Marble Range

by Robert J. Horton

  It was as if he could read her mind and fathom what she intended to say. “No,” he answered. “It would only make it the harder for me, Florence. The end of the trail just isn’t in the picture.”

  “But why?” she persisted petulantly. “Why, Bob?”

  He looked at her out of eyes brimming with pain. Wild oats come home in shock. He couldn’t trust his voice to answer, even if he had known what to say.

  She saw his look and her arms went about his neck. “Another minute, Bob,” she whispered. “And there is no trail that has no end.” She kissed him and ruffled his hair while he held her as if he would never let her go.

  Then she broke away, rose quickly, and went into the house.

  He sat there, stunned, gripping his hands until the nails bit into his palms. Then he rose and went down on the grass.

  From her window, Florence watched him pacing the yard in the moonlight. In her eyes the white bandage that he still wore formed a halo about his head. She waited until she heard his step upon the stairs. Then she flung herself upon the bed and gave way to the tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Well, folks,” said Howard at breakfast the next morning, “I suppose you know what’s going on day after tomorrow.”

  Bannister and Florence looked at him blankly.

  “Haven’t any idea as to the date, I suppose,” he went on in a superior tone.

  Florence glanced at the calendar on the wall near the window. “Why, it’ll be the Fourth of July,” she said. “I had lost all track of the date.”

  “You’re right,” said Howard. “Day after tomorrow will be the Fourth of July, and they’re figuring on doing things up brown in Prairie City. Big celebration, rodeo, dance, and all the trimmings.”

  “You going in?” Bannister asked.

  “That depends,” said the boy. “I was wondering why you two couldn’t drive in the buckboard with me for an escort.”

  Florence shook her head. “I wouldn’t go,” she said, “and I don’t think Bannister should be taking in any celebrations just yet.”

  Howard looked at Bannister with widening eyes. “Why, he’s all right,” he declared. “He don’t have to ride any broncos, and I guess we could prop him up at a poker table in a pinch.”

  This brought a laugh from Bannister, while Florence eyed her cousin in evident disapproval. “Howard, you have a queer sense of humor,” she said severely.

  “How so?” demanded the youth. “I suppose you knew that Bannister plays stud like he made up the game in the first place.”

  “Howard.” It was plain that Florence was annoyed.

  “Oh, well, if that’s the way it is, I won’t go in, either,” said the boy in resignation.

  “Go in and have your fun,” said Bannister sternly. “I’m not hankering to go in or I’d probably go. Go on in and see if that dame of yours hasn’t got over some of her uppishness.”

  “That’s what I intended to do in the first place.” Howard grinned. “I was just entertaining with conversation, seeing as how you two seem to have forgotten how to talk.”

  Bannister looked at Florence, but the girl didn’t raise her eyes from her plate.

  Martha appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Little evil-eye is out here,” she announced. “Wanted to see Manley, and I told him he was over north of the Dome. Then he said he wanted to see you, Miss Flo.”

  “It’s Link,” Florence concluded. “Wants what pay is coming to him, I suppose. Well, he can have it, and the sooner he gets off the ranch the better.”

  “Must have just got out of the hospital,” Bannister commented. “Maybe he wants his job back. If he does, give it to him, Miss Florence. I’ve got an idea or two about that fellow. Just between we three, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew something about this rustling business. No . . . don’t ask me any questions. It’s just a hunch. But he’ll hang himself with his own rope with the outfit quicker than anywhere else.”

  Florence looked at him intently. Here it was again. Hunches. Old Jeb had a hunch about Hayes. Now Bannister had a hunch about Link. And the pair had always run together. She thought she began to see the portent of these hunches. Hayes and Link were suspected of being implicated in the cattle thefts.

  “Tell him to go around front,” she said to Martha, finishing her coffee. “I’ll see him.”

  Bannister and Howard dallied over their breakfast while she was gone. Bannister was not inclined to talk and Howard didn’t press him. When Florence returned, they both looked at her questioningly.

  “That was it,” she said, nodding to Bannister. “Wanted his job back. I gave him a note to Manley with instructions to take him on and send him out to the camp.”

  Bannister was silent, thinking rapidly. Link wouldn’t come back to an outfit he knew was hostile to him. He must have friends among the men. Perhaps there were several of them working with Hayes. Bannister had surmised from the first that the cattle had been spirited away with the aid of some of the outfit. He was well satisfied to have Link back on the job and he intended to acquaint Manley with his suspicions at the first opportunity.

  When they went out, Bannister told Jeb to saddle him a horse. Then he pulled himself into the leather for the first time since he was shot. He and Howard rode for an hour, and, when they returned, Bannister dismounted on the run with his old snap and vigor.

  That night the bandage came off his head for good.

  Howard went in to Prairie City early on the morning of the 4th. He was commissioned to bring back a gun belt for Bannister, who luckily had an extra gun and holster in his pack.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Bannister told him, “and don’t forget your promise. I’ve an idea we’re going to have work to do before the moon gets dark.”

  Howard kept his word and came back to the ranch early on the morning of the 5th. He found Bannister, just returned from a ride, standing by Florence, who was working among her flowers. He appeared greatly excited.

  “Now what do you think is up?” he asked, signaling to old Jeb to take his horse.

  “I suppose you and that girl over at Prairie City are going to get married,” Bannister drawled.

  Howard looked at him scornfully. “She isn’t in my class,” he declared—which told them much. “No, it’s another celebration, the biggest celebration the Marble range country ever had.” He displayed a lurid handbill printed in red and blue with wide, white borders. “Cromer’s staging it up at Marble on the Tenth. They’re going to hold a big drawing of farm plots, and the folks who’ve bought plots will get ’em according to the numbers they draw. That’s supposed to be so everybody will have an equal chance to get a good location. But that isn’t half of it.” He paused, noting with satisfaction that his two listeners were showing considerable interest. “He’s going to stage a Fourth of July and rodeo celebration combined,” he went on enthusiastically. “He’s offering prizes for bucking contests, roping, bull-dogging, wild horse races, shooting, and everything else that make the prizes at Prairie City look like glasses of soda water. Why, Buck Adams and twenty other riders are coming down from Canada. He’s got scouts out rounding up the worst bunch of end-swappers that ever was collected for a bucking chute. He’s paying expenses for a flock of Indians to give the thing color. They’re going to run special trains from south and east, and every wagon on the project and in Prairie City and all the stages are going to be used to get the people up there.” He paused again, breathless, his eyes shining.

  “Go on, let’s hear all of it,” Bannister prompted. “You haven’t got a part of it off your chest yet.”

  “You bet I haven’t,” sang Howard. “They’re going to use all the loose lumber on the project for a big dance floor with a canvas top, and the stand for the drawing and such, and he’s bringing a ten-piece orchestra and a band from Big Falls. There’s going to be a big display of fireworks. And people are coming from as far as Saint Paul and even Chicago, I heard, to say nothing of Canada. He’s ordered about a million tents and cots to pu
t the people up, and the celebration’s going to run over to the Eleventh and maybe the Twelfth. All the men working up there are going to get a time off, and the new bank’s going to open and the first fifty depositors get a share of the company stock free. I can’t remember all of it, but that ought to be enough.”

  “That’s plenty,” Bannister agreed. “Where’d you get all this information?”

  “From men that were in Prairie City from the project and … well, everybody was talking about it, and Cromer was in town spreading the news personally, although I didn’t talk with him. Why, don’t you believe it?”

  “Of course I believe it,” said Bannister. “It’s his big grandstand play. He’ll get healthy deposits from all those who’ve bought plots and he’ll sell what plots haven’t already been taken. He’ll sell a lot of stock, too. He’ll rent gambling concessions and booths and all that sort of thing and take a rake-off. He won’t lose anything. And he’ll draw the biggest crowd, and the toughest crowd, that northern Montana ever saw.”

  “There’s another thing,” said Howard. “Sheriff Campbell is appointing special deputies right and left to preserve order, and Cromer is buying the badges for ’em.”

  Bannister laughed. “I wonder if he’ll pin one on Le Beck. I know just about how much good a special deputy is in a pinch when the guns get hot. Did you bring my belt?”

  “I brought three of ’em,” was the reply. “They’re on my saddle. You can take your pick and send the other two back.”

  “Fair enough,” said Bannister, pleased. “I sure aim to take in this celebration.”

  Florence had been listening and reading the handbill at the same time. Now she looked at the two of them, her eyes wide. “Sounds like they figure on shaving the prairie,” she commented, using a favorite expression of her father’s.

  Bannister and Howard both laughed.

  “Well, Miss Florence, I reckon you’ll have to go along with us,” said Bannister. “You’re a big stockholder up there and you’ve got to keep your eyes on the proceedings. And I aim to deposit a dollar and get another share of stock whether they like it or not.”

  This brought another laugh, and excitement ruled the day on the Half Diamond. Nor was it confined to the ranch house. Manley came riding in that afternoon with a heavy frown on his face.

  “I don’t know what the idea was in taking Link back on, but I took him as you said,” he told Florence. “Now he’s handed out a piece of news that’s got the men milling like a bunch of steers before a storm.”

  “I suppose he’s told them about the celebration they’re going to have up at Marble,” Florence conjectured.

  “You’ve heard about it, then,” said Manley in a cross voice. “Yes, that’s what he’s done. Spread the news all around about what a big time it’s going to be, an’ the big prizes offered, an’ everybody going that can ride or walk, an’ such, until the men are all worked up. They all want to go an’ let the cattle take care of themselves, the way it looks.”

  Florence puckered her brows over this new problem.

  “What’s more,” he went on, “we’ve got some men that can ride. Your dad and Hayes and I all saw to that in picking men for the outfit, an’ all those fellows say that they want a crack at the bronco-busting prizes or they’ll quit flat. What am I to do?”

  “You’ll have to let them go,” Florence decided. “I understand this affair is going to last two days at least, so, to keep peace in the camp, let half of them go the first day and the other half go the second day.”

  “I suppose that’s the only way out of it,” Manley grumbled. And it was so agreed.

  The morning of the 10th dawned hot and clear. Bannister and Howard were stirring before dawn. Bannister had been riding more every day and so far as he could tell had regained all his former strength. They brought three splendid mounts from the pasture, Florence having signified her intention of riding up rather than using the buckboard.

  Old Jeb was going to trail along, too, and had laid out all his finery. He was as excited as a schoolboy on the day before vacation. Martha refused to go, saying that celebrations tired her too much.

  They started shortly after 9:00 in order to reach the new town before noon. They were a gay party, prepared and resolved to amuse themselves. But they still did not realize the stupendous nature of the entertainment enterprise upon which Cromer had embarked. Given carte blanche by his board of directors, he had gone the uttermost limit. In the last few weeks the great drawing and celebration had become an obsession with him. All other business had been swept aside. Almost the entire working force on the project had been recruited to make the preparations. And his agents had seen to it that the advertising angle was not neglected.

  This morning of the first day, as Florence, Bannister, and Howard reached the crest of a knoll south of the town, they checked their horses as of one accord and stared in amazement at the panorama spread out before them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The newly born town of Marble was plumed in color like some gigantic flower that had suddenly come into bloom on the sweeping prairie. The white tents glistened like silver in the sunlight; the unpainted board buildings were splashes of gold; flags and buntings waved and fluttered, flaunting the colors of red and blue, and even at that distance the holiday attire of the women and the gay shirts and scarves of the men who crowded the town added their flaring, flaming hues to complete the marvelous picture. Off to the left a long line of wagons, buckboards, stages, and horsemen streamed into town from the west. Great corrals at the outer edge of the ring of tents were filled with horses. Conveyances of every description formed long lines still farther out. A great, golden cup on the east proved to be the stadium where the contests would be held. A miracle had been accomplished there in a vast setting of golden brown plain with the silver-crowned peaks trailing their robes of royal purple far beyond.

  The three of them caught their breath at this imposing sight. None of them ever had seen anything like it before. And, curiously enough, the same thought was in the mind of each of them—the matter of expense. Bannister was first to speak and he gave voice to what they were all thinking about.

  “Well, Cromer’s doing it up brown and then some,” he said. “Still, flags and bunting don’t cost such a lot, and they had all that lumber and can take down those things and use it again. And by the way that street has lengthened out I’d say he’s renting about a hundred concessions, which is more than enough to pay for everything and leave a snug profit. This jamboree is going to be a money-maker, if I ever saw one.”

  The others nodded. It could hardly be anything else with all those people coming into the town with money to spend. Cromer was no fool. They all agreed to that. But the magnitude of the undertaking impressed them nonetheless.

  They were suddenly aware of the pounding of hoofs behind them and turned quickly. It proved to be John Macy, riding up the gentle slope. With him was a girl of sixteen or thereabout, fair to look at, with her eyes lighted with excitement and wisps of golden hair flying from under her hat.

  Florence greeted them and Howard waved his hand.

  John Macy and the girl reined in as they gained the crest and both stared, wide-eyed, at what they saw.

  “Well, I’ll be.” But the stockman could not find the words with which to express himself further. He stared in stupefaction, bewildered to the point where he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he looked at the others and caught Bannister’s eye.

  “Looks like he means business, eh?” he said with a wink.

  “Looks so,” drawled Bannister. “I reckon business is the word.”

  Florence and the girl were talking, and now Florence turned to Bannister. “This is June Macy,” she said by way of introduction.

  “I knew that the minute I saw her,” said Bannister. “You’ve got your dad’s eyes, June.”

  The girl laughed, and then Howard edged his horse in beside her.

  “C’mon, June, let’s lead ’em down there,�
� he challenged.

  In a moment the two young people were off, flying down the slope, with the others following. Long before they reached the outskirts of the town, the din from Marble’s swollen street came to their ears. When they reached the south end of the street, they saw at once that it would be impossible to ride in. The street was jammed; the dust from hundreds of feet soared in clouds; some of the great strips of bunting that had been stretched across the street had come down and were being dragged along on the heads and shoulders of the throng; vendors in the gaily decorated booths were screaming their wares despite the fact that they couldn’t work fast enough to supply the demands of customers.

  A man wearing a star and mounted on a big, gray horse rode in front of them.

  “You’ll have to go around!” he shouted, waving a hand toward the left. “The corrals are around there.”

  They rode around as directed and came to the corrals. There was a man with a ribbon badge stationed at the entrance to each.

  “Right here!” called a man at the first corral, where there were but few horses tied to the rails. “Check your horses in. We feed an’ water ’em.”

  They stopped, and the man hurriedly adjusted tickets to their saddle horns, giving them checks with corresponding numbers before they could dismount. “Two dollars apiece, an’ leave ’em as long as you want,” said the man.

  “This is a new one on me,” said John Macy, “but I’m thinking it’s a good scheme. Guess we better leave ’em. See that the cinches are loosened or take off the saddles,” he finished, addressing the man.

  “We’ll take ’em off,” said the corral tender. “Hang ’em on the rail. Ready when you come for ’em an’ we’ll put ’em back on.”

  They dismounted and left their horses. Then they walked up the line of corrals some distance and turned in between the tents to an opening that led to the street. There they were caught in the tide of surging celebrants. There were men in business suits and women in smart frocks from the East; farmers who were unmistakably from the Middle West; stockmen in soft shirts without neckties, huge watch chains across their middles, trousers tucked into riding boots, great, gray hats; ranchers’ wives and daughters in white with colored sashes and ribbons in their hair; cowpunchers and rodeo contestants in green, pink, purple, and yellow shirts and flaming scarves, topped by wide-brimmed, high-crowned hats of gray and brown and black; girls with rouged cheeks and lips, eyes unnaturally bright, accompanied by pale-faced men, whose glances roved furtively about the crowds; teamsters and laborers in mud-stained overalls; engineers in smart khaki uniforms; youths in mail-order, blue serge suits—their Sunday best.