The Range Boss

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  “I’ve apologized to Willard, ma’am,” he said. “We ain’t goin’ to be cross to each other no more. I reckon you c’n forgive me, now, ma’am. I sure didn’t think of bein’ mean.”

  The girl looked doubtfully at Masten, but because of the mud on his face could see no expression.

  “Well, I’m glad of that,” she said, reddening with embarrassment. “I certainly would not like to think that anyone who had been so accommodating as you could be so mean as to deliberately upset anyone in the mud.” She looked downward. “I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did,” she added.

  “Why, I’m sorry too, ma’am,” he said gravely. He urged his pony through the mud and brought it to a halt beside her. “If you’d shake hands on that, ma’am, I’d be mighty tickled.”

  Her hand went out to him. He took it and pressed it warmly, looking at it, marveling at it, for the glove on it could not conceal its shapeliness or its smallness. He dropped it presently, and taking off his hat, bowed to her.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said; “I’ll be seein’ you ag’in some time. I hope you’ll like it here.”

  “I am sure I shall.”

  He grinned and turned away. Her voice halted him.

  “May I know who has been so kind to us in our trouble?”

  He reddened to the roots of his hair, but faced her.

  “Why, I reckon you’ll know, ma’am. I’m King Randerson, foreman of the Diamond H, up the crick a ways. That is,” he added, his blush deepening, “I was christened ‘King.’ But a while ago a dago professor who stayed overnight at the Diamond H tipped the boys off that ‘King’ was Rex in Latin lingo. An’ so it’s been Rex Randerson since then, though mostly they write it ‘W-r-e-c-k-s.’ There’s no accountin’ for notions hereabouts, ma’am.”

  “Well, I should think not!” said the lady, making mental note of the blueness of his eyes. “But I am sure the boys make a mistake in spelling your name. Judging from your recent actions it should be spelled ‘R-e-c-k-l-e-s-s.’ Anyway, we thank you.”

  “The same to you, ma’am. So long.”

  He flashed a smile at Aunt Martha; it broadened as he met Uncle Jepson’s eyes; it turned to a grin of derision as he looked at Masten. And then he was splashing his pony across the river.

  They watched him as he rode up the slope on the opposite side; they held their breath as pony and rider climbed the steeper slope to the mesa. They saw him halt when he reached the mesa, saw him wave his hat to them. But they did not see him halt the pony after he had ridden a little way, and kiss the palm of the hand that had held hers.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  AT THE FLYING W

  It fell to Uncle Jepson to hitch the blacks to the buckboard—in a frigid silence Masten had found his trunk, opened it and drawn out some very necessary dry clothing; then marching behind a thick clump of alder, he proceeded to make the change. After this he climbed down to the river and washed the mud from visible portions of his body. Then he returned to the buckboard, to find the others waiting for him. In a strained silence he climbed up to the seat beside Ruth, took up the reins, and sent the blacks forward.

  It was ten miles to the Flying W ranchhouse, and during the ride the silence was broken only once. That was when, at about the fifth mile, Ruth placed a hand on Masten’s arm and smiled at him.

  “I really think Mr. Randerson was sorry that he upset you in the mud, Willard,” she said gently. “I don’t think he did it to be mean. And it was so manly of him to apologize to you.” She laughed, thinking that time had already removed the sting. “And you really did look funny, Willard, with the mud all over you. I—I could have laughed, myself, if I hadn’t felt so indignant.”

  “I’ll thank you to not refer to it again, Ruth,” he said crossly.

  She flushed and looked straight ahead of her at the unfolding vistas that their passage revealed: at the undulating plains, green with bunch-grass that the rain of the night before had washed and reinvigorated; into gullies where weeds grew thick; peering into arroyos—visible memories of washouts and cloudbursts; glimpsing barrancas as they flashed by; wondering at the depth of draws through which the trail led; shivering at the cacti—a brilliant green after the rain—for somehow they seemed to symbolize the spirit of the country—they looked so grim, hardy, and mysterious with their ugly thorns that seemed to threaten and mock. She shrank, too, when the buckboard passed the skeleton of a steer, its bleached bones ghastly in the sunlight, but she smiled when she saw a sea of soap-weed with yellow blossoms already unfolding, and she looked long at a mile-wide section of mesquite, dark and inviting in the distance. She saw a rattler cross the trail in front of the buckboard and draw its loathsome length into a coil at the base of some crabbed yucca, and thereafter she made grimaces at each of the ugly plants they passed. It was new to her, and wonderful. Everything, weird or ugly, possessed a strange fascination for her, and when they lurched over the crest of a hill and she saw, looming somberly in the distance in front of her, a great cottonwood grove, with some mountains behind it, their peaks gleaming in the shimmering sunlight, thrusting above some fleecy white clouds against a background of deep-blue sky, her eyes glistened and she sat very erect, thrilled. It was in such a country that she had longed to live all the days of her life.

  Somehow, it gave her a different viewpoint. The man who had accommodated them back at the river seemed to fit very well here. The spirit of the young, unfettered country was in his eyes, in his serene manner; he was as hardy and rugged as this land from which he had sprung.

  * * *

  When the buckboard came to a halt in the Flying W ranchhouse yard, Ruth Harkness’ first emotion was one of a great happiness that the Harknesses had always been thrifty and neat, and also that Uncle William had persisted in these habits. She had greatly feared, for during the last day of her ride on the train she had passed many ranchhouses and she had been appalled and depressed by the dilapidated appearance of their exteriors, and by the general atmosphere of disorder and shiftlessness that seemed to surround them. So many of them had reminded her of the dwelling places of careless farmers on her own familiar countryside, and she had assured herself that if the Flying W were anything like those others she would immediately try to find a buyer, much as she wished to stay.

  But the first glance at the Flying W convinced her that her fears had been groundless. The ranchhouse was a big two-story structure built of heavy timber, with porches in front and rear, and wide cornices, all painted white and set on a solid foundation of stone. It looked spacious and comfortable. The other buildings—stables, bunkhouse, messhouse, blacksmith shop, and several others—did not discredit the ranchhouse. They all were in good repair. She had already noted that the fences were well kept; she had seen chickens and pigs, flowers and a small garden; and behind the stable, in an enclosure of barbed wire, she had observed some cows—milkers, she was certain.

  The ranchhouse was well sheltered by timber. The great cottonwood grove that she had seen from the plains was close to the house on the south; it extended east and west for perhaps half a mile, and a grove of firs rose to the north, back of the pasture fence. The general character of the land surrounding the house was a sort of rolling level. The foothills belonging to the mountains that she had seen while approaching the ranchhouse were behind the cottonwood grove. She had seen, too, that the river they had crossed at the ford which Wes Vickers had called “Calamity” was not more than a mile from the house, and therefore she concluded that it doubled widely. Later, she learned from Vickers that her conclusion was correct, and that the river was called “Rabbit Ear.” Why it was called that she was never able to discover.

  When the buckboard came to a halt, two men who had been seated in the doorway of one of the buildings—she discovered, later, that it was the bunkhouse—got up, lazily, and approached the buckboard. Ruth felt a pulse of trepidation as they sauntered close to the wagon. Vickers had told her nothing directly concerning the character of the men at
the ranch, but during their conversation at Red Rock that morning he had mentioned that the “boys are a good lot, taken together, but they’s some that don’t measure up.” And she wondered whether these two came under that final vague, though significant classification.

  Their appearance was against them. The one in advance, a man of medium height, looked positively villainous with his long, drooping black mustache and heavy-thatched eyebrows. He eyed the occupants of the buckboard with an insolent half-smile, which the girl thought he tried—in vain—to make welcoming.

  The other was a man of about thirty; tall, slender, lithe, swarthy, with thin, expressive lips that were twisted upward at one corner in an insincere smirk. This taller man came close to the wagon and paused in an attitude of quiet impudence.

  “I reckon you’re Ruth Harkness—the ol’ man’s niece?” he said.

  “Yes,” returned the girl, smiling. Perhaps she had misjudged these men.

  “Well,” said the man, looking at her with a bold glance that made her pulse skip a beat, “you’re a stunner for looks, anyway.” He reached out his hand. She took it, feeling that it was the proper thing to do, although with the action she heard a grumble from Masten.

  “You’re welcome to the Flyin’ W,” said the man, breaking an awkward silence. “Tom Chavis is special glad to see a pretty woman around these parts.”

  She felt, in his eyes more than his words, a veiled significance. She reddened a little, but met his gaze fairly, her eyes unwavering.

  “Who is Tom Chavis?” she asked.

  “I’m reckonin’ to be Tom Chavis,” he said, studying her. He waved a hand toward the other man, not looking at him. “This is my friend Jim Pickett. We was foreman an’ straw boss, respective, under Bill Harkness.”

  She could not help wishing that her uncle had discharged the two men before his death. She was wondering a little at Masten’s silence; it seemed to her that he must see her embarrassment, and that he might relieve her of the burden of this conversation. She looked quickly at him; he appeared to be unconcernedly inspecting the ranchhouse. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing wrong with these men. Certainly, being a man himself, Masten should be able to tell.

  And so she felt a little more at ease.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Chavis,” she said. “Your friend Mr. Pickett too.” She indicated Masten with a nod of her head toward him. “This is Mr. Willard Masten, a very dear friend of mine.” The color in her face deepened with the words.

  Chavis had looked twice at Masten before Ruth spoke. He looked again now, meeting the Easterner’s eyes. Chavis had been ready to sneer at Masten because of his garments—they were duplicates of those he had worn before the ducking, and quite as immaculate—but something in the Easterner’s eyes kept the sneer back; his own eyes gleamed with a quick, comprehensive fire, and he smiled. In the buckboard, fresh from that civilization which Chavis was ready to scorn, he had recognized a kindred spirit. There was exultation in his voice when he spoke, and he reached over Ruth to grasp Masten’s hand.

  “An’ so this is Willard, a very dear friend of yourn, eh? Well, now, I’m sure glad, an’ I reckon him an’ me will get on.” He urged Pickett forward and introduced him, and Pickett gave Masten one quick, appraising glance. Then he, too, grinned.

  Ruth was gratified. These men were rough, but they had been quick to recognize and appreciate Masten’s good qualities. They had gone more than half way in welcoming him. Of course, there was Chavis’ bold allusion to a “pretty woman,” but the very uncouthness of the men must be the explanation for that breach of etiquette. She was much relieved.

  Masten was suave and solicitous. He jumped out of the buckboard and helped her down, performing a like service for Aunt Martha. Uncle Jepson got out himself. Then, as Ruth hesitated an instant, Masten bent over her.

  “You must be tired, dear. Go in and explore the house. Get some refreshment and take a rest. I’ll attend to the baggage and the horses.”

  He gave her a gentle pressure of the hand, and, followed by Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha, she went indoors.

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV

  A MEMORY OF THE RIDER

  A quiet satisfaction shone from Ruth’s eyes when, accompanied by Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, she completed her inspection of the ranchhouse.

  “It isn’t all that could be desired,” she told Aunt Martha, “but it is better than I expected.”

  “It’s comfortable, dearie,” mildly smiled Aunt Martha.

  “An’ big enough for a feller to stretch his legs in,” added Uncle Jepson. He was sitting in a big chair at one of the front windows of the sitting-room, having already adjusted himself to his new surroundings, and was smoking a short briar pipe and looking out of the window at the bunkhouse, in front of which stood Pickett, Chavis, and Masten, talking and laughing.

  While Ruth and her relatives had been inspecting one of the upstairs rooms, she had heard the men bringing the baggage in, had heard them clumping up the stairs and setting the trunks down. Then they went out, and a little later, peering from one of the windows upstairs, Ruth had seen Masten and the other two walking toward the stable. They were talking pleasantly; their liking for each other seemed to be mutual. Ruth was delighted, but Uncle Jepson had frowned several times when looking at them.

  “I cal’late them two critters’ll bear a heap of watchin’,” he said now. “They don’t look honest.”

  “Jep,” said Aunt Martha before Ruth could speak, “you’re always criticising folks.”

  “It’s in their faces drat ’em,” insisted Uncle Jepson. He turned a vindictive eye on his niece. “If I’d have been fifty year younger I’d have give that Chavis a durn good thrashin’ for sayin’ what he did to you about pretty gals. Durn his hide, anyhow! That there Wil—”

  “I felt that way myself, at first,” smiled Ruth. “Afterwards, though, I felt differently. I suppose they were glad to see the new owner. Perhaps they haven’t seen a lady in a long time.”

  “There’s ways of showin’ gladness,” contended Uncle Jepson. “I cal’late if I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldn’t look at her like I wanted to carry her off to the mountains.”

  “Jep, they’re only cowboys—they don’t know any different,” remonstrated Aunt Martha.

  “They don’t, eh?” sniffed Uncle Jepson. “I cal’late that feller, Rex Randerson, is some different, ain’t he? There’s a gentleman, Ruth. You didn’t see him makin’ no ox-eyes. An’ I’ll bet you wouldn’t ketch him gettin’ thick with them two plug-uglies out there!”

  Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse of Aunt Martha’s brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware of Uncle Jepson’s dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepson’s testiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation.

  Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worth while. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back near Poughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, and she felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed at sixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them.

  That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence for Ruth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality of the Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness of this life inviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit, either to the space or to the flights that one’s soul might take, and in the solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and the spell of nature.

  She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with the Creator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett and Chavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much with them—“looking over the range,” he told her—and only in the evening did he find time to devote to her.

  Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruth’s arrival. Apparently, in spite of Randerson’s prediction, Vicker
s did not get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W as range boss for nearly five years.

  Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightly stoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed from the same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruth’s uncle had written her to that effect the year before during his illness, stating that without Vickers’ help he would be compelled to sell the ranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after her acquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed that he never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she would find Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldom awake at night when he returned.

  He had said little to her regarding the men. “They ’tend to business,” was his invariable response when she sought to question him. “It’s a pretty wild life,” he told her when one day about two weeks after her coming she had pressed him; “an’ the boys just can’t help kickin’ over the traces once in a while.”

  “Chavis and Pickett good men?” she asked.

  “You saw anything to show you they ain’t?” he said, with a queer look at her.

  “Why, no,” she returned. But her cheeks reddened.

  He looked at her with a peculiar squint. “Seems like Masten runnin’ with them shows that they ain’t nothin’ wrong with them,” he said.

  She had no reply to make to this, but she was vaguely disturbed over the expression in Vickers’ eyes; that look seemed to indicate that her own first impression of the two men, and Uncle Jepson’s later condemnation of them, might be correct. However, they did not bother her, and she felt certain that Masten could care for himself.

  With Masten absent with Chavis and Pickett nearly every day, Ruth had much time to herself. The river attracted her, and she rode to it many times, on a slant-eyed pony that Vickers had selected for her, and which had been gentled by a young cowpuncher brought in from an outlying camp solely for that purpose by the range boss. The young puncher had been reluctant to come, and he was equally reluctant to go.