CHAPTER XVIIThe tooting and whistling of the train began. The men filed outside. In the crush Cash Hawkins, who had been drinking steadily until he was now in a decided state of inebriation, slunk down to the other end of the platform. Henry and Sir John assisted Diana to the car. The cow-boys swarmed along the platform—Jim alone stood in the deserted saloon.Before he was aware of what was happening—that the train was about to carry away this tie of his former life—he heard Diana's voice call "Jim." She slipped from the lower step on which she stood and ran towards him."Diana!" He seized her out-stretched hands—he must say something to her, but she would not let him speak."I shall always thank God for this day, Jim, I couldn't believe you were—I never have. Now I know the sacrifices you have made for me—now I know I have the right to ask God to bless you and keep you and make you happy." Her voice broke; tears were falling on his hand.Lady Elizabeth or Henry would never discuss the cause of Jim's departure. She had always persistently defended him to the world, and to-day her intuition had told her that for her sake Jim had shielded his cousin—her husband! How could she accept it?"And you, Diana—tell me you are happy.""Happy?" Her eyes told him that it was only possible for her to be happy now that she knew the truth. "I sha'n't mind the future now so terribly, because I can respect somebody."Dan passed the open door. "All aboard, lady," he briskly called."Good-bye, Jim. God bless you!" She felt herself being helped aboard by Dan; she tried to wave her hand to Jim. The car moved, the whistling and ringing of the bell told of their departure.It was Henry who led her to a chair and left her there. That day he paid in full for his life's misdeeds.Jim never attempted to see the receding car; he could hear the noise of the departing train and the cries of the boys as they hooted their good-byes."Kiss the baby for me." It was big Bill's voice."What a baby Bill is himself!" Jim found himself saying."Tell Sadie to write," called Shorty."Und say—say for me too, you bet." The voice of the German was drowned in the roar from the rest of the boys. Only Grouchy, in silence, looked on contemptuously.From down the platform came the yells of the men. Even Nick had deserted his bar. Still, Jim did not move. He could hear it all; he knew what was happening—that the train was steaming away. He found himself watching flies settle on a beer-glass. Then he fell into a chair, let his head slip on to his arms that lay across the table, his back to the big entrance and to the smaller one at the other side of the room. There was no movement from him that told of the agonies he was enduring. The flies buzzed at will about the place.The door at the side swung silently open and Nat-u-ritch slipped into the room. In her soft moccasins her steps made no sound. She crept towards Jim, amazed to see him lying thus. She shook her head—she could not understand this mystery. She was about to move closer to Jim when she heard some one coming.Through the door at the back she could see the crowds returning from the departed train, while from the other direction came Cash Hawkins—she could see him clearly. Closer came his steps. Quickly she slid behind the door, and from without peered into the saloon. Cash, aflame with passion and liquor, entered and saw that Jim was alone.He drew both his guns. With an evil smile he advanced upon Jim. "Damn you, I've got you!" he hissed; but before he could pull the trigger there was a flash, a report, and Cash's hands were thrown up in a convulsive movement while he pitched forward on his face. Dazed, bewildered, Jim got to his feet and mechanically pulled his gun; then, before he was aware of what had happened, he was bending over the body of Hawkins.The report was followed by an excitable rush of the crowd into the saloon. The gamblers and cattlemen were headed by Bud Hardy, the County Sheriff. Big Bill, Andy, Grouchy, and Shorty went at once to Jim, who still stood close to the prostrate figure cf Cash Hawkins. Pete quickly knelt beside the body, and turned Cash over to examine him. Bud Hardy stood in the centre of the room."Hold on there! Nobody leaves without my permission." Then to Pete, "How is he?""He's cashed in, Sheriff. Plumb through the heart. Don't think I ever see neater work." He laid the body on its back and crossed the arms over the breast.Hardy walked direct to Jim. "Jim Carston, hand over your gun.""And who are you?" Jim asked, as he looked at the tall, bulky figure of Bud Hardy. He had forgotten that Bill, earlier in the afternoon, had pointed out this man to him, and warned him of his friendship with Cash Hawkins.Gathered about Bud were Hawkins's faction, who resented the Englishman's presence among them, and with them several who, only a few hours ago, had been cheering Jim. Bud Hardy answered his question with tolerant amusement."The County Sheriff," he said.To the surprise of all, Jim advanced and handed his gun to Bud."Come on, you're my prisoner." Even Bud felt that this was extremely difficult. No resistance from the prisoner—no denial! It was unusual. But as he stepped towards Jim he was stopped by Bill."Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"Bill's heart beat fast, but he gave no sign of the fear that filled him. He knew what this might mean for the boss. The faces of the other men of Jim's ranch grew gray—they too realized, far more than Jim did, that it was not the justice of the law that was to be his, but—well, the crowds grew blood-thirsty sometimes in Maverick. They had seen sights that the boss had not—an ugly swinging vision passed before their eyes, but no hint was given of this by the men. Each one knew that it would be the most unwise move they could make for the boss's sake.Bill's big, slow voice was heard again in its careless drawl. "Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?""County jail, of course, at Jansen," was Hardy's answer.Bill then asked, as he surveyed Hawkins's gang, who were whispering together with several of the hangers-on of the place, "How do you know the friends of the deceased won't take him away from you and hang him to the nearest telegraph-pole, eh?"It was lightly said, and as he said it Bill laid his big hand on Bud's shoulder. He must conciliate the Sheriff, gain time—anything.But Bud shook Bill off. "Are you goin' to interfere with me in the discharge of my duty?" he blustered."Not a bit, Bud, not a bit," Bill said; then, with sudden resolve—it would mean his life, and the lives of others against them, perhaps, but he meant to fight if necessary—he added: "But we're goin' to see that you do it. We ain't afraid of a trial and a jury." He took the crowd into his confidence. "There isn't a jury in the State that wouldn't present the prisoner with a vote of thanks and a silver service for gettin' rid of Cash Hawkins."He turned to Bud with his men about him. "Who's goin' to help you take him seventy-five miles to jail?" he demanded. "Will you swear us in?"But Bud only answered, "You can't intimidate me, Bill.""As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case of self-defence, anyway." Bill pointed to the two revolvers still clutched in the dead man's stiffening hands."I don't stand for this," thundered Bud. "Clear the room."He had been rather a friend of Big Bill's—most of them were in Maverick—so he had listened to him longer than he would have to any of the other men, but now he was through with his arguments, he must assert his authority."Clear the room; this prisoner goes with me."There was a movement from the crowd. Bill looked appealingly at Jim. Why would not the boss speak? Just as the crowds had reached the doors Jim said to Bud, who was advancing to formally arrest him:"Wait a minute. Take the trouble to examine my gun."Bud lifted Jim's gun and looked at it closely. "Well?" he asked."You see it hasn't been discharged."Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was completely loaded. He paused a moment irresolute. Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said:"You've had time to reload it."The men were eagerly watching the scene between the two men."Smell it," Jim said, quietly. "I haven't had time to clean it.""Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card.Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it. It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim."Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim's men. "Would you's all oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?"The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud's face."Here's my smoke," said one.Bud drew back. "One at a time—one at a time," he gasped—"if you please."Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to Bud's nose."Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a word."Und mine," said Andy.Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words, "Here's mine, and not a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion.All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How's that?" as he jerked the revolver into Bud's face.In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud—evidence that so far all were free to go."Why didn't you's all say so before?" he growled, annoyed at the turn affairs had taken. Then he saw the expression on their faces, laughter and glee as they crowded around Jim; when they looked at him, tolerant amusement. The smelling of the smoke-machines they regarded as a fine new move on their part."Damn it," Bud thundered. "You've been astringin' me while the guilty man's escaped; but I'll git him—I'll git him yet."Jim saved! It was all that the boys wanted. With a whoop-la, they tore after Bud. Down the platform they fled, all in excitement with the new sensation of the moment—the hunt with Bud for the guilty man.Near the table lay a gray glove. Jim stooped and picked it up, and put it quietly to his lips. Bill, who had lingered near the door, suddenly turned and came back to Jim and put his arm about him."You just escaped lynchin', Jim." And Jim knew that Bill spoke the truth.He held the glove folded close in his hand as he answered, "Yes, I'm almost sorry."Bill's face became grave. What did the boss mean? Was the game too hard for him? Was he afraid he would lose on the ranch deal? He patted him tenderly, almost like a mother humoring a wayward child, without saying a word. Jim sank into a chair. Bill understood—the boss would like to be alone, so he sauntered up to the back and joined Nick. In his heart there was but one thought: Jim should see how well they would all serve him. He swore a mighty oath that he would see the others did so, too.Left alone, Jim sat staring straight ahead of him. Suddenly he realized that the body of Cash Hawkins was still lying there. He shuddered at the cruel forgetfulness of the men. He leaned forward and spoke his thoughts aloud:"Who killed Cash Hawkins?"He felt a sudden touch on his hand; he turned; there, kneeling at his feet, was Nat-u-ritch, who had entered unobserved and crept beside him. As he looked at her she drew herself up nearer to him, and, leaning her chin on her hand, said:"Me kill um."Jim's only answer was to place his hand over her face while he hurriedly looked about the saloon. No one could have heard her. He drew her to her feet and motioned her to go, saying that he would follow shortly.That night Jim learned the truth, and his friendship with Nat-u-ritch began.CHAPTER XVIIIAfter this Jim often met Nat-u-ritch. On his trail across the country he would see her on her little pony galloping after him. Sometimes she would join him and silently accompany him on his search for the cattle that had strayed beyond the range.Nat-u-ritch's life with her father, Tabywana, was passed in days of uneventful placidness. Since the death of Cash Hawkins the Chief had given her no cause for anxiety. Concerning the murder, neither she nor her father spoke. Tabywana admired Jim Carston; he seemed to realize instinctively what Jim had saved him from that day at the saloon, and his unspoken devotion, sincere and steadfast, often caused him to serve Jim without any one's knowledge.Sometimes when Nat-u-ritch returned from a long day's ride her father would scrutinize her, and as he read in her the call of her nature for the Englishman, a curious smile would light up his face in sympathy with her. He saw the unmoved impassiveness that she showed to all the young bucks that sought her, and without protest let her go her way, and her trail always led towards Carston's ranch.Winter came with its treacherous winds, and Carston's ranch was more desolate. Of Nat-u-ritch's unspoken devotion to him there was no doubt in Jim's mind, and the temptation to take her proffered companionship into his lonely life rose strong within him. After Cash Hawkins's death, Jim, had he cared for the life, might have been a leader in the Long Horn saloon, but a bar-room hero was not the role that he wished to play. His own men—Grouchy, Andy, and Shorty—openly expressed their disappointment to Big Bill at the boss's indifference to the position he might exert as a power in Maverick, and even Big Bill only vaguely understood Jim's unappreciative attitude. He often watched Jim smoking his pipe and peering into the heart of the embers that glowed on the hearth, and as he saw the careworn face Bill's great heart ached with sympathy for him. But Jim, as he realized the difficulties of the fight in which he was involved, only clinched his fists the tighter and accomplished the work of three men in his day's toil.At these times the physical drain on him was so great that there was no opportunity left in which to realize the biting ache of his loneliness. So one bleak day succeeded another, with the slim, mute figure of the Indian girl ever crossing his path.The early spring brought with it a sudden melting of the snow-capped hills and the ice-covered pools. The cattle grew more troublesome. They seemed harder to control, or else the boys were more indifferent to their disappearance. Big Bill had gone away on a deal for new cattle, so Jim's energies were redoubled.One day as he rode across the plains searching for a lost herd that had wandered towards Jackson's Hole, the longing that the awakening spring had brought with it grew more insistent. Life surely held for him possibilities greater than this, he told himself. He resolved, on Bill's return, to arrange with him to sell the place. He could not conquer the craving for the old haunts of civilization that took possession of him. He closed his eyes to shut out the endless stretch of prairie. Lost in his dream to escape from his lonely life and to take part again in the affairs of men of his own class, he failed to notice the small pony that followed him carrying Nat-u-ritch.On he went, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice how close he was to Jackson's Hole. Big Bill long ago had warned him of the treacherous ridge that lay near the gulley, but Jim had forgotten Bill's words. Unconscious of the danger ahead, he galloped towards the edge of the broken precipice. In the distance he espied the marks of a herd of cattle that had passed around to the other side of the ridge. Jim urged his horse forward and started to jump the small, deceptive span that covered the hole. A sharp cry came from Nat-u-ritch, who had quickly gained ground on him as she saw his intention. But Jim, unheeding, gave a sharp command to his horse and urged him over. There was a sudden breaking of ground; then a whirling, dazed moment through which flashed an eternity of thought, and Nat-u-ritch stood alone, clinging to her pony as she peered over into the dark pool of broken ice around which stretched chasms of impenetrable blackness.Two weeks later Jim opened his eyes to consciousness in Nat-u-ritch's wickyup. No man of those summoned by Nat-u-ritch to help had dared venture into the dreaded abyss, so Jim had been abandoned as dead. But the depth of her love gave the Indian girl the strength to accomplish his rescue. Jealous of her treasure, she dragged the unconscious body to her own village, which was nearer than Jim's ranch.Then followed an illness from the long exposure in the gulley. Big Bill returned, only to find the ranch without its master, while Jim lay in the squaw's wickyup, with the Indian girl fighting to save his life, her love and loyalty making her his abject slave.Weeks followed, and one day Big Bill and the boys brought the boss home. Then came a relapse, and again Nat-u-ritch's devotion and courage gave him back his life. This time Bill watched a double fight: the fight on the part of the woman to save the man so that she might win him for herself, and on Jim's part an effort to resist the mute surrender of the woman.Without the boss's supervision the ranch had deteriorated, and Jim's affairs had become so involved that he recovered only to find that all thought of abandoning the place was now impossible. His dream of escape was now a hope of the past. And so life began afresh for him on the plains.Jim stood outside of the window of an adobe hut. From within he could hear the low moans of a woman and now and then the wail of a child. He was alone, save for the missionary who had married him a few months before to Nat-u-ritch, and who was now inside helping the sick woman. Big Bill had gone to fetch an old squaw who had promised to come to the ranch. As Jim leaned against the post of the porch he was stirred by a multitude of emotions. The wails from within grew louder and more fretful. As he watched the heavens, ablaze with a thousand eyes, he wondered why the old woman had failed to come in time. He hardly realized what the past hour had meant to him. A child had been given to him! Something of the wonder of the eternal mystery was numbing his spirit. The sick woman's moans grew fainter, only the cry of the babe persistently reached him.At last the missionary came to him: Nat-u-ritch was asleep; he would go, he explained, and hurry along the Indian woman who was coming with Big Bill to the ranch. The cry of the child seemed to become more pitiful. Jim tiptoed to the door of the inner room. On the cot lay Nat-u-ritch. He softly crossed to the small bundle of life rolled in the blanket and lifted it in his arms. The warm, appealing little body lay limp against him. He began swaying to and fro until the cry grew fainter. Soon the babe slept; but Jim still stood rocking his son in his strong arms.CHAPTER XIXOne year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him."Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow."Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's hands when the child grew tired of holding the quirt.Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican saddle and lariat. On his diminutive face was stamped an aggressive pugnacity. He was followed by Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece of wood. As Bill surveyed them he knew that they had been talking things over and had arrived at some conclusion. They had been good workers in their time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that they were not bad, but that life had tried them severely with its failures and disappointments. He waited for them to speak. There was a moment's silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the bench, said:"Say, Bill, I s'pose you know the boys is gettin' nervous 'bout their money, don't you?"Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work as he answered, "To-morrow's pay-day." He would not anticipate them in their rebellion; he would make it hard for them to declare themselves."That's what," Shorty went on."Well, it's time to get nervous day after to-morrow." And still Bill braided the leather."They're goin' to make trouble if they don't git it." Shorty acted as spokesman. Grouchy and Andy only nodded their heads in approval of their leader's words.Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his arms. "Are they?" he said. "Well, I reckon Jim Carston and me can handle that bunch." He spoke as though the others were not present."Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted, as he flung the saddle against the walls of the cabin."Und say, Bill—und say—to-morrow's pay-day." Andy's voice trembled as he spoke. He was a gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.Hal began to listen and to look from one to the other. Bill noticed the child's look of inquiry and set him on the ground."Son, you run in and help your mother with the milking." He slapped his hands together as though a great joy were in store for the child, who laughed with glee as he hurried across to the stable.The men waited for Bill to say something, but he only stood twisting a straw about in his mouth and pulling his hat-brim.Again Andy's courage rose and he walked close to Bill. "To-morrow's pay-day, Bill—eh?""Is it? Do tell! Ain't you a discoverer! Say, Andy, you're neglectin' the north pole a little."This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well, I want mine," and he viciously dug his knife into the hitching-post.Bill looked from one to the other. Surely they would be reasonable; he would try them."Boys, it's seven years since the boss bought this ranch, and he's had an up-hill fight. Every one's done him. He bought when cattle was higher than they've ever been since, and you know what last winter did for us; but he 'ain't ever hollered, and the top wages he paid you at the start he's been a-payin' you ever since.""Oh, what's the use!" Shorty interrupted. "The money is owed us. The only question is, do we git it?"Backed up by Shorty, Grouchy began again, "Well, I want mine."Only gentle Andy was silent. He could hear little Hal laughing as he played in the cow-shed.Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled around on the men and in a sudden blaze said:"Well, you know Carston and you know me. If you're lookin' for trouble, we won't see you go away disappointed." He squared his shoulders as he spoke. "Oh, shucks!" He looked at the boys again. "It's no use," he began, more good-naturedly. "It's the business that's no good. Nothin' in it. The packers has got us skinned to death. They pay us what they like for cattle, and charge the public what they like for beef. Hell!" he grunted, as he turned on his heel. "I'm goin' into the ministry."This time Grouchy's "Well, I want mine" was extremely faint.Before the others could speak again Bill quickly called, "Here's the boss now," and signalled the men to be silent.They were touched by Jim's haggard face. They had not seen the boss for several days; he had been busy with accounts, Bill had told them. They began shuffling their feet as though about to leave. Each one thought perhaps it would be as well to wait until the next day. Shorty signalled them to come on, but Jim stopped them."Boys, I hear you're getting anxious about your pay. I don't blame you. My affairs are in a bad way, but I don't expect any one to share my bad luck. You've earned your money. I'll see that you get it."As Jim spoke he drew from his pocket several small boxes and from his belt an old wallet. "I have some useless old trinkets here that have been knocking around in my trunk for years. If you will take them to town, where people wear such things, you will get enough for them to wipe out my account and something to boot for long service and good-will." Andy's sniffles were the only answer that followed. Jim turned to him, "Andy—"But Andy refused the package. "Und say, boss. Und say, I ain't kickin'. Und say, I can trust you."Jim only tossed the box into his hands. "Shorty," he said, as he slapped the wallet across the little fellow's shoulder."Oh, I'd rather not," Shorty shamefacedly answered. "Gee, but this is tough work," he muttered to himself.Jim smiled. "You must take it, please. The man who refuses throws suspicion on the value of my junk. You won't do that, I'm sure." And the wallet slid into Shorty's hand."Grouchy, you can have my repeating rifle," he added. "And now, good-night. I'll see you to-morrow for the last time."So this was to be the end of their association with the boss. Would he try to shoulder the work of the place without them? A second's reflection told them that this would be impossible. It was to be really the end of Carston's ranch. The three men stood staring at Jim. Bill, at the back of the hut, as he heard the words, sank down on a rough bench. This was what had come of the days of silence on Jim's part; in each man's heart there was an unspeakable emotion at the dissolution of their companionship.Suddenly down the road they heard the clatter of horses. Then the whoop-la of a crowd of men, and a stentorian voice called:"Hello, any one to home at Carston's ranch?"Shorty and Andy hurried to meet the new-comers. It was Bud Hardy, the Sheriff, with a posse of men. In they rushed, swarming all over the place, and carrying with them the smell of alkali and the heat of the plains. Dripping with perspiration, stained and worn with their travel, they seemed like part of the desert, so covered were they with a heavy caking of dust. One felt the parched fever of their thirst as they stood asking hospitality of the ranch. Jim advanced to meet them."Hello, folks," Bud called, as the men of the ranch welcomed his men. Then he came towards Jim, who shook hands with him."Why, how are you, Sheriff?"Since the day at Maverick, when the Sheriff had tried to arrest him, Jim had often seen Bud. He was never sure of the honesty of the man's intentions, ne and Big Bill had often discussed Bud's unfitness for the power he held in the place, but he gave no sign of this in his greeting.Bud's great frame towered above the others. He seemed more effusive and excited than the occasion warranted, and Big Bill's brows rose questioningly as he saw the demonstrative way in which he greeted Jim."Howdy, Mr. Carston—howdy? Knowin' the hospitality of this here outfit, we most killed ourselves to git here, to say nothin' of the horses. We left them leanin' up against the corral, the worst done up cayuses." Then directly in appeal to Jim, he said, "We simply got to stay here to-night, Mr. Carston."With a cordial gesture of invitation, Jim said, "You and the boys are welcome, Sheriff, and what we lack in grub and accommodations we'll hope to make up to you in good-will."As Jim spoke, Bud quickly glanced in triumph at Clarke, a prominent worker in his posse. The pale face of Clarke gave back a glance of comprehension as he lowered his white-lashed eyelids over his bulging eyes. All this was observed by Bill, who sauntered towards the Sheriff as Bud answered Jim."What's good enough for you all is good enough for us, you bet," and he wrung Jim's hand again. "Why, hello!" he finished, as he saw Bill and turned to greet him."Any news?" Bill laconically asked, as he studied Bud and his men."Nothin' of any consequence," said Bud. "We just had a little fracas down at the agency. Total result, one Injin killed."A shout of approval rose from the boys, but Clarke broke in with another guffaw. "And the joke of it is, Bud killed the wrong man.""But nothin' to it. All in a day's work," Bud laughingly explained."You look tired, Sheriff," Jim said. "The boys will take you to their quarters. Shorty, you and the others make the Sheriff and his people feel at home."There was a murmur of approval. "Come on," said Shorty, and the men started for their quarters. Shorty, who loved bossing an affair almost better than teasing, swept them all on before him. Then he linked his arm through Bud's."Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string you never roped the man who killed Cash Hawkins at Maverick."Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud, gave an involuntary look of surprise at the Sheriff, but the flash of anger on Bud's blowsed, crimson face quickly cowed him."Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and years ago, Shorty," and with his arm about him he followed the men towards their quarters.Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut and stables, but only for a moment, for he quickly realized that Bill was intently watching him.Jim turned to go to the house—then paused. He could see Bill against the hitching-post tearing a straw into wisps that fluttered and fell lifeless to the ground. There was not enough breeze to carry even a strand away. He must speak to Bill, but how could he express anything of the desolation he felt at this parting of their ways."Bill," he began, in a low voice—and Bill, who divined the words that were about to follow, made no answer; he only held tighter to the post. He could hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes. He made no effort to move; he felt he could not."Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you must get out and look for another job." Jim clinched his hands tight as he added, "I'll be sorry to lose you, old man.""I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Then, almost in a growl, he questioned, "And what are you going to do, boss?"The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as Jim said, in a level, flat tone, "Sell out—move on—begin all over again—somewhere." Then with the indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added, more hopefully, "There must be a place for me somewhere." Mastering himself, he added, as he took Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer to pay you, Bill."And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on Jim's part why he loved the boss, answered, "You better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both of his."Not now," Jim said, with the old hope again rising to encourage him, that later he might be able to help Bill. "In my life I've had one friend and only one." He laid his hands on Bill's shoulders and looked straight in his eyes.But Bill could not stand the strain of it any longer. "You make me tired," he gulped, and Jim smiled."Why did you pay those cayotes three or four times what you owe 'em?" Bill scolded, gruffly, but kindly. "It's wicked, Jim. You're a sentimental fool."As though bestowing a final benediction, Jim answered, "And you're another—God bless you," and then dropped on to the log and seemed to forget Bill and all about him.Bill stood a moment, then tiptoed away while Jim sat watching the afternoon shadows beginning to creep up towards the hut.CHAPTER XXTowards noon the next day, Bud sought Jim to ask further hospitality. The horses were still in bad condition, he explained, and he would esteem it an invaluable service if he would allow them to remain another night on the ranch. Jim readily acquiesced. Now that he had taken the final step to sever himself from the ranch, there were many details to be personally directed and settled. Bill and he were often in conference, and the sale could be accomplished within a few days. While Bill worked, he watched Bud and Clarke. Of his suspicion that they were trying to take some unfair advantage, he did not speak. Only his ferret-like glances constantly followed them. And his instinctive distrust was further aroused by a visit from Tabywana.As he and Jim sat before the house, with a list that Jim was explaining to Bill, Baco, the half-breed who worked about the place, suddenly called in greeting to Tabywana. With his bonnet of gorgeous feathers trailing down his back, his body draped in a blanket, and in his hand the peace-pipe, the Chief entered. "How!" he answered, as he passed Baco. Both Bill and Jim arose."Why, hello Chief! Where'd you blow in from?" Bill called.Again Tabywana answered, "How!"Jim advanced. "How!" he said. "The peace chief never comes except to do us a favor. Baco, ask him what we can do for him."As Tabywana pointed to his pipe he spoke to Baco. "He says, 'Let us sit down and smoke,'" interpreted Baco."Certainly," Jim answered. His years of living among the Indians had accustomed him to their ceremonies, and the four men crossed their legs and seated themselves on the ground, forming a half-circle. Tabywana began filling and lighting his pipe."Baco," Jim commanded, "tell Tabywana that we are always glad to meet him and see him face to face. He is our friend."Baco quickly translated the message. Tabywana began passing the pipe from Jim to Bill. As Bill puffed at it he said to Jim, "Say, when the old Chief gets as formal as this it means business."The men, although eager to begin the proposed conversation, did nothing to urge the Indian to declare himself. Both courteously awaited the Chief's information, although both chafed at this delay in their work. When the pipe had been returned to Tabywana he deliberately extinguished the flame, and, holding the pipe under his blanket, began monotonously to speak in his own tongue.Jim and Bill both tried to follow the words, but their knowledge of the language was exceedingly limited, so Baco translated for them. "He says a stranger has been asking for you in the settlement.""What kind of a stranger?" Jim asked, his mind turning at once to the sale that was about to be effected. The Indian agent again interpreted the Chief's reply. "One who jumps up and down in his saddle."Bill smiled as Jim answered: "Oh, an Englishman. What's his business?""The Chief says he does not know, but be on your guard."Bill and Jim exchanged glances. Surely it was not for this that Tabywana had paid this formal visit. But Jim, who knew the wary, slow methods of the Indians, and who felt that something of more importance was coming, looked straight at Tabywana, as he asked, "Is that all?"Tabywana understood more of the language of his conquerors than he admitted, and quickly answered the question through Baco. "No, something else—very important." Then Tabywana himself added, "Bud Hardy is here."At these words Bill, who had been listening listlessly, turned sharply to watch the Indian's face. In the crafty, restrained expression he could read the effort at control that the Chief was exercising as he emitted the sentences Baco translated for him to Jim. "That is bad—very bad. Trouble will follow. He says Hardy has been talking and drinking a great deal, and has begun to talk about the death of Cash Hawkins, and Hardy will, he is afraid, soon arrest some one."Jim did not answer. Tabywana moved a little so that he could watch Jim. His face wore an expression of great curiosity as to how his words would be received by Jim. The Chief had never known the exact truth concerning the killing of Cash Hawkins, but he had often guessed that Nat-u-ritch and Jim did. Jim did not answer. Bill spoke to him as Baco, having performed his duty, sank back and began playing with some straws."Jim, the old Chief is trying to tell you that Hardy has been bragging that he was going to arrest the fellow that killed Cash Hawkins." Jim gave no sign that the news in the least disturbed him."Tell the old Chief it's the fire-water that's talking."Bill sank deep into a reverie. So Bud was up to some devilment—but what? Then he heard the words:"The Chief says that Hardy is no friend of yours," and Jim's quick reply, "Tell the Chief I didn't kill Cash Hawkins, so I'm not afraid of arrest." Jim smiled reassuringly at the Chief, who constantly watched him. After all, what could Bud do to Jim? "He's a blow-hard, anyway," Bill muttered.Jim was about to rise and end the interview when, looking cautiously about him, Tabywana began speaking in a lower tone. Baco translated without pause the thoughts that were troubling the Indian. "The Chief thinks that Hardy thinks that maybe Nat-u-ritch killed Cash Hawkins."Jim only let slip the word "Nat-u-ritch," but his eyes quickly sought the Indian's, and in them he saw there was fear for the woman. To Bill this seemed nonsense. There had never been an atom of suspicion attached to Nat-u-ritch, so he lightly dismissed the idea with a laugh as he said, "Bud must have been unusual drunk." Bill had never understood the affair. He now began to feel the old suspicion creeping back. Had the boss, in self-defence, done the deed? If so, he must keep his watch all the closer on Bud and his men to see that they left the ranch as quickly as possible.Jim quietly and calmly gave this answer to the Chief:"So Bud thinks Nat-u-ritch killed Cash. Why, there isn't a scrap of evidence pointing towards Nat-u-ritch. Ask him what makes Bud think so." This time Jim listened intently for the answer."He says he doesn't know. But that Bud Hardy is bad medicine, and he wants you to make Bud Hardy move on to the next ranch."Bill grunted his approval at this."That is impossible. The Chief knows that we cannot refuse shelter to the white man."Bill this time upheld Jim's attitude in maintaining the laws of the place as he added, "Even though he is a bad man."Tabywana looked from one to the other. There was a piteous look of baffled hope on his face. In his heart he was wishing that they would not take his words of wisdom so lightly, but it was difficult to explain more to them. Despairingly he offered further advice, and Baco repeated it for him, but Jim answered:"The Chief knows that the rights of hospitality are sacred. Besides, I do not anticipate any trouble."He rose to his feet. He would be extremely wary of Bud Hardy, but he felt no great concern. The affair had passed for five years, and it was simply some drunken bravado on the Sheriff's part that had frightened the old Chief. He laid his hands on Tabywana's shoulders. For Nat-u-ritch's father he had a tender regard, and the generous tolerance he had for, and the defence he constantly made of, the red man's rights, caused Tabywana to lay aside all cunning in his dealings with Jim, and to completely surrender his affections to him and the tiny child."Baco, tell Tabywana that no harm shall come to Nat-u-ritch while I live, and say to the Chief he is a good friend and I thank him for coming, and I would like him to accept this tobacco."The eternal child in the Indian answered the last words, as Jim handed him the gayly embroidered pouch, with a quick smile and nod of appreciation. He was about to protest further, however, when Shorty interrupted them as he came running in. "A stranger out here wants to see the boss."Ah, this was about the ranch, no doubt, so Jim said, "All right, Shorty, bring him to me.""All right, boss.""Bill, show Tabywana on his way," Jim directed, as the Indian seemed loath to leave him. "Adios amigo," he called to Tabywana, as Bill gently pushed him away. Baco followed him."I beg your pardon. I am looking for Mr. Carston."Bill amusedly surveyed the new-comer as he answered, "There's Mr. Carston," and as he disappeared behind the house he muttered to himself, with a backward glance at the visitor, "Looks as though he blew off a comic paper."
CHAPTER XVII
The tooting and whistling of the train began. The men filed outside. In the crush Cash Hawkins, who had been drinking steadily until he was now in a decided state of inebriation, slunk down to the other end of the platform. Henry and Sir John assisted Diana to the car. The cow-boys swarmed along the platform—Jim alone stood in the deserted saloon.
Before he was aware of what was happening—that the train was about to carry away this tie of his former life—he heard Diana's voice call "Jim." She slipped from the lower step on which she stood and ran towards him.
"Diana!" He seized her out-stretched hands—he must say something to her, but she would not let him speak.
"I shall always thank God for this day, Jim, I couldn't believe you were—I never have. Now I know the sacrifices you have made for me—now I know I have the right to ask God to bless you and keep you and make you happy." Her voice broke; tears were falling on his hand.
Lady Elizabeth or Henry would never discuss the cause of Jim's departure. She had always persistently defended him to the world, and to-day her intuition had told her that for her sake Jim had shielded his cousin—her husband! How could she accept it?
"And you, Diana—tell me you are happy."
"Happy?" Her eyes told him that it was only possible for her to be happy now that she knew the truth. "I sha'n't mind the future now so terribly, because I can respect somebody."
Dan passed the open door. "All aboard, lady," he briskly called.
"Good-bye, Jim. God bless you!" She felt herself being helped aboard by Dan; she tried to wave her hand to Jim. The car moved, the whistling and ringing of the bell told of their departure.
It was Henry who led her to a chair and left her there. That day he paid in full for his life's misdeeds.
Jim never attempted to see the receding car; he could hear the noise of the departing train and the cries of the boys as they hooted their good-byes.
"Kiss the baby for me." It was big Bill's voice.
"What a baby Bill is himself!" Jim found himself saying.
"Tell Sadie to write," called Shorty.
"Und say—say for me too, you bet." The voice of the German was drowned in the roar from the rest of the boys. Only Grouchy, in silence, looked on contemptuously.
From down the platform came the yells of the men. Even Nick had deserted his bar. Still, Jim did not move. He could hear it all; he knew what was happening—that the train was steaming away. He found himself watching flies settle on a beer-glass. Then he fell into a chair, let his head slip on to his arms that lay across the table, his back to the big entrance and to the smaller one at the other side of the room. There was no movement from him that told of the agonies he was enduring. The flies buzzed at will about the place.
The door at the side swung silently open and Nat-u-ritch slipped into the room. In her soft moccasins her steps made no sound. She crept towards Jim, amazed to see him lying thus. She shook her head—she could not understand this mystery. She was about to move closer to Jim when she heard some one coming.
Through the door at the back she could see the crowds returning from the departed train, while from the other direction came Cash Hawkins—she could see him clearly. Closer came his steps. Quickly she slid behind the door, and from without peered into the saloon. Cash, aflame with passion and liquor, entered and saw that Jim was alone.
He drew both his guns. With an evil smile he advanced upon Jim. "Damn you, I've got you!" he hissed; but before he could pull the trigger there was a flash, a report, and Cash's hands were thrown up in a convulsive movement while he pitched forward on his face. Dazed, bewildered, Jim got to his feet and mechanically pulled his gun; then, before he was aware of what had happened, he was bending over the body of Hawkins.
The report was followed by an excitable rush of the crowd into the saloon. The gamblers and cattlemen were headed by Bud Hardy, the County Sheriff. Big Bill, Andy, Grouchy, and Shorty went at once to Jim, who still stood close to the prostrate figure cf Cash Hawkins. Pete quickly knelt beside the body, and turned Cash over to examine him. Bud Hardy stood in the centre of the room.
"Hold on there! Nobody leaves without my permission." Then to Pete, "How is he?"
"He's cashed in, Sheriff. Plumb through the heart. Don't think I ever see neater work." He laid the body on its back and crossed the arms over the breast.
Hardy walked direct to Jim. "Jim Carston, hand over your gun."
"And who are you?" Jim asked, as he looked at the tall, bulky figure of Bud Hardy. He had forgotten that Bill, earlier in the afternoon, had pointed out this man to him, and warned him of his friendship with Cash Hawkins.
Gathered about Bud were Hawkins's faction, who resented the Englishman's presence among them, and with them several who, only a few hours ago, had been cheering Jim. Bud Hardy answered his question with tolerant amusement.
"The County Sheriff," he said.
To the surprise of all, Jim advanced and handed his gun to Bud.
"Come on, you're my prisoner." Even Bud felt that this was extremely difficult. No resistance from the prisoner—no denial! It was unusual. But as he stepped towards Jim he was stopped by Bill.
"Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"
Bill's heart beat fast, but he gave no sign of the fear that filled him. He knew what this might mean for the boss. The faces of the other men of Jim's ranch grew gray—they too realized, far more than Jim did, that it was not the justice of the law that was to be his, but—well, the crowds grew blood-thirsty sometimes in Maverick. They had seen sights that the boss had not—an ugly swinging vision passed before their eyes, but no hint was given of this by the men. Each one knew that it would be the most unwise move they could make for the boss's sake.
Bill's big, slow voice was heard again in its careless drawl. "Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"
"County jail, of course, at Jansen," was Hardy's answer.
Bill then asked, as he surveyed Hawkins's gang, who were whispering together with several of the hangers-on of the place, "How do you know the friends of the deceased won't take him away from you and hang him to the nearest telegraph-pole, eh?"
It was lightly said, and as he said it Bill laid his big hand on Bud's shoulder. He must conciliate the Sheriff, gain time—anything.
But Bud shook Bill off. "Are you goin' to interfere with me in the discharge of my duty?" he blustered.
"Not a bit, Bud, not a bit," Bill said; then, with sudden resolve—it would mean his life, and the lives of others against them, perhaps, but he meant to fight if necessary—he added: "But we're goin' to see that you do it. We ain't afraid of a trial and a jury." He took the crowd into his confidence. "There isn't a jury in the State that wouldn't present the prisoner with a vote of thanks and a silver service for gettin' rid of Cash Hawkins."
He turned to Bud with his men about him. "Who's goin' to help you take him seventy-five miles to jail?" he demanded. "Will you swear us in?"
But Bud only answered, "You can't intimidate me, Bill."
"As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case of self-defence, anyway." Bill pointed to the two revolvers still clutched in the dead man's stiffening hands.
"I don't stand for this," thundered Bud. "Clear the room."
He had been rather a friend of Big Bill's—most of them were in Maverick—so he had listened to him longer than he would have to any of the other men, but now he was through with his arguments, he must assert his authority.
"Clear the room; this prisoner goes with me."
There was a movement from the crowd. Bill looked appealingly at Jim. Why would not the boss speak? Just as the crowds had reached the doors Jim said to Bud, who was advancing to formally arrest him:
"Wait a minute. Take the trouble to examine my gun."
Bud lifted Jim's gun and looked at it closely. "Well?" he asked.
"You see it hasn't been discharged."
Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was completely loaded. He paused a moment irresolute. Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said:
"You've had time to reload it."
The men were eagerly watching the scene between the two men.
"Smell it," Jim said, quietly. "I haven't had time to clean it."
"Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card.
Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it. It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim.
"Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim's men. "Would you's all oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?"
The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud's face.
"Here's my smoke," said one.
Bud drew back. "One at a time—one at a time," he gasped—"if you please."
Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to Bud's nose.
"Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a word.
"Und mine," said Andy.
Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words, "Here's mine, and not a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion.
All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How's that?" as he jerked the revolver into Bud's face.
In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud—evidence that so far all were free to go.
"Why didn't you's all say so before?" he growled, annoyed at the turn affairs had taken. Then he saw the expression on their faces, laughter and glee as they crowded around Jim; when they looked at him, tolerant amusement. The smelling of the smoke-machines they regarded as a fine new move on their part.
"Damn it," Bud thundered. "You've been astringin' me while the guilty man's escaped; but I'll git him—I'll git him yet."
Jim saved! It was all that the boys wanted. With a whoop-la, they tore after Bud. Down the platform they fled, all in excitement with the new sensation of the moment—the hunt with Bud for the guilty man.
Near the table lay a gray glove. Jim stooped and picked it up, and put it quietly to his lips. Bill, who had lingered near the door, suddenly turned and came back to Jim and put his arm about him.
"You just escaped lynchin', Jim." And Jim knew that Bill spoke the truth.
He held the glove folded close in his hand as he answered, "Yes, I'm almost sorry."
Bill's face became grave. What did the boss mean? Was the game too hard for him? Was he afraid he would lose on the ranch deal? He patted him tenderly, almost like a mother humoring a wayward child, without saying a word. Jim sank into a chair. Bill understood—the boss would like to be alone, so he sauntered up to the back and joined Nick. In his heart there was but one thought: Jim should see how well they would all serve him. He swore a mighty oath that he would see the others did so, too.
Left alone, Jim sat staring straight ahead of him. Suddenly he realized that the body of Cash Hawkins was still lying there. He shuddered at the cruel forgetfulness of the men. He leaned forward and spoke his thoughts aloud:
"Who killed Cash Hawkins?"
He felt a sudden touch on his hand; he turned; there, kneeling at his feet, was Nat-u-ritch, who had entered unobserved and crept beside him. As he looked at her she drew herself up nearer to him, and, leaning her chin on her hand, said:
"Me kill um."
Jim's only answer was to place his hand over her face while he hurriedly looked about the saloon. No one could have heard her. He drew her to her feet and motioned her to go, saying that he would follow shortly.
That night Jim learned the truth, and his friendship with Nat-u-ritch began.
CHAPTER XVIII
After this Jim often met Nat-u-ritch. On his trail across the country he would see her on her little pony galloping after him. Sometimes she would join him and silently accompany him on his search for the cattle that had strayed beyond the range.
Nat-u-ritch's life with her father, Tabywana, was passed in days of uneventful placidness. Since the death of Cash Hawkins the Chief had given her no cause for anxiety. Concerning the murder, neither she nor her father spoke. Tabywana admired Jim Carston; he seemed to realize instinctively what Jim had saved him from that day at the saloon, and his unspoken devotion, sincere and steadfast, often caused him to serve Jim without any one's knowledge.
Sometimes when Nat-u-ritch returned from a long day's ride her father would scrutinize her, and as he read in her the call of her nature for the Englishman, a curious smile would light up his face in sympathy with her. He saw the unmoved impassiveness that she showed to all the young bucks that sought her, and without protest let her go her way, and her trail always led towards Carston's ranch.
Winter came with its treacherous winds, and Carston's ranch was more desolate. Of Nat-u-ritch's unspoken devotion to him there was no doubt in Jim's mind, and the temptation to take her proffered companionship into his lonely life rose strong within him. After Cash Hawkins's death, Jim, had he cared for the life, might have been a leader in the Long Horn saloon, but a bar-room hero was not the role that he wished to play. His own men—Grouchy, Andy, and Shorty—openly expressed their disappointment to Big Bill at the boss's indifference to the position he might exert as a power in Maverick, and even Big Bill only vaguely understood Jim's unappreciative attitude. He often watched Jim smoking his pipe and peering into the heart of the embers that glowed on the hearth, and as he saw the careworn face Bill's great heart ached with sympathy for him. But Jim, as he realized the difficulties of the fight in which he was involved, only clinched his fists the tighter and accomplished the work of three men in his day's toil.
At these times the physical drain on him was so great that there was no opportunity left in which to realize the biting ache of his loneliness. So one bleak day succeeded another, with the slim, mute figure of the Indian girl ever crossing his path.
The early spring brought with it a sudden melting of the snow-capped hills and the ice-covered pools. The cattle grew more troublesome. They seemed harder to control, or else the boys were more indifferent to their disappearance. Big Bill had gone away on a deal for new cattle, so Jim's energies were redoubled.
One day as he rode across the plains searching for a lost herd that had wandered towards Jackson's Hole, the longing that the awakening spring had brought with it grew more insistent. Life surely held for him possibilities greater than this, he told himself. He resolved, on Bill's return, to arrange with him to sell the place. He could not conquer the craving for the old haunts of civilization that took possession of him. He closed his eyes to shut out the endless stretch of prairie. Lost in his dream to escape from his lonely life and to take part again in the affairs of men of his own class, he failed to notice the small pony that followed him carrying Nat-u-ritch.
On he went, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice how close he was to Jackson's Hole. Big Bill long ago had warned him of the treacherous ridge that lay near the gulley, but Jim had forgotten Bill's words. Unconscious of the danger ahead, he galloped towards the edge of the broken precipice. In the distance he espied the marks of a herd of cattle that had passed around to the other side of the ridge. Jim urged his horse forward and started to jump the small, deceptive span that covered the hole. A sharp cry came from Nat-u-ritch, who had quickly gained ground on him as she saw his intention. But Jim, unheeding, gave a sharp command to his horse and urged him over. There was a sudden breaking of ground; then a whirling, dazed moment through which flashed an eternity of thought, and Nat-u-ritch stood alone, clinging to her pony as she peered over into the dark pool of broken ice around which stretched chasms of impenetrable blackness.
Two weeks later Jim opened his eyes to consciousness in Nat-u-ritch's wickyup. No man of those summoned by Nat-u-ritch to help had dared venture into the dreaded abyss, so Jim had been abandoned as dead. But the depth of her love gave the Indian girl the strength to accomplish his rescue. Jealous of her treasure, she dragged the unconscious body to her own village, which was nearer than Jim's ranch.
Then followed an illness from the long exposure in the gulley. Big Bill returned, only to find the ranch without its master, while Jim lay in the squaw's wickyup, with the Indian girl fighting to save his life, her love and loyalty making her his abject slave.
Weeks followed, and one day Big Bill and the boys brought the boss home. Then came a relapse, and again Nat-u-ritch's devotion and courage gave him back his life. This time Bill watched a double fight: the fight on the part of the woman to save the man so that she might win him for herself, and on Jim's part an effort to resist the mute surrender of the woman.
Without the boss's supervision the ranch had deteriorated, and Jim's affairs had become so involved that he recovered only to find that all thought of abandoning the place was now impossible. His dream of escape was now a hope of the past. And so life began afresh for him on the plains.
Jim stood outside of the window of an adobe hut. From within he could hear the low moans of a woman and now and then the wail of a child. He was alone, save for the missionary who had married him a few months before to Nat-u-ritch, and who was now inside helping the sick woman. Big Bill had gone to fetch an old squaw who had promised to come to the ranch. As Jim leaned against the post of the porch he was stirred by a multitude of emotions. The wails from within grew louder and more fretful. As he watched the heavens, ablaze with a thousand eyes, he wondered why the old woman had failed to come in time. He hardly realized what the past hour had meant to him. A child had been given to him! Something of the wonder of the eternal mystery was numbing his spirit. The sick woman's moans grew fainter, only the cry of the babe persistently reached him.
At last the missionary came to him: Nat-u-ritch was asleep; he would go, he explained, and hurry along the Indian woman who was coming with Big Bill to the ranch. The cry of the child seemed to become more pitiful. Jim tiptoed to the door of the inner room. On the cot lay Nat-u-ritch. He softly crossed to the small bundle of life rolled in the blanket and lifted it in his arms. The warm, appealing little body lay limp against him. He began swaying to and fro until the cry grew fainter. Soon the babe slept; but Jim still stood rocking his son in his strong arms.
CHAPTER XIX
One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.
Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.
Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.
Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.
As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.
"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow.
"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."
While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.
For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's hands when the child grew tired of holding the quirt.
Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican saddle and lariat. On his diminutive face was stamped an aggressive pugnacity. He was followed by Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece of wood. As Bill surveyed them he knew that they had been talking things over and had arrived at some conclusion. They had been good workers in their time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that they were not bad, but that life had tried them severely with its failures and disappointments. He waited for them to speak. There was a moment's silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the bench, said:
"Say, Bill, I s'pose you know the boys is gettin' nervous 'bout their money, don't you?"
Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work as he answered, "To-morrow's pay-day." He would not anticipate them in their rebellion; he would make it hard for them to declare themselves.
"That's what," Shorty went on.
"Well, it's time to get nervous day after to-morrow." And still Bill braided the leather.
"They're goin' to make trouble if they don't git it." Shorty acted as spokesman. Grouchy and Andy only nodded their heads in approval of their leader's words.
Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his arms. "Are they?" he said. "Well, I reckon Jim Carston and me can handle that bunch." He spoke as though the others were not present.
"Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted, as he flung the saddle against the walls of the cabin.
"Und say, Bill—und say—to-morrow's pay-day." Andy's voice trembled as he spoke. He was a gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.
Hal began to listen and to look from one to the other. Bill noticed the child's look of inquiry and set him on the ground.
"Son, you run in and help your mother with the milking." He slapped his hands together as though a great joy were in store for the child, who laughed with glee as he hurried across to the stable.
The men waited for Bill to say something, but he only stood twisting a straw about in his mouth and pulling his hat-brim.
Again Andy's courage rose and he walked close to Bill. "To-morrow's pay-day, Bill—eh?"
"Is it? Do tell! Ain't you a discoverer! Say, Andy, you're neglectin' the north pole a little."
This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well, I want mine," and he viciously dug his knife into the hitching-post.
Bill looked from one to the other. Surely they would be reasonable; he would try them.
"Boys, it's seven years since the boss bought this ranch, and he's had an up-hill fight. Every one's done him. He bought when cattle was higher than they've ever been since, and you know what last winter did for us; but he 'ain't ever hollered, and the top wages he paid you at the start he's been a-payin' you ever since."
"Oh, what's the use!" Shorty interrupted. "The money is owed us. The only question is, do we git it?"
Backed up by Shorty, Grouchy began again, "Well, I want mine."
Only gentle Andy was silent. He could hear little Hal laughing as he played in the cow-shed.
Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled around on the men and in a sudden blaze said:
"Well, you know Carston and you know me. If you're lookin' for trouble, we won't see you go away disappointed." He squared his shoulders as he spoke. "Oh, shucks!" He looked at the boys again. "It's no use," he began, more good-naturedly. "It's the business that's no good. Nothin' in it. The packers has got us skinned to death. They pay us what they like for cattle, and charge the public what they like for beef. Hell!" he grunted, as he turned on his heel. "I'm goin' into the ministry."
This time Grouchy's "Well, I want mine" was extremely faint.
Before the others could speak again Bill quickly called, "Here's the boss now," and signalled the men to be silent.
They were touched by Jim's haggard face. They had not seen the boss for several days; he had been busy with accounts, Bill had told them. They began shuffling their feet as though about to leave. Each one thought perhaps it would be as well to wait until the next day. Shorty signalled them to come on, but Jim stopped them.
"Boys, I hear you're getting anxious about your pay. I don't blame you. My affairs are in a bad way, but I don't expect any one to share my bad luck. You've earned your money. I'll see that you get it."
As Jim spoke he drew from his pocket several small boxes and from his belt an old wallet. "I have some useless old trinkets here that have been knocking around in my trunk for years. If you will take them to town, where people wear such things, you will get enough for them to wipe out my account and something to boot for long service and good-will." Andy's sniffles were the only answer that followed. Jim turned to him, "Andy—"
But Andy refused the package. "Und say, boss. Und say, I ain't kickin'. Und say, I can trust you."
Jim only tossed the box into his hands. "Shorty," he said, as he slapped the wallet across the little fellow's shoulder.
"Oh, I'd rather not," Shorty shamefacedly answered. "Gee, but this is tough work," he muttered to himself.
Jim smiled. "You must take it, please. The man who refuses throws suspicion on the value of my junk. You won't do that, I'm sure." And the wallet slid into Shorty's hand.
"Grouchy, you can have my repeating rifle," he added. "And now, good-night. I'll see you to-morrow for the last time."
So this was to be the end of their association with the boss. Would he try to shoulder the work of the place without them? A second's reflection told them that this would be impossible. It was to be really the end of Carston's ranch. The three men stood staring at Jim. Bill, at the back of the hut, as he heard the words, sank down on a rough bench. This was what had come of the days of silence on Jim's part; in each man's heart there was an unspeakable emotion at the dissolution of their companionship.
Suddenly down the road they heard the clatter of horses. Then the whoop-la of a crowd of men, and a stentorian voice called:
"Hello, any one to home at Carston's ranch?"
Shorty and Andy hurried to meet the new-comers. It was Bud Hardy, the Sheriff, with a posse of men. In they rushed, swarming all over the place, and carrying with them the smell of alkali and the heat of the plains. Dripping with perspiration, stained and worn with their travel, they seemed like part of the desert, so covered were they with a heavy caking of dust. One felt the parched fever of their thirst as they stood asking hospitality of the ranch. Jim advanced to meet them.
"Hello, folks," Bud called, as the men of the ranch welcomed his men. Then he came towards Jim, who shook hands with him.
"Why, how are you, Sheriff?"
Since the day at Maverick, when the Sheriff had tried to arrest him, Jim had often seen Bud. He was never sure of the honesty of the man's intentions, ne and Big Bill had often discussed Bud's unfitness for the power he held in the place, but he gave no sign of this in his greeting.
Bud's great frame towered above the others. He seemed more effusive and excited than the occasion warranted, and Big Bill's brows rose questioningly as he saw the demonstrative way in which he greeted Jim.
"Howdy, Mr. Carston—howdy? Knowin' the hospitality of this here outfit, we most killed ourselves to git here, to say nothin' of the horses. We left them leanin' up against the corral, the worst done up cayuses." Then directly in appeal to Jim, he said, "We simply got to stay here to-night, Mr. Carston."
With a cordial gesture of invitation, Jim said, "You and the boys are welcome, Sheriff, and what we lack in grub and accommodations we'll hope to make up to you in good-will."
As Jim spoke, Bud quickly glanced in triumph at Clarke, a prominent worker in his posse. The pale face of Clarke gave back a glance of comprehension as he lowered his white-lashed eyelids over his bulging eyes. All this was observed by Bill, who sauntered towards the Sheriff as Bud answered Jim.
"What's good enough for you all is good enough for us, you bet," and he wrung Jim's hand again. "Why, hello!" he finished, as he saw Bill and turned to greet him.
"Any news?" Bill laconically asked, as he studied Bud and his men.
"Nothin' of any consequence," said Bud. "We just had a little fracas down at the agency. Total result, one Injin killed."
A shout of approval rose from the boys, but Clarke broke in with another guffaw. "And the joke of it is, Bud killed the wrong man."
"But nothin' to it. All in a day's work," Bud laughingly explained.
"You look tired, Sheriff," Jim said. "The boys will take you to their quarters. Shorty, you and the others make the Sheriff and his people feel at home."
There was a murmur of approval. "Come on," said Shorty, and the men started for their quarters. Shorty, who loved bossing an affair almost better than teasing, swept them all on before him. Then he linked his arm through Bud's.
"Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string you never roped the man who killed Cash Hawkins at Maverick."
Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud, gave an involuntary look of surprise at the Sheriff, but the flash of anger on Bud's blowsed, crimson face quickly cowed him.
"Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and years ago, Shorty," and with his arm about him he followed the men towards their quarters.
Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut and stables, but only for a moment, for he quickly realized that Bill was intently watching him.
Jim turned to go to the house—then paused. He could see Bill against the hitching-post tearing a straw into wisps that fluttered and fell lifeless to the ground. There was not enough breeze to carry even a strand away. He must speak to Bill, but how could he express anything of the desolation he felt at this parting of their ways.
"Bill," he began, in a low voice—and Bill, who divined the words that were about to follow, made no answer; he only held tighter to the post. He could hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes. He made no effort to move; he felt he could not.
"Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you must get out and look for another job." Jim clinched his hands tight as he added, "I'll be sorry to lose you, old man."
"I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Then, almost in a growl, he questioned, "And what are you going to do, boss?"
The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as Jim said, in a level, flat tone, "Sell out—move on—begin all over again—somewhere." Then with the indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added, more hopefully, "There must be a place for me somewhere." Mastering himself, he added, as he took Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer to pay you, Bill."
And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on Jim's part why he loved the boss, answered, "You better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both of his.
"Not now," Jim said, with the old hope again rising to encourage him, that later he might be able to help Bill. "In my life I've had one friend and only one." He laid his hands on Bill's shoulders and looked straight in his eyes.
But Bill could not stand the strain of it any longer. "You make me tired," he gulped, and Jim smiled.
"Why did you pay those cayotes three or four times what you owe 'em?" Bill scolded, gruffly, but kindly. "It's wicked, Jim. You're a sentimental fool."
As though bestowing a final benediction, Jim answered, "And you're another—God bless you," and then dropped on to the log and seemed to forget Bill and all about him.
Bill stood a moment, then tiptoed away while Jim sat watching the afternoon shadows beginning to creep up towards the hut.
CHAPTER XX
Towards noon the next day, Bud sought Jim to ask further hospitality. The horses were still in bad condition, he explained, and he would esteem it an invaluable service if he would allow them to remain another night on the ranch. Jim readily acquiesced. Now that he had taken the final step to sever himself from the ranch, there were many details to be personally directed and settled. Bill and he were often in conference, and the sale could be accomplished within a few days. While Bill worked, he watched Bud and Clarke. Of his suspicion that they were trying to take some unfair advantage, he did not speak. Only his ferret-like glances constantly followed them. And his instinctive distrust was further aroused by a visit from Tabywana.
As he and Jim sat before the house, with a list that Jim was explaining to Bill, Baco, the half-breed who worked about the place, suddenly called in greeting to Tabywana. With his bonnet of gorgeous feathers trailing down his back, his body draped in a blanket, and in his hand the peace-pipe, the Chief entered. "How!" he answered, as he passed Baco. Both Bill and Jim arose.
"Why, hello Chief! Where'd you blow in from?" Bill called.
Again Tabywana answered, "How!"
Jim advanced. "How!" he said. "The peace chief never comes except to do us a favor. Baco, ask him what we can do for him."
As Tabywana pointed to his pipe he spoke to Baco. "He says, 'Let us sit down and smoke,'" interpreted Baco.
"Certainly," Jim answered. His years of living among the Indians had accustomed him to their ceremonies, and the four men crossed their legs and seated themselves on the ground, forming a half-circle. Tabywana began filling and lighting his pipe.
"Baco," Jim commanded, "tell Tabywana that we are always glad to meet him and see him face to face. He is our friend."
Baco quickly translated the message. Tabywana began passing the pipe from Jim to Bill. As Bill puffed at it he said to Jim, "Say, when the old Chief gets as formal as this it means business."
The men, although eager to begin the proposed conversation, did nothing to urge the Indian to declare himself. Both courteously awaited the Chief's information, although both chafed at this delay in their work. When the pipe had been returned to Tabywana he deliberately extinguished the flame, and, holding the pipe under his blanket, began monotonously to speak in his own tongue.
Jim and Bill both tried to follow the words, but their knowledge of the language was exceedingly limited, so Baco translated for them. "He says a stranger has been asking for you in the settlement."
"What kind of a stranger?" Jim asked, his mind turning at once to the sale that was about to be effected. The Indian agent again interpreted the Chief's reply. "One who jumps up and down in his saddle."
Bill smiled as Jim answered: "Oh, an Englishman. What's his business?"
"The Chief says he does not know, but be on your guard."
Bill and Jim exchanged glances. Surely it was not for this that Tabywana had paid this formal visit. But Jim, who knew the wary, slow methods of the Indians, and who felt that something of more importance was coming, looked straight at Tabywana, as he asked, "Is that all?"
Tabywana understood more of the language of his conquerors than he admitted, and quickly answered the question through Baco. "No, something else—very important." Then Tabywana himself added, "Bud Hardy is here."
At these words Bill, who had been listening listlessly, turned sharply to watch the Indian's face. In the crafty, restrained expression he could read the effort at control that the Chief was exercising as he emitted the sentences Baco translated for him to Jim. "That is bad—very bad. Trouble will follow. He says Hardy has been talking and drinking a great deal, and has begun to talk about the death of Cash Hawkins, and Hardy will, he is afraid, soon arrest some one."
Jim did not answer. Tabywana moved a little so that he could watch Jim. His face wore an expression of great curiosity as to how his words would be received by Jim. The Chief had never known the exact truth concerning the killing of Cash Hawkins, but he had often guessed that Nat-u-ritch and Jim did. Jim did not answer. Bill spoke to him as Baco, having performed his duty, sank back and began playing with some straws.
"Jim, the old Chief is trying to tell you that Hardy has been bragging that he was going to arrest the fellow that killed Cash Hawkins." Jim gave no sign that the news in the least disturbed him.
"Tell the old Chief it's the fire-water that's talking."
Bill sank deep into a reverie. So Bud was up to some devilment—but what? Then he heard the words:
"The Chief says that Hardy is no friend of yours," and Jim's quick reply, "Tell the Chief I didn't kill Cash Hawkins, so I'm not afraid of arrest." Jim smiled reassuringly at the Chief, who constantly watched him. After all, what could Bud do to Jim? "He's a blow-hard, anyway," Bill muttered.
Jim was about to rise and end the interview when, looking cautiously about him, Tabywana began speaking in a lower tone. Baco translated without pause the thoughts that were troubling the Indian. "The Chief thinks that Hardy thinks that maybe Nat-u-ritch killed Cash Hawkins."
Jim only let slip the word "Nat-u-ritch," but his eyes quickly sought the Indian's, and in them he saw there was fear for the woman. To Bill this seemed nonsense. There had never been an atom of suspicion attached to Nat-u-ritch, so he lightly dismissed the idea with a laugh as he said, "Bud must have been unusual drunk." Bill had never understood the affair. He now began to feel the old suspicion creeping back. Had the boss, in self-defence, done the deed? If so, he must keep his watch all the closer on Bud and his men to see that they left the ranch as quickly as possible.
Jim quietly and calmly gave this answer to the Chief:
"So Bud thinks Nat-u-ritch killed Cash. Why, there isn't a scrap of evidence pointing towards Nat-u-ritch. Ask him what makes Bud think so." This time Jim listened intently for the answer.
"He says he doesn't know. But that Bud Hardy is bad medicine, and he wants you to make Bud Hardy move on to the next ranch."
Bill grunted his approval at this.
"That is impossible. The Chief knows that we cannot refuse shelter to the white man."
Bill this time upheld Jim's attitude in maintaining the laws of the place as he added, "Even though he is a bad man."
Tabywana looked from one to the other. There was a piteous look of baffled hope on his face. In his heart he was wishing that they would not take his words of wisdom so lightly, but it was difficult to explain more to them. Despairingly he offered further advice, and Baco repeated it for him, but Jim answered:
"The Chief knows that the rights of hospitality are sacred. Besides, I do not anticipate any trouble."
He rose to his feet. He would be extremely wary of Bud Hardy, but he felt no great concern. The affair had passed for five years, and it was simply some drunken bravado on the Sheriff's part that had frightened the old Chief. He laid his hands on Tabywana's shoulders. For Nat-u-ritch's father he had a tender regard, and the generous tolerance he had for, and the defence he constantly made of, the red man's rights, caused Tabywana to lay aside all cunning in his dealings with Jim, and to completely surrender his affections to him and the tiny child.
"Baco, tell Tabywana that no harm shall come to Nat-u-ritch while I live, and say to the Chief he is a good friend and I thank him for coming, and I would like him to accept this tobacco."
The eternal child in the Indian answered the last words, as Jim handed him the gayly embroidered pouch, with a quick smile and nod of appreciation. He was about to protest further, however, when Shorty interrupted them as he came running in. "A stranger out here wants to see the boss."
Ah, this was about the ranch, no doubt, so Jim said, "All right, Shorty, bring him to me."
"All right, boss."
"Bill, show Tabywana on his way," Jim directed, as the Indian seemed loath to leave him. "Adios amigo," he called to Tabywana, as Bill gently pushed him away. Baco followed him.
"I beg your pardon. I am looking for Mr. Carston."
Bill amusedly surveyed the new-comer as he answered, "There's Mr. Carston," and as he disappeared behind the house he muttered to himself, with a backward glance at the visitor, "Looks as though he blew off a comic paper."