by Dean Owen
“No! I helped to bury Jim Clancy, out in the desert, I’m goin’ to help bury Dad. It’s goin’ to be lonesome out here—” She twisted her mouth, setting teeth into the lower lip sharply as she gazed at the desolate cliffs, the birds swinging their tireless, expectant circles in the throat of the gorge.
“Dad allus figgered he’d die somewheres in the desert. ’Lowed it ’ud be his luck. He wanted to be put within the sound of runnin’ water—he’s gone so often ’thout it. But—” She shrugged her thin shoulders resignedly, the inheritance of the prospector’s philosophy strong within her.
“See here, miss,” said Sandy, while Sam crawled into the wagon in search of the dead miner’s pick and shovel that now, instead of uncovering riches, would dig his grave, “how old air you?”
“Fifteen. My name’s Margaret—Molly for short—same as my Ma. She’s been dead for twelve years.”
“Well, Miss Molly, suppose you-all come on to the Three Star fo’ a spell with my two pardners an’ me? You do that an’ mebbe we can fix yore daddy’s idee about runnin’ water. We’d come back an’ git him an’ we’ll make a place fo’ him under our big cottonwoods below the big spring. I w’udn’t wonder but what he c’ud hear the water gugglin’ plain as it runs down the overflow to the alfalfa patches.”
Molly Casey gazed at him with such a sudden glow of gratitude in her eyes that Sandy felt embarrassed. He had been comforting a girl, a boyish girl, and here a woman looked at him, with understanding.
“Yo’re sure a white man,” she said. “I’ll git even with you some time if I work the bones of my fingers through the flesh fo’ you. Thanks don’t amount to a damn ’thout somethin’ back of ’em. I’ll come through.”
She put out her roughened little hand, man-fashion, and Sandy took it as Sam emerged from the wagon with the tools. The bay mare groaned and gave a shrill cry, horribly human. Sam drew his gun, putting down pick and shovel.
“Got any water you c’ud spare?” asked the girl. Sandy handed her his canteen.
“Use it all,” he said. “Soon’s it’s dark, it’ll cool off. We’ll git through all right.”
He picked up the tools and moved toward Sam as the bay collapsed to the merciful bullet. The girl washed away as best she could the stains of blood and travel from the dead face while Sandy sounded with the pick for soil deep enough for a temporary grave.
The body would have to lie on the ledge over night, nothing but burial could save it from marauding coyotes, though the wagon might have baffled the buzzards. The two set to work digging a shallow trench down to bedrock, rolling up loose boulders for a cairn. The whirring chorus of the cicadas drummed an elfin requiem. Now and then there came the chink of bit, or hoof on rock, from the waiting horses in the broken road. The sun was low, horizontal rays piercing the flood of violet haze in the cañon. Across the gorge the cliff, above the wash of shadow, glowed saffron; a light wind wailed down the bore. Lizards flirted in and out of the crevices as the miner was laid in his temporary grave, the girl dry-eyed again.
She had brought a little work box from the wagon, of mahogany studded with disks of pearl in brass mountings. Out of this she produced a handkerchief of soft China silk brocade, its white turned yellow with age. This she spread over her father’s features, showing strangely distinct in the failing light.
“I don’t want the dirt pressin’ on his face,” she said.
From the dead man’s clothes Sandy and Sam had taken the few personal belongings, from the inner pocket of the vest some papers that Sandy knew for location claims.
“Want to take some duds erlong to the ranch?” he asked Molly. “We can bring in the rest of the stuff later. Got to shack erlong, it’s gittin’ dark. Brought an extry hawss with us. Can you ride?”
“Some. I ain’t had much chance.”
“Don’t know how the mare’ll stand yore skirt. If she won’t Pinto’ll pack you.”
“I’ll fix that.” She clambered into the wagon. Before she came out with her bundle they piled the cairn, a mask of broken rim-rock heavy enough to foil the scratching of coyotes.
It looked to Sandy as if the girl had changed into a boy. The slender figure, silhouetted against the afterglow, softly pulsing masses of fiery cloud above the top of the mesa, was dressed in jean overalls, a wide-rimmed hat hiding length of hair.
“I reckon I can fool that hawss of yores now,” she said. “I gen’ally dress thisaway ’cept when we expect to go nigh the settlements or a ranch where we aim to visit. We was makin’ for the Two-Bar-P outfit, where Grit came from when he was a bit of a pup. I expected that’s where he was headin’ for when I sent him off after help, but you come instead.”
“I was wonderin’ how he come to make the ranch,” said Sandy. “You see we-all bought the Two-Bar-P, though I never figgered old Samson ’ud ever own a sheepdawg. He might give one away fast enough.”
“Grit was sent him for a present by a man who summered at the ranch an’ heerd Samson say he wanted a dawg,” said the girl. “He was a tenderfoot when he come, an’ when he left, ’count bein’ sick. Samson didn’t want to kill the dawg an’ didn’t want to keep him, so he gave him to Dad an’ me when I was ten years old. Are you ready to start?”
She had avoided looking toward the grave, purposely Sandy thought, talking to bridge over the last good-by, the chance of a breakdown. Suddenly she pointed down the cliff.
“Wait a minute,” she cried and disappeared, sliding and leaping down like a goat, reappearing with her hat half filled with crimson silk-petaled cactus blooms, scattering them at the head of the cairn.
“Seemed like there jest had to be flowers,” she said as, with Grit nosing close to his mistress, they mounted to the road. The gray mare made no bother and soon they were riding down toward the strip of Bad Lands. Sandy let the collie go afoot for the time.
The glory of the range departed, the cliffs turned slate color, then black, while a host of stars marshaled and burned without flicker. The wind moaned through the trough of the cañon as they rode out on the plain. Up somewhere in the darkness the buzzards came circling down, to settle on the ledge beside the carcasses of the two horses.
It was close to midnight when they reached the home ranch, riding past the outbuildings, the bunk-house of the men where a light twinkled, the cook shack, the corrals, up to the main house. There they alighted. All about cottonwoods rustled in the dark, the air was sweet and cool, not far from frost. Molly Casey shivered as she moved stiffly in her saddle. Sandy lifted her from the saddle and carried her up the steps, across the porch, kicking open the door of the living-room where the embers of a fire glowed. There was no other light in the big room, but there was sufficient to show the great form of Mormon, stowed at ease in a chair, asleep and snoring.
Sam struck a match and lit a lamp. He struck Mormon mightily between his shoulders.
“Gawd!” gasped the heavyweight partner. “I been asleep. But there’s a kittle of hot water, Sandy. Where’s the—what in time are you totin’? A gel or a boy?”
“This is Miss Molly Casey,” said Sandy gravely, setting down the girl. “Miss Casey, this is Mr. Peters. Mormon, Miss Molly is goin’ to tie up to the Three Star for a bit.”
Mormon, a little sheepish at the suddenly developing age of the girl as she shook hands with him, recovered himself and beamed at her. “Yo’re sure welcome,” he said. “Boss hired you? Cowgirl or cook?”
Sandy noticed the girl’s lips quiver and he slipped an arm about her shoulders. He was not woman-shy with this girl who needed help, and who seemed a boy.
“Don’t you take no notice of him an’ his kiddin’,” he said. “We’ll make him rustle some grub fo’ all of us an’ then we-all ’ll turn in. I’ll show you yore room. Up the stairs an’ the last door on the right. Here’s some matches. There’s a lamp on the bureau up there. Give you a call when supper’s ready.”
He led
her to the door and gave her a friendly little shove, guessing that she wanted to be alone.
“The kid’s lost her father, lost most everything ’cept her dawg,” he said to Mormon. “Thought we might adopt her, sort of, then I thought mebbe we’d hire her—for mascot.”
“Lost her daddy? An’ me hornin’ in an’ tryin’ to kid her! I ain’t got the sense of a drowned gopher, sometimes,” said Mormon contritely.
“She’s game, plumb through, ain’t she, Sam? Stands right up to trouble?”
“You bet. Mormon, open up a can of greengages, will ye? I reckon she’s got a sweet tooth, same as me.”
Molly Casey was not through standing up to trouble. They coaxed her to eat and she managed to make a meal that satisfied them. Then she got up to go to her room, with Grit nuzzling close to her, her fingers in his ruff, twisting nervously at the strands of hair.
“Do you reckon,” she asked the three partners, “that Dad knows he fooled me when he told me to jump? If I’d known he c’udn’t git clear I’d have stuck—same as he would if I was caught. Do you reckon he knows that—now?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” said Sandy gravely. “You did what he wanted, anyway.”
She shook her head.
“If I’d been on the outside, he w’udn’t have jumped, no matter how much I begged him. I didn’t think of the brake. Don’t seem quite square, somehow, way I acted. Good night. What time do you-all git up?”
“With the sun, soon’s the big bell rings,” said Sandy. “Good night.”
She looked at them gravely and went out.
“Botherin’ about playin’ square in jumpin’,” said Sandy. “That gel is square on all twelve eidges. Sam, slide out an’ muzzle that bell. She’ll likely cry herself to sleep after a bit but she’ll need all the sleep she can git. No sense in wakin’ her up at sun-up.”
“How’d you come to know so much about gels?” asked Mormon.
“Me? I don’t know the first thing about ’em,” protested Sandy.
“No more’n any man,” put in Sam. “’Cept it’s Mormon. He’s sure had the experience.”
“Experience,” said Mormon, with a yawn, “may teach a man somethin’ about mules but not wimmen. Woman is like the climate of the state of Kansas, where I was born. Thirty-four below at times and as high as one-sixteen above. Blowin’ hot an’ cold, rangin’ from a balmy breeze through a rain shower or a thunder-storm, up to a snortin’ tornado. Average number of workin’ days, about one hundred an’ fifty. Them’s statistics. It ain’t so hard to set down what a woman’s done at the end of a year, if you got a good mem’ry, but tryin’ to guess what she is goin’ to do has got the weather man backed off inter a corner an’ squealin’ for help. They ain’t all like Kansas. My first resembled it, the second was sorter tropic—she run off with a rainmaker an’ I hear she’s been divorced three times since then. Mebbe that’s an exaggeration. My third must have been born someways nigh the no’th pole. W’en she got mad she’d freeze the blood in yore veins.
“No, sir, that feller in the po’try who says, ‘I learned about wimmen from ’er,’ was braggin’. Now, this gel of Casey’s ’pears like what her dad ’ud call a good prospect, but you can’t tell. Fool’s gold is bright enough but you can’t change it to the real stuff no matter how you polish it.”
“Ever see the sour-milk batter Pedro fixes fo’ hot cakes?” asked Sam.
“Sure I have. What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Mormon.
“That’s what you’ve got sloppin’ inside of yore haid ’stead of brains. Yore disposition concernin’ wimmen is gen’ally soured. You ’mind me of the man from New Jersey who come out west to buy a ranch. A hawss throwed him five times hand-runnin’. He ropes a steer that happens to run into the bum loop he was swingin’ an’ it snakes him out’n the saddle. A pesky cow chases him when he was afoot, a couple calves gits a rope twisted round his stummick an’ lastly a mule kicks him into a bunch of cactus. Whereupon he remarks, ‘I don’t figger I was calculated for runnin’ a cattle ranch,’ sells out an’ goes back to herdin’ muskeeters in New Jersey.
“Mormon, you warn’t calculated to handle wimmen. This li’l’ gel is game as they make ’em, an’ I reckon she’s right sweet if she on’y gits a chance. Leastwise, I see several signs of pay dirt this afternoon an’ evenin’ as I reckon Sandy done the same. She’s been trailin’ her dad all over hell an’ creation, talkin’ like him, swearin’ like him, actin’ like him. Never see nothin’ different. All she needs is a chance.”
“What’s the idee in pickin’ on me?” asked Mormon aggrievedly. “She’s as welcome as grass in spring. They ain’t no one got a bigger heart than me fo’ kids.”
“No one got a bigger heart, mebbe,” said Sam caustically. “Nor none a smaller brain. All engine an’ no gasoline in the tank!”
“She’s an orphan,” went on Sandy. “She ain’t got a cent that I know of. The claims her old dad mentioned ain’t no good because, in the first place, they’d have been worked if they was; second place, they’re over to Dynamite an’ the sharps say Dynamite’s a flivver. All she has in sight is the dawg. Some dawg! Comes in from the desert an’ takes us out to her an’ Pat Casey—him dyin’. Ef it hadn’t been fo’ the dawg, she’d have stayed there, to my notion. Got some sort of idee she’d deserted ship ef she hadn’t stuck till it was too late fo’ her to crawl out of that slit in the mesa. She’s fifteen an’ she’s got sense. I figger we better turn in right now an’ hold a pow-wow with the gel ter-morrer.”
“Second the motion,” said Sam.
“Third it,” said Mormon.
And the Three Musketeers of the Range went off to bed.
CHAPTER III
MOLLY
Molly came down next morning in the faded blue gingham. Sandy marked how worn it was and marked an item in his mind—clothes. He smiled at her with the sudden showing of his sound white teeth that made many friends. She was much too young, too frank, too like a boy to affect him with any of his woman-shyness. He did not realize how close she was to womanhood, seeing only how much she must have missed of real girlhood.
Molly had a snubby nose, a wide mouth, Irish eyes of blue that were far apart and crystal clear, freckles and a lot of brown hair that she wore in a long braid wound twice about her well-shaped head. She was a combination of curves and angles, of well-rounded neck and arms and legs with collar-bones and hips over-apparent, immature but not awkward.
None of the three partners observed these things in detail. All of them noted that her eyes were steady, friendly, trusting, and that when she smiled at them it was like the flash of water in a tree-shady pond, when a trout leaps. Grit, entering with her, divided his attentions among the men, shoving a moist nose at last into Sandy’s palm and lying down obedient, his tail thumping amicably, as Sandy examined the tape protectors.
“You lie round the ranch for a day or so,” he told the collie, “an’ you’ll be as good as new.”
“Fo’ a sheepdawg,” said Mormon, “he sure shapes fine.”
Molly’s eyes flashed. “He don’t know he’s a sheepdawg,” she protested. “He’s never even seen one, ’less it was a mountain sheep, ’way up against the skyline. Samson liked him. Don’t you like him?”
“I like him fine,” Mormon answered hurriedly. “Fine!”
“Ef you-all didn’t, we c’ud shack on somewheres. I c’ud git work down to the settlemints, I reckon. I don’t aim to put you out any. I’ve been thinkin’ erbout that. ’Less you should happen to want a woman to run the house. I don’t know much about housekeepin’ but I c’ud l’arn. It’s a woman’s job, chasin’ dirt. I can cook—some. Dad used to say my camp-bread an’ biscuits was fine. I c’ud earn what I eat, I reckon. An’ what Grit ’ud eat. We don’t aim to stay unless we pay—someway.”
There was a touch of fire to her independence, a chip on the shoulder of her
pride the three partners recognized and respected.
“See here, Molly Casey,”—Sandy used exactly the same tone and manner he would have taken with a boy—“that’s yore way of lookin’ at it. Then there’s our side. You figger yore dad was a pritty good miner, I reckon?”
“He sure knew rock. Every one ’lowed that. They was always more’n one wantin’ to grubstake him but he’d never take it. Figgered he didn’t want to split any strike he might make an’ figgered he w’udn’t take no man’s money ’less he was dead sure of payin’ him back. Dad was a good miner.”
“All right. Now, yore dad believes in them claims. The last two words he says was ‘Molly’ and ‘mines.’ I give him my word then and there, like he would have to me, to watch out for yore interests. My word is my pardners’ word. I’m willin’ to gamble those claims of his’ll pan out some day. Until they do, ef you-all ’ll stay on at the Three Star, stop Mormon stompin’ in from the corral with dirty boots, ride herd on Sam an’ me the same way, mebbe cook us up some of them biscuits once in a while, why, it’ll be fine! Then there’s yore schoolin’. Yore dad ’ud wish you to have that. I don’t suppose you’ve had a heap. An’ you sabe, Molly, that you swear mo’ often than a gel usually swears.”
She opened her eyes wide. “But I don’t cuss when I say ’em. An’ I don’t use the worst ones. Dad w’udn’t let me. I can read an’ write, spell an’ cipher some. But Dad needed me more’n I needed learnin’.”
“But you got to have it,” said Mormon earnestly. “S’pose them claims pan out way rich and you git all-fired wealthy? Bein’ a gel, you sabe clothes, di’monds, silks, satins an’ feather fuss. You’ll want to learn the pianner. You’ll want to know what to git an’ how to wear it. Won’t want folks laffin’ at you like they laffed at Sam, time he won fo’ hundred dollars shootin’ craps an’ went to Galveston where a smart Alec of a clerk sells him a spiketail coat, wash vest an’ black pants with braid on the seams.
“Sam, he don’t know how to wear ’em, or when. His laigs sure looked prominent in them braided pants. Warn’t any side pockets in ’em, neither, fo’ him to hide his hands. Sam’s laigs got warped when he was young, lyin’ out nights in the rain ’thout a tarp’. That suit set back Sam a heap of money an’ it ain’t no mo’ use to him than an extry shell to a terrapin.”
