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“Doc’s up again Will someways,” said Jane.
“Most folks is,” added Mrs. Rust.
“Doc’s a bad one to get up against,” observed Pretty. “If he’s going to make Will talk, our men-folk ’ll all get chasin’ gold. I don’t know, I’m sure. Seems to me a roast o’ beef in the cook-stove’s worth a whole bunch o’ cattle that ain’t yours. Well, I’ll get on to home, an’ get busy on the children’s summer suitings––if you can call such stuff as Abe sells any sort o’ suitings at all. Good-bye, girls.”
She left the matrons and hurried away. A moment later Jane Restless went on to the butcher’s, while Mrs. Rust pottered heavily along to Smallbones’ store to obtain some iron bolts for her husband.
But these good women wronged Annie Gay when they hinted at time-serving to Eve on account of the money her husband was making. Her friendship for Eve was of much too long standing, and much too disinterested for it to be influenced by the other’s sudden rise to prosperity. As a matter of fact it made her rejoice at the girl’s sudden turn of fortune. She was cordially, unenviously glad of it.
She found Eve hard at work at her sewing-machine, in the midst of an accumulation of dress stuff, such as might well have appalled one unused to the business. But the busy rush of the machine, and the concentrated attitude of the sempstress, displayed neither confusion nor worry beyond the desire to complete that which she was at work on.
Eve glanced up quickly as Annie came in. She gave her a glance of welcome, and silently bent over her work again. Annie possessed herself of a chair and watched.200She liked watching Eve at work. There was such a whole-hearted determination in her manner, such a businesslike directness and vigor.
But just now there was more to hold her interest. The girl was not looking well. Her sweet young face was looking drawn, and, as she had told her that very morning, she looked like a woman who had gone through all the trials of rearing a young family on insufficient means. Now she was here she meant to have it out with Eve. She was going to abandon her rôle of sympathetic onlooker. She was going to delve below the surface, and learn the reason of Eve’s present unsmiling existence.
All this she thought while the busy machine rattled down the cloth seams of Jane Restless’s new fall suit. The low bent head with its soft wavy hair held her earnest attention, the bending figure, so lissome, yet so frail as it swayed to the motion of the treadle. She watched and watched, waiting for the work to be finished, her heart aching for the woman whom she knew to be so unhappy.
How she would have begun her inquiries she did not know. Nor did she pause to think. It was no use. She knew Eve’s proud, self-reliant disposition, and the possibilities of her resenting any intrusion upon her private affairs. But she was spared all trouble in this direction, for suddenly the object of her solicitude looked up, raised her needle, and drew the skirt away from the machine.
“Thank goodness that’s done,” she exclaimed. Then she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms and eased her aching back. “Annie, I’m sick of it all. Sick to death. It’s grind, grind, grind. No lightness, nothing but dark, uncheered work.” She turned her eyes to the201window with a look of sorrowful regret. “Look at the sunlight outside. It’s mocking, laughing. Bidding us come out and gather fresh courage to go on, because it knows we can’t. I mean, what is the use of it if we do go out? It is like salt water to the thirsty man. He feels the moisture he so needs, and then realizes the maddening parching which is a hundred times worse than his original state. Life’s one long drear, and––and I sometimes wish it were all over and done with.”
Annie’s pretty eyes opened wide with astonishment. Here was the self-reliant Eve talking like the veriest weakling. But quick as thought she seized her opportunity.
“But, Eve, surely you of any folk has no right to get saying things. You, with your husband heapin’ up the dollars. Why, my dear, you don’t need to do all this. I mean this dressmakin’. You can set right out to do just those things you’d like to do, an’ leave the rest for folks that has to do it.”
She rose from her chair and came to her friend’s side, and gently placed an arm about her shoulders.
“My dear,” she went on kindly, “I came here now to talk straight to you. I didn’t know how I was to begin for sure, but you’ve saved me the trouble. I’ve watched you grow thinner an’ thinner. I’ve sure seen your poor cheeks fadin’, an’ your eyes gettin’ darker and darker all round ’em. I’ve seen, too, and worst of all, you don’t smile any now. You don’t never jolly folks. You just look, look as though your grave was in sight, and––and you’d already give my man the contract. I–––”
The girl’s gentle, earnest, half-humorous manner brought a shadowy smile to Eve’s eyes as she raised them202to the healthy face beside her. And Annie felt shrewdly that she’d somehow struck the right note.
“Don’t worry about me, Annie,” she said. “I’m good for a few years yet.” Then her eyes returned to the gloomy seriousness which seemed to be natural to them now. “I don’t know, I s’pose I’ve got the miserables, or––or something. P’raps a dash of that sunlight would do me good. And––yet––I don’t think so.”
Suddenly she freed herself almost roughly from Annie’s embracing arm and stood up. She faced the girl almost wildly, and leaned against the work-table. Her eyes grew hot with unshed tears. Her face suddenly took on a look of longing, of yearning. Her whole attitude was one of appeal. She was a woman who could no longer keep to herself the heart sickness she was suffering.
“Yes, yes, I am sick. It’s not bodily though, sure, sure. Oh, sometimes I think my heart will break, only––only I suppose that’s not possible,” she added whimsically. “Ah, Annie, you’ve got a good man. You love him, and he loves you. No hardship would be a trouble to you, because you’ve got him. I haven’t got my man, and,” she added in a low voice, “I don’t want him. That’s it! Stare, child! Stare and stare. You’re horrified––and so am I. But I don’t want him. I don’t! I don’t! I don’t! I hate him. I loathe him. Say it, Annie. You must think it. Every right-minded woman must think it. I’m awful. I’m wicked. I–––!”
She broke off on the verge of hysteria and struggled for calmness. Annie sensibly kept silent, and presently the distracted woman recovered herself.
“I won’t say anything like that again, dear. I mustn’t, but––but I had to say it to some one. You don’t know203what it is to keep all that on your mind and not be able to tell any one. But it’s out now, and I––I feel better, perhaps.”
Annie came to her side and placed her arm about her waist. Her action was all sympathy.
“I came here to listen,” she said kindly. “I knew there was things troublin’. You can tell me anything––or nothing. And, Eve, you’ll sure get my meanin’ when I say the good God gave me two eyes to use, an’ sometimes to sleep with. Well, dear, I mostly sleep at nights.”
Eve tried to smile, but it was a failure.
“You’re a good woman, Annie, and––and I don’t know how I’d have got on all this time without you. But sit you down and listen. I’ve begun now, and––and I must go on. Oh, I can’t tell you quite why, but I want to tell it to somebody, and––and––I’ll feel better. You said I don’t need to do all this,” she hurried on, pointing at the dressmaking. “I do. It’s the only thing that keeps me from running away, and breaking my marriage vows altogether. Will’s got no love for me, and I––my love for him died weeks ago. Maybe with those sharp eyes of yours you’ve seen it.”
Annie nodded and Eve went on.
“I’m frightened, Annie, and––and I don’t know why. Will’s a different man, but it’s not that. No,” she added thoughtfully, “somehow I’m not frightened of him now. I––I hate him too much. But I’m frightened, and–––”
She flung herself upon the worn settee, and lifted a pair of gloomy eyes to her friend’s face. “I can never touch his money, nor the things he buys. I want nothing from him, either for Elia or myself. I’m married to him and that I can’t undo. Would to God I could! But I can204never take anything from the man I do not love, and my love for Will is dead––dead. No, Annie, I must go on working in my own way, and I only hope and pray my husband will keep away. Maybe he will. Maybe when he’s made a big pile out of his––claim he will go away altogether, and leave me in peace with Elia. I’m hoping for it––praying for it. Oh, my dear, my dear, what a mistake I’ve made! You don’t know. You can’t guess.”
There was a silence for some moments. Annie was thinking hard. Suddenly she put a sharp question.
“Tell me, Eve. This fear you was saying. How can you be frightened? What of?”
There was no mistaking the effect of her words. Eve’s brown eyes suddenly dilated. She looked like a hunted woman. And Annie shrank at the sight of it.
“I don’t know,” she said with a shiver. “I––I can’t describe it. It’s to do with Will. It’s to do with”––she glanced about her fearfully––“his money, his gold find. Don’t question me, because I don’t know why I’m afraid. I think I first got afraid through Elia. He’s a queer lad––you don’t know how queer he is at times. Well”––she swallowed as though with a dry throat––“well, from the first, when––when Will found gold Elia laughed. And––and every time we speak about it he laughs, and will say nothing. Oh, I wish I knew.”
“Knew what?”
Annie’s question came with a curious abruptness. Eve stared. And when she spoke it was almost to herself.
“I don’t know what I want to know. Only I––I wish I knew.”
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Annie suddenly came over to her friend’s side. She took her hands in hers and squeezed them sympathetically.
“Eve, I don’t guess I’ve got anything to say that can help you. But whenever you want to talk things that’ll relieve you, why, you can just talk all you like to me. But don’t you talk of these things to any other folk. Sure, sure, girl, don’t you do it. You can just trust me, ’cause I’ve got so bad a memory. Other folks hasn’t. I’ll be goin’ now to get my man’s dinner. Good-bye.”
She bent over and kissed the girl’s thin cheek with a hearty smack. But, as she left the house, there was a grave light such as was rarely, if ever, seen in her merry eyes.
206CHAPTER XIXBRANDED
There is no calm so peaceful, no peace so idyllic as that which is to be found on a Western ranch on a fine summer evening. Life at such a time and in such a place is at its smoothest, its almost Utopian perfection. The whole atmosphere is laden with a sense of good-fellowship between men and between beasts. The day’s work is over, and men idle and smoke, awaiting the pleasures of an ample fare with appetites healthily sharp-set, and lounge contentedly, contemplating their coming evening’s amusement with untroubled minds.
And the beasts which are their care. Fed to repletion on the succulent prairie grasses they know nothing but contentment. The shadow of the butcher’s knife has no terrors for them. They live only for their day. And the evening, when their stomachs are full and repose is in sight, is the height of their contentment.
Then, too, Nature herself is at her gentlest. The fierce passion of heat has passed, the harsher winds have died down, the worrying insects are already seeking repose. There is nothing left to harry the human mind and temper. It is peace––perfect peace.
It was such an evening on the ranch of the “AZ’s.” All these conditions were prevailing, except that the mind of Dan McLagan, the owner, was disturbed. Six of his boys were out on the special duty of searching for stolen cattle. This was bad enough, but Dan was fretting and207chafing at the unpleasant knowledge that the epidemic of cattle stealing was spreading all too quickly.
He was never a patient man. His Celtic nature still retained all its native irritability, and his foreman, Jim Thorpe, had ample demonstration of it. He had spent several uncomfortable half hours that day with his employer. He was responsible for the working of the ranch. It was his to see that everything ran smoothly, and though the depredations of cattle-thieves could hardly come under the heading of his responsibilities, yet no employer can resist the temptation of visiting his chagrin on the head of his most trusted servant.
The hue and cry had been in progress for several weeks, and as yet no result of a hopeful nature had been obtained. And, in consequence, at every opportunity Dan McLagan cursed forcibly into the patient ears of his foreman.
Now, Jim was enjoying a respite. Dan had retired to his house for supper, and he was waiting for his to be served. He was down at the corrals, leaning on the rails, watching the stolid milch cows nuzzling and devouring their evening hay. His humor was interested. They had eaten all day. They would probably eat until their silly eyes closed in sleep. He was not sure they wouldn’t continue to chew their cud amidst their bovine dreams. Each cow was already balloon-like, but the inflation was still going on. And each beast was still ready to horn the others off in its greediness.
He thought, whimsically, that the humbler hog was not given a fair position in the ranks of gluttony. Surely the bovine was the “limit” in that basest of all passions. One cow held his attention more particularly than the208others. She was small, and black and white, and her build suggested Brittany extraction. She ran a sort of free lance piracy all round the corral. Her sharp horns were busy whenever she saw a sister apparently enjoying herself too cordially. And in every case she drove the bigger beast out and seized upon her choicest morsel.
Nor could he help thinking how little was the difference between man and beast. It was only in its objective. The manner was much the same. Yes, and the very means employed created in him an impression favorable to the hapless quadruped. Surely their battle for existence was more honest, more natural.
His mood was pessimistic, even for a man who sees the traffic which is his keenest interest threatened by a marauding gang of land pirates. Maybe it was the wearing hours of McLagan’s nagging that caused his mood. Maybe it was an inclination brought about by the long train of disappointments that had been his as he trod his one-way trail. Maybe, as the cynical might suggest, his liver was out of order. However, whether it was sheer pessimism, or even the shadow cast by approaching events, he felt it would be good when the evening was past, and he could forget things in the blessed unconsciousness of sleep.
But his meditations were suddenly disturbed. The ranch dogs started their inharmonious chorus, and experience taught him that there are only two things which will stir the lazy ranch dog to vocal protest; the advent of the disreputable sun-downer, and the run of driven cattle.
He quickly discovered, at sight of a thick rising dust to the westward of the ranch, that the present disturbance was not caused by any ragged “bum.” Cattle209were coming in to the yards, and it needed little imagination on his part to guess that some of the boys on special duty were running in lost stock.
His pessimism vanished in a moment, and in its place a keen enthusiasm stirred. If it were some of the lost stock then they would probably have news of the thieves. Maybe even they’d made a capture. He hurried at once in the direction of the approaching cattle. Nor was he alone in his desire to learn the news. Every man had left his supper at the bunk house to greet the newcomers.
The incoming herd was still some distance away, but the bunch was considerable judging by the cloud of dust. Jim found himself amongst a group of the boys, and each and all of them were striving to ascertain the identity of those who were in charge.
“Ther’s two o’ them, sure,” exclaimed Barney Job, after a long scrutiny. “Leastways I ken make out two. The durned fog’s that thick you couldn’t get a glimpse o’ Peddick’s flamin’ hair in it.”
“Cut it out, Barney,” cried the lantern-faced owner of the fiery red hair. “Anyways a sight o’ my hair ’ud be more encouragin’ than your ugly ‘map.’ Seems to me, bein’ familiar with my hair ’ll make the fires of hell, you’ll likely see later, come easier to you when they git busy fumigatin’ your carkis.”
“Gee! that’s an elegant word,” cried Hoosier Pete, a stripling of youthful elderliness. “Guess you’ve bin spellin’ out Gover’ment Reg’lations.”
“Yep. San’tary ones. Barney’s thinkin’ o’ gettin’ scoured in a kettle o’ hot water,” said Peddick, with a laugh.
“Needs it,” muttered a surly Kentuckian.
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“Hey!” interrupted Barney, quite undisturbed by his comrades’ remarks upon his necessity for careful ablutions. “Them’s Joe Bloc an’ Dutch Kemp. I’d git Dutch’s beard anywher’s. You couldn’t get thro’ it with a hay rake. Sure,” he went on, shading his eyes, “that’s them an’ they’re drivin’ them forty three-year-olds that was pinched up at the back o’ the northern spurs. Say–––”
But he broke off, concentrating upon the oncoming cattle even more closely. Everybody was doing the same. Jim had also recognized the two cow-punchers. And he, like the rest, was wondering and speculating as to the news that was to be poured into their curious ears directly.
The cattle were running and it was evident the two boys were in a hurry for their supper, or to deliver their news. The waiting crowd cleared the way. And one of the boys, at Jim’s order, hurried down to the corrals to receive them. He stood by, joined by several others, to head the beasts into their quarters.
They came with a rush of shuffling, plodding feet bellowing protest at the hurry, or welcome at sight of the piles of hay that one or two of the men were already pitching into the corral for their consumption. And in less than five minutes they were housed for the night.
Then it was that Jim greeted the two cow-punchers.
“The boss’ll be pleased, boys. Glad to see you back, Dutchy, and you, too, Joe. Guess you’ll have things to report so–––”
The boys were out of their saddles and loosening their cinchas. They eyed him curiously without attempting to acknowledge his greeting. The rest of the men had211gathered round. And now it was noticeable that while they pointedly ignored their foreman, the newcomers, equally markedly, exchanged friendly nods and grins with their colleagues. Just for a moment Jim wondered. Then annoyance added sharpness to his words. He was not accustomed to being treated in this cool fashion.
“You best come right up to my shack and report,” he said. “You can get supper after. I’ll need to know at once–––”
“Best get a look at them beasties fust,” said Joe, in a harsh tone, and with an unmistakable laugh.
“Yep,” sniggered Dutchy, with an insolent look into Jim’s face.
The studied insult of both the men was so apparent that all eyes were turned curiously upon the foreman. For Jim Thorpe was popular. More than popular. He was probably the best-liked man on the range. Then, too, Jim, in their experience, was never one to take things “lying down.”
His dark, clear brows drew ominously together, and his eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
“Say, the sun’s hurt you some, boys, hasn’t it?” he asked sharply. Then he went on rapidly, his teeth clipping with each sentence: “See here, get right up to my shack. I’ll take that report. And I don’t need any talk about it. Get me?”
But though the men remained silent the insolence of their eyes answered him. Dutchy slung his saddle over his shoulder and stood while Joe picked up his belongings. And in those moments his eyes unflinchingly fixed his foreman, and a smile, an infuriating smile of contempt, slowly broke over his heavy Teutonic features.
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It was too much for Jim. He pointed at his shack. “Hustle!” he cried.
But before the men had time to move away, two of the boys, who had elected to obey their comrade’s suggestion, came running up from the corral.
“Say, boss,” cried Barney, excitedly, “get a peek at their brands!”
Nor was there any mistaking the man’s anxiety––even awe. There was a general rush for the corral. And by the time Jim reluctantly reached the fences he heard smothered exclamations on all sides of him. He came to the barred gateway and peered over at the cattle inside.
The first thing that caught his eye was the broadside of a big steer. On its shoulder was a brand, at which he stared first incredulously, but presently with horrified amazement. It was the familiar “double star.” He looked at others. Everywhere he saw his own brand, “double-star twice,” as it was popularly known, on cattle which he recognized at a glance as being some of his employer’s finest half-bred Polled Angus stock.
His feelings at that moment were indescribable. Astonishment, incredulity, anger all battled for place, and the outcome of them all was a laugh at once mirthless and angry. He turned on the two men waiting with their shouldered saddles.
“I’ll take your report––up at the shack.” And he pointed at his hut, fifty yards away.
The men moved off obediently. And Jim, left to his own unpleasant thoughts, followed them up.
Half-way to the hut he was joined by McLagan. The Irishman had seen the cattle come in, and was anxious to learn the particulars. His manner, after his recent ill-humor,213was almost jocular. He realized that these were cattle he had lost.
“Say, Jim, those boys have picked up a dandy bunch of the lost ones. How many?”
But the foreman’s humor did not by any means fit in with his employer’s.
“Didn’t count ’em,” he said shortly. “I’m just getting the boys’ report. You best come along. It looks like being interesting.” Just for a moment a half-smile lit his face.
Dan glanced at him out of the tail of his eyes and fell in beside him. His foreman’s manner was new, and he wondered at it. However, Jim made no effort to open his lips again until they reached the hut.
When they came up the boys were waiting outside the door. Jim promptly led the way in, angrily conscious of the meaning looks which passed between them.
Once inside, and Dan had seated himself on the bed, Jim called the two men in.
“Come along in, boys,” he cried, and his manner had become more usual. He understood their attitude now, and somehow he found himself sympathizing with their evident suspicions. After all, he had grown into a thorough cattleman. “Speak up, lads. Let’s get the yarn. The boss wants to hear where you found those cattle of his––re-branded with my own brand.”
McLagan sat up with a jerk.
“Eh?”
His face was a study. But chiefly it expressed a belief that he was being laughed at. Jim looked squarely into his half-resentful eyes and nodded.
“Those cattle they’ve just brought in are branded with214my brand. You know the brand. You helped me design it. ‘double star’ And,” he added whimsically, “it’s a mighty fine one for obliterating original brands, now I come to study it.”
But Dan turned sharply on the two men.
“Let’s hear it,” he said; and there was no pleasantness in his tone.
It was Joe Bloc who took the lead. Dutchy, though speaking the language of the West freely enough, had, in moments of involved explanation, still the Teutonic failing of involving the verb.
“You see, boss,” said Joe, his eyes steadily fixed on the foreman’s unflinching face, “we got the news in Barnriff. We’d been out for nigh four days, and we’d decided to ride in here to get fresh plugs. Ours wus good an’ done, an’ we’d set ’em in Doc Crombie’s barn, an’ had got over to the saloon for a feed.”
“Feed?”
But Dan’s sarcasm had no effect.
“That’s how, boss. Wal, right in the bar was one of the ‘diamondP’ boys––one of old man Blundell’s hands.”
“Yes, yes.”
“He’d got a tidy yarn, sure, an’ seein’ we was your hands, an’ his yarn was to do with your stock, he handed it to us with frills. He’d just got in from the hills, wher’ he’d been trailin’. He said he’d run into Jim Thorpe’s stock, tucked away in as nice a hollow of sweet grass as you’d find this side of Kentucky. Wal, he hadn’t no suspicion, seein’ whose beasties they were, an’ he was for makin’ back. He’d started, he said, when somethin’ struck him. Y’see he guessed of a sudden it was a mighty big bunch for a ranch-foreman to be running, an’215ther’ was such a heap o’ half-bred Polled Angus amongst ’em. Wal, seein’ that kind was your specialty, he just guessed he’d ride round ’em an’ git a peek at the brands. Say, as he said, the game was clear out at once. They’d every son-of-a-cow got ‘double star’ on ’em, but nigh haf wus re-brandsover an’ blottin’ out the old one. He got to work an’ cut out an’ roped one o’ them half-breeds, an’ hevin’ threw him, got down an looked close. The original brand had been burned out, an’ the ‘double star’ whacked deep over it. That’s just all, boss. We got out an’ brought the bunch in––that is, them we knew belonged to the ‘AZ’s.’”
An ominous silence followed the finish of his story. The smile on Jim’s face seemed to be frozen and meaningless. Dan was staring intently at his boots and flicking them with his quirt. Joe turned his head and exchanged a smile of meaning with Dutchy, and both men shifted into an easy pose, as much as to say, “Well, we’ve found the cattle duffer for you.” The moments passed heavily, then suddenly Dan looked up. There was storm in his eyes. He had forgotten the cow-punchers.
“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he cried. “Get out!”
It was all the thanks the men got for the unctuously given story, and their hard work.
They vanished rapidly through the door, and hastened to air their grievance and repeat their story with added “frills” to ready ears at the bunk house.
Jim gazed through the doorway after them, and Dan furtively watched him for some silent moments.
“Well?” he said at last.
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The tone of his inquiry was peculiar. There was no definite anger in it, nor was it a simple question. Yet it stung the man to whom it was addressed in a way that set his teeth gritting, and the blood running hot to his head.
“Well?” he retorted. And their eyes met with the defiance of men of big physical courage.
Dan was the first to avert his gaze, but it was only to hide that which lay behind in his thoughts. And when he spoke there was a harsh smile in his eyes.
“What ha’ ye got to say t ”––he jerked a thumb in the direction of the bunk house––“that feller’s yarn?”
Jim’s answer was unhesitating. He shrugged as he spoke.
“Guess there’s no definite reason to doubt it. There are the cattle. They’re all re-branded with my brand. I’ve seen ’em. The hand that did it was a prentice hand, though. That’s the only thing. The veriest kid could detect the alteration.”
“It’s your brand.” Dan’s eyes were still averted.
“Sure it’s my brand. There’s no need for more than two eyes to see that.”
McLagan’s quirt again began to beat his boot-leg. Jim understood the temper lying behind that nervous movement. He felt sick.
“Wher’ d’ye keep your brands?”
“There’s one here and one up in the hills, in my little implement shack, where I run my cattle. I keep that there for convenience.”
“Just so.”
Jim was groping under the bed on which Dan was reclining. He heard the reply, but chose to ignore it.
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But he knew by its tone that suspicion had been driven home in this cattleman’s mind. He drew an iron out from amongst the litter under the bed, and held it up.
“That’s the iron,” he said. “It would be well to compare it on the brands. It is identical with the iron I keep up in the hills.”
“For convenience.”
The men’s eyes met again.
“Yes––for convenience.” There was a sharpness in the foreman’s acquiescence.
The Irishman’s eyes grew hot. The whites began to get bloodshot.
“Seems to me it’s fer you to see if that iron fits, an’, if so––why?”
In spite of Dan’s evident heat his tone was frigid, and its suggestion could no longer be ignored. Jim Thorpe, conscious of his innocence, was not the man to accept such innuendoes without protest. Suddenly his swift rising anger took hold of him, and the fiery protest which McLagan had intended to call forth broke out.
“Look here, McLagan,” he cried, vainly trying to keep his tone cool, “I’ve been with you about four years. You know something of my history, and the folks I spring from. You know more than any one else of me. For four years I’ve worked for you in a way, as you, yourself, have been pleased to say in odd moments of generosity, in a way that few hired men generally work out here in the West. You’ve trusted me in consequence. And you’ve never found me shirking responsibilities, nor slacking. You’ve helped me get together a bunch of cattle with a view to becoming independent, and shown me in every way your confidence. You’ve218even offered to lease me grazing. These latter things have not been without profit to you. That’s as it should be. However, I just mention these things to point the rise in confidence which has grown up between us. You understand? Now the cattle stealing begins. These cattle are brought in here with my brands on. There is no doubt they are your steers. You listen to the story of the manner of their finding. You witness the cold suspicion of me which those two men possess. Those four years go for nothing. Your confidence won’t stand the least strain. You do not accuse me straight out, but show me the suspicion with which you are contaminated in a manner unworthy of an honest man. I tell you it’s rotten. It’s––it’s despicable. Do you think I’m going to sit down under this suspicion? It will be all over the countryside by to-morrow, and I––I shall be a branded man. I tell you I’m going to sift this matter to the bottom. But make no mistake. Not for your sake––nor for anybody else but myself. Those four years of hard honest work don’t count with you. Well, they shan’t count with me. I’ll stay here with you so that I’m handy whenever wanted––you understand me, I suppose––‘wanted.’ But I’ll thank you to let me pursue my investigations in the way I choose. Your work shan’t suffer. If I don’t lay my hands on the thief or thieves in a month’s time, then write me down a wrong ’un. If I do round ’em up I’ll at once take my leave of you, for I’ve no use for a man of your evident calibre.”
He was standing when he finished speaking. His dark eyes said far more than his words, and the clenching hands at his sides conveyed a threat that Dan was quick to perceive. However he felt the other’s words he gave no sign.219And his attitude was once more disconcerting and puzzling to the furious Jim. He wanted one of those outbursts of Celtic passion he was used to; he wanted a chance to hand out unrestrained the fury that was working up to such a pitch inside him. But the opportunity was not given. Dan spoke coldly and quietly, a process which maddened the injured man.
“Words make elegant pictures,” he said, “an’ I hate pictures. See here, Jim Thorpe, you’ve ladled it out good an’ plenty. Now I’m goin’ to pass you a dipper o’ hash. There’s the cattle; there’s your brands; there’s wher’ they was found. Three nuts that need crackin’. You guess you’re goin’ to crack them nuts. Wal, I’d say it’s up to you. Crack ’em. An’––you needn’t to stop here to do it. You can get right out an’ do the crackin’ where you like. An’ when you’ve cracked ’em, an’ you feel like it,––mind, I don’t ask you to––you can come along and you’ll find this shack still standin’. That, too, is up to you. Meanwhiles, Joe Bloc’ll slep right here. Guess you’ll be startin’ out crackin’ nuts to-morrow morning. There’s just one thing I’d like to say before partin’, Jim,” he added, his frigidity thawing slightly. “I’m a cattleman first an’ last. It’s meat and drink an’ pocket-money to me. My calibre don’t cut any figure when there’s cattle stealin’ doing. As sure as St. Patrick got busy with the snakes, I’d help to hang the last cattle-rustler, an’ dance on his face after he was dead––if he was my own brother. Think o’ that, and maybe you’ll understand things.”
He rose from the bed and walked out of the hut without waiting for a reply.
For a full minute Jim stood staring after him through the doorway. Then his eyes came back to the branding-iron220on the bed. He stared at it. Then he picked it up and mechanically examined the stars at the end of it. Suddenly he flung it out of sight under the bed where it had come from, and sat on the blankets with his face resting in his hands.
It was a hideous moment. He was dismissed––under suspicion. Suddenly he laughed. But the sound that came was high-pitched, strained, and had no semblance of a laugh in it. A moment and he sprang to his feet.
“By G––, he can’t––he can’t know what he’s done!” he muttered, a new horror in his tone. “Sacked––‘fired’––kicked out! he’s branded me as surely––as surely as if he’d put the irons on me!”
221CHAPTER XXAPPROACHING THE TRIBUNAL
The sun was mounting royally in the eastern sky. There was not a breath of air to temper the rapidly heating atmosphere. The green grassland rolled away on every hand, a fascinating, limitless plain whose monotony drives men to deep-throated curses, and yet holds them to its bosom as surely as might a well-loved mistress. It was a morning when the heart of man should be stirred with the joy of life, when lungs expand with deep draughts of the earth’s purest air, when the full, rich blood circulates with strong, virile pulsations, and the power to do tingles in every nerve.
It was no day on which a man, branded with the worst crime known to a cattle country, should set out to face his fellow men. There should have been darkening clouds on every horizon. There should have been distant growlings of thunder, and every now and then the heavens should have been “rent in twain with appalling floods of cruel light,” to match the hopeless gloom of outraged innocence.
But the glorious summer day was there to mock, as is the way of things in a world where the struggles and disasters of humanity must be counted so infinitesimal.
This was the morning when Jim Thorpe turned his stiffly squared back upon the “AZ” ranch. He wanted no melodramatic accompaniment. He wanted the light, he wanted the cheering sun, he wanted that wealth of222natural splendor, which the Western prairie can so amply afford, to lighten the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon him.
It was another of Fate’s little tricks that had been aimed at him, another side of that unfortunate destiny which seemed to be ever dogging him. Well might he have cried out, “How long? How long?” Whatever the fates had done for him in the past, whatever his disappointments, whatever his disasters, crime had found no place in the accusations against him. It almost seemed as though his destiny was working its heartless pranks upon him with ever-growing devilishness.
With subtle foresight, and knowledge of its victim it timed its efforts carefully, and directed them on a course that could hurt his spirit most. Even when his inclinations, his sensibilities were at their highest pitch, down came the bolt with unerring aim, and surely in the very direction which, at the moment, could drive him the hardest, could bow his head the lowest.
Four years in the cattle world had ingrained in him the instincts of a traffic which possesses a wholesome appeal to all that is most manly in men. Four years had taught him to abhor crime against that traffic in a way that was almost as fanatical as it was in such men as McLagan and those actually bred to it. He was no exception. He had caught the fever; and the cattleman’s fever is not easily shaken off. As McLagan would show no mercy to his own brother were he a proven cattle-thief, so Jim loathed the crime in little less degree. And he was about to face the world, his world, branded with that crime.
It was a terrible thought, a hideous thought, and, in223spite of his squared shoulders, his stiffened back, his spirit, for the time, was crushed under the burden so unjustly thrust upon him. He thought of Peter Blunt, and wondered vaguely what he would say. He wondered what would be the look in the kindly gray eyes when he spoke the words of comfort and disbelief which he knew would await him. That was it. The look. It was the thought behind the words that mattered––and could so hurt.
As the miles swept away under his horse’s raking stride, he tried to puzzle out the riddle, or the “nut” he had set out to crack, as McLagan had been pleased to call it. He could see no explanation of it. Why his brand? He knew well enough that cattle rustlers preferred to use established brands of distant ranches when it was necessary to hold stolen cattle in hiding before deporting them from the district. Buthisbrand. It was absurd from a rustler’s point of view. Everybody knew his small bunch of cattle. Any excessive number with his brand on would excite suspicion. It was surely, as he had said, the work of a prentice hand. No experienced thief would have done it.
He thought and thought, but he could see no gleam of light on the matter.
As the miles were covered he still floundered in a maze of speculation that seemed to lead him nowhither. But his efforts helped him unconsciously. It kept his mind from brooding on the disaster to himself, and, to a man of his sensibilities, this was healthy. He had all the grit to face his fellow men in self-defense, but, to his proud nature, it was difficult to stand up under the knowledge of a disgrace which was not his due.
224
He was within a few miles of Barnriff when his mind suddenly lurched into a fresh channel of thought. With that roving, groping after a clue to the crime of which he was morally accused, Eve suddenly grew into his focus. He thought with a shudder what it would have meant to her had she married him instead of Will. He tried to picture her brave face, while she writhed under the taunts of her sex, and the meaning glances of the men-folk. It was a terrible picture, and one that brought beads of perspiration to his brow.
It was a lucky––yes, in spite of Will’s defections––thing for her she had married the man she did. Besides, Will had mended his ways. He had kept to the judgment that Peter Blunt had passed on him. Well, he would have the laugh now.
Then there was Will’s success. Everything had gone his way. Fortune had showered her best on him, whether he deserved it or not. She apparently found no fault in him. And they said he was turning out thousands of dollars. But there, it was no use thinking and wondering. The luck had all gone Will’s way. It was hard––devilish hard.
Poor Eve! He caught himself pitying her. No, he had no right to pity her. The pity would have been had she married him. And yet––perhaps this would never have happened had she married him. No, he told himself, it would never, could never have happened then. For, in the fact of having won her, would not his luck have been the reverse of what it was?
Suddenly he wondered what she would think when he told her––or when others told her, as, doubtless by this time, they had already done. He shuddered. She was in225a cattle country. She was ingrained with all its instincts. Would she condemn him without a hearing? When he went to speak to her, would she turn from him as from something unclean? Again the sweat broke out at his thought. She might. The facts were deadly against him. And yet––and yet somehow––– No, he dared not speculate; he must wait.
There was the humble little village on ahead of him, nestling like some tiny boat amidst the vast rollers of the prairie ocean. There, ahead, were his judges, and amongst them the woman who was still more to him than his very life. He must face them, face them all. And when their verdict was pronounced, as he knew it would be in no uncertain manner, then, with girded loins, he must stand out, and, conscious of his innocence, fight the great battle. It was the world––his world––against him, he knew. What––what must be the result?
226CHAPTER XXIINSPIRATION
Half an hour later Jim rode into Barnriff. It was getting on toward noon, and most of the villagers were busy at their various occupations. As he rode on to the market-place he glanced quickly about him, and, all unconsciously, there was defiance and resentment in his dark eyes; the look of a man prepared for the accusations which he knew were awaiting him. But this attitude was quite wasted, for there were few people about, and those few were either too far off, or too busy to note his coming, or appreciate his feelings, as expressed in his dark eyes.
It is strange how instinct will so often take the lead in moments critical in the lives of human beings. Jim had no thought of whither his immediate destination lay, yet he was riding straight for the house of the friendly gold prospector. Doubtless his action was due to a subconscious realization of a friendliness and trust on the part of Peter, which was not to be overborne by the first breath of suspicion.
He was within fifty yards of that friendly, open door, when he became aware that a woman’s figure was standing before it. Her back was turned, and she looked to be either peering within the hut, or talking to some one inside it. Nor, strangely enough, did he recognize the trim outline of her figure until she abruptly turned away and moved off in the direction of her own house. It was Eve227Henderson. And, without hesitation, he swung his horse in her direction.
She saw him at once and, smiling a welcome, waited for him to come up. He saw the smile and the unhesitating way she stepped forward to greet him. There could have been no doubt of her cordiality, even eagerness, yet with the shadow of his disgrace hanging over him, he tried to look beyond it for that something which he was ready to resent even in her.
He saw the shadow on her face, which even her smile had no power to lift out of its troubled lines. He saw dark shadows round her eyes, the tremulous, drooping mouth, once so buoyant and happy, and he selfishly took these signs to himself, and moodily felt that she was trying vainly to conceal her real thoughts of him behind a display of loyalty.
There was no verbal greeting between them, and he felt this to be a further ominous sign. Somehow, he could not force himself to an ordinary greeting under the circumstances. She had doubtless heard the story, so––– But he was quite wrong. Eve was simply wondering at his coming. Wondering what it portended. She had truly enough heard the story of the recovery of the cattle, as who in Barnriff had not? But her wonder and nervousness were not for him, but for herself. It was for herself, and had to do with that fear she had told Annie Gay of, and which now had become a sort of waking nightmare to her.
Jim sprang from the saddle. Linking his arm through the reins, he stood facing the woman he loved. “Well?” he said, in a curious, half-defiant manner, while his glance swept over every detail of her pretty,228troubled face. Finally it settled upon the slight scar over her temple, and a less selfish feeling took possession of him. The change in her expression suddenly told him its own story. Her eyes were the eyes of suffering, not of any condemnation of himself.
“I––I’ve just been over to see if Peter was in,” she said hesitatingly.
“Peter? Oh, yes––and, wasn’t he?”
Jim was suddenly seized with a feeling of awkwardness such as he had never before felt when talking to Eve.
The girl shook her head and began to move in the direction of her house. He fell in beside her, and, for a moment, neither spoke. Finally she went on.
“No,” she said regretfully. “And I sure wanted to see him so badly. You see,” she added hastily, “Elia is away. He’s been away for days, and, well, I want to know where he is. I get so anxious when he’s away. You see, he’s so–––”
“And does Peter know where he is?”
“Yes. At least I’m hoping so. Elia goes with him a deal now, on his expeditions. Peter’s real good to him. I think he’s trying to help him in––in––you know Elia is so––so delicate.”
The girl’s evident reluctance to put into words her well-loved brother’s weaknesses roused all Jim’s sympathy.
“Yes, yes. And is he supposed to be with Peter now?”
“He went away with him four days ago.”
“I see.”
Then there was another awkward pause. Again Eve was the one to break it. They were nearing the gate of her little garden.