Out of the Depths

by Bennet, Robert Ames

“His guide? What caliber was his rifle?” shrewdly queried the cowman.

  “Why, I––really I cannot remember,” answered Ashton. “I know it was of a larger bore than mine, but that is all.”

  “Um-m,” considered Knowles. “Looks rather like he’s the man. Can’t think of anyone else. Trouble is, if he was laying in wait for you, his horse would be fresh. Must have covered a right smart bit of territory by now.”

  “I’ll go out and take a look at his tracks,” said Gowan, rising with a readiness that brought a nod of approval from his employer.

  “You’ll be careful, Kid,” cautioned the girl, with a shade of concern in her tone.

  “He’ll keep his eye open, Chuckie,” reassured her father. “It’s the other fellow wants to be careful, if he hasn’t already vamoosed. Hey, Kid?”

  “I’ll get him, if I get the chance,” laconically replied Gowan, looking from the girl to Ashton with the characteristic straightening of his lips that marked the tensing of his emotions.

  As he left the room Miss Isobel smiled and nodded to Ashton. “You see how friendly he is, in spite of his cold manner to strangers. I thought he had taken a dislike to you, yet you saw how readily he offered to go out after your assailant.”

  “More likely it’s because he thinks it would discredit us to let such a scoundrel get away,” differed her father. “However, he’ll leave you alone, Mr. Ashton, if you stay with us as a guest, and will only haze you a bit, if you insist upon joining our force.”

  “You mean, working for you? I must insist on that,” said Ashton, with an eager look at the girl. “If only I can do well enough to be employed right along!”

  The cowman grunted, and winked solemnly at his daughter. “Yes, I can understand your feeling that way. How about the winter, though? You mayn’t like it over here so well then.”

  Ashton flushed and laughed at the older man’s shrewdness; hesitated, and confessed candidly: “No, I should prefer Denver in winter.”

  Miss Isobel blushed in adorable payment of his compliment, but thrust back at him: “We bar cowboys in the Sacred Thirty-six.”

  He winced. Her stroke had pierced into his raw wound.

  “Oh!––oh!” she breathlessly exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to––Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  He dashed the tears from his eyes. “No, you––don’t apologize! It’s only that I’m––Please don’t fancy I’m a baby! You see, when a fellow has always lived high––on top, you know––and then to have everything go out from under him without warning!”

  “Keep a stiff upper lip, son,” advised Knowles. “You’ll pull through all right. It isn’t everyone in your fix that would be asking for work.”

  Ashton laughed a trifle unsteadily. “It’s very kind of you to say that, Mr. Knowles. I––I wish a steady position, winter as well as summer.”

  “How about Denver?” asked Knowles.

  “That can wait,” replied Ashton. He met the girl’s smile of approval, and rallied fully. “Yes, that can wait––and so can I.”

  Again the girl blushed, but she found a bantering rejoinder: “With you and Kid and Daddy all waiting for me to come home, I suppose I’ll have to cut the season short.”

  “The winters here are like those you read about up at the North Pole,” the cowman informed Ashton. “But we get our sunshine back along in the spring.”

  “Oh, Daddy! you’re a poet!” cried his daughter, flinging her arm around his sunburnt neck.

  “Wish I were one!” enviously sighed Ashton. The cowman gave him a look that brought him to his feet. “Mr. Knowles,” he hastened to ask, “if you’ll kindly tell me what my work is to be this afternoon.”

  The older man’s frown relaxed. “Did you come out here from Stockchute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think you could find your way back?”

  “Why, yes; though we wandered all around––But surely, Mr. Knowles, you’ll not require me––”

  “I want a man to ride over with some letters and fetch the mail. I’ll need Gowan for work you can’t do. Chuckie was to have gone; but I can’t let her now, until we’re more sure about that man who shot at you.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, have you got the nerve, in case the man is loose over that way?”

  Ashton’s eyes flashed. “I’ll go! Perhaps I’ll get another crack at the scoundrel.”

  “Keep cool. It’s ninety-nine chances in the hundred he’s on the run and’ll keep going all week.”

  “Shall I start now? As we came by a very roundabout way––We went first in the opposite direction, and then skirted High Mesa down from the mountains. So, you see, I may have a little difficulty––”

  “No you won’t. There’s our wagon trail. Even if you got off that, all you’d have to do would be to keep headed for Split Peak. That’s right in line with Stockchute. But you’ll not start till morning. I haven’t got all my letters written. That’ll give you all day to go and come. It’s only twenty-five miles over there. Chuckie, you show this new puncher of ours over the place, while I write those letters.”

  “I’ll start teaching him how to throw a rope,” volunteered the girl.

  She led the way out through a daintily furnished front room, in which Ashton observed an upright piano and other articles of culture that he would never have expected to come upon in this remote section. In passing, the girl picked up a wide-brimmed lacy hat.

  Once outside, she first took Ashton for a walk up Plum Creek to where half a dozen men were at work with a mowing machine and horse rakes making hay of the rich bunch-grass.

  “Daddy feeds all he can in winter,” she explained. “The spring when I first came back from Denver I cried so over the starving cattle that he promised to always afterwards cut and stack all the hay he could. And he has found it pays to feed well. We would put a lot of land into oats, but, as you see, there’s not enough water in the creek.”

  “That’s where an irrigation system would come in,” remarked Ashton.

  “Oh, I hope you don’t think it possible to water our mesa!” she cried. “I told you how it would break up our range.”

  “I assure you, I don’t think at all,” he replied. “I’m not a reclamation engineer––never specialized on hydraulics.”

  She flashed an odd look at him. “You never? But Mr. Blake––that wonderful engineer of the Zariba Dam––he would know, wouldn’t he?”

  “I––suppose he would––that is, if he––” Ashton hesitated, and exclaimed, “But that’s just it!”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Why, to––to have him come here. He’s the luckiest for blundering on ways to do things,” muttered Ashton. He added with growing bitterness: “Yes, if there’s any way at all to do it, you’d have him flooding your whole range––deluging it. He’s got all those millions to back him.”

  “You do not like him,” said the girl. She looked off towards High Mesa, her face glowing with suppressed excitement. “No doubt you are right––as to his ability. But––don’t you see?––if it can be done, it is bound to be done sooner or later. All the time Daddy and I––and Kid, too––are living under this constant dread that it may be possible. But if such an engineer as––as Mr. Blake came and looked over the situation and told us we needn’t fear––don’t you see how––?”

  “You don’t mean that you––?” Ashton, in turn, left his question unfinished and averted his face.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m sure it will be best to put an end to this uncertainty. So I believe I shall send for––for Mr. Blake.”

  “But––why for––for him––in particular?” he stammered.

  “I am sorry you dislike him,” she said, regaining her composure when she saw that he too was agitated.

  He did not reply. She tactfully changed the subject. By the time they had circled around, back to the half open feed-sheds, he was gayly chatting with her on music and the drama. When they came down to the horse corral she pr
oceeded to lecture him on the duties of a cowboy and showed him how to hold and throw a rope. Under her skillful tuition, he at last learned the knack of casting an open noose.

  Evening was near when they returned to the house. As before, they caught Knowles in the front porch contentedly puffing at his pipe. He dropped it down out of sight. The girl shook her finger at him, nodded to Ashton, and went indoors. Immediately the cowman put his pipe back into his mouth and drew another from his pocket, together with an unopened sack of tobacco.

  “Smoke?” he asked.

  Ashton’s eyes gleamed. In the girl’s presence he had been able to restrain the fierce craving that had tortured him since dinner. Now it so overmastered him that he almost snatched the pipe and tobacco out of the cowman’s hand. The latter gravely shook his head.

  “Got it that bad, have you?” he deplored.

  Ashton could not answer until his pipe was well under way.

  “I’m––I’m breaking off,” he replied. “Haven’t had a cigarette all day––nor anything else. A-ah!”

  “Glad you like it,” said Knowles. “A pipe is all right with this kind of tobacco. You can’t inhale it like you can cigarettes, unless you want to strangle.”

  “I shall break off entirely as soon as I can,” asserted Ashton.

  “Well,” considered Knowles, “I’m not saying you can’t or won’t. It’s mighty curious what a young fellow can do to please a pretty girl. Just the same, I’d say from the color of Kid’s fingers that he hasn’t forgotten how to roll a fat Mexican cigaretto.––Hello! ‘Talk of the devil––’ Here he comes now.”

  Gowan came around the corner of the house, his spurs jingling. His eyes were as cold and his face as emotionless as usual.

  “Well?” asked Knowles. “Have a seat.”

  “Didn’t get him,” reported Gowan, dropping into a chair. “Near as I could make out, he cut straight across for the railroad, on the jump.”

  “Then it must have been that guide!” exclaimed Ashton.

  “Looks that way,” added Knowles. “Glad of it. We won’t see him again, unless you want to notify the sheriff, when you ride over tomorrow.”

  “No, oh, no. I am satisfied to be rid of him.”

  “If he don’t come back,” remarked Gowan.

  “He won’t,” predicted Knowles.

  “Well, not for a time maybe,” agreed Gowan.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VIII

  A MAN’S SIZE HORSE

  At dusk the sonorous boom of a Japanese gong gave warning of the approach of the supper hour. A few minutes later a second booming summoned all in to the meal. Miss Isobel sat at one end of the table; her father at the other. Along the sides were the employés, Ashton and Gowan at the corners nearest the girl. A large coal oil lamp with an artistic shade cast a pink light on the clean white oilcloth of the table and the simple tasteful table service.

  Yuki, the silent Jap, served all with strict impartiality, starting with the mistress of the house and going around the table in regular succession, either one way or the other. The six rough-appearing haymakers used their knives with a freedom to which Ashton was unaccustomed, but their faces were clean, their behavior quiet, and their occasional remarks by no means inapt.

  After the meal they wished Miss Knowles a pleasant “Good-night,” and left for the bunkhouse. But Ashton and Gowan, at the smiling invitation of the girl, followed her into the front room. Knowles came in a few minutes later and, with scarcely a glance at the young people, settled down beside a tableful of periodicals and magazines to study the latest Government report on the reclamation service.

  Ashton had entered the “parlor” under the impression that here he would have Gowan at a disadvantage. To his surprise, the puncher proved to be quite at ease; his manners were correct and his conversation by no means provincial. A moment’s reflection showed Ashton that this could not well be otherwise, in view of the young fellow’s intimacy with Miss Chuckie Isobel.

  Another surprise was the discovery that Gowan had a remarkably good ear for music and knew even more than the girl about the masters and their works. There was a player attachment to the piano, and the girl and Gowan had a contest, playing the same selections in turn, to see which could get the most expression by means of the mechanical apparatus. If anything, the girl came out second best. At least she said so; but Ashton would not admit it.

  Between times the three chatted on a thousand and one topics, the girl always ready to bubble over with animation and merriment. She bestowed her dimpled smiles on both her admirers with strict impartiality and as impartially stimulated each to his best with her tact and gay wit.

  At nine o’clock sharp Knowles closed his report and rose from his comfortable seat.

  “Time to turn in, boys. Coal oil costs more than sunlight,” he announced, in the flat tone of a standing joke. “We’ll take a jog down creek to the Bar-Lazy-J ranch, first thing tomorrow, Kid.––Ashton, you’d better start off in the cool, before sunup. Here’s my bunch of letters, case I might forget them.”

  He handed over half a dozen thinly padded envelopes. Gowan was already at the door, hat in hand.

  “Good night, Mr. Knowles. Good night, Miss Chuckie. Pleasant dreams!” he said.

  “Same to you, Kid!” replied the girl.

  “May I give and receive the same?” asked Ashton.

  “Of course,” she answered. “But wait a moment, please. I’ve some letters to go, myself, if you’ll kindly take them with Daddy’s.”

  As she darted into a side room, Knowles stepped out after Gowan. When the girl returned, Ashton took the letters that she held out to him and deliberately started to tie them in a packet with those of her father. His sole purpose was to prolong his stay to the last possible moment. But inadvertently his eye caught the name “Blake” on one of the envelopes. His smile vanished; his jaw dropped.

  “Why, Mr. Ashton, what is the matter?” said the girl.

  “I––I beg your pardon,” he replied. “I did not realize that––But it’s too absurd––it can’t be! You did not mean what you said this afternoon. It can’t be you’re writing to that man to come here.”

  “I am,” she replied.

  “But you can’t––you must not. He’s the very devil for doing impossible things. He’ll be sure to turn loose a flood on you––drown you out––destroy your range!”

  “If it can be done, the sooner we know it the better,” she argued. “Daddy says little, but it is becoming a monomania with him––the dread. I wish to put an end to his suspense. Besides, if––if this Mr. Blake is as remarkable as you and the reports say he is, it will be interesting to meet him. My only fear is that so great an engineer will not think it worth while to come to this out-of-the-way section.”

  “The big four-flusher!” muttered Ashton.

  “How you must dislike him! It makes me all the more curious to see him.”

  “Does your father know about this letter?” queried Ashton.

  “You forget yourself, sir,” she said.

  Meeting her level gaze, he flushed crimson with mortification. He stood biting his lip, unable to speak.

  She went on coldly: “I do not ask you to tell me the cause of your hatred for Mr. Blake. I assume that you are a gentleman and will not destroy my letter. But even if you should do so, it would mean only a short delay. I shall write him again if I receive no reply to this.”

  Ashton’s flush deepened. “I did not think you could be so hard. But––I presume I deserved it.”

  “Yes, you did,” she agreed, with no lessening of her coldness.

  “I see you will not accept an apology, Miss Knowles. However, I give you my word that I will deliver your letter to the postmaster at Stockchute.”

  He started out, very stiff and erect. As he passed through the doorway she suddenly relented and called after him: “Good night, Mr. Ashton! Pleasant dreams!”

  He wheeled and would have stepped back to reply had not Knowles spoken t
o him from the darkness at the end of the porch: “This way, Ashton. Kid is waiting to show you to the bunkhouse. You’ll find a clean bunk and new blankets. I’ve also issued you corduroy pants and a pair of leather chaps from the commissary. Those city riding togs aren’t hardly the thing on the range. There’s a spare saddle, if you want to change off from yours.”

  “Thank you for the other things; but I prefer my own saddle,” replied Ashton.

  He now perceived the dim form of Gowan starting off in the starlight, and followed him to the bunkhouse. The other men were already in their beds, fast asleep and half of them snoring. Gowan silently lit a lantern and showed the tenderfoot to an unoccupied bunk in the far corner of the rough but clean building. After a curt request for Ashton to blow out the lantern when through with the light, he withdrew, to tumble into a bunk near the door.

  Ashton removed twice as many garments as had the puncher, and slipped in between his fresh new blankets, after several minutes spent in finding out how to extinguish the lantern. For some time he lay listening. He had often read of the practical jokes that cowboys are supposed always to play on tenderfeet. But the steady concert of the snoring sleepers was unbroken by any horseplay. Presently he, too, fell asleep.

  He was wakened by a general stir in the bunkhouse. Day had not yet come, but by the light of a lantern near the door he could see his fellow employés passing out. He dressed as hastily as he could in his gloomy corner, putting on his new trousers and the stiff leather chapareras in place of his breeches and leggings. Gowan came in, glanced at him with a trace of surprise, and went out with the lantern.

  Ashton followed to the house and around into the side porch. The other men were making their morning toilets by lantern light, each drying face and hands on his own towel. Ashton and Gowan waited their turn at the basins, and together went into the lamplit dining-room, where the Jap cook was serving bacon, coffee, and hot bread. Ashton lingered over his meal, hoping to see Miss Isobel. But neither she nor her father appeared.

  Gowan had gone out with the other men. Presently he came back to the side door and remarked in almost a friendly tone: “Your hawss is ready whenever you are, Ashton.”