“It can never be Randerson,” Ruth said firmly—not, however, as firmly as she had intended. “Randerson is a murderer—a reckless taker of human life!”
“He had to shoot, they say,” defended Aunt Martha. “I don’t believe he would harm a living thing except in defense of his own life. Defending themselves is their way out here, girl—they know no other way. And he is a man, dear. I don’t know when I have met a man who has impressed me more!”
“Please don’t talk about it any more.” Ruth’s face was pale, her brows contracted, for Aunt Martha’s reference to Randerson had brought back haunting sensations that, she thought, she had succeeded in putting out of her life. She was ready to cry, and when she thought of Randerson—how calmly he had accepted his dismissal, with what manliness he had borne her insults, a chill of sympathy ran over her. She believed she would never forget him as he had looked on the night he had ridden away after telling her that he would leave the Flying W—riding into the darkness of the plains, with his hopes blasted, bravely making no complaint.
She got her pony, after a while, and rode far and long, coming in to the ranchhouse about noon. After she had turned the pony into the corral and was coming toward the house, she saw Uncle Jepson sitting on the porch, puffing furiously at his pipe. She spoke to him in greeting, and was about to pass him to go into the house, when he called to her:
“I want to talk to you a minute, Ruth.” He spoke rapidly, his voice dry and light, and she could see his facial muscles twitching. Wonderingly, she sank into a chair near him.
“You’re sure thinkin’ of marryin’ Masten, girl?” he said.
“Yes,” she declared firmly.
“Well, then I’ve got to tell you,” said Uncle Jepson decisively. “I’ve been puttin’ it off, hopin’ that you’d get shet of that imp of Satan, an’ I wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Uncle Jep!” she protested indignantly.
“That’s just what he is, Ruth—a durned imp of the devil. I’ve knowed it from the first day I saw him. Since he’s come out here, he’s proved it.” He swung his chair around and faced her, and forgetting his pipe in his excitement, he told her the story he had told Randerson: how he had gone into the messhouse on the day of the killing of Pickett, for a rest and a smoke, and how, while in there he had overheard Chavis and Pickett plotting against Randerson, planning Pickett’s attack on her, mentioning Masten’s connection with the scheme. She did not open her lips until Uncle Jepson had concluded, and then she murmured a low “Oh!” and sat rigid, gripping the arms of her chair.
“An’ that ain’t all, it ain’t half of it!” pursued Uncle Jepson vindictively. “Do you know that Masten set that Watt Kelso, the gunfighter, on Randerson?” He looked at Ruth, saw her start and draw a long breath, and he grinned triumphantly. “Course you don’t know; I cal’late Randerson would never make a peep about it. He’s all man—that feller. But it’s a fact. Blair told me. There’d been bad blood between Randerson an’ Kelso, an’ Masten took advantage of it. He paid Kelso five hundred dollars in cold cash to kill Randerson!”
“Oh, it can’t be!” moaned the girl, covering her face with her hands and shrinking into her chair.
“Shucks!” said Uncle Jepson derisively, but more gently now, for he saw that the girl was badly hurt. “The whole country is talkin’ about it, Ruth, an’ wonderin’ why Randerson don’t salivate that durned dude! An’ the country expects him to do it, girl! They’ll fun him out of here, if he don’t! Why, girl,” he went on, “you don’t know how much of a sneak a man can be when he’s got it in him!”
She was shuddering as though he had struck her, and he was on the edge of his chair, looking at her pityingly, when Aunt Martha came to the door and saw them. She was out on the porch instantly, flushing with indignation.
“Jep Coakley, you’re up to your tricks again, ain’t you? You quit devilin’ that girl, now, an’ go on about your business!”
“I’ve got some things to say, an’ I cal’late to say them!” declared Uncle Jepson determinedly. “I’ve kept still about it long enough. I ain’t wantin’ to hurt her,” he added apologetically, as Aunt Martha slipped to her knees beside Ruth and put an arm around her, “but that durned Masten has been doin’ some things that she’s got to know about, right now. An’ then, if she’s set on marryin’ him, why, I cal’late it’s her business. It was Masten who was behind Pickett kissin’ her—he tellin’ Pickett to do it. An’ he hired Kelso to kill Randerson.”
“Oh, Ruth!” said Aunt Martha, her voice shaky, as she nestled her head close to the girl’s. But her eyes shone with satisfaction.
“There’s another thing,” went on Uncle Jepson to Ruth. “Did you notice Randerson’s face, the night he come to hunt you, when you hurt your ankle? Marked up, kind of, it was, wasn’t it? An’ do you know what Masten went to Las Vegas for? Business, shucks! He went there to get his face nursed up, Ruth—because Randerson had smashed it for him! They’d had a fight; I saw them, both comin’ from the same direction, that night. I reckon Randerson had pretty nigh killed him. What for?” he asked as Ruth turned wide, questioning eyes on him. “Well, I don’t rightly know. But I’ve got suspicions. I’ve seen Masten goin’ day after day through that break in the canyon over there. A hundred times, I cal’late. An’ I’ve seen him here, when you wasn’t lookin’, kissin’ that Catherson girl. I cal’late, if you was to ask her, she’d be able to tell you a heap more about Masten, Ruth.”
Ruth got up, pale and terribly calm, disengaging herself from Aunt Martha and standing before Uncle Jepson. He too got to his feet.
Ruth’s voice quavered. “You wouldn’t, oh, you couldn’t lie to me, Uncle, because you like Rex Randerson? Is it true?” She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him, excitedly.
“True? Why, Ruth, girl; it’s as true as there’s a Supreme Bein’ above us. Why——”
But she waited to hear no more, turning from him and putting out her hands to keep Aunt Martha away as she passed her. She went out to the corral, got her pony, saddled it, mounted, and rode over the plains toward the break in the canyon wall. Uncle Jepson had one quick glimpse of her eyes as she turned from him, and he knew there would be no Monday for Willard Masten.
Ruth had no feelings as she rode. The news had stunned her. She had only one thought—to see Hagar Catherson, to confirm or disprove Uncle Jepson’s story. She could not have told whether the sun was shining, or whether it was afternoon or morning. But she must see Hagar Catherson at once, no matter what the time or the difficulties. She came to the break in the canyon after an age, and rode through it, down across the bed of the river, over the narrow bridle path that led to the Catherson cabin.
The dog Nig did not greet her this time; he was stretched out on his belly, his hind legs gathered under him, his forelegs stuck out in front, his long muzzle extending along them, while he watched in apparent anxiety the face of his master, Abe Catherson, who was sitting on the edge of the porch, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, in an attitude of deep dejection. The dog’s concern was for Catherson’s future actions, for just a few minutes before he had witnessed a scene that had made his hair bristle, had brought ugly growls out of him, had plunged him into such a state of fury that he had, for one wild instant, meditated a leap at his master’s throat. He had seen his master leap upon his mistress and raise his hand to strike her. If the blow had been struck—Nig would have leaped, then, no matter what the consequences.
Catherson had not struck. But one great, dominating passion was in his mind at this moment—the yearning to slay! The dog had seen him, twice during the last half hour, draw out his heavy six-shooter and examine it, and each time the dog had growled his disapproval of the action. And on both occasions Catherson had muttered thickly: “I wish I knowed, for sure. A man can’t do nothin’ if he don’t know. But I reckon it was him!”
He looked up to see Ruth coming toward him. The girl had seen him twice—had spoken to him. He was a bearded giant, g
rizzled, unkempt, with hairy arms, massive and muscled superbly, and great hands, burned brown by the sun, that were just now clenched, forming two big fists. There had been a humorous, tolerant twinkle in his eyes on the other occasions that Ruth had seen him; it was as though he secretly sympathized with her efforts to do something for his girl, though he would not openly approve. But now she saw that his eyes were blazing with an insane frenzy, that his lips were working, and that the muscles of his neck stood out like great cords, strained to the bursting point.
He got up when he saw Ruth, and stood on the sand at the edge of the porch, swaying back and forth, and Ruth’s first thought was that he had been drinking. But his first words to her revealed her mistake. It was the light, dry voice of a violent passion that greeted her, a passion that was almost too great for words. He ran to her pony and seized it by the bridle:
“You know, ma’am. Tell me who treated my li’l gal like that?” His great hands writhed in the reins. “I’ll twist his buzzard’s head off his shoulders.”
“What do you mean?” Ruth’s own voice startled her, for the spirit of a lie had issued from her mouth; she knew what he meant; she realized that Uncle Jepson had told the truth.
“Don’t you know, ma’am?” There was wild derision in his voice, insane mirth. “You’ve been comin’ here; she’s been goin’ to your place! An’ you don’t know! You’re blinder than me—an’ I couldn’t see at all!” He went off into a gale of frenzied laughter, at which the dog began to bark. Then Catherson’s eyes glared cunningly. “But you’ve seen who’s been comin’ here; you know the man’s name, ma’am; an’ you’re goin’ to tell me, ain’t you? So’s I c’n talk to him—eh?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Catherson.” Ruth got a firm grip on herself before she answered, and it was to save a life that she lied again, for she saw murder in Catherson’s eyes. “Where is Hagar?” she asked.
At his jerk of the head toward the cabin door Ruth got down from her pony. She was trembling all over, but at Catherson’s words all thought of self had been banished. The effect of Masten’s deed on her own life, his duplicity, his crimes—all were forgotten. Here was her friend who had been sinned against, needing the comfort of her presence. And in an instant she was inside the cabin, leaning over the little figure that was curled up in a bunk in a corner, speaking low words of cheer and forgiveness.
Outside, Catherson paced back and forth, his lips forming soundless words, his big hands working as though the fingers were at the throat of the thief that had stolen into his home. His mind was going over certain words that Hagar had answered to his questions, just before Ruth’s coming. He dwelt upon every slight circumstance that had occurred during the past few months. There were the tracks of horse’s hoofs about the cabin, in the paths and trails leading to it. Hagar had refused to tell him. But he figured it all out for himself, as he walked. When had this thing started? At about the time that Randerson had taken Vickers’ place at the Flying W! Why had not there been trouble between him and the Flying W, as under previous range bosses? What had Randerson given him money for, many times? Ah, he knew now!
“The black-hearted hound!” he gritted.
He reeled, and held to a corner of the cabin to steady himself, for this last access of rage came near to paralyzing him. When he recovered he drew back out of sight, and leaning against the wall of the cabin, with a pencil and a small piece of paper taken from a note book in a pocket, he wrote. He laid the piece of paper on the edge of the porch, ran to the corral and caught his pony, mounted, and rode drunkenly down the narrow path toward the break in the canyon.
* * *
CHAPTER XXIII
BANISHING A SHADOW
Randerson could not adjust his principles to his purpose to do Masten to death while working for Ruth, and so, in the morning following his meeting with the Easterner on the trail leading to Chavis’ shack, he announced to the men of the outfit that he was going to quit. He told Red Owen to take charge until Ruth could see him.
Glum looks followed his announcement. They tried to dissuade him, for they did not know his thoughts, and perhaps would not have given him credit for them if they had.
“Don’t the outfit suit you?” asked one gently. “If it don’t, we’ll try to do better!”
“Your conduct has been amazin’ good—considerin’,” grinned Randerson, light-hearted for the time; for this mark of affection was not lost upon him.
“If there’s anybody in the outfit that’s disagreeable to you, why, say the word an’ we’ll make him look mighty scarce!” declared another, glancing belligerently around him.
“Shucks, this outfit’ll be a blamed funeral!” said Blair. “We’ll be gettin’ to think that we don’t grade up, nohow. First Vickers packs his little war-bag an’ goes hittin’ the breeze out; an’ now you’ve got some fool notion that you ought to pull your freight. If it’s anything botherin’ you, why, open your yap, an’ we’ll sure salivate that thing!”
“I ain’t mentionin’,” said Randerson. “But it ain’t you boys. You’ve suited me mighty well. I’m sure disturbed in my mind over leavin’ you.”
“Then why leave at all?” said Owen, his face long.
But Randerson evaded this direct question. “An’ you standin’ in line for my job?” he said in pretended astonishment. “Why, I reckon you ought to be the most tickled because I’m goin’!”
“Well, if it’s a go, I reckon we’ll have to stand for it,” said Blair a little later, as Randerson mounted his pony. Their parting words were short, but eloquent in the sentiment left unsaid.
“So long,” Randerson told them as he rode away. And “so long” came the chorus behind him, not a man omitting the courtesy.
They stood in a group, watching him as he faded into the distance toward the ranchhouse.
“Somethin’ is botherin’ him mighty bad,” said Owen, frowning.
“He’s made the outfit feel like a lost doggie,” grumbled Blair. “The blamed cuss is grievin’ over somethin’.” And they went disconsolately to their work.
Randerson rode on his way. He felt a little relieved. No longer was he bound by his job; he was now a free agent and could do as he pleased. And it would please him to settle his differences with Masten. He would “go gunnin’ for him” with a vengeance.
It was about noon when he rode in to the ranchhouse. He did not turn his pony into the corral, but hitched it to one of the columns of the porch, for he intended to go on to the Diamond H as soon as he could get his belongings packed. If his old job was still open (he had heard that it was) he would take it, or another in case the old one had been filled. In any event, he would leave the Flying W.
Dejection was heavy in his heart when he crossed the porch to go to his room, for he had liked it here; it had been more like the home of his ideals than any he had yet seen. For his imagination and affection had been at work, and in Aunt Martha he had seen a mother—such a mother as he could have wished his own to be, had she lived. And Uncle Jepson! The direct-talking old gentleman had captivated him; between them was respect, understanding, and admiration that could hardly have been deeper between father and son.
But he felt reluctant to tell them of his decision to go, he wanted to delay it—if possible, he did not want to let them know at all, for he could come here, sometimes, to see them, when Ruth had gone. And so he was much pleased when, entering the house, he did not see them. But he looked for them, to be certain, going into all the rooms. And finally from a kitchen window he saw them out in the cottonwood back of the house, walking arm in arm, away, deeper into the wood. He turned with a gentle smile, and went upstairs to his room.
* * *
Shortly after Abe Catherson’s departure from the cabin, Ruth came to the door and looked out. Her face was whiter than it had been when she had reached the cabin, she was more composed, and her eyes were alight with mingled resignation and thankfulness. For Hagar had yielded her secret, and Ruth had realized how near she had come to linking
her life with that of the despicable creature who had preyed on her friend. The son of this great waste of world loomed big in her thoughts as she stood in the doorway; she saw now that those outward graces which had charmed her, in Masten, had been made to seem mockeries in contrast to the inward cleanness and manliness of the man that she had condemned for merely defending himself when attacked.
She went back into the cabin and sat beside Hagar, a queer sensation of joy possessing her, despite her pity for Hagar and her disgust for Masten, for she knew in this instant that she would never allow Randerson to quit the Flying W. Her joy was infectious; it brought a fugitive smile to the face of the nester’s daughter, and as Ruth led her out upon the porch, her arms around her, Hagar looked at her worshipfully.
Out at the edge of the porch, Hagar shot a dreading glance around. She started, and her eyes filled with anxiety as her gaze rested on the corral. She seized Ruth’s arm tightly.
“Dad’s gone!” she said gulpingly.
“Well, perhaps it is all for the best, Hagar,” consoled Ruth. “He will ride for a while, and he will come back to forgive you.”
But the girl’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Oh, I’m afraid he’ll do somethin’ terrible!” she faltered. “Before you came, he asked me if—if it had been Randerson. I told him no, but he didn’t seem satisfied, an’ when I wouldn’t tell him who it was, he went out, cursin’ Rex. I’m afraid, Ruth—I’m afraid!” She glanced wildly around, and her gaze rested on the piece of paper that Catherson had left on the edge of the porch. In an instant she had pounced upon it.
“He’s gone to kill Randerson!” she screamed shrilly. She did not seem to see Ruth; the madness of hysterical fear was upon her; her eyes were brilliant, wide and glaring. She was in her bare feet, but she darted past Ruth, disregarding the rocks and miscellaneous litter that stretched before her, reached Ruth’s pony and flung herself into the saddle, her lips moving soundlessly as she set the animal’s head toward the path.
The Range Boss Page 17
