Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER II

  DESOLATION

  Ten miles out on the prairies,--not lands plane as a table, as they areusually pictured, but rolling like the sea with waves of tremendousamplitude--stood a rough shack, called by courtesy a house. Like many amore pretentious domicile, it was of composite construction, althoughconsisting of but one room. At the base was the native prairie sod,piled tier upon tier. Above this the superstructure, like the bar ofMick Kennedy's resort, was of warping cottonwood. Built out from thissingle room and forming a part of it was what the designer had called awoodshed; but as no tree the size of a man's wrist was within ten miles,or a railroad within fifty, the term was manifestly a misnomer. Wood inany form it had never contained; instead, it was filled with thatprovidential fuel of the frontiersman, found superabundantly upon theranges,--buffalo chips.

  From the main room there was another and much smaller opening into thesod foundation, and below it,--a dog-kennel. Slightly apart from theshack stood a twin structure even less assuming, its walls and roofbeing wholly built of sod. It was likewise without partition, and wasused as a barn. Hard by was a corral covering perhaps two acres,enclosed with a barbed-wire fence. These three excrescences upon theface of nature comprised the "improvements" of the "Big B Ranch."

  Within the house the furnishings accorded with their surroundings. Twofolding bunks, similar in conception to the upper berths of a Pullmancar, were built end to end against the wall; when they were raised togive room, four supports dangled beneath like paralyzed arms. Ahome-made table, suggesting those scattered about country picnicgrounds, a few cheap chairs, a row of chests and cupboards variouslyremodelled from a common foundation of dry-goods boxes, and a stove,ingeniously evolved out of the cylinder and head of a portable engine,comprised the furniture.

  The morning sunlight which dimmed the candles of Mick Kennedy's saloondrifted through the single high-set window of the Big B Ranch-house,revealing there a very different scene. From beneath the quilts in oneof the folding bunks appeared the faces of a woman and a little boy. Atthe opening of the dog-kennel the head of a mottled yellow-and-whitemongrel dog projected into the room, the sensitive muzzle pointingdirectly at the occupied bunk. The eyes of woman, child, and beast wereopen and moved restlessly about.

  "Mamma," and the small boy wriggled beneath the clothes, "Mamma, I'mhungry."

  The white face of the woman turned away, more pallid than before. Anunfamiliar observer would have been at a loss to guess the age of theowner. In that haggard, non-committal countenance there was nothing toindicate whether she was twenty-five or forty.

  "It is early yet, son. Go to sleep."

  The boy closed his eyes dutifully, and for perhaps five minutes therewas silence; then the blue orbs opened wider than before.

  "Mamma, I can't go to sleep. I'm hungry!"

  "Never mind, Benjamin. The horses, the rabbits, the birds,--all gethungry sometimes." A hacking cough interrupted her words. "Snuggle closeup to me, little son, and keep warm."

  "But, mamma, I want something to eat. Won't you get it for me?"

  "I can't, son."

  He waited a moment. "Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?"

  The eyes of the mother moistened.

  "Mamma," the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder,"won't you let me help myself?"

  "There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all."

  The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered.

  "Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?"

  "Because there isn't, bubby."

  The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without furtherparley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain.

  "It's cold, mamma," he announced. "Aren't you going to build a fire?"

  Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her cheeks.

  "No," she answered with a sigh.

  "Why not, mamma?"

  There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice,although it was clearly an effort to speak.

  "I can't get up this morning, little one."

  Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to theoccasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment wasstepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor.

  "I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma," he announced.

  The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance, andwith his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but thewoman spoke no word. With impassive face she watched the shiveringlittle figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerityborn of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hithertounthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving hiswork he came back to the bunk.

  "Are you sick, mamma?" he asked.

  Instantly the woman's face softened.

  "Yes, laddie," she answered gently.

  Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at hismother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work.

  "You must have it warm here," he said.

  Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily didhe return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he lookeddown with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had itbeen less pathetic.

  "Are you very sick, mamma?" he said at last, hesitatingly.

  "I am dying, little son." She spoke calmly and impersonally, withouteven a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tatteredcover, did not stir.

  "Mamma!" the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over thebed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white.

  At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously.Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the actionbrought no response. Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine,long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence.

  The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but theuncannily aged face seemed older than before. He went over to a pegwhere his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment thatanswered as an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough, quicklymuffled; but he did not turn. Cap followed coat, mittens cap; then,suddenly remembering, he turned to the stove and scattered fresh chipsupon the glowing embers.

  "Good-bye, mamma," said the boy.

  The mother had been watching him, although she gave no sign. "Where areyou going, sonny?" she asked.

  "To town, mamma. Someone ought to know you're sick."

  There was a moment's pause, wherein the mongrel whined impatiently.

  "Aren't you going to kiss me first, Benjamin?"

  The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his lips touchedthose of his mother. As he did so, the hand which had lain upon thecoverlet shifted to his arm detainingly.

  "How were you thinking of going, son?"

  A look of surprise crept into the boy's blue eyes. A question like this,with its obvious answer, was unusual from his matter-of-fact mother. Heglanced at her gravely.

  "I'm going afoot, mamma."

  "It's ten miles to town, Benjamin."

  "But you and I walked it once together. Don't you remember?"

  An expression the lad did not understand flashed over the white face ofJennie Blair. Well she remembered that other occasion, one of many likethe present, when she and the little lad had gone in company to thesettlement of which Mick Kennedy's place was a part, in search ofsomeone whom after ten hours' delay they had succeeded in bringinghome,--the remnant and vestige of what was once a man.

  "Yes, I know we did, Bennie."

  The boy waited a moment longer, then straightened himself.

  "I think I'd better be starting now."

  But instead of loosening its hold, the hand upon the boy's shouldertightened. The eyes of the two met.

  "You're not going, sonny. I'm glad you thought of it, but I can't letyou go."

&
nbsp; Again there was silence for so long that the waiting dog, impatient ofthe delay, whined in soft protest.

  "Why not, mamma?"

  "Because, Benjamin, it's too late now. Besides, there wouldn't be aperson there who would come out to help me."

  The boy's look of perplexity returned.

  "Not if they knew you were very sick, mamma?"

  "Not if they knew I was dying, my son."

  The boy took off hat, mittens, and coat, and returned them to theirplaces. Never in his short life had he questioned a statement of hismother's, and such heresy did not occur to him now. Coming back to thebunk, he laid his cheek caressingly beside hers.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, mamma?" he whispered.

  "Nothing but what you are doing now, laddie."

  Tired of standing, the mongrel dropped within his tracks flat upon hisbelly, and, his head resting upon his fore-paws, lay watching intently.

  * * * * *

  When the door of Mick Kennedy's saloon closed with an emphasis thatshook the very walls, it shut out a being more ferocious, more evil,than any beast of the jungle. For the time, Blair's alcohol-saturatedbrain evolved but one chain of thought, was capable of but oneemotion--hate. Every object in the universe, from its Creator tohimself, fell under the ban. The language of hate is curses; and as hemoved out over the prairie there dripped from his lips continuously,monotonously, a trickling, blighting stream of malediction. Swaying,stumbling, unconscious of his physical motions, instinct kept him uponthe trail; a Providence, sometimes kindest to those least worthy,preserved him from injury.

  Half way out he met a solitary Indian astride a faded-looking mustang,and the current of his wrath was temporarily diverted by a surly "How!"Even this measure of friendliness was regretted when the big revolvercame out of the rancher's holster like a flash, and, head low on theneck of the mustang, heels in the little beast's ribs, the aborigineretreated with a yell, amid a shower of ill-aimed bullets. Long afterthe figure on the pony had passed out of range, Blair stood pulling atthe trigger of the empty repeater and cursing louder than before becauseit would not "pop."

  Two hours later, when it was past noon, an uncertain hand lifted thewooden latch of the Big B Ranch-house door, and, heralded by an inrushof cold outside air, Tom Blair, master and dictator, entered his domain.The passage of time, the physical exercise, and the prairie air, hadsomewhat cleared his brain. Just within the room, he paused and lookedabout him with surprise. With premonition of impending trouble, themongrel bristled the yellow hair of his neck, and, retreating to themouth of his kennel, stood guard; but otherwise the scene was to adetail as it had been in the morning. The woman lay passive within thebunk. The child by her side, holding her hand, did not turn. The veryatmosphere of the place tingled with an ominous quiet,--a silence suchas one who has lived through a cyclone connects instinctively with awhirling oncoming black funnel.

  The new-comer was first to make a move. Walking over to the centre ofthe room, he stopped and looked upon his subjects.

  "Well, of all the infernally lazy people I ever saw!" he commented, "youbeat them, Jennie! Get up and cook something to eat; it's way afternoon, and I'm hungry."

  The woman said nothing, but the boy slid to his feet, facing theintruder.

  "Mamma's sick and can't get up," he explained as impersonally as to astranger. "Besides, there isn't anything to cook. She said so."

  The man's brow contracted into a frown.

  "Speak when you're spoken to, young upstart!" he snapped. "Out with you,Jennie! I don't want to be monkeyed with to-day!"

  He hung up his coat and cap, and loosened his belt a hole; but no oneelse in the room moved.

  "Didn't you hear me?" he asked, looking warningly toward the bunk.

  "Yes," she replied.

  Autocrat under his own roof, the man paused in surprise. Never beforehad a command here been disobeyed. He could scarcely believe his ownsenses.

  "You know what to do, then," he said sharply.

  For the first time a touch of color came into the woman's cheeks, andcatching the man's eyes she looked into them unfalteringly.

  "Since when did I become your slave, Tom Blair?" she asked slowly.

  The words were a challenge, the tone was that of some wild thing,wounded, cornered, staring death in the face, but defiant to the end."Since when did you become my owner, body and soul?"

  Any sportsman, any being with a fragment of admiration for even animalcourage, would have held aloof then. It remained for this man, bred amidhigh civilization, who had spent years within college halls, to strikethe prostrate. As in the frontier saloon, so now his hand wentinvoluntarily to his throat, clutched at the binding collar until thebutton flew; then, as before, his face went white.

  "Since when!" he blazed, "since when! I admire your nerve to ask thatquestion of me! Since six years ago, when you first began living withme. Since the day when you and the boy,--and not a preacher within ahundred miles--" Words, a flood of words, were upon his lips; butsuddenly he stopped. Despite the alcohol still in his brain, despite theeffort he made to continue, the gaze of the woman compelled silence.

  "You dare recall that memory, Tom Blair?" The words came more slowlythan before, and with an intensity that burned them into the hearer'smemory. "You dare, knowing what I gave up for your sake!" The eyesblazed afresh, the dark head was raised on the pillows. "You know thatmy son stands listening, and yet you dare throw my coming to you in myface?"

  White to the lips went the scarred visage of the man, but the madnesswas upon him.

  "I dare?" To his own ears the voice sounded unnatural. "I dare? To besure I dare! You came to me of your own free-will. You were not achild!" His voice rose and the flush returned to his face. "You knew theprice and accepted it deliberately,--deliberately, I say!"

  Without a sound, the figure in the rough bunk quivered and stiffened;the hand upon the coverlet was clenched until the nails grew white, thenit relaxed. Slowly, very slowly, the eyelids closed as though in sleep.

  Impassive but intent listener, an instinct now sent the boy Benjaminback to his post.

  "Mamma," he said gently. "Mamma!"

  There was no answer, nor even a responsive pressure of the hand.

  "Mamma!" he repeated more loudly. "Mamma! Mamma!"

  Still no answer, only the limp passivity. Then suddenly, although neverbefore in his short life had the little lad looked upon death, herecognized it now. His mamma, his playmate, his teacher, was like this;she would not speak to him, would not answer him; she would never speakto him or smile upon him again! Like a thunderclap came the realizationof this. Then another thought swiftly followed. This man,--one who hadsaid things that hurt her, that brought the red spots to hercheeks,--this man was to blame. Not in the least did he understand themeaning of what he had just heard. No human being had suggested to himthat Blair was the cause of his mother's death; but as surely as hewould remember their words as long as he lived, so surely did herecognize the man's guilt. Suddenly, as powder responds to the spark,there surged through his tiny body a terrible animal hate for this man,and, scarcely realizing the action, he rushed at him.

  "She's dead and you killed her!" he screamed. "Mamma's dead, dead!" andthe little doubled fists struck at the man's legs again and again.

  Oblivious to the onslaught, Tom Blair strode over to the bunk.

  "Jennie," he said, not unkindly, "Jennie, what's the matter?"

  Again there was no response, and a shade of awe crept into the man'svoice.

  "Jennie! Jennie! Answer me!" A hand fell upon the woman's shoulder andshook it, first gently, then roughly. "Answer me, I say!"

  With the motion, the head of the dead shifted upon the pillow and turnedtoward the man, and involuntarily he loosened his grasp. He had noteaten for twenty-four hours, and in sudden weakness he made his way toone of the rough chairs, and sat down, his face buried in his hands.

  Behind him the boy Benjamin, his sudden hot passion over, s
tood watchingintently,--his face almost uncanny in its lack of childishness.

  For a time there was absolute silence, the hush of a death-chamber; thenof a sudden the boy was conscious that the man was looking at him in away he had never looked before. Deep down below our consciousness, farbeneath the veneer of civilization, there is an instinct, relic of thevigilant savage days, that warns us of personal danger. By this instinctthe lad now interpreted the other's gaze, and knew that it meant ill forhim. For some reason which he could not understand, this man, this biganimal, was his mortal enemy; and, in the manner of smaller animals, hebegan to consider an avenue of escape.

  "Ben," spoke the man, "come here!"

  Tom Blair was sober now, and wore a look of determination upon his facethat few had ever seen there before; but to his surprise the boy did notrespond. He waited a moment, and then said sharply:

  "Ben, I'm speaking to you. Come here at once!"

  For answer there was a tightening of the lad's blue eyes and an addedwatchfulness in the incongruously long childish figure; but that wasall.

  Another lagging minute passed, wherein the two regarded each othersteadily. The man's eyes dropped first.

  "You little devil!" he muttered, and the passion began showing in hisvoice. "I believe you knew what I was thinking all the time! Anyway,you'll know now. You said awhile ago that I was to blame for your motherbeing--as she is. You're liable to say that again." A horror greaterthan sudden passion was in the deliberate explanation and in the slowway he rose to his feet. "I'm going to fix you so you can't say itagain, you old-man imp!"

  Then a peculiar thing happened. Instead of running away, the boy took astep forward, and the man paused, scarcely believing his eyes. Anotherstep forward, and yet another, came the diminutive figure, until almostwithin the aggressor's reach; then suddenly, quick as a cat, it veered,dropped upon all fours to the floor, and head first, scrambling like arabbit, disappeared into the open mouth of the dog-kennel.

  Too late the man saw the trick, and curses came to his lips,--curses fitfor a fiend, fit for the irresponsible being he was. He himself hadbuilt that kennel. It extended in a curve eight feet into the solid sodfoundation, and to get at the spot where the boy now lay he would haveto tear down the house itself. The temper which had made the man what henow was, a drunkard and fugitive in a frontier country, took possessionof him wholly, and with it came a madman's cunning; for at a suddenthought he stopped, and the cursing tongue was silent. Five minuteslater he left the place, closing the door carefully behind him; butbefore that time a red jet of flame, like the ravenous tongue of afamished beast, was lapping at a hastily assembled pile of tinder-dryfurniture in one corner of the shanty.