“Miss Marbolt, I believe,” he said. “Forgive me, but it seems that, being a stranger, I must introduce myself. I am John Tresler. I have just been performing the same ceremony for your father’s foreman’s benefit. Can I see Mr. Marbolt?”
He was looking down into what he thought at the moment was the sweetest, saddest little face he had ever seen. It was dark with sunburn, in contrast with the prim white drill dress the girl wore, and her cheeks were tinged with a healthy color which might have been a reflection of the rosy tint of the ribbon about her neck. But it was the quiet, dark brown eyes, half wistful and wholly sad, and the slight droop at the corners of the pretty mouth, that gave him his first striking impression. She was a delightful picture, but one of great melancholy, quite out of keeping with her youth and fresh beauty.
She looked up at him from under the brim of a wide straw sun-hat, trimmed with a plain silk handkerchief, and pinned to her wealth of curling brown hair so as to give her face the utmost shade. Then she frankly held out her hand in welcome to him, whilst her eyes questioned his, for she had witnessed the scene between the two men and overheard their words. But Tresler listened to her greeting with a disarming smile on his face.
“Welcome, Mr. Tresler,” she said gravely. “We have been expecting you. But I’m afraid you can’t see father just now. He’s sleeping. He always sleeps in the afternoon. You see, daylight or night, it makes no difference to him. He’s blind. He has drifted into a curious habit of sleeping in the day as well as at night. Possibly it is a blessing, and helps him to forget his affliction. I am always careful, in consequence, not to waken him. But come along up to the house; you must have some lunch, and, later, a cup of tea.”
“You are awfully kind.”
Tresler watched a troubled look that crept into the calm expression of her eyes. Then he looked on while she turned and dismissed the discomfited foreman.
“I shan’t ride this afternoon, Jake,” she said coldly. “You might have Bessie shod for me instead. Her hoofs are getting very long.” Then she turned again to her guest. “Come, Mr. Tresler.”
And the New Englander readily complied.
Nor did he even glance again in the direction of the foreman.
Jake cursed, not audibly, but with such hateful intensity that even the mat of beard and moustache parted, and the cruel mouth and clenched teeth beneath were revealed. His eyes, too, shone with a diabolical light. For the moment Tresler was master of the situation, but, as Jake had said, he was “boss” of that ranch. “Boss” with him did not mean “owner.”
* * *
CHAPTER III
THE BLIND MAN
Tresler was unfeignedly glad to leave Jake Harnach behind him, but he looked very serious as he and his companion moved on to the house. The result of his meeting with the foreman would come back on him later, he knew, and it was as well that he was prepared. The meeting had been unfortunate, but, judging by what he had heard of Jake in Forks, he must inevitably have crossed the bully sooner or later; Jake himself would have seen to that.
Diane Marbolt paused as she came to the verandah. They had not spoken since their greeting. Now she turned abruptly, and quietly surveyed her guest. Nor was there any rudeness in her look. Tresler felt that he was undergoing a silent cross-examination, and waited, quietly smiling down at her from his superior height.
At last she smiled up at him and nodded.
“Will I do?” he asked.
“I think so.”
It was a curious position, and they both laughed. But in the girl’s manner there was no levity.
“You are not sure? Is there anything wrong about me? My—my dress, for instance?” Tresler laughed again; he had missed the true significance of his companion’s attitude toward him.
Just for a moment the dark little face took on a look of perplexity. Then the pucker of the brows smoothed out, and she smiled demurely as she answered.
“Oh, I see—no,” doubtfully. Then more decidedly, “No. You see, you are a ‘tenderfoot.’ You’ll get over it later on.”
And the last barrier of formality was set aside.
“Good,” exclaimed Tresler, emphatically. “We are going to be friends, Miss Marbolt. I knew it. It was only that I feared that ‘they’ might ruin my chances of your approbation. You see, they’ve already caused me—er—trouble.”
“Yes, I think we shall be friends,” Diane answered quietly. “In the meantime, come along into the house and have your lunch. It is ready, I saw you coming and so prepared it at once. You will not mind if I sit and look on while you eat. I have had mine. I want to talk to you before you see my father.”
There was distinct anxiety in her manner. More surely than all, her eyes betrayed her uneasiness. However, he gave no sign, contenting himself with a cordial reply.
“You are very kind. I too should like a chat. You see, I am a ‘tenderfoot,’ and you have been kind enough to pass over my shortcomings.”
Diane led the way into the house. And Tresler, following her, was struck with the simple comfort of this home in the wilds. It was a roomy two-storied house, unpretentious, but very capacious. They entered through one of three French windows what was evidently a useful sort of drawing-room-parlor. Beyond this they crossed a hallway, the entrance door of which stood open, and passed into a dining-room, which, in its turn, opened directly into a kitchen beyond. This room looked out on the woods at the back. Diane explained that her father’s sanctum was in front of this, while behind the parlor was his bedroom, opposite the dining-room and kitchen. The rooms up-stairs were bedrooms, and her own private parlor.
“You see, we keep no female servants, Mr. Tresler,” the girl said, as she brought a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen and set it on the table. “I am housekeeper. Joe Nelson, the choreman, is my helper and does all the heavy work. He’s quite a character.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve met him,” observed Tresler, dryly.
“Ah! Try that ham. I don’t know about the cold pie, it may be tough. Yes, old Joe is an Englishman; at least, he was, but he’s quite Americanized now. He spent forty years in Texas. He’s really an educated man. Owned a nice ranch and got burned out. I’m very fond of him; but it isn’t of Joe I want to talk.”
“No.”
The man helped himself to the ham and veal pie, and found it anything but tough.
Diane seated herself in a chair with her back to the uncurtained window, through which the early summer sun was staring.
“You have met Jake Harnach and made an enemy of him,” she said suddenly, and with simple directness.
“Yes; the latter must have come anyway.”
The girl sighed, and her eyes shone with a brooding light. And Tresler, glancing at her, recognized the sadness of expression he had noticed at their first meeting, and which, he was soon to learn, was habitual to her.
“I suppose so,” she murmured in response. Then she roused herself, and spoke almost sharply. “What would you have done had he struck you? He is a man of colossal strength.”
Tresler laughed easily. “That depends. I’m not quite sure. I should probably have done my best to retaliate. I had an alternative. I might have shot him.”
“Oh!” the girl said with impulsive horror.
“Well, what would you have?” Tresler raised his eyebrows and turned his astonished eyes upon her. “Was I to stand lamb-like and accept a thrashing from that unconscionable ruffian? No, no,” he shook his head. “I see it in your eyes. You condemn the method, but not the man. Remember, we all have a right to live—if we can. Maybe there’s no absolute necessity that we should, but still we are permitted to do our best. That’s the philosophy I’ve had hammered into me with the various thrashings the school bullies at home have from time to time administered. I should certainly have done my best.”
“And if you had done either of these things, I shudder to think what would have happened. It was unfortunate, terribly unfortunate. You do not know Jake Harnach. Oh, Mr. Tresler,” the
girl hurried on, leaning suddenly forward in her chair, and reaching out until her small brown hand rested on his arm, “please, please promise me that you won’t run foul of Jake. He is terrible. You don’t, you can’t know him, or you would understand your danger.”
“On the contrary, Miss Marbolt. It is because I know a great deal of him that I should be ready to retaliate very forcibly. I thank my stars I do know him. Had I not known of him before, your own words would have warned me to be ready for all emergencies. Jake must go his way and I’ll go mine. I am here to learn ranching, not to submit to any bulldozing. But let us forget Jake for the moment, and talk of something more pleasant. What a charming situation the ranch has!”
The girl dropped back in her chair. There was no mistaking the decision of her visitor’s words. She felt that no persuasion of hers could alter him. With an effort she contrived to answer him.
“Yes, it is a beautiful spot. You have not yet had time to appreciate the perfections of our surroundings.” She paused for him to speak, but as he remained silent she labored on with her thoughts set on other things. “The foot-hills come right down almost to our very doors. And then in the distance, above them, are the white caps of the mountains. We are sheltered, as no doubt you have seen, by the almost inaccessible wall beyond the river, and the pinewoods screen us from the northeast and north winds of winter. South and east are miles and miles of prairie-lands. Father has been here for eighteen years. I was a child of four when we came. Whitewater was a mere settlement then, and Forks wasn’t even in existence. We hadn’t a neighbor nearer than Whitewater in those days, except the Indians and half-breeds. They were rough times, and father held his place only by the subtlety of his poor blind brain, and the arms of the men he had with him. Jake has been with us as long as I can remember. So you see,” she added, returning to her womanly dread for his safety, “I know Jake. My warning is not the idle fear of a silly girl.”
Tresler remained silent for a moment or two. Then he asked sharply—
“Why does your father keep him?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Jake is the finest ranchman in the country.”
And in the silence that followed Tresler helped himself to more coffee, and finished off with cheese and crackers. Neither seemed inclined to break up the awkwardness of the pause. For the time the man’s thoughts were wandering in interested speculation as to the possibilities of his future on the ranch. He was not thinking so much of Jake, nor even of Julian Marbolt. It was of the gentler associations with the girl beside him—associations he had never anticipated in his wildest thoughts. She was no prairie-bred girl. Her speech, her manner, savored too much of civilization. Yes, he decided in his mind, although she claimed Mosquito Bend as her home since she was four, she had been educated elsewhere. His thoughts were suddenly cut short. A faint sound caught his quick ears. Then Diane’s voice, questioning him, recalled his wandering attention.
“I understand you intend to stay with us for three years?”
“Just as long as it will take to learn all the business of a ranch,” he answered readily. “I am going to become one of the——”
Again he heard the peculiar noise, and he broke off listening. Diane was listening too. It was a soft tap, tap, like some one knocking gently upon a curtained door. It was irregular, intermittent, like the tapping of a telegraph-sounder working very slowly.
“What’s that?” he asked.
The girl had risen, and a puzzled look was in her eyes. “The noise? Oh, it’s father,” she said, with a shadowy smile, and in a lowered tone. “Something must have disturbed him. It is unusual for him to be awake so early.”
Now they heard a door open, and the tapping ceased. Then the door closed and the lock turned. A moment later there came the jingle of keys, and then shuffling footsteps accompanied the renewed tapping.
Tresler was still listening. He had turned toward the door, and while his attention was fixed on the coming of the blind rancher, he was yet aware that Diane was clearing the table with what seemed to him unnecessary haste and noise. However, his momentary interest was centred upon the doorway and the passage outside, and he paid little heed to the girl’s movements. The door stood open, and as he looked out the sound of shuffling feet drew nearer; then a figure passed the opening.
It was gone in a moment. But in that moment he caught sight of a tall man wrapped in the gray folds of a dressing-gown that reached to his feet. That, and the sharp outline of a massive head of close-cropped gray hair. The face was lost, all except the profile. He saw a long, high-bridged nose and a short, crisp grayish beard. The tapping of the stick died slowly away. And he knew that the blind man had passed out on to the verandah.
Now he turned again to the girl, and would have spoken, but she raised a warning finger and shook her head. Then, moving toward the door, she beckoned to him to follow.
* * *
“Father, this is Mr. Tresler.”
Tresler found himself looking down upon a remarkable face. He acknowledged Diane’s introduction, forgetful, for the moment, of the man’s sightless eyes. He gripped the outstretched hand heartily, while he took in his first impression of a strange personality.
They were out on the verandah. The rancher was sitting in a prim, uncushioned armchair. He had a strong, well-moulded, pale face, the sightless eyes of which held the attention. Tresler at once appreciated Shaky’s description of them.
They were dreadful eyes. The pupils were there, and, in a measure, appeared natural except for their enormous size. They were black, jet black, and divided from what should have been the whites by minute rings of blue, the only suspicion of iris they possessed. But it was the whites that gave them their dreadful expression. They were scarlet with inflammation—an inflammation which extended to the rims of the lids and had eaten away the lashes. Of the rest of the face it was impossible for him to form much of an opinion. The iron-gray brows were depressed as though with physical pain, and so obliterated all natural expression. And the beard shut out the indications which the mouth and chin might have afforded.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Tresler,” he said, in a low, gentle tone. “I knew you were here some time ago.”
Tresler was astonished at the quiet refinement of his voice. He had grown so accustomed to the high, raucous twang of the men of these wilds that it came as a surprise to him.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he answered cheerily. “Miss Marbolt told me you were sleeping, and——”
“You didn’t disturb me—at least, not in the way you mean. You see, I have developed a strange sensitiveness—a sort of second sight,” he laughed a little bitterly. “I awoke by instinct the moment you approached the house, and heard you come in. The loss of one sense, you see, has made others more acute. Well, well, so you have come to learn ranching? Diane”—the blind man turned to his daughter—“describe Mr. Tresler to me. What does he look like? Forgive me, my dear sir,” he went on, turning with unerring instinct to the other. “I glean a perfect knowledge of those about me in this way.”
“Certainly.” The object of the blind man’s interest smiled over at the girl.
Diane hesitated in some confusion.
“Go on, child,” her father said, with a touch of impatience in his manner.
Thus urged she began. “Mr. Tresler is tall. Six feet. Broad-shouldered.”
The man’s red, staring eyes were bent on his pupil with a steady persistency.
“Yes, yes,” he urged, as the girl paused.
“Dressed in—er fashionable riding costume.”
“His face?”
“Black hair, steel-blue eyes, black eyelashes and brows. Broad forehead——”
“Any lines?” questioned the blind man.
“Only two strong marks between the brows.”
“Go on.”
“Broad-bridged, rather large nose; well-shaped mouth, with inclination to droop at the corners; broad, split chin; well-rounded cheeks and jaw.”
&nbs
p; “Ha! clean-shaven, of course—yes.”
The rancher sat silent for some moments after Diane had finished her description. His lips moved, as though he were talking to himself; but no words came to those waiting. At last he stirred, and roused from his reverie.
“You come from Springfield, Mr. Tresler, I understand?” he said pleasantly.
“Yes.”
“Um. New England. A good country that breeds good men,” he nodded, with an expression that was almost a smile. “I’m glad to be able to welcome you; I only wish I could see. However,” he went on kindly, “you will be able to learn ranching in all its branches here. We breed horses and cattle. You’ll find it rough. My foreman is not exactly gentle, but, believe me, he knows his business. He is the finest ranchman in the country, and I owe much of my success to him. You must get on the right side of Jake, though. It requires finding—the right side, I mean—but it is worth seeking.”
Tresler smiled as he listened. He thoroughly agreed with the reference to the difficulty of finding Jake’s “right” side. He endeavored to catch Diane’s eye, but she avoided his gaze. As the rancher paused, he broke in at once.
“I presume I start work in earnest to-morrow morning?”
The blind man shook his head. “No; better start in to-day. Our agreement reads to-day; it must not be broken. You take your position as one of the hands, and will be under the control of Jake Harnach.”
“We can have tea first, though,” put in Diane, who had followed her father’s words with what seemed unnecessary closeness.
“Tut, tut, child,” he replied impatiently. “Yes, we will have tea. ’Tis all you think of. See to it, and bring Tresler a chair; I must talk to him.”
His words were a dismissal; and after Diane had provided a chair, she retired into the house, leaving apprentice and master alone. And the two men talked, as men will talk who have just come together from the ends of the world. Tresler avoided the details of his journey; nor did the blind man seem in any way interested in his personal affairs. It was the news of men, and matters concerning the world, that they discussed. And the rancher’s information and remarks, and keen, incisive questions, set the newcomer wondering. He watched the face before him, the red, sightless eyes. He studied the quiet, gentle-voiced man, as one may study an abstruse problem. The result was disheartening. One long, weary expression of pain was all he beheld; no lights and shades of emotion and interest. It was the face of one grown patient under a lifelong course of suffering. Tresler had listened to the bitter cursings against this man, but as the soft voice and cultured expressions fell upon his ears, the easy-flowing, pointed criticisms on matters of public interest, the broad philosophy, sometimes faintly dashed with bitterness and cynicism, but always sound, he found it hard to associate him with the significant sobriquet of the ranch. Tea-time found him still wrestling with the unsolved problem. But, with the advent of Diane with the table and laden tray, he set it aside for future study.
The Night Riders Page 4
