by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER TEN
ANOTHER SAWTOOTH "ACCIDENT"
Frank Johnson rose from the breakfast table, shaved a splinter off theedge of the water bench for a toothpick and sharpened it carefully whilehe looked at Brit.
"You goin' after them posts, or shall I?" he inquired glumly, which, bythe way, was his normal tone. "Jim and Sorry oughta git the post holesall dug to-day. One of us better take a look through that young stock inthe lower field, too, and see if there's any more sign uh blackleg.Which you ruther do?"
Brit tilted his chair backward so that he could reach the coffeepot onthe stove hearth. "I'll haul down the posts," he decided carelessly."They're easy loaded, and I guess my back's as good as yourn."
"All you got to do is skid 'em down off'n the bank onto the wagon,"Frank said. "I wisht you'd go on up where we cut them last ones and gitmy sweater, Brit. I musta left it hanging on a bush right close to whereI was workin'."
Brit's grunt signified assent, and Frank went out. Jim and Sorry, thetwo unpicturesque cowboys of whom Lorraine had complained to the cat hadalready departed with pick and shovel to their unromantic task ofdigging post holes. Each carried a most unattractive lunch tied in aflour sack behind the cantle of his saddle. Lorraine had done herconscientious best, but with lumpy, sour-dough bread, cold bacon andcurrant jelly of that kind which is packed in wooden kegs, one can't domuch with a cold lunch. Lorraine wondered how much worse it would lookafter it had been tied on the saddle for half a day; wondered too whatthose two silent ones got out of life,--what they looked forward to,what was their final goal. For that matter she frequently wondered whatthere was in life for any of them, shut into that deadly monotony ofsagebrush and rocks interspersed with little, grassy meadows where thecattle fed listlessly.
Even the sinister undercurrent of antagonism against the Quirt could notwhip her emotions feeling that she was doing anything more than livethe restricted, sordid little life of a poorly equipped ranch. She hadridden once with Frank Johnson to look through a bunch of cattle, but ithad been nothing more than a hot, thirsty, dull ride, with a wind thatblew her hat off in spite of pins and tied veil, and with a companionwho spoke only when he was spoken to and then as briefly as possible.
Her father would not talk again as he had talked that night. She hadtried to make him tell her more about the Sawtooth and had gottennothing out of him. The man from Whisper, whom Brit had spoken of as Al,had not returned. Nor had the promised saddle horse materialized. Theboys were too busy to run in any horses, her father had told her shortlywhen she reminded him of his promise. When the fence was done, maybe hecould rustle her another horse,--and then he had added that he didn'tsee what ailed Yellowjacket, for all the riding she was likely to do.
"Straight hard work and minding your own business," her father had said,and it seemed to Lorraine after three or four days of it that he hadsummed up the life of a cattleman's daughter in a masterly manner whichought to be recorded among Famous Sayings like "War is hell" and "Don'tgive up the ship."
On this particular morning Lorraine's spirits were at their lowest ebb.If it were not for the new stepfather, she would return to the CasaGrande, she told herself disgustedly. And if it were not for the beliefamong all her acquaintances that she was queening it over thecattle-king's vast domain, she would return and find work again inmotion pictures. But she could not bring herself to the point of facingthe curiosity and the petty gossip of the studios. She would be expectedto explain satisfactorily why she had left the real West for the mimicWest of Hollywood. She did not acknowledge to herself that she alsocould not face the admission of failure to carry out what she had begun.
She had told her dad that she wanted to fight with him, even though"fighting" in this case meant washing the coarse clothing of her fatherand Frank, scrubbing the rough, warped boards of the cabin floor, andfrying ranch-cured bacon for every meal, and in making butter to sell,and counting the eggs every night and being careful to use only thecracked ones for cooking.
She hated every detail of this crude housekeeping, from the chippedenamel dishpan to the broom that was all one-sided, and the pillow slipswhich were nothing more nor less than sugar sacks. She hated it evenmore than she had hated the Casa Grande and her mother's frowsymentality. But because she could see that she made life a little morecomfortable for her dad, because she felt that he needed her, she wouldstay and assure herself over and over that she was staying merelybecause she was too proud to go back to the old life and own the West afailure.
She was sweeping the doorstep with the one-sided broom when Brit droveout through the gate and up the trail which she knew led eventually toSugar Spring. The horses, sleek in their new hair and skittish with thechange from hay to new grass, danced over the rough ground so that therunning gear of the wagon, with its looped log-chain, which would laterdo duty as a brake on the long grade down from timber line on the sideof Spirit Canyon, rattled and banged over the rocks with a clatter thatcould be heard for half a mile. Lorraine looked after her fatherenviously. If she were a boy she would be riding on that sack of haytied to the "hounds" for a seat. But, being a girl, it had neveroccurred to Brit that she might like to go,--might even be useful tohim on the trip.
"I suppose if I told dad I could drive that team as well as he can, he'djust look at me and think I was crazy," she thought resentfully and gavethe broom a spiteful fling toward a presumptuous hen that had approachedtoo closely. "If I'd asked him to let me go along he'd have made someexcuse--oh, I'm beginning to know dad! He thinks a woman's place is inthe house--preferably the kitchen. And here I've thought all my lifethat cowgirls did nothing but ride around and warn people about stageholdups and everything! I'd just like to know how a girl would ever havea chance to know what was going on in the country, unless she heard themen talking while she poured their coffee. Only this bunch don't talk atall. They just gobble and go."
She went in then and shut the door with a slam. Up on the ridge AlWoodruff lowered his small binocular and eased away from the spot wherehe had been crouching behind a bush. Every one on the Quirt ranch wasaccounted for. As well as if he had sat at their breakfast table Al knewwhere each man's work would take him that day. As for the girl, she wassafe at the ranch for the day, probably. If she did take a ride lateron, it would probably be up the ridge between the Quirt and Thurman'sranch, and sit for an hour or so just looking. That ride was beginningto be a habit of hers, Al had observed, so that he considered heraccounted for also.
He made his way along the side hill to where his horse was tied to abush, mounted and rode away with his mind pretty much at ease. Much moreat ease than it would have been had he read what was in Lorraine's mindwhen, she slammed that door.
Up above Sugar Spring was timber. By applying to the nearest ForestSupervisor a certain amount could be had for ranch improvements uponpaying a small sum for the "stumpage." The Quirt had permission to cutposts for their new fence which Al Woodruff had reported to his boss.
As he drove up the trail, which was in places barely passable for awagon, Brit was thinking of that fence. The Sawtooth would object to it,he knew, since it cut off one of their stock trails and sent them aroundthrough rougher country. Just what form their objection would take,Brit did not know. Deep in his intrepid soul he hoped that the Sawtoothwould at last show its hand openly. He had liked Fred Thurman, and whatLorraine had told him went much deeper than she knew. He wanted to bringthem into the open where he could fight with some show of winning.
"I'll git Bill Warfield yet--and git him right," was the gist of hismusings. "He's bound to show his head, give him time enough. Him and hiskillers can't always keep under cover. Let 'em come at me about thatfence! It's on my land--the Quirt's got a right to fence every foot ofland that belongs to 'em."
All the way over the ridge and across the flat and up the steep, narrowroad along the edge of Spirit Canyon, Brit dwelt upon the probable movesof the Sawtooth. They would wait, he thought, until the fence wascompleted and they had made a trail around throug
h the lava rocks. Theywould not risk any move at present; they would wait and tacitly acceptthe fence, or pretend to accept it, as a natural inconvenience. But Britdid not deceive himself that they would remain passive. That it had been"hands off the Quirt" he did not know, but attributed the Quirt'simmunity to careful habits and the fact that they had never come to thepoint where their interests actually clashed with the Sawtooth.
It never occurred to him therefore that he was slated for an accidentthat day if the details could be conveniently arranged.
It was a long trail to Sugar Spring, and from there up Spirit Canyon theclimb was so tedious and steep that Brit took a full hour for the trip,resting the team often because they were soft from the new grass dietand sweated easily. They lost none of their spirit, however, and whenthe road was steepest nagged at each other with head-shakings and baredteeth, and ducked against each other in pretended fright at everyunusual rock or bush.
At the top he was forced to drive a full half mile beyond the piledposts to a flat large enough to turn around. All this took time,especially since Caroline, the brown mare, would rather travel ten milesstraight ahead than go backward ten feet. Brit was obliged to "take itout of her" with the rein ends and his full repertoire of opprobriousepithets before he could cramp the wagon and head them down the trailagain.
At the post pile he unhitched the team for safety's sake and tied themto trees, where he fed them a little grain in nose bags. He was absorbednow in his work and thought no more about the Sawtooth. He fastened thelog chain to the rear wheels to brake the wagon on the long grade downthe canyon, loaded the wagon with posts, bound them fast with a lighterchain he had brought for the purpose, ate his own lunch and decidedthat, since he had made fair time and would arrive home too early to dothe chores and too late to start any other job, he would cruise fartherup the mountain side and see what was the prospect of getting out logsenough for an addition to the cabin.
Now that Raine was going to live with him, two rooms were not enough.Brit wanted to make her as happy as he could, in his limited fashion. Hehad for some days been planning a "settin' room and bedroom" for her.She would be having beaux after awhile when she got acquainted, hesupposed. He could not deny her the privilege; she was young and shewas, in Brit's opinion, the best looking girl he had ever seen, not evenexcepting Minnie, her mother. But he hoped she wouldn't go off and getmarried the first thing she did,--and one good way to prevent that, hereasoned, was to make her comfortable with him. He had noticed howpleased she was that their cabin was of logs. She had even remarked thatshe could not understand how a rancher would ever want to build a boardshack if there was any timber to be had. Well, timber was to be had, andshe should have her log house, though the hauling was not going to beany sunshine, in Brit's opinion. With his axe he walked through thetimber, craning upward for straight tree trunks and lightly blazing theones he would want, the occasional axe strokes sounding distinctly inthe quiet air.
Lorraine heard them as she rode old Yellowjacket puffing up the grade,following the wagon marks, and knew that she was nearing the end of herjourney,--for which Yellowjacket, she supposed, would be thankful. Shehad started not more than an hour later than her father, but the teamhad trotted along more briskly than her poor old nag would travel, sothat she did not overtake her dad as she had hoped.
She was topping the last climb when she saw the team tied to the trees,and at the same moment she caught a glimpse of a man who crawled outfrom under the load of posts and climbed the slope farther on. She wason the point of calling out to him, thinking that he was her dad, whenhe disappeared into the brush. At the same moment she heard the strokeof an axe over to the right of where the man was climbing.
She was riding past the team when Caroline humped her back and kickedviciously at Yellowjacket, who plunged straight down off the trailwithout waiting to see whether Caroline's aim was exact. He slid into ajuniper thicket and sat down looking very perplexed and very permanentlyplaced there. Lorraine stepped off on the uphill side of him, thankedher lucky stars she had not broken a leg, and tried to reassureYellowjacket and to persuade him that no real harm had been done him.Straightway she discovered that Yellowjacket had a mind of his own andthat a pessimistic mind. He refused to scramble back into the trail,preferring to sit where he was, or since Lorraine made that toouncomfortable, to stand where he had been sitting. Yellowjacket, I mayexplain, owned a Roman nose, a pendulous lower lip and drooping eyelids.Those who know horses will understand.
By the time Lorraine had bullied and cajoled him into making a somewhatcircuitous route to the road, where he finally appeared some distanceabove the point of his descent, Brit was there, hitching the team to thewagon.
"What yuh doing up there?" he wanted to know, looking up with someastonishment.
Lorraine furnished him with details and her opinion of both Caroline andYellow jacket. "I simply refuse to ride this comedy animal anothermile," she declared with some heat. "I'll drive the team and you canride him home, or he can be tied on behind the wagon."
"He won't lead," Brit objected. "Yeller's all right if you make up yourmind to a few failin's. You go ahead and ride him home. You sure can'tdrive this team."
"I can!" Lorraine contended. "I've driven four horses--I guess I candrive two, all right."
"Well, you ain't going to," Brit stated with a flat finality thatabruptly ended the argument.
Lorraine had never before been really angry with her father. She struckYellowjacket with her quirt and sent him sidling past the wagon and thetricky Caroline, too stubborn to answer her dad when he called after herthat she had better ride behind the load. She went on, makingYellowjacket trot when he did not want to trot down hill.
Behind her she heard the chuck-chuck of the loaded wagon. Far ahead sheheard some one whistling a high, sweet melody which had the queer, minorstrains of some old folk song. For just a few bars she heard it, andthen it was stilled, and the road dipping steeply before her seemed verylonely, its emptiness cooling her brief anger to a depression that hadheld her too often in its grip since that terrible night of the storm.For the first time she looked back at her father lurching along on theload and at the team looking so funny with the collars pushed up ontheir necks with the weight of the load behind.
With a quick impulse of penitence she waved her hand to Brit, who wavedback at her. Then she went on, feeling a bit less alone in the world.After all, he was her dad, and his life had been hard. If he failed tounderstand her and her mental hunger for real companionship, perhaps shealso failed to understand him.
They had left the timber line now and had come to the lip of the canyonitself. Lorraine looked down its steep, rock-roughened sides andthought how her old director would have raved over its possibilities inthe way of "stunts." Yellow jacket, she noticed, kept circumspectly tothe center of the trail and eyed the canyon with frank disfavor.
She did not know at just what moment she became aware of trouble behindher. It may have been Yellowjacket, turning his head sidewise andabruptly quickening his pace that warned her. It may have been thedifference in the sound of the wagon and the impact of the horses' hoofson the rocky trail. She turned and saw that something had gone wrong.They were coming down upon her at a sharp trot, stepping high, the wagontongue thrust up between their heads as they tried to hold back theload.
Brit yelled to her then to get out of the way, and his voice was harshand insistent. Lorraine looked at the steep bank to the right, knewinstinctively that Yellowjacket would never have time to climb it beforethe team was upon them, and urged him to a lope. She glanced back again,saw that the team was not running away, that they were trying to holdthe wagon, and that it was gaining momentum in spite of them.
"Jump, dad!" she called and got no answer. Brit was sitting braced withhis feet far apart, holding and guiding the team. "He won't jump--hewouldn't jump--any more than I would," she chattered to herself, sickwith fear for him, while she lashed her own horse to keep out of theirway.
The next she k
new, the team was running, their eyeballs staring, theirfront feet flung high as they lunged panic-stricken down the trail. Theload was rocking along behind them. Brit was still braced and clingingto the reins.
Panic seized Yellowjacket. He, too, went lunging down that trail, hishead thrown from side to side that he might watch the thing that menacedhim, heedless of the fact that danger might lie ahead of him also.Lorraine knew that he was running senselessly, that he might leave thetrail at any bend and go rolling into the canyon.
A sense of unreality seized her. It could not be deadly earnest, shethought. It was so exactly like some movie thrill, planned carefully inadvance, rehearsed perhaps under the critical eye of the director, anddone now with the camera man turning calmly the little crank andcounting the number of film feet the scene would take. A little fartherand she would be out of the scene, and men stationed ahead would ride upand stop her horse for her and tell her how well she had "put it over."
She looked over her shoulder and saw them still coming. It was real. Itwas terribly real, the way that team was fleeing down the grade. She hadnever seen anything like that before, never seen horses so franticallytrying to run from the swaying load behind them. Always, she had beenaccustomed to moderation in the pace and a slowed camera to speed up theaction on the screen. Yellowjacket, too--she had never ridden at thatterrific speed down hill. Twice she lost a stirrup and grabbed thesaddle horn to save herself from going over his head.
They neared a sharp turn, and it took all her strength to pull her horseto the inside and save him from plunging off down the canyon's side. Thenose of the hill hid for a moment her dad, and in that moment she hearda crash and knew what had happened. But she could not stop; Yellowjackethad his ears laid back flat on his senseless head, and the bit clampedtight in his teeth.
She heard the crash repeated in diminuendo farther down in the canyon.There was no longer the rattle of the wagon coming down the trail, thesharp staccato of pounding hoofs.
