticed you don’t fancy folks as gits gay wi’ you. You kind o’ make things uneasy. Wal, that’s a fault you’ll git over. Mebbe, later on, when a feller gits rilin’ you you’ll work your gun, insteadof trying to thump savee into his head. Heads is mighty cur’us out west here. They’re so chock full o’ savee, ther’ ain’t no use in thumpin’ more into ’em. Et’s a heap easier to let it out. But that’s on the side. I most gener’ly see things, an’ kind o’ notice fellers, an’ that’s how I sized you up. Y’ see I’ve done a heap o’ settin’ around M’skeeter Bend fer nigh on ten years, mostly watchin’. Now, mebbe, y’ ain’t never sot no plant, an’ bedded it gentle wi’ sifted mould, an’ watered it careful, an’ sot right ther’ on a box, an’ watched it grow in a spot wher’ ther’ wa’n’t no bizness fer anythin’ but weeds?”
Tresler shook his head, wonderingly.
“No; guess not,” Joe went on. “Say,” he added, turning and looking earnestly into his companion’s face, “I’m settin’ on that box right now. Yes, sir, I’ve watched that plant grow. I’ve picked the stones out so the young shoots could git through nice an’ easy-like. I’ve watered it. I’ve washened the leaves when the blights come along. I’ve sticked it against the winds. I’ve done most everythin’ I could, usin’ soap-suds and soot waters, an’ all them tasty liquids to coax it on. I’ve sot ther’ a-smilin’ to see the lovesome buds come along an’ open out, an’ make the air sweet wi’ perfumes an’ color an’ things. I’ve sot right ther’ an’ tho’t an’ tho’t a heap o’ tho’ts around that flower, an’ felt all crinkly up the back wi’ pleasure. An’ I ain’t never wanted ter leave that box. No, sir, an’ the days wus bright, an’ nothin’ seemed amiss wi’ life nor nothin’. But I tell you it ain’t no good. No, sir, ’tain’t no good, ’cos I ain’t got the guts to git up an’ dig hard. I’vereached out an’ pulled a weed or two, but them weeds had got a holt on that bed ’fore I sot the seedlin’, an’ they’ve growed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. ’Tain’t no use watchin’ when weeds is growin’. It wants a feller as can dig; an’ I guess I ain’t that feller. Say, ther’s mighty hard diggin’ to be done right now, an’ the feller as does it has got to do it standin’ right up to the job. Savee? I’m sayin’ right now to you, Tresler, them weeds is chokin’ the life out o’ her. She’s mazed up wi’ ’em. Ther’ ain’t no escape. None. Her life’s bound to be hell anyways.”
“Her? Whom?” Tresler asked the question, but he knew that Joe was referring to Diane; Diane’s welfare was his other interest in life.
The little man turned with a start “Eh? Miss Dianny—o’ course.”
“And the weeds?”
“Jake—an’ her father.”
And the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely on toward home. It was Tresler who broke the silence at last.
“And this is the reason you’ve stayed so long on the ranch?” he asked.
“Mebbe. I don’t reckon as I could ’a’ done much,” Joe answered hopelessly. “What could a drunken choreman do anyways? Leastways the pore kid hadn’t got no mother, an’ I guess ther’ wa’n’t a blazin’ soul around as she could yarn her troubles to. When she got fixed, I guess ther’ wa’n’t no one to put her right. And when things was hatchin’, ther’ wa’n’t no one to give her warnin’ but me. ‘What is the trouble?’ youast,” the little man went on gloomily. “Trouble? Wal, I’d smile. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ but trouble around M’skeeter Bend, sure. Trouble for her—trouble all round. Her trouble’s her father, an’ Jake. Jake’s set on marryin’ her. Jake,” in a tone of withering scorn, “who’s only fit to mate wi’ a bitch wolf. An’ her father—say, he hates her. Hates her like a neche hates a rattler. An’ fer why? Gawd only knows; I ain’t never found out. Say, that gal is his slave, sure. Ef she raises her voice, she gits it. Not, I guess, as Jake handles me, but wi’ the sneakin’ way of a devil. Say, the things he does makes me most ready to cry like a kid. An’ all the time he threatens her wi’ Jake fer a husband. An’ she don’t never complain. Not she; no sir. You don’t know the blind hulks, Tresler; but ther’, it ain’t no use in gassin’. He don’t never mean her fer Jake, an’ I guess she knows it. But she’s plumb scared, anyways.”
Tresler contemplated the speaker earnestly in the moonlight. He marveled at the quaint outward form of the chivalrous spirit within. He was trying to reconcile the antagonistic natures of which this strange little bundle of humanity was made up. For ten years Joe had put up with the bullying and physical brutality of Jake Harnach, so that, in however small a way, he might help to make easy the rough life-path of a lonely girl. And his motives were all unselfish. A latent chivalry held him which no depths of drunkenness could drown. He leant over and held out his hand.
“Joe,” he said, “I want to shake hands with you and call you my friend.”
The choreman held back for a moment in some confusion. Then, as though moved by sudden impulse, he gripped the hand so cordially offered.
“But I ain’t done yet,” he said a moment later. He had no wish to advertise his own good deeds. He was pleading for another. Some one who could not plead for herself. His tone had assumed a roughness hardly in keeping with the gentle, reflective manner in which he had talked of his “flower.” “Tresler,” he went on, “y’re good stuff, but y’ ain’t good ’nough to dust that gal’s boots, no—not by a sight. Meanin’ no offense. But she needs the help o’ some one as’ll dig at them weeds standin’. See? Which means you. I can’t tell you all I know, I can’t tell you all I’ve seed. One o’ them things—I guess on’y one—is that Jake’s goin’ to best blind hulks an’ force him into givin’ him his daughter in marriage, and Gawd help that pore gal. But I swar to Gawd ef I’m pollutin’ this airth on the day as sees Jake worritin’ Miss Dianny, I’ll perf’rate him till y’ can’t tell his dog-gone carkis from a parlor cinder-sifter.”
“Tell me how I can help, and count me in to the limit,” said Tresler, catching, in his eagerness, something of the other’s manner of expression.
It was evident by the way the choreman’s face lit up at his friend’s words that he had hoped for such support, but feared that he should not get it. Joe Nelson was distinctly worldly wise, but with a heart of gold deep down beneath his wisdom. He had made no mistake in this man whose sympathies he had succeeded in enlisting. He fully understood that he was dealingwith just a plain, honest man, otherwise he would have kept silence.
“Wal, I guess ther’ ain’t a deal to tell.” The little man looked straight ahead toward the dark streak which marked the drop from the prairie land to the bed of the Mosquito River. “Still, it’s li’ble to come along right smart.”
The man’s suggestion puzzled Tresler, but he waited. His own mind was clear as to what he personally intended, but it seemed to him that Joe was troubled with other thoughts besides the main object of his discourse. And it was these very side issues that he was keen to learn. However, whatever Joe thought, whatever confusion or perplexity he might have been in, he suddenly returned to his main theme with great warmth of feeling.
“But when it comes, Tresler, you’ll stand by? You’ll plug hard fer her, jest as ef it was you he was tryin’ to do up? You’ll stop him? Say, you’ll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an’ set your own brand on her quick, eh? That’s what I’m askin’.”
“I see. Marry her, eh?”
“An’ why not?” asked Joe quickly. “She’s a heap too good fer you. Ther’ ain’t a feller breathin’ amounts to a row o’ beans aside o’ her. But it’s the on’y way to save her from Jake. You’ll do it. Yes, sure, you’ll do it. I ken see it in your face.”
The little fellow was leaning over, peering up into Tresler’s face with anxious, almost fierce eyes. His emotion was intense, and at that moment a refusal would have driven him to despair.
“You are too swift for me, Joe,” Tresler said quietly. But his tone seemed to satisfy his companion, for the latter sat back in his saddle with a sigh of relief. “It takes the consent of two people to make a marriage. However,” he went on, with deep earnestness, “I’ll promise you this, Miss Marbolt shall never marry Jake unless it is her own wish to do so. And, furthermore, she shall never lack a friend, ready to act on her behalf, while I am in the country.”
“You’ve said it.”
And the finality of Joe’s tone brought silence.
In spite of the punishment he knew to be awaiting him, Joe was utterly happy. It was as though a weight, which had been oppressing him for years, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He would cheerfully have ridden on to any terror ever conceived by the ruthless Jake. Diane’s welfare—Diane’s happiness; it was the key-note of his life. He had watched. He knew. Tresler was willing enough to marry her, and she—he chuckled joyfully to himself.
“Jake ain’t a dorg’s chance—a yaller dorg’s chance. When the ‘tenderfoot’ gits good an’ goin’ he’ll choke the life out o’ Master Jake. Gee!”
And Tresler, too, was busy with his thoughts. Joe’s suggestion had brought him face to face with hard fact, and, moreover, in a measure, he had pledged himself. Now he realized, after having listened to the little man’s story, how much he had fallen in love with Diane. Joe, he knew, loved her as a father might love his child, or a gardener his flowers; but his was the old, old story that brought him a delight such as hefelt no one else had ever experienced. Yes, he knew now he loved Diane with all the strength of his powerful nature; and he knew, too, that there could be little doubt but that he had fallen a victim to the beautiful dark, sad face he had seen peering up at him from beneath the straw sun-hat, at the moment of their first meeting. Would he marry Diane? Ay—a thousand times ay—if she would have him. But there it was that he had more doubts than Joe. Would she marry him? he asked himself, and a chill damped the ardor of his thoughts.
And so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover; so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. So he became absorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the serious issues which he felt, that, for his very love’s sake, he should have probed deeply. So he rode on impervious to the keen, studious, sidelong glances wise old, drunken old Joe favored him with; impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman had fanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to time and distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered, called his attention to their arrival at the ranch.
“Say, boy,” he observed, “that’s the barn yonder. ’Fore we git ther’ ther’s jest one thing more. Jake’s goin’ to play his hand by force. Savee? Mebbe we’ve a notion o’ that force—Miss Dianny an’ me——”
“Yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, Joe. Developments must be our cue. We can do nothing but wait and be ready. There’s the sheriff——”
“Eh? Sheriff?” Joe swung round, and was peering up into Tresler’s face.
“Ah, I forgot.” Tresler’s expression was very thoughtful. They had arrived at the barn, and were dismounting. “I was following out my own train of thought. I agree with you, Joe, Red Mask and his doings are at the bottom of this business.” His voice had dropped now to a low whisper lest any one should chance to be around.
Without a word Joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him, fixed him up for the night. Tresler did the same for his mare. Then they came out together. At the door Joe paused.
“Say,” he remarked simply, “I jest didn’t know you wus that smart.”
“Don’t credit me with smartness. It’s—poor little girl.”
“Ah!” Joe’s face twisted into his apish grin. “Say, you’ll stick to what you said?”
“Every word of it.”
“Good; the rest’s doin’ itself, sure.”
And they went their several ways; Joe to the kitchen of the house, and Tresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse.
Enthusiasm is the mainspring of a cowboy’s life. Without enthusiasm a cowboy inevitably falls to the inglorious level of a “hired man”; a nice distinction in the social conditions of frontier life. The cowboy is sometimes a good man—not meaning a man of religion—and often a bad man. He is rarely indifferent. There are no half measures with him. His pride is in his craft. He will lavish the tenderness of a mother for her child upon his horse; he will play poker till he has had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing his last cent pass into somebody else’s pocket; he will drink on the most generous scale, and is ever ready to quarrel. Even in this last he believes in thoroughness. But he has many good points which often outweigh his baser instincts. They can be left to the imagination; for it is best to know the worst of him at the outset to get a proper, and not a glorified estimate of his true character. The object of this story is to give a veracious, and not a highly gilded picture of the hardy prairie man of days gone by.
Before all things the cowboy is a horseman. His pride in this almost amounts to a craze. His fastidiousness in horse-flesh, in his accoutrements, his boots,his chapps, his jaunty silk handkerchief about his neck, even to the gauntlets he so often wears upon his hands, is an education in dandyism. He is a thorough dandy in his outfit. And the greater the dandy, the more surely is he a capable horseman. He is not a horse-breaker by trade, but he loves “broncho-busting” as a boy loves his recreation. It comes to him as a relief from the tedium of branding, feeding, rounding up, cutting out, mending fences, and all the utility work of the ranch. Every unbroken colt is like a ticket in a lottery; it may be easy, or it may be a tartar. And the tartar is the prize that every cowpuncher wants to draw so that he may demonstrate his horsemanship.
Broncho-busting was the order of the next day at Mosquito Bend, and all hands were agog, and an element of general cheeriness pervaded the bunkhouse whilst breakfast was in preparation. Marbolt had obtained a contract to supply the troops with a large band of remounts, and the terms demanded that each animal must be saddle-broken.
Tresler, with the rest, was up betimes. He, too, was going to take his part in the horse-breaking. While breakfast was in the course of preparation he went out to overhaul his saddle. There must be no doubtful straps in his gear. Each saddle would have a heavy part to play, and his own, being one he had bought second-hand from one of his comrades, needed looking to.
He was very thoughtful as he went about his work. His overnight talk with Joe Nelson had made him realize that he was no longer a looker-on, a pupil, simplyone of the hands on the ranch. Hitherto he had felt, in a measure, free in his actions. He could do as it pleased him to do. He could have severed himself from the ranch, and washed his hands of all that was doing there. Now it was different. Whether he would or no he must play out his part. He had taken a certain stand, and that stand involved him with responsibilities which he had no wish to shirk.
His saddle was in order, his mare had been rubbed down and fed, and he was leisurely strolling over to the bunkhouse for breakfast. And as he passed the foreman’s hut he heard Jake’s voice from within hailing him with unwonted cheeriness.
“Mornin’, Tresler,” he called out. “Late gettin’ in last night.”
Tresler moved over and stood in the doorway. He was wary of the tone, and answered coolly—
“Yes; the mare bolted this side of the ford, and took me ten miles south. When I got on the Forks trail I met Nelson on his way home.”
“Ah, that mare’s the very devil. How are you doin’ with her now?”
“Oh, so, so. She leads me a dance, but I’d rather have her than any plug you’ve got on the ranch. She’s the finest thing I’ve ever put a leg over.”
“Yes, guess that’s so. The boss was always struck on her. I kind of remember when she came. She wasn’t bred hereabouts. The old man bought her from some half-breed outfit goin’ through the country three years ago—that’s how he told me. Then we tried to break her. Say, you’ve done well with her, boy.”
Jake had been lacing up a pair of high field boots; they were massive things with heavy, clumped soles, iron tips and heels. Now he straightened up.
“Did Nelson say why he was late?” he went on abruptly.
“No. And I didn’t ask him.”
“Ah, knew it, I s’pose. Drunk?”
“No.”
Tresler felt that the lie was a justifiable one.
“Then what the devil kept the little swine?”
Jake’s brows suddenly lowered, and the savage tone was no less than the coarse brutality of his words. The other’s coolness grew more marked.
“That was none of my concern. He’d delivered the letter, and it was only left for me to hurry him home.”
“I’ll swear he was loafin’ around the saloon all day. Say, I guess I’ll see him later.”
Tresler shrugged and turned away. He wanted to tell this man what he thought of him. He felt positively murderous toward him. He had never met anybody who could so rouse him. Sooner or later a crisis would come, in spite of his reassurances to Diane, and then—Jake watched him go. Then he turned again to the contemplation of his great boots, and muttered to himself.
“It won’t be for long—no, not for long. But not yet. Ther’s too much hangin’ to it——” He broke off, and his fierce eyes looked after the retreating man.
The unconscious object of these attentions meanwhile reached the bunkhouse. Breakfast was well on, and he had to take his pannikin and plate round toTeddy’s cookhouse to get his food. “Slushy,” as the cook was familiarly called, dipped him out a liberal measure of pork and beans, and handed him half a loaf of new-made bread. Jinks was no niggard, and Tresler was always welcome to all he needed.
“Goin’ to ride?” the youth demanded, as he filled the pannikin with tea.
“Why, of course.” Tresler had almost forgotten the change of work that had been set out for the day. His face brightened now as the cook reminded him of it. “Wouldn’t miss it for a lot. That mare of mine has given me a taste for that sort of thing.”
“Taste!” Teddy exclaimed, with a scornful wave of his dipper. “Belly full, I tho’t, mebbe.” He turned to his stove and shook the ashes down. “Say,” he went on, over his shoulder, “guess I’m bakin’ hash in mine. Ther’ ain’t so much glory, but ther’s a heap more comfort to it.”
Tresler passed out smiling at the youth’s ample philosophy. But the smile died out almost on the instant. A half-smothered cry reached him from somewhere in the direction of the barn. He stood for an instant with his brows knitted.
The next, and his movements became almost electrical.
Now the man’s deliberate character flatly contradicted itself. There was no pause for consideration, no thought for what was best to do. He had heard that cry, and had recognized the voice. It was a cry that summoned him, and wrung the depths of his heart. His breakfast was pitched to the ground. And, asthough fate had ordained it, he beheld a heavy rawhide quirt lying on the ground where he had halted. He grabbed the cruel weapon up, and set off at a run in the direction whence the cry had come.
His feet were still encased in the soft moccasin slippers he usually wore in exchange for his riding boots, and, as he ran, they gave out no sound. It was a matter of fifty yards to the foreman’s hut, and he sprinted this in even time, keeping the building between himself and a direct view of the barn, in the region of which lay his destination. And as he ran the set expression of his face boded ill for some one. Jaws and mouth were clenched to a fierce rigidity that said far more than any words could have done.
He paused for one breathless instant at the hither side of the foreman’s hut. It was because he heard Jake’s voice cursing on the other side of it. Then he heard that which made his blood leap to his brain. It was a stifled cry in Nelson’s now almost unrecognizable voice. And its piteous appeal aroused in him a blind fury.