The Big-Town Round-Up

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XXVI

  A LOCKED GATE

  Colin Whitford had been telling Clay the story of how a youngcowpuncher had snatched Beatrice from under the hoofs of a chargingsteer. His daughter and the Arizonan listened without comment.

  "I've always thought I'd like to explain to that young man I didn'tmean to insult him by offering money for saving Bee. But you see hedidn't give me any chance. I never did learn his name," concluded themining man.

  "And of course we'd like him to know that we appreciate what he did forme," Beatrice added. She looked at Clay, and a pulse beat in her softthroat.

  "I reckon he knows that," Lindsay suggested. "You must 'a' thought himmighty rude for to break away like you say he did."

  "We couldn't understand it till afterwards. Mr. Bromfield had slippedhim a fifty-dollar bill and naturally he resented it." Miss Whitford'sface bubbled with reminiscent mirth. She looked a question at Clay."What do you suppose that impudent young scalawag did with the fifty?"

  "Got drunk on it most likely."

  "He fed it to his horse. Clary was furious."

  "He would be," said the cattleman dryly, in spite of the bestintentions to be generous to his successful rival. "But I reckon Iknow why yore grand-stand friend in chaps pulled such a play. InArizona you can't square such things with money. So far as I can makeout the puncher didn't do anything to write home about, but he didn'twant pay for it anyhow."

  "Of course, Bromfield doesn't understand the West," said Whitford. "Iwouldn't like that young puncher half so well if he'd taken the money."

  "He didn't need to spoil a perfectly good fifty-dollar bill, though,"admitted Clay.

  "Yes, he did," denied Beatrice. "That was his protest againstClarendon's misjudgment of him. I've always thought it perfectlysplendid in its insolence. Some day I'm going to tell him so."

  "It happened in your corner of Arizona, Lindsay. If you ever find outwho the chap was I wish you'd let us know," Whitford said.

  "I'll remember."

  "If you young people are going riding--"

  "--We'd better get started. Quite right, Dad. We're off. Clarendonwill probably call up. Tell him I'll be in about four-thirty."

  She pinched her father's ear, kissed him on one ruddy cheek, then onthe other, and joined Clay at the door.

  They were friends again, had been for almost half an hour, even thoughthey had not yet been alone together, but their friendship was to holdreservations now. The shadow of Clarendon Bromfield rode between them.They were a little stiff with each other, not so casual as they hadbeen. A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyish_camaraderie_.

  After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk.

  Beatrice broke the ice of their commonplaces. She looked directly athim, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know how you're going to forgiveme, Clay. I've been awf'ly small and priggish. I hate to think I'mungenerous, but that's just what I've been."

  "Let's forget it," he said gently.

  "No, I don't want to forget--not till I've told you how humble I feelto-day. I might have trusted you. Why didn't I? It would have beeneasy for me to have taken your little friend in and made things rightfor her. That's what I ought to have done. But, instead of that--Oh,I hate myself for the way I acted."

  Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, touched him closely. It was inhis horoscope that the spell of this young Diana must be upon him.

  He put his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel of the saddle andgave it a slight pressure. "You're a good scout, li'l' pardner."

  But it was Beatrice's way to step up to punishment and take what wascoming. As a little girl, while still almost a baby, she had oncewalked up to her mother, eyes flashing with spirit, and pronouncedjudgment on herself. "I've tum to be spanked. I broke Claire's dollan' I'm glad of it, mean old fing. So there!" Now she was not goingto let the subject drop until she had freed her soul.

  "No, Clay, I've been a poor sportsman. When my friend needed me Ifailed him. It hurts me, because--oh, you know. When the test came Iwasn't there. One hates to be a quitter."

  Her humility distressed him, though he loved the spirit of her apology.

  "It's all right, Bee. Don't you worry. All friends misunderstand eachother, but the real ones clear things up."

  She had not yet told him the whole truth and she meant to make cleanconfession.

  "I've been a miserable little fool." She stopped with a little catchof the breath, flamed red, and plunged on. Her level eyes neverflinched from his. "I've got to out with it, Clay. You won'tmisunderstand, I know. I was jealous. I wanted to keep yourfriendship to myself--didn't want to share it with another girl.That's how mean I am."

  A warm smile lit his face. "I've sure enough found my friend againthis mo'nin'."

  Her smile met his. Then, lest barriers fall too fast between them, sheput her horse to a gallop.

  As they moved into the Park a snorting automobile leaped past them withmuffler open. The horse upon which Beatrice rode was a young one. Itgave instant signals of alarm, went sunfishing on its hind legs, camedown to all fours, and bolted.

  Beatrice kept her head. She put her weight on the reins with all thegrip of her small, strong hands. But the horse had the bit in itsteeth. She felt herself helpless, flying wildly down the road atincredible speed. Bushes and trees, the reeling road, a limousine, amounted policeman, all flew by her with blurred detail.

  She became aware of the rapid thud of hoofs behind, of a figure besideher riding knee to knee, of a brown hand taking hold of the rein closeto the bit. The speed slackened. The horses pounded to a halt.

  The girl found herself trembling. She leaned back in a haze ofdizziness against an arm which circled her shoulder and waist. Memoryleaped across the years to that other time when she had rested in hisarms, his heart beating against hers. In that moment of deepunderstanding of herself, Beatrice knew the truth beyond any doubt. Anew heaven and a new earth were waiting for her, but she could notenter them. For she herself had closed the gate and locked it fast.

  His low voice soothed and comforted her.

  "I'm all right," she told him.

  Clay withdrew his arm. "I'd report that fellow if I had his number,"he said. "You stick to yore saddle fine. You're one straight-uprider."

  "I'll ask Mr. Bromfield to give you fifty dollars' again," she laughednervously.

  That word _again_ stuck in his consciousness.

  "You've known me all along," he charged.

  "Of course I've known you--knew you when you stood on the steps afteryou had tied the janitor."

  "I knew you, too."

  "Why didn't you say so?"

  "Did you expect me to make that grand-stand play on the _parada_ aclaim on yore kindness? I didn't do a thing for you that day any manwouldn't have done. I happened to be the lucky fellow that got thechance. That's all. Come to that, it was up to you to do therecognizing if any was done. I had it worked out that you didn't knowme, but once or twice from things you said I almost thought you did."

  "I meant to tell you sometime, but--well, I wanted to see how long youcould keep from telling me. Now you've done it again."

  "I'd like to ride with you the rest of yore life," he said unexpectedly.

  They trembled on the edge of self-revelation. It was the girl whorescued them from the expression of their emotions.

  "I'll speak to Clary about it. Maybe he'll take you on as a groom,"she said with surface lightness.

  As soon as they reached home Beatrice led the way into the library.Bromfield was sitting there with her father. They were talking overplans for the annual election of officers of the Bird Cage MiningCompany. Whitford was the largest stockholder and Bromfield owned thenext biggest block. They controlled it between them.

  "Dad, Rob Roy bolted and Mr. Lindsay stopped him before I was thrown."

  Whitford rose, the color ebbing from his cheeks. "I've always told youthat brute
was dangerous. I'll offer him for sale to-day."

  "And I've discovered that we know the man who saved me from the wildsteer in Arizona. It was Mr. Lindsay."

  "Lindsay!" Whitford turned to him. "Is that right?"

  "It's correct."

  Colin Whitford, much moved, put a hand on the younger man's shoulder."Son, you know what I'd like to tell you. I reckon I can't say itright."

  "We'll consider it said, Mr. Whitford," answered Clay with his quick,boyish smile. "No use in spillin' a lot of dictionary words."

  "Why didn't you tell us?"

  "It was nothin' to brag about."

  Bromfield came to time with a thin word of thanks. "We're all greatlyin your debt, Mr. Lindsay."

  As the days passed the malicious jealousy of the New York clubmandeepened to a steady hatred. A fellow of ill-controlled temper, histhin-skinned vanity writhed at the condition which confronted him. Hewas engaged to a girl who preferred another and a better man, oneagainst whom he had an unalterable grudge. He recognized in theWesterner an eager energy, a clean-cut resilience, and an aboundingvitality he would have given a great deal to possess. His own earlymanhood had been frittered away in futile dissipations and he resentedbitterly the contrast between himself and Lindsay that must continuallybe present in the mind of the girl who had promised to marry him. Hehad many adventitious things to offer her--such advantages as moderncivilization has made desirable to hothouse women--but he could notgive the clean, splendid youth she craved. It was the price he hadpaid for many sybaritic pleasures he had been too soft to deny himself.

  With only a little more than two weeks of freedom before her, Beatricemade the most of her days. For the first time in her life she became acreature of moods. The dominant ones were rebellion, recklessness, andrepentance. While Bromfield waited and fumed she rode and tramped withClay. It was not fair to her affianced lover. She knew that. Butthere were times when she wanted to shriek as dressmakers and costumersfussed over her and wore out her jangled nerves with multitudinousdetails. The same hysteria welled up in her occasionally at theluncheons and dinners that were being given in honor of her approachingmarriage.

  It was not logical, of course. She was moving toward the destiny shehad chosen for herself. But there was an instinct in her, savage andprimitive, to hurt Bromfield because she herself was suffering. In theprivacy of her room she passed hours of tearful regret for these burstsof fierce insurrection.

  Ten days before the wedding Beatrice wounded his vanity flagrantly.Clarendon was giving an informal tea for her at his rooms. Half anhour before the time set, Beatrice got him on the wire and explainedthat her car was stalled with engine trouble two miles from Yonkers.

  "I'm awf'ly sorry, Clary," she pleaded. "We ought not to have come sofar. Please tell our friends I've been delayed, and--I won't do itagain."

  Bromfield hung up the receiver in a cold fury. He restrained himselffor the moment, made the necessary explanations, and went through withthe tea somehow. But as soon as his guests were gone he gave himselfup to his anger. He began planning a revenge on the man who no doubtwas laughing in his sleeve at him. He wanted the fellow exposed,discredited, and humiliated.

  But how? Walking up and down his room like a caged panther, Bromfieldremembered that Lindsay had other enemies in New York, powerful oneswho would be eager to cooperate with him in bringing about the man'sdownfall. Was it possible for him to work with them under cover? Ifso, in what way?

  Clarendon Bromfield was not a criminal, but a conventional member ofsociety. It was not in his mind or in his character to plot the murderor mayhem of his rival. What he wanted was a public disgrace, one thatwould blare his name out to the newspapers as a law-breaker. He wantedto sicken Beatrice and her father of their strange infatuation forLindsay.

  A plan began to unfold itself to him. It was one which called forexpert assistance. He looked up Jerry Durand, got him on thetelephone, and made an appointment to meet him secretly.