For the next half-hour he transferred his attention to the relations between father and daughter, as they chatted pleasantly of the ranching prospects of the country, for the benefit of their visitor. This was a lesser problem, and one he came near to achieving. Before he left them, he resolved that Diane stood in great awe, not to say fear, of her father. This to him was astonishing, judging by the strength of character every feature in her face displayed. It seemed to him that she was striving hard to bestow affection on him—trying to create an affection that had no place in her heart. Her efforts were painfully apparent. She convinced him at once of a lively sense of duty—a sense she was carrying to a point that was almost pitiful. All this he felt sure of, but it was the man who finally baffled him as he had baffled him before. How he regarded Diane it was impossible to say. Sometimes he could have sworn that the man’s devotion to her was that of one who, helpless, clings to a support which never fails him; at others, he treated her to a sneering intolerance, which roused the young man’s ire; and, again, he would change his tone, till the undercurrent of absolute hatred drowned the studied courtesy which veneered it. And when he finally rose to leave the verandah and seek out the foreman and report himself for duty, it was with a genuine feeling of relief at leaving the presence of those dreadful red eyes.
Diane was packing up the tea-things, and Tresler still lingered on the verandah; he was watching the blind man as he tapped his way into the house. Then, as he disappeared, and the sound of his shuffling feet grew faint and distant, he became aware that Diane was standing holding the tray and watching him. He knew, too, by her attentive attitude, that she was listening to ascertain when her father should be out of ear-shot. As the sounds died away, and all became silent within the house, she came over to him. She spoke without pausing on her way; it seemed that she feared observation.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Tresler, what I told you about Jake. Be warned. In spite of what you say, you do not know him.”
“Thanks, Miss Marbolt,” he replied warmly; “I shall not forget.”
Diane was about to speak again, but the voice of her father, harsh and strident enough now, reached them from the hallway.
“Come in, child, and let Tresler go to his work.”
And Tresler noted the expression of fear that leapt into the girl’s face as she hurriedly passed into the house. He stood for a moment wrathful and wondering; then he strode away toward the corrals, reflecting on the strange events which had so swiftly followed one upon the other.
“Ye gods,” he muttered, “this is a queer place—and these are queer people.”
Then as he saw the great figure of Jake coming up the hill toward him, from the direction of a small isolated hut, he went out to meet him, unconsciously squaring himself as he drew near.
He expected an explosion; at least an angry demonstration. But nothing of the sort happened. The whole attitude of the man had changed to one of studied amiability. Not only that, but his diction was careful to a degree, as though he were endeavoring to impress this man from the East with his superiority over the other ranchmen.
“Well? You have seen him?”
“Yes. I have now come to report myself ready for work,” Tresler replied at once. He adopted a cold business tone, deeming it best to observe this from the start.
To his surprise Jake became almost cordial. “Good. We can do with some hands, sure. Had a pleasant talk with the old man?” The question came indifferently, but a sidelong glance accompanied it as the foreman turned away and gazed out over the distant prairie.
“I have,” replied Tresler, shortly. “What are my orders, and where do I sleep?”
“Then you don’t sleep up at the house?” Jake inquired, pretending surprise. There was a slight acidity in his tone.
“That is hardly to be expected when the foreman sleeps down there.” Tresler nodded, indicating the outbuildings.
“That’s so,” observed the other, thoughtfully. “No, I guess the old man don’t fancy folk o’ your kidney around,” he went on, relapsing into the speech of the bunkhouse unguardedly. “Mebbe it’s different wi’ the other.”
Tresler could have struck him as he beheld the meaning smile that accompanied the fellow’s words.
“Where do I sleep?” he demanded sharply.
“Oh, I guess you’ll roll into the bunkhouse. Likely the boys’ll fix you for blankets till your truck comes along. As for orders, why, we start work at sunup, and Slushy dips out breakfast before that. Guess I’ll put you to work in the morning; you can’t do a deal yet, but maybe you’ll learn.”
“Then I’m not wanted to-night?”
“Guess not.” Jake broke off. Then he turned sharply and faced his man. “I’ve just one word to say to you ’fore you start in,” he went on. “We kind o’ make allowance fer ‘tenderfeet’ around here—once. After that, we deal accordin’—savee? Say, ther’ ain’t no tea-parties customary around this layout.”
Tresler smiled. If he had been killed for it he must have smiled. In that last remark the worthy Jake had shown his hand. And the latter saw the smile, and his face darkened with swift-rising anger. But he had evidently made up his mind not to be drawn, for, with a curt “S’long,” he abruptly strode off, leaving the other to make his way to the bunkhouse.
The men had not yet come in for their evening meal, but he found Arizona disconsolately sitting on a roll of blankets just outside the door of the quarters. He was chewing steadily, with his face turned prairieward, gazing out over the tawny plains as though nothing else in the world mattered to him.
He looked up casually as Tresler came along, and edged along the blankets to make room, contenting himself with a laconic—
“Set.”
The two men sat in silence for some moments. The pale-faced cowpuncher seemed absorbed in deep reflection. Tresler was thinking too; he was thinking of Jake, whom he clearly understood was in love with his employer’s daughter. It was patent to the veriest simpleton. Not only that, but he felt that Diane herself knew it. The way the foreman had desisted from his murderous onslaught upon himself at her coming was sufficient evidence without the jealousy he had betrayed in his reference to tea-parties. Now he understood, too, that it was because the blind man was asleep, and in going up to the house he, Tresler, would only meet Diane, and probably spend a pleasant afternoon with her until her father awoke, that Jake’s unreasoning jealousy had been aroused, and he had endeavored to forcibly detain him. He felt glad that he had learned these things so soon. All such details would be useful.
At last Arizona turned from his impassive contemplation of the prairie.
“Wal?” he questioned. And he conveyed a world of interrogation in his monosyllable.
“Jake says I begin work to-morrow. To-night I sleep in the bunkhouse.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Tresler looked around in astonishment.
“Guess Jake’s bin ’long. Say, I’ll shoot that feller, sure—’less some interferin’ cuss gits along an’ does him in fust.”
“What’s up? Anything fresh?”
For answer Arizona spat forcibly into the little pool of tobacco-juice on the ground before him. Then, with a vicious clenching of the teeth—
“He’s a swine.”
“Which is a libel on hogs,” observed the other, with a smile.
“Libel?” cried Arizona, his wild eyes rolling, and his lean nostrils dilating as his breath came short and quick. “Yes, grin; grin like a blazin’ six-foot ape. Mebbe y’ll change that grin later, when I tell you what he’s done.”
“Nothing he could do would surprise me after having met him.”
“No.” Arizona had calmed again. His volcanic nature was a study. Tresler, although he had only just met this man, liked him for his very wildness. “Say, pardner,” he went on quietly, reaching one long, lean hand toward him, “shake! I guess I owe you gratitood fer bluffin’ that hog. We see it all. Say, you’ve got grit.” And the fierce eyes looked in
to the other’s face.
Tresler shook the proffered hand heartily. “But what’s his latest achievement?” he asked, eager to learn the fresh development.
“He come along here ’bout you. Sed we wus to fix you up in pore Dave Steele’s bunk.”
“Yes? That’s good. I rather expected he’d have me sleep on the floor.”
Arizona gave a snort. His anger was rising again, but he checked it.
“Say,” he went on, “guess you don’t know a heap. Ther’ ain’t bin a feller slep in that bunk since Dave—went away.”
“Why?” Tresler’s interest was agog.
“Why?” Arizona’s voice rose. “’Cos it’s mussed all up wi’ a crazy man’s blood. A crazy man as wus killed right here, kind of, by Jake Harnach.”
“I heard something of it.”
“Heerd suthin’ of it? Wal, I guess ther’ ain’t a feller around this prairie as ain’t yelled hisself hoarse ’bout Dave. Say, he wus the harmlessest lad as ever jerked a rope or slung a leg over a stock saddle. An’ as slick a hand as ther’ ever wus around this ranch. I tell ye he could teach every one of us, he wus that handy; an’ that’s a long trail, I ’lows. Wal, we wus runnin’ in a bunch of outlaws fer brandin’, an’ he wus makin’ to rope an old bull. Howsum he got him kind o’ awkward. The rope took the feller’s horns. ’Fore Dave could loose it that bull got mad, an’ went squar’ for the corral walls an’ broke a couple o’ the bars. Dave jumped fer it an’ got clear. Then Jake comes hollerin’ an’ swearin’ like a stuck hog, an’ Dave he took it bad. Y’ see no one could handle an outlaw like Dave. He up an’ let fly at Jake, an’ cussed back. Wot does Jake do but grab up a brandin’ iron an’ lay it over the boy’s head. Dave jest dropped plumb in his tracks. Then we got around and hunched him up, an’ laid him out in his bunk, bleedin’ awful. We plastered him, an’ doctored him, an’ after a whiles he come to. He lay on his back fer a month, an’ never a sign o’ Jake or the blind man come along, only Miss Dianny. She come, an’ we did our best. But arter a month he got up plump crazed an’ silly-like. He died back ther’ in Forks soon after.” Arizona paused significantly. Then he went on. “No, sir, ther’ ain’t bin a feller put in that bunk sense, fer they ain’t never gotten pore Dave’s blood off’n it. Say, ther’ ain’t a deal as ’ud scare us fellers, but we ain’t sleepin’ over a crazy man’s blood.”
“Which, apparently, I’ve got to do,” Tresler said sharply. Then he asked, “Is it the only spare bunk?”
“No. Ther’s Thompson’s, an’ ther’s Massy’s.”
“Then what’s the object?”
“Cussedness. It’s a kind o’ delicate attention. It’s fer to git back on you, knowin’ as us fellers ’ud sure tell you of Dave. It’s to kind o’ hint to you what happens to them as runs foul o’ him. What’s like to happen to you.”
Arizona’s fists clenched, and his teeth gritted with rage as he deduced his facts. Tresler remained calm, but it did him good to listen to the hot-headed cowpuncher, and he warmed toward him.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint him,” he said, when the other had finished. “If you fellows will lend me some blankets, I’ll sleep in Massy’s or Thompson’s bunk, and Mr. Jake can go hang.”
Arizona shot round and peered into Tresler’s face. “An’ you’ll do that—sure?”
“Certainly. I’m not going to sleep in a filthy bunk.”
“Say, you’re the most cur’usest ‘tenderfoot’ I’ve seen. Shake!”
And again the two men gripped hands.
That first evening around the bunkhouse Tresler learned a lot about his new home, and, incidentally, the most artistic manner of cursing the flies. He had supper with the boys, and his food was hash and tea and dry bread. It was hard but wholesome, and there was plenty of it. His new comrades exercised their yarning propensities for him, around him, at him. He listened to their chaff, boisterous, uncultured; their savage throes of passion and easy comradeships. They seemed to have never a care in the world but the annoyances of the moment. Even their hatred for the foreman and their employer seemed to lift from them, and vanish with the sound of the curses which they heaped upon them. It was a new life, a new world to him; and a life that appealed to him.
As the sun sank and the twilight waned, the men gradually slipped away to turn in. Arizona was the last to go. Tresler had been shown Massy’s bunk, and friendly hands had spread blankets upon it for him. He was standing at the foot of it in the long aisle between the double row of trestle beds. Arizona had just pointed out the dead man’s disused couch, all covered with gunny sacks.
“That’s Dave’s,” he said. “I kind o’ think you’ll sleep easier right here. Say, Tresler,” he went on, with a serious light in his eyes, “I’d jest like to say one thing to you, bein’ an old hand round these parts myself, an’ that’s this. When you git kind o’ worried, use your gun. Et’s easy an’ quick. Guess you’ve plenty o’ time an’ to spare after fer sizin’ things up. Ther’ ain’t a man big ’nough in this world to lift a finger ef you sez ‘no’ and has got your gun pointin’ right. S’long.”
But Tresler detained him. “Just one moment, Arizona,” he said, imitating the other’s impressive manner. “I’d just like to say one thing to you, being a new hand around these parts myself, and that’s this. You being about my size, I wonder if you could sell me a pair of pants, such as you fellows ordinarily wear?”
The cowpuncher smiled a pallid, shadowy smile, and went over to his kit-bag. He returned a moment later with a pair of new moleskin trousers and threw them on the bunk.
“You ken have them, I guess. Kind o’ remembrancer fer talkin’ straight to Jake. Say, that did me a power o’ good.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pay——”
“Not on your life, mister.”
“Then I’ll remember your advice.”
“Good. S’long.”
* * *
CHAPTER IV
THE NIGHT-RIDERS
Tresler had not the smallest inclination for sleep. He was tired enough physically, but his brain was still much too active. Besides, the bunkhouse was uninviting to him as yet. The two lines of trestle-beds, with their unkempt occupants, were suggestive of—well, anything but congenial sleeping companions. The atmosphere was close and stuffy, and the yellow glimmer of the two oil-lamps, one stationed at each end of the room, gave the place a distasteful suggestion of squalor.
He was not unduly squeamish—far from it; but, be it remembered, he had only just left a world of ease and luxury, where snow-white linen and tasteful surroundings were necessary adjuncts to existence. Therefore these things came to him in the nature of a shock.
He looked at his blankets spread over the straw palliasse that disguised the loose bed-boards underneath, and this drew his attention to the mattress itself. It was well-worn and dusty, and as he moved it he felt that the straw inside was crushed to the smallest chaff. He laid it back carefully so as not to disturb the dust, and rearranged the blankets over it. Then he sat on the foot of it and pondered.
He gazed about him at the other beds. Some of the men were already sleeping, announcing the fact more or less loudly. Others were swathed in their blankets smoking in solemn silence. One was deep in the blood-curdling pages of a dime novel, straining his eyes in the fitful light of the lamps. The scene had novelty for him, but it was not altogether enthralling, so he filled his pipe and lit it, and passed out into the fresh night air. It was only ten o’clock, and he felt that a smoke and a comfortable think would be pleasant before facing the charms of his dusty couch.
The moon had not yet risen, but the starry sheen of the sky dimly outlined everything. He was gazing upon the peaceful scene of a ranch when night has spread her soft, velvety wings. There were few sounds to distract his thoughts. The air still hummed with the busy insect life; one of the prowling ranch dogs occasionally gave tongue, its fiercely suspicious temper no doubt aroused by some vague shadow which surely no other eyes than his could possibly have detected in th
e darkness; sometimes the distressful plaint of a hungry coyote, hunting for what it never seems to find—for he is always prowling and hunting—would rouse the echoes and startle the “tenderfoot” with the suddenness and nearness of its uncanny call. But for the rest all was still. And he paced to and fro before the bunkhouse, thinking.
And, strangely enough, of all the scenes he had witnessed that day, and of all the people he had met, it was the scene in which Diane Marbolt had taken part, and of her he mostly thought. Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of meeting a girl so charming that held him interested. Perhaps it was the eager desire she had displayed in warning him of his personal danger. Perhaps, even, it was the recollection of the soft, brown eyes, the charming little sun-tanned face that had first looked up at him from beneath the broad-brimmed straw hat. Certain it was her sad face haunted him as no woman’s face had ever haunted him before as he looked out on the vast, dark world about him. He felt that he would like to know something of her story; not out of idle curiosity, but that he might discover some means of banishing the look of sadness so out of place upon her beautiful features.
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