“Why, if it ain’t Hagar Catherson!” he said, wonder in his voice. “Have you just got out of a fairy book?”
Old friendship was speaking here; Ruth could not fail to understand that.
But he had not yet finished. “Why, I reckon—” he began. And then he saw Ruth, and his lips wreathed in a delighted grin. “You’re the fairy, ma’am.” And then he sobered. “Shucks. I’m talkin’ nonsense, ma’am. I’ve come to tell you that the grass ain’t what it ought to be where we’ve been, an’ tomorrow we’re drivin’ past here to go down the river.” He was still holding Hagar’s hands, and now he seemed to realize that perhaps he had been too effusive, and he flushed and dropped them. “You was just goin’, I reckon,” he said to the girl. And at her nod, and a quick, pleased glance from her eyes, he added: “Tell your dad that I’m comin’ over to see him, pretty soon. I’d have been over before, but I’ve been sort of busy.”
“We’ve been a-hopin’ you’d come,” answered Hagar. And with another smile at Ruth she stepped off the porch and mounted her pony.
Randerson went directly to his room, and Ruth stood for a long time at the door, watching Hagar as she rode her pony over the plains. There was a queer sensation of resentment in her breast over this exhibition of friendship; she had never thought of them knowing each other. She smiled after a while, however, telling herself that it was nothing to her. But the next time that she saw Hagar she ascertained her age. It was seventeen.
The outfit came in the next morning—fourteen punchers, the horse-wrangler having trouble as usual with the remuda, the cook, Chavis, and Pickett. They veered the herd toward the river and drove it past the ranchhouse and into a grass level that stretched for miles. It was near noon when the chuck wagon came to a halt near the bunkhouse door, and from the porch of her house Ruth witnessed a scene that she had been anticipating since her first day in the West—a group of cowboys at play.
Did these men of the plains know that their new boss had been wanting to see them in their unrestrained moments? They acted like boys—more mischievous than boys in their most frolicsome moods. Their movements were grotesque, their gestures extravagant, their talk high-pitched and flavored with a dialect that Ruth had never heard. They were “showing off”; the girl knew that. But she also knew that in their actions was much of earnestness, that an excess of vigor filled them. They were like their horses which now unleashed in the corral were running, neighing, kicking up their heels in their momentary delight of freedom.
The girl understood and sympathized with them, but she caught a glimpse of Chavis and Pickett, sitting close together on a bench at the front of the messhouse, talking seriously, and a cloud came over her face. These two men were not light-hearted as the others. What was the reason? When she went into the house a few minutes later, a premonition of impending trouble assailed her and would not be dismissed.
She helped Aunt Martha in the kitchen. Uncle Jepson had gone away—“nosin’ around,” he had said; Masten had ridden away toward the river some time before—he had seemed to ride toward the break in the canyon which led to the Catherson cabin; she did not know where Randerson had gone—had not seen him for hours.
Hilarious laughter reached her, busy in the kitchen, but it did not banish the peculiar uneasiness that afflicted her. And some time later, when the laughter ceased and she went to the window and looked out, the cowboys had vanished. They had gone in to dinner. But Chavis and Pickett still sat on their bench, talking. Ruth shivered and turned from the window.
She was in better spirits shortly after dinner, and went out to the stable to look at her pony. Because of the coming of the remuda she had thought it best to take her pony from the corral, for she feared that in company with the other horses her own animal would return to those ungentle habits which she disliked.
She fed it from some grain in a bin, carried some water in a pail from the trough at the windmill, and stood at the pony’s head for some time, watching it. Just as she was about to turn to leave the stable, she felt the interior darken, and she wheeled quickly to see that the door had closed, and that Jim Pickett stood before it, grinning at her.
For a moment her knees shook, for she could not fail to interpret the expression of his face, then she heard a gale of laughter from the direction of the bunkhouse, and felt reassured. But while she stood, she heard the sounds of the laughter growing gradually indistinct and distant, and she gulped hard. For she knew that the cowboys were riding away—no doubt to join the herd.
She pretended to be interested in the pony, and stroked its mane with a hand that trembled, delaying to move in the hope that she might be mistaken in her fears and that Pickett would go away. But Pickett did not move. Glancing at him furtively, she saw that the grin was still on his face and that he was watching her narrowly. Then, finding that he seemed determined to stay, she pretended unconcern and faced him, meeting his gaze fearlessly.
“Is there something that you wanted to talk to me about, Pickett?” she questioned.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said respectfully, though his voice seemed slightly hoarse, “I’ve got a letter here which I want you to read to me—I just can’t sorta make out the writin’.”
She almost sighed with relief. Leaving the stall she went to Pickett’s side and took from his hand a paper that he held out to her. And now, in her relief over her discovery that his intentions were not evil, it suddenly dawned on her that she had forgotten that the door was closed.
“It is dark here,” she said; “open the door, please.”
Instead of answering, he seized the hand holding the paper, and with a swift pull tried to draw her toward him. But her muscles had been tensed with the second fear that had taken possession of her, and she resisted—almost broke away from him. His fingers slipped from her wrist, the nails scratching the flesh deeply, and she sprang toward the door. But he was upon her instantly, his arms around her, pinning her own to her sides, and then he squeezed her to him, so tightly that the breath almost left her body, and kissed her three or four times full on the lips. Then, still holding her, and looking in her eyes with an expression that filled her with horror, he said huskily:
“Lord, but you’re a hummer!”
Then, as though that were the limit of his intentions, he released her, laughed mirthlessly and threw the door open.
She had spoken no word during the attack. She made no sound now, as she went toward the house, her face ashen, her breath coming in great gasps. But a few minutes later she was in her room in the ranchhouse, on her bed, her face in the pillow, sobbing out the story of the attack to Aunt Martha, whose wrinkled face grew gray with emotion as she listened.
Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room, looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her.
“Why, what has happened?” Masten took a few steps and stood in front of her, looking down at her.
“Aunty will tell you.” Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly.
Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before he reached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost a sneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in the kitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity.
“Well?” he said, questioningly.
“It is most outrageous,” began Aunt Martha, her voice trembling. “That man, Pickett, came upon Ruth in the stable and abused her shamefully. He actually kissed her—three or four times—and—Why, Mr. Masten, the prints of his fingers are on her wrists!”
Ruth, in the sitting-room, waited, almost in dread, for the explosion that she knew would follow Aunt Martha’s words.
None came, and Ruth sank back in her chair, not knowing whether she was relieved or disappointed. There was a long silence, during which Masten cleared his throat three times. And then came Aunt Martha’s voice, filled with mingled wonder and impatience:
“Aren’t you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not to go
unpunished.”
“Thunder!” he said fretfully, “what on earth can I do? You don’t expect me to go out and fight that man, Pickett. He’d kill me!”
“Mebbe he would,” said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, “but he would know that Ruth was engaged to a man!” There was a silence. And again came Aunt Martha’s voice:
“There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women. But it seems that times have changed mightily.”
“This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder,” replied Masten. “There is no more reason why I should go out there and allow Pickett to kill me than there is a reason why I should go to the first railroad, lay my head on the track and let a train run over me. There is law in this country, aunty, and it can reach Pickett.”
“Your self-control does you credit, Mr. Masten.” Aunt Martha’s voice was low, flavored with sarcasm. Masten turned abruptly from her and went in to Ruth. Her face was still in her hands, but she felt his presence and involuntarily shrank from him.
He turned his head from her and smiled, toward the stable, and then he laid a hand on Ruth’s shoulder and spoke comfortingly.
“It’s too bad, Ruth. But we shall find a way to deal with Pickett without having murder done. Why not have Randerson discharge him? He is range boss, you know. In the meantime, can’t you manage to stay away from places where the men might molest you? They are all unprincipled scoundrels, you must remember!”
He left her, after a perfunctory caress which she suffered in silence. She saw him, later, as he passed her window, talking seriously to Chavis, and she imagined he was telling Chavis about the attack. Of course, she thought, with a wave of bitterness, Chavis would be able to sympathize with him. She went to her room shortly afterward.
The sun was swimming in a sea of saffron above the mountains in the western distance when Ruth again came downstairs. Hearing voices in the kitchen she went to the door and looked. Aunt Martha was standing near the kitchen table. Randerson was standing close to her, facing her, dwarfing her, his face white beneath the deep tan upon it, his lips straight and hard, his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched; she could see the corded muscles of his lean under-jaw, set and stiff. Aunt Martha’s hands were on his sleeves; her eyes were big and bright, and glowing with a strange light.
They did not see Ruth, and something in their attitudes kept her from revealing herself; she stood silent, listening, fascinated.
“So he done that!” It was Randerson’s voice, and it made Ruth’s heart feel heavy and cold within her, for in it was contempt, intolerance, rage suppressed—she felt that the words had come through clenched teeth. “I reckon I’ll be seein’ Pickett, aunty.”
And then he patted Aunt Martha’s shoulders and started for the back door. Ruth heard him open it; he must have been standing on the threshold when he spoke again. And this time he spoke in a drawl—slow, gentle:
“I reckon I’ll go wash. It was mighty dusty ridin’ today. I passed Calamity, aunty. There ain’t no mud there any more; Willard wouldn’t get mussed up, now. The suck-hole ain’t a foot deep any more.”
“You’re a scapegrace,” said Aunt Martha severely. Ruth felt that she was shaking a deprecatory finger at him. “Your manners have been neglected.” But Aunt Martha’s voice gave the words an exactly opposite meaning, and Ruth blushed.
There had been a dread fear in Ruth’s heart. For she had seen warning of impending tragedy in Randerson’s face when she had looked at him. It seemed to have passed. His, “I reckon I’ll be seein’ Pickett,” meant, perhaps, that he would discharge the man. Relieved, she went upstairs again and sat in a chair, looking out of a window.
A little later she saw several of the cowboys come in. She saw Pickett standing near a corner of the bunkhouse. She watched him closely, for there was something strange in his actions. He seemed to be waiting for something, or somebody. Occasionally he leaned against the corner of the bunkhouse, but she noted that he kept turning his head, keeping a lookout in all directions. Again a premonition of imminent trouble oppressed her.
And then she saw Randerson going from the ranchhouse toward the men who were congregated in front of the bunkhouse; saw Pickett’s right hand fall to his side as though it rested on a holster, and she started out of her chair, for illumination now came to her.
Half way to the bunkhouse, Randerson was met by Uncle Jepson. She saw Randerson stop, observed that Uncle Jepson seemed to say something to him. She could not, of course, hear the words, “Look out, Randerson; Pickett’s layin’ for you,” but she saw Randerson lay a hand on Uncle Jepson’s shoulder.
And then he continued on his way.
She saw Randerson go close to Pickett, noted that the other men had all turned and were watching the two. Randerson seemed to be speaking, to Pickett; the latter had faced him. Then, as she breathlessly watched, she saw Pickett reach for his gun. Randerson leaped. Pickett’s gun did not come out, Randerson’s hand had closed on Pickett’s wrist.
There was a brief, fierce struggle, blows were struck, and then the men sprang apart. Ruth saw Randerson’s right arm describe a rapid half-circle; she seemed to hear a thud as his fist landed, and Pickett reeled and fell sideways to the ground, close to the wall of the bunkhouse. She heard him curse; saw him reach again for the gun at his hip. The toe of Randerson’s right boot struck Pickett’s hand, driving it away from the holster; the hand was ground into the dust by Randerson’s boot. And then, so quickly that she could not follow the movement, Randerson’s gun was out, and Pickett lay still where he had fallen.
Presently Ruth saw Pickett get up, still menaced by Randerson’s gun. Cursing, crouching, evidently still awaiting an opportunity to draw his gun, Pickett began to walk toward the ranchhouse, Randerson close behind him. At a safe distance, the other men followed—Ruth saw Masten and Chavis come out of the bunkhouse door and follow also. The thought struck her that they must have witnessed the incident from a window. She saw them all, the cowboys at a respectable distance, Pickett and Randerson in front, with Masten and Chavis far behind, come to a halt. She divined—she believed she had suspected all along—what the march to the ranchhouse meant, but still she did not move, for she feared she could not stand.
Ruth was roused, however, by Randerson’s voice. It reached her, sharp, cold, commanding. Evidently he was speaking to Aunt Martha, or to Uncle Jepson, who had gone into the house:
“Tell Miss Ruth to come here!”
Ruth obeyed. A moment later she stood on the front porch, looking at them all. This scene seemed unreal to her—the cowboys at a distance, Masten and Chavis in the rear, looking on, Pickett near the edge of the porch, his face bloated with impotent rage, his eyes glaring; the grim figure that Randerson made as he stood near Pickett, gun in hand, his eyes narrowed, alert. It seemed to her to be a dream from which she would presently awaken, trembling from the horror of it.
And then again she heard Randerson’s voice. It was low, but so burdened with passion that it seemed to vibrate in the perfect silence. There was a threat of death in it:
“You can tell Miss Ruth that you’re never goin’ to play the skunk with a woman ag’in!”
Pickett writhed. But it seemed to Ruth, as her gaze shifted from Randerson to him, that Pickett’s manner was not what it should be. He was not embarrassed enough, did not seem to feel his disgrace keenly enough. For though he twisted and squirmed under the threat in Randerson’s voice, there was an odd smirk on his face that impressed her as nearly concealing a malignant cunning. And his voice sounded insincere to her—there was even no flavor of shame in them:
“I’m sorry I done what I did, ma’am.”
“I reckon that’s all, Pickett. You draw your time right now.”
Randerson sheathed his pistol and turned slightly sidewise to Pickett, evidently intending to come up on the porch.
Ruth gasped. For she saw Pickett reach for his gun. It was drawn half out of its holster. As though he had divined what was in Pickett’s mind, Ra
nderson had turned slightly at Pickett’s movement. There was a single rapid movement to his right hip, the twilight was split by a red streak, by another that followed it so closely as to seem to make the two continuous. Pickett’s hand dropped oddly from the half-drawn weapon, his knees sagged, he sighed and pitched heavily forward, face down, at Randerson’s feet.
Dimly, as through a haze, Ruth saw a number of the cowboys coming toward her, saw them approach and look curiously down at the thing that lay almost at her feet. And then someone took her by the arm—she thought it was Uncle Jepson—and she was led toward the door. At the threshold she paused, for Randerson’s voice, cold and filled with deadly definiteness, reached her:
“Do you want to take his end of this?” Ruth turned. Randerson was pointing to Pickett’s body, ghastly in its prone slackness. He was looking at Chavis.
Evidently Chavis elected not to avenge his friend at that moment. For there was a dead silence while one might have counted fifty. Then Ruth was drawn into the house.
The twilight was split by a red streak
* * *
CHAPTER VIII
WHAT UNCLE JEPSON HEARD
Every detail of the killing of Jim Pickett remained vivid in Ruth’s recollection. She felt that she would never forget it. But her horror gradually abated, and at the end of a week she was able to look at Randerson without shuddering. During the week she had evaded him. And he, divining the state of her feelings, kept away from the house as much as possible.
Masten’s demeanor on hearing of the insult that had been offered her by Pickett had seemed that of a man who was lacking in courage: at the time she had not been able to make it conform to her ideas of a man’s duty to the woman he had promised to marry—or to any woman. She had heard him speak of reason in connection with the affair, as though there were no such thing in the world as rage so justifiable as to make a man yearn to inflict punishment upon another man who had attacked his woman. He had looked upon the matter cold-bloodedly, and she had resented that. But now that she had been avenged, she felt that she had been wrong. It had been such a trivial thing, after all; the punishment seemed monstrous in comparison with it. She had seen Pickett’s movement when Randerson had momentarily turned his back to him, but she had also seen Randerson’s retaliatory movement. She had known then, that Randerson had expected Pickett’s action, and that he had been prepared for it, and therefore it seemed to her that in forcing the trouble Randerson had not only foreseen the ending but had even courted it.
The Range Boss Page 6
