CHAPTER VIII
JOE NELSON INDULGES IN A LITTLE MATCH-MAKING
The moonlight had revealed the grotesque features of Joe Nelson!
Tresler returned his gun to its holster precipitately, and his actionhad in it all the chagrin of a man who has been "had" by a practicaljoker. His discomfiture, however, quickly gave way before the humor ofthe situation, and he burst into a roar of laughter.
He laughed while he watched his bear drop again to his hands andknees, and continue to crawl toward him, till the tears rolled downhis cheeks. On came the little fellow, enveloped in the full embracingfolds of a large brown blanket, and his silent dogged progress warnedTresler that, as yet, his own presence was either unrealized orignored in the earnestness of his unswerving purpose. And the natureof that purpose--for Tresler had fully realized it--was the mostlaughable thing of all. Joe was stalking his buckskin pony with thesenseless cunning of a drunken man.
At last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailedthe little choreman in the midst of his laughter.
"Ho! You, Joe!" he called. "What the blazes d'you think you're doing?"
There was no reply. For all heed the man under the blanket gave, hemight have been deaf, dumb and blind. He just came steadily on.
Tresler shouted again, and more sharply. This time his summons had itseffect. It brought an answer--an answer that set him off into a freshburst of laughter.
"Gorl darn it, boys," came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket,"'tain't smart, neither, playin' around when a feller's kind o'roundin' up his plug. How'm I goin' to cut that all-fired buckskin outo' the bunch wi' you gawkin' around like a reg'ment o' hoboes? Ef youdon't reckon to fool any, why, some o' you git around an' head him offfrom the rest of 'em. I'd do it myself on'y my cussed legs has givenout."
"Boys, eh?" Tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirthsufficiently to answer, "Why, man, it's the whisky that's fooling you.There are no 'boys,' and no 'bunch' of horses here. Just your horseand mine; and I've got them both safe enough. You're drunk,Joe--beastly drunk."
Joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, buttrying hard to steady himself. He focussed his eyes with much effortupon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward likea man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swayingplank. He all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reachedhim, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aidof a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. And while Tresler turnedto pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man's angrytones snapped out at him in what was intended for a dignifiedprotest. In spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinctenough, though his voice was thick. After all, as he said, it was hislegs that had given way.
"Guess you're that blazin' 'tenderfoot' Tresler," he said, with allthe sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. "Wal, say, Mr. a'mightyTresler, ef it wa'n't as you wus a 'tenderfoot,' I'd shoot you fersayin' I wus drunk. Savee? You bein' a 'tenderfoot,' I'll jest mentionyou're side-tracked, you're most on the scrap heap, you've left thesheer trail an' you're ditched. You've hit a gait you can't travel,an' don't amount to a decent, full-sized jackass. Savee? I ain'tdrunk. It's drink; see? Carney's rotgut. I tell you right here I'msober, but my legs ain't. Mebbe you're that fool-headed you don'tsavee the difference."
Tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. He had wasted toomuch time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. He quiterealized that Joe knew what he was about, if his legs were_hors-de-combat_, for, after delivering himself of this, hisunvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of asitting posture.
Tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders.
"What's this?" he asked sharply.
Joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment.
"'Tain't yours, anyway," he said. Then he added with less anger, andsome uncertainty, "Guess I slept some down at the bushes. Durned pluggot busy 'stead o' waitin' around. The fool hoss ain't got no mannersanyways."
"Manners? Don't blither." Tresler seized him by the coat collar andyanked him suddenly upon his feet. "Now, hand over that letter toSheriff Fyles. I've orders to deliver it myself."
Joe's twisted face turned upward with a comical expression ofperplexity. The moonlight caught his eyes, and he blinked. Then helooked over at the horses, and, shaking his head solemnly, began tofumble at his pockets.
"S-Sheriff F-Fyles," he answered doubtfully. He seemed to haveforgotten the very name. "F-Fyles?" he repeated again. "Letter? Say,now, I wus kind o' wonderin' what I cum to Forks fer. Y' see I mostlygit around Forks fer Carney's rotgut. Course, ther' wus a letter. Jestwher' did I put that now?" He became quite cheerful as he probed hispockets.
Tresler waited until, swaying and even stumbling in the process, hehad turned out two pockets; then his impatience getting the better ofhim, he proceeded to conduct the search himself.
"Now see here," he said firmly, "I'll go through your pockets. Ifyou've lost it, there'll be trouble for you when you get back. Ifyou'd only kept clear of that saloon you would have been all right."
"That's so," said Joe humbly, as he submitted to the other's search.
Tresler proceeded systematically. There was nothing but tobacco andpipe in the outside pockets of his coat. His trousers revealed aten-cent piece and a dollar bill, which the choreman thanked himprofusely for finding, assuring him, regretfully, that he wouldn'thave left the saloon if he had known he had it. The inside pocket ofthe coat was drawn blank of all but a piece of newspaper, and Treslerpronounced his verdict in no measured terms.
"You drunken little fool, you've lost it," he said, as he held out theunfolded newspaper.
Joe seemed past resentment with his fresh trouble. He squinted hard toget the newspaper into proper focus.
"Say," he observed meekly, "I guess it wus in that, sure. Sure, yes,"he nodded emphatically, "I planted it that a-ways to kep it from thedirt. I 'member readin' the headin' o' that paper. Et wus 'bout somehigh-soundin' female in New Yo----"
"Confound it!" Tresler was more distressed for the little man thanangry with him. He knew Jake would be furious, and cast about in hismind for excuses that might save him. The only one he could think ofwas feeble enough, but he suggested it.
"Well, there's only one thing to do; we must ride back, and you cansay you lost the letter on the way out, and have spent the day lookingfor it."
Joe seemed utterly dejected. "Sure, yes. There's on'y one thing todo," he murmured disconsolately. "We must ride back. Say, you're sure,plumb sure it ain't in one of my pockets? Dead sure I must 'a' lostit?"
"No doubt of it. Damn it, Joe, I'm sorry. You'll be in a deuce of ascrape with Jake. It's all that cursed drink."
"That's so," murmured the culprit mournfully. His face was turnedaway. Now it suddenly brightened as though a fresh and more hopefulview of the matter had presented itself, and his twisted featuresslowly wreathed themselves into a smile. His deep-set eyes twinkledwith an odd sort of mischievous humor as he raised them abruptly tothe troubled face of his companion.
"Guess I kind o' forgot to tell you. I gave the sheriff that letterthis mornin' 'fore I called on Carney. Mebbe, ef I'd told you 'foreI'd 'a' saved you----"
"You little----"
Tresler could find no words to express his exasperation. He made agrab at the now grinning man's coat collar, seized him, and, liftinghim bodily, literally threw him on to the back of his buckskin pony.
"You little old devil!" he at last burst out; "you stay there, andback you go to the ranch. I'll shake the liquor out of you before weget home."
Tresler sprang into his saddle, and, turning his mare's head homeward,led the buckskin and its drunken freight at a rattling pace. And Joekept silence for a while. He felt it was best so. But, in the end, hewas the first to speak, and when he did so there was a quiet drynessin his tone that pointed all he said.
"Say, Tresler, I'm kind o' sorry you wus
put to all that figgerin' an'argyment," he said, shaking up his old pony to bring him alongside thespeedy mare. "Y' see ye never ast me 'bout that letter. Kind o' jumpedme fer a fool-head at oncet. Which is most gener'ly the nature o' boyso' your years. Conclusions is mostly hasty, but I 'lows they'rereas'nable in their places--which is last. An' I sez it wi'outoffense, ther' ain't a blazin' thing born in this world that don'treckon to con-clude fer itself 'fore it's rightly begun. Everythingneeds teachin', from a 'tenderfoot' to a New York babby."
Joe's homily banished the last shadow of Tresler's ill-humor. Thelittle man had had the best of him in his quiet, half-drunken manner;a manner which, though rough, was still irresistible.
"That's all right, Joe. I'm no match for you," he said with a laugh."But, setting jokes on one side, I think you're in for trouble withJake. I saw it in his eye before I started out."
"I don't think. Guess I'm plumb sure," Joe replied quietly.
"Then why on earth did you do it?"
Joe humped his back with a movement expressive of unconcern.
"It don't matter why. Jake's nigh killed me ha'f a dozen times. One o'these days he'll fix me sure. He'll lace hell out o' me to-morrow, I'mguessin', an' when it's done it won't alter nothin' anyways. I've jesttwo things in this world, I notion, an'--one of 'em's drink. 'Tain'tno use in sayin' it ain't, 'cos I guess my legs is most unnateraltruthful 'bout drink. Say, I don't worrit no folk when I'm drunk;guess I don't interfere wi' no one's consarns when I'm drunk; I'm jestkind o' happy when I'm drunk. Which bein' so, makes it no one'sbizness but my own. I do it 'cos I gits a heap o' pleasure out o' it.I know I ain't worth hell room. But I got my notions, an' I ain'tgoin' ter budge fer no one." Joe's slantwise mouth was setobstinately; his little eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight, and hiswhole attitude was one of a man combating an argument which his soulis set against.
As Tresler had no idea of arguing the question and remained silent,the choreman went on in a modified tone of morbid self-sympathysympathy--
"When the time comes around I'll hand over my checks wi'out no fussnor botheration; guess I'll cash in wi' as much grit as GeorgeWashington. I don't calc'late as life is wuth worritin' over anyways.We don't ast to be born, an', comin' into the world wi'out noby-your-leave, I don't figger as folks has a right to say we've got totake a hand in any bluff we don't notion."
"Perhaps you've a certain amount of right on your side." Tresler feltthat this hopeless pessimism was rather the result of drink thannatural to him. "But you said you had two things that you consideredworth living for?"
"That's so. I ain't goin' back on what I said. It's jest that otherwhat set me yarnin'. Say, guess you're mostly a pretty decent feller,Tresler, though I 'lows you has failin's. You're kind o' young. Now Iguess you ain't never pumped lead into the other feller, which thesame he's doin' satisfact'ry by you? You kind o' like most fellers?"
Tresler nodded.
"Jest so. But I've noticed you don't fancy folks as gits gay wi' you.You kind o' make things uneasy. Wal, that's a fault you'll git over.Mebbe, later on, when a feller gits rilin' you you'll work your gun,instead of trying to thump savee into his head. Heads is mightycur'us out west here. They're so chock full o' savee, ther' ain't nouse in thumpin' more into 'em. Et's a heap easier to let it out. Butthat's on the side. I most gener'ly see things, an' kind o' noticefellers, an' that's how I sized you up. Y' see I've done a heap o'settin' around M'skeeter Bend fer nigh on ten years, mostly watchin'.Now, mebbe, y' ain't never sot no plant, an' bedded it gentle wi'sifted mould, an' watered it careful, an' sot right ther' on a box,an' watched it grow in a spot wher' ther' wa'n't no bizness feranythin' but weeds?"
Tresler shook his head, wonderingly.
"No; guess not," Joe went on. "Say," he added, turning and lookingearnestly into his companion's face, "I'm settin' on that box rightnow. Yes, sir, I've watched that plant grow. I've picked the stonesout so the young shoots could git through nice an' easy-like. I'vewatered it. I've washened the leaves when the blights come along. I'vesticked it against the winds. I've done most everythin' I could, usin'soap-suds and soot waters, an' all them tasty liquids to coax it on.I've sot ther' a-smilin' to see the lovesome buds come along an' openout, an' make the air sweet wi' perfumes an' color an' things. I'vesot right ther' an' tho't an' tho't a heap o' tho'ts around thatflower, an' felt all crinkly up the back wi' pleasure. An' I ain'tnever wanted ter leave that box. No, sir, an' the days wus bright, an'nothin' seemed amiss wi' life nor nothin'. But I tell you it ain't nogood. No, sir, 'tain't no good, 'cos I ain't got the guts to git upan' dig hard. I've reached out an' pulled a weed or two, but themweeds had got a holt on that bed 'fore I sot the seedlin', an' they'vegrowed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. 'Tain't no usewatchin' when weeds is growin'. It wants a feller as can dig; an' Iguess I ain't that feller. Say, ther's mighty hard diggin' to be doneright now, an' the feller as does it has got to do it standin' rightup to the job. Savee? I'm sayin' right now to you, Tresler, them weedsis chokin' the life out o' her. She's mazed up wi' 'em. Ther' ain't noescape. None. Her life's bound to be hell anyways."
"Her? Whom?" Tresler asked the question, but he knew that Joe wasreferring to Diane; Diane's welfare was his other interest in life.
The little man turned with a start "Eh? Miss Dianny--o' course."
"And the weeds?"
"Jake--an' her father."
And the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely ontoward home. It was Tresler who broke the silence at last.
"And this is the reason you've stayed so long on the ranch?" he asked.
"Mebbe. I don't reckon as I could 'a' done much," Joe answeredhopelessly. "What could a drunken choreman do anyways? Leastways thepore kid hadn't got no mother, an' I guess ther' wa'n't a blazin' soularound as she could yarn her troubles to. When she got fixed, I guessther' wa'n't no one to put her right. And when things was hatchin',ther' wa'n't no one to give her warnin' but me. 'What is the trouble?'you ast," the little man went on gloomily. "Trouble? Wal, I'd smile.Ther' ain't nothin' but trouble around M'skeeter Bend, sure. Troublefor her--trouble all round. Her trouble's her father, an' Jake. Jake'sset on marryin' her. Jake," in a tone of withering scorn, "who's onlyfit to mate wi' a bitch wolf. An' her father--say, he hates her. Hatesher like a neche hates a rattler. An' fer why? Gawd only knows; Iain't never found out. Say, that gal is his slave, sure. Ef she raisesher voice, she gits it. Not, I guess, as Jake handles me, but wi' thesneakin' way of a devil. Say, the things he does makes me most readyto cry like a kid. An' all the time he threatens her wi' Jake fer ahusband. An' she don't never complain. Not she; no sir. You don't knowthe blind hulks, Tresler; but ther', it ain't no use in gassin'. Hedon't never mean her fer Jake, an' I guess she knows it. But she'splumb scared, anyways."
Tresler contemplated the speaker earnestly in the moonlight. Hemarveled at the quaint outward form of the chivalrous spirit within.He was trying to reconcile the antagonistic natures of which thisstrange little bundle of humanity was made up. For ten years Joe hadput up with the bullying and physical brutality of Jake Harnach, sothat, in however small a way, he might help to make easy the roughlife-path of a lonely girl. And his motives were all unselfish. Alatent chivalry held him which no depths of drunkenness could drown.He leant over and held out his hand.
"Joe," he said, "I want to shake hands with you and call you myfriend."
The choreman held back for a moment in some confusion. Then, as thoughmoved by sudden impulse, he gripped the hand so cordially offered.
"But I ain't done yet," he said a moment later. He had no wish toadvertise his own good deeds. He was pleading for another. Some onewho could not plead for herself. His tone had assumed a roughnesshardly in keeping with the gentle, reflective manner in which he hadtalked of his "flower." "Tresler," he went on, "y're good stuff, buty' ain't good 'nough to dust that gal's boots, no--not by a sight.Meanin' no offense. But she needs the help o' some one as'll dig atthem weeds standin'. See? Which means you. I can't tell you all Iknow,
I can't tell you all I've seed. One o' them things--I guess on'yone--is that Jake's goin' to best blind hulks an' force him intogivin' him his daughter in marriage, and Gawd help that pore gal. ButI swar to Gawd ef I'm pollutin' this airth on the day as sees Jakeworritin' Miss Dianny, I'll perf'rate him till y' can't tell hisdog-gone carkis from a parlor cinder-sifter."
"Tell me how I can help, and count me in to the limit," said Tresler,catching, in his eagerness, something of the other's manner ofexpression.
It was evident by the way the choreman's face lit up at his friend'swords that he had hoped for such support, but feared that he shouldnot get it. Joe Nelson was distinctly worldly wise, but with a heartof gold deep down beneath his wisdom. He had made no mistake in thisman whose sympathies he had succeeded in enlisting. He fullyunderstood that he was dealing with just a plain, honest man,otherwise he would have kept silence.
"Wal, I guess ther' ain't a deal to tell." The little man lookedstraight ahead toward the dark streak which marked the drop from theprairie land to the bed of the Mosquito River. "Still, it's li'ble tocome along right smart."
The man's suggestion puzzled Tresler, but he waited. His own mind wasclear as to what he personally intended, but it seemed to him that Joewas troubled with other thoughts besides the main object of hisdiscourse. And it was these very side issues that he was keen tolearn. However, whatever Joe thought, whatever confusion or perplexityhe might have been in, he suddenly returned to his main theme withgreat warmth of feeling.
"But when it comes, Tresler, you'll stand by? You'll plug hard ferher, jest as ef it was you he was tryin' to do up? You'll stop him?Say, you'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set yourown brand on her quick, eh? That's what I'm askin'."
"I see. Marry her, eh?"
"An' why not?" asked Joe quickly. "She's a heap too good fer you.Ther' ain't a feller breathin' amounts to a row o' beans aside o' her.But it's the on'y way to save her from Jake. You'll do it. Yes, sure,you'll do it. I ken see it in your face."
The little fellow was leaning over, peering up into Tresler's facewith anxious, almost fierce eyes. His emotion was intense, and at thatmoment a refusal would have driven him to despair.
"You are too swift for me, Joe," Tresler said quietly. But his toneseemed to satisfy his companion, for the latter sat back in his saddlewith a sigh of relief. "It takes the consent of two people to make amarriage. However," he went on, with deep earnestness, "I'll promiseyou this, Miss Marbolt shall never marry Jake unless it is her ownwish to do so. And, furthermore, she shall never lack a friend, readyto act on her behalf, while I am in the country."
"You've said it."
And the finality of Joe's tone brought silence.
In spite of the punishment he knew to be awaiting him, Joe was utterlyhappy. It was as though a weight, which had been oppressing him foryears, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He wouldcheerfully have ridden on to any terror ever conceived by the ruthlessJake. Diane's welfare--Diane's happiness; it was the key-note of hislife. He had watched. He knew. Tresler was willing enough to marryher, and she--he chuckled joyfully to himself.
"Jake ain't a dorg's chance--a yaller dorg's chance. When the'tenderfoot' gits good an' goin' he'll choke the life out o' MasterJake. Gee!"
And Tresler, too, was busy with his thoughts. Joe's suggestion hadbrought him face to face with hard fact, and, moreover, in a measure,he had pledged himself. Now he realized, after having listened to thelittle man's story, how much he had fallen in love with Diane. Joe, heknew, loved her as a father might love his child, or a gardener hisflowers; but his was the old, old story that brought him a delightsuch as he felt no one else had ever experienced. Yes, he knew now heloved Diane with all the strength of his powerful nature; and he knew,too, that there could be little doubt but that he had fallen a victimto the beautiful dark, sad face he had seen peering up at him frombeneath the straw sun-hat, at the moment of their first meeting. Wouldhe marry Diane? Ay--a thousand times ay--if she would have him. Butthere it was that he had more doubts than Joe. Would she marry him? heasked himself, and a chill damped the ardor of his thoughts.
And so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover;so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. So he becameabsorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the seriousissues which he felt, that, for his very love's sake, he should haveprobed deeply. So he rode on impervious to the keen, studious,sidelong glances wise old, drunken old Joe favored him with;impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman hadfanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to timeand distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered,called his attention to their arrival at the ranch.
"Say, boy," he observed, "that's the barn yonder. 'Fore we git ther'ther's jest one thing more. Jake's goin' to play his hand by force.Savee? Mebbe we've a notion o' that force--Miss Dianny an' me----"
"Yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, Joe. Developmentsmust be our cue. We can do nothing but wait and be ready. There's thesheriff----"
"Eh? Sheriff?" Joe swung round, and was peering up into Tresler'sface.
"Ah, I forgot." Tresler's expression was very thoughtful. They hadarrived at the barn, and were dismounting. "I was following out my owntrain of thought. I agree with you, Joe, Red Mask and his doings areat the bottom of this business." His voice had dropped now to a lowwhisper lest any one should chance to be around.
Without a word Joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him,fixed him up for the night. Tresler did the same for his mare. Thenthey came out together. At the door Joe paused.
"Say," he remarked simply, "I jest didn't know you wus that smart."
"Don't credit me with smartness. It's--poor little girl."
"Ah!" Joe's face twisted into his apish grin. "Say, you'll stick towhat you said?"
"Every word of it."
"Good; the rest's doin' itself, sure."
And they went their several ways; Joe to the kitchen of the house, andTresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse.
The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana Page 8
