“You’ll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl,” he said. “I’m ridin’ over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his new job. Don’t make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An’ if any trouble comes sneakin’ around you, take it to Rex; he’ll stick on the right side till hell freezes over.”
“I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W”
* * *
CHAPTER VI
A MAN AND HIS JOB
Just what Ruth’s sensations were the next morning she could not have told. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation. Also, she could account for it—she wanted to see Randerson. But her reason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom, though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairs she devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson well enough to wish to see him merely on that account—that was ridiculous, in spite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, for she had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was too practical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet by afternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason for certainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding. She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself—at least, she could not find him. She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon that he had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over a shallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a wood through which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for some distance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe house stood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and was debating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out of the door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. The dog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantly wheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs at it.
“Nig, you ol’ duffer, git in hyeh where you b’long! Can’t you see that that there’s a lady!” came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog, still growling, but submissive, drew off.
Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. A girl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of some checkered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too small for her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, her hair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had been combed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean, though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, in spite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strange mixture of admiration and defiance.
“Dad ain’t hyeh this mornin’,” she volunteered as Ruth climbed off her pony.
“I came to see you,” said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over the pony’s head and advanced, holding out a hand. “I am Ruth Harkness,” she added, “the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month, and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?”
“I reckon,” said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth to take her hand. But she drew it away immediately. “I’ve heard of you,” she said; “you’re a niece of that ol’ devil, Bill Harkness.” She frowned. “He was always sayin’ dad was hookin’ his doggoned cattle. Dad didn’t steal ’em—ol’ Bill Harkness was a liar!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I reckon you’ll be sayin’ the same thing about dad.”
“No indeed!” declared Ruth. “Your dad and I are going to be friends. I want to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad with stealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. I want to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W and get acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren’t you going to invite me inside? I would if you came to visit me, you know.” She smiled winningly.
The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which, Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished but clean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near a rough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her hands hanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the ragged apron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning to realize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grew conscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor’s raiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own—though Ruth’s was merely a simple riding habit of brown corduroy.
Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted to discover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions were as she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worse than she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth’s wisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealth of delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was in question. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end of that time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with the girl’s pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again. Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fine raiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from the East, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in the least needed by her—an incumbrance, rather—and which, she hinted, might become the property of another, if suitable in size.
The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside the pony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of both that gave promise of future sincere friendship.
“Good-bye, Hagar,” said the Flying W girl.
“Good-bye, lady,” said the girl. “Ruth,” she changed, as the Flying W girl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruth rode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in her eyes.
Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson’s face.
“I cal’late you’ve got here,” he said.
“Looks mighty like it,” returned the horseman. “You reckon my new boss is anywheres around?”
“She’s gone off ridin’,” Uncle Jepson told him. “It’s likely she’ll be back shortly.”
“I reckon I’d better wait,” said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.
“There’s plenty of sittin’ room on the porch here,” invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs.
“Thank you—reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters.”
He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted:
“I cal’late you’d better wait here.”
“If you insist,” said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson’s eyes as his met Uncle Jepson’s was not to be mistaken.
“So Vickers has gone,” said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. “He’s a mighty fine man.”
“Willard wanted Chavis to have his job,” whispered Uncle Jepson.
“You don’t say!” Randerson’s eyes gleamed. “An’ Miss Ruth didn’t want him, I reckon.” He caught Uncle Jepson’s nod. “She’s allowin’ that she’s goin’ to be boss. But of course she would,” he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled
.
“I reckon you like it here?” he said gently to Aunt Martha.
“I like it very much. But there are differences—after Poughkeepsie. One doesn’t notice them so much at first.”
“I expect you find it sort of rough here,” he said, looking at her. “They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together—that there’s conveniences. There ain’t a heap of conveniences here.” He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners.
“No—no conveniences,” said Aunt Martha. “But it’s a wonderful country, my boy—wonderful!”
A pulse of something shot through him at the word, “boy.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said gravely.
Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over the rims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. For she saw something in this figure of a new type that sat before her—something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at—nor his leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, the high-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were the badges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she saw them not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling honesty that radiated from him, she saw—and admired. But above all she saw the boy in him—the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.
“You were born here?” she asked.
“In Colfax, ma’am.”
“Is that a city?”
“Bless yu’, ma’am, no. It’s a county.”
“And you were born on a ranch, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep was his admiration of her.
“And your parents?”
“Both dead, ma’am.” A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his bare head.
“If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you,” she said.
He blushed crimson. “Why, ma’am—” he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.
“Oh!” she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she had seen him from afar, “you are here already!”
“I expect it’s me, ma’am,” he said gravely. “You see, Wes Vickers stopped at the Diamond H last evenin’, an’ I come right over.”
It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step over that line, and his manner showed it.
“Well,” she said, “I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation, that you will be able to fill his place acceptably.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon I’m to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?” He paused. “Or mebbe the foreman’s shanty?”
“Why,” she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day. “Why, I don’t know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I suppose you will stay here too.”
“All right, ma’am; I’ll be takin’ my war-bag in.” He was evidently feeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. He got his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shouldered it, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth’s voice stopped him.
“Oh,” she said, “your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in the northwest corner.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He went in.
“Come down when you have straightened around,” she called to him, “I want to talk with you about some things.”
“I’ll have to put Patches away, ma’am,” he said, “I’d sure have to come down, anyway.”
That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smoking his pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle off Patches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talk and smoke with Uncle Jepson.
While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.
“One of the boys, I reckon,” said Randerson.
Uncle Jepson chuckled. “It’s Willard,” he said. He peered into Randerson’s face for some signs of emotion. There were none.
“I’d clean forgot him,” said Randerson.
Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson, but ignored Randerson.
Supper was announced soon after Masten’s entrance, and Uncle Jepson led Randerson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tin washbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury, and then led the new range boss inside.
If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Masten and the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson’s manner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign did he indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity.
Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find his conduct faultless. He had not Masten’s polish, of course, that was not to be expected. But she noticed this—it was quickly impressed upon her—he was not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy grace of movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemed to relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene. And last—the knowledge pleased her more than anything else—he continued to keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he made them see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It was his job to be here, and he had no illusions.
* * *
CHAPTER VII
HOW AN INSULT WAS AVENGED
As the days passed, it became plain to Ruth, as it did to everyone else on the ranch—Chavis, Pickett, and Masten included—that Vickers had not talked extravagantly in recommending Randerson. Uncle Jepson declared that “he took right a-hold,” and Aunt Martha beamed proudly upon him whenever he came within range of her vision.
There was no hitch; he did his work smoothly. The spring round-up was carried to a swift conclusion, the calves were branded and turned loose again to roam the range during the summer; the corral fences were repaired, new irrigation ditches were laid, others extended—the numerous details received the attention they merited, and when summer came in earnest, the Flying W was spick and span and prospering.
Chavis and Pickett still retained their old positions, but Ruth noticed that they did not spend so much of their time around the bunkhouse as formerly, they seemed to have work enough to keep their time fully employed. Nor did Masten accompany them very often. He seemed to take a new interest in Ruth; he found various pretexts to be near her, and Ruth secretly congratulated herself on her wisdom in securing her new range boss. She had scarcely expected such amazing results.
She was conscious of a vague disappointment, though. For she would have liked to see more of her range boss. Twice, under pretense of wanting to look over the property, she had accompanied him to outlying cow camps, and she had noted that the men seemed to like him—they called him “Rex,” and in other ways exhibited their satisfaction over his coming. Several times she had observed meetings between him and Chavis and Pickett; invariab
ly Chavis was sullen and disagreeable in his presence, and a number of times she had seen Pickett sneer when Randerson’s back was turned. No one had told her of the open enmity that existed between Pickett and Randerson; the latter had not hinted of it.
And Randerson was at the ranchhouse even less frequently than his predecessor; he spent much of his time with the outfit. But he came in one afternoon, after Ruth’s friendship with Hagar Catherson had progressed far, and met the nester’s daughter on the porch as he was about to enter the house.
By ingenious artifice and persuasion Ruth had induced the girl to accept for her own many of the various garments in the alluring trunk, and Ruth herself had been surprised at the wonderful transformation in her appearance when arrayed in them. Hagar was attired this afternoon in a dark-blue riding habit, with short skirt—shortened by Aunt Martha—riding boots, a waist with a low collar and a flowing tie, and a soft hat that Ruth had re-made for her. She had received lessons in hair-dressing, and her brown, wavy tresses were just obstinate enough, through long neglect, to refuse to yield fully to the influence of comb and brush; they bulged under the brim of the soft hat, and some stray wisps persisted in blowing over her face.
She had just taken leave of Ruth who, at the instant Randerson stepped on the porch, was standing inside the doorway, watching her. She had given the girl a trinket that had long been coveted by her, and Hagar’s eyes were bright with delight as she took leave of her friend. They grew even brighter when she saw Randerson on the porch, and a swift color suffused her face.
The girl stood still, looking at the range boss. A sudden whim to discover if he recognized her, took possession of her—for she had known him long and he had been a friend to her father when friends were few; she stood looking straight at him.
He gave her one quick, penetrating glance, and then stepped back, astonishment and recognition in his eyes. Then he took a quick step forward and seized her hands, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes leaping in admiration.
The Range Boss Page 5
