Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  “Oh, would you? How wonderful! Can we start right away, tomorrow?”

  “You bet we can; but you can’t ride in them things,” he added, looking ruefully at her New York traveling costume.

  She laughed gaily. “Oh, my! I didn’t expect to,” she cried. “I am not such a silly as that. I brought my habit with me, of course.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s all right,” he said politely; “but you don’t have to bring no habits to Arizony from nowheres — we mostly have enough right here, such as they be — good an’ bad.”

  Again her laugh rang out. “You big, funny man!” she cried. “You are poking fun at me just because you think I am a tendershoe — trying to make me believe that you don’t know what a riding habit is. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself — teasing poor little me?”

  They were passing the bunk-house at the time, where the boys, having scrubbed for supper, were squatting about on their heels watching the newcomers with frank curiosity. After they had passed Shorty gave Texas Pete a shove that sent him sprawling on the ground. “Say,” he said, “did you see them pants?”

  “I shore did,” replied Pete, “but you don’t have no call to knock me down an’ git my ridin’ habit all dusty, you goshdinged tendershoe, jest because a guy blows in with funny pants on.”

  “Did you see the mug on Colby?” inquired Idaho. “He don’t know a ridin’ habit from the cigarette habit.”

  “I reckon he thought she was confessin’ a sin,” said Texas Pete.

  “Oh, them pants! Them pants!” moaned Shorty, rocking to and fro on his heels, his long arms wound around his knees. Shorty was six-feet-three and thought Kansas City was on the Atlantic seaboard.

  Corson’s keen, quick eyes were taking in the salient features of their immediate surroundings as he walked at Diana’s side toward the two-story adobe ranch house, on two sides of which a broad, covered veranda had been built within recent years. He saw the orderly, well-kept appearance not only of the main buildings, but of the corrals, fences and outbuildings as well. Everything bespoke system and excellent management. It was evidently a well-ordered plant in smooth running condition. He thought of it in terms of eastern factories and found it good.

  “You keep things up well here,” he said to Diana Henders. “I want to compliment you.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “It was something that Dad always insisted upon, and of course I have carried out all his policies since his death.”

  “What are these buildings — they look like cement, but of course you wouldn’t have that out here. The freight on it would make the cost prohibitive.”

  “They are adobe,” she explained, “just big, clay bricks dried in the sun.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Nothing much very fancy about the architecture,” he commented, laughing. “The only attempt at ornamentation is that sort of parapet on the roof of the house, with the loopholes in it, and that doesn’t add much to the looks of the place.”

  Diana thought that his criticisms were in rather poor taste, and there was something about them that vaguely suggested the air of a man viewing for the first time a property that he had only recently acquired — something proprietorial that she inwardly resented. Outwardly she was polite.

  “You would think that it added a lot to the place,” she told him, “if you should ever chance to be here when the Apaches stage a raid — it was never intended to be ornamental.”

  He sucked in his breath with a whistling sound. “You don’t mean,” he exclaimed, “that they are so bad you have to live in a fortress?”

  “They haven’t been on the warpath in any considerable numbers for a long time,” she assured him; “but that parapet has been used more than once since the house was built, and there is always the chance that it may come in handy again. It may not be beautiful from this side, but I can tell you that it looks mighty good from the other side when there are sneaking Apaches skulking behind every out-house. I know, because I’ve viewed it under those conditions.”

  “You think there is any great danger?” he asked her, looking about nervously.

  “There is always danger,” she replied, for she saw that he was afraid and a spirit of mischief prompted her to avenge his indelicate criticisms of the home she loved. It is only a matter of weeks, you know,” she reminded him, “since Dad was killed by Apaches.”

  Corson appeared worried and his further scrutiny of the house as they approached it was influenced by other than artistic architectural considerations.

  “I see you have heavy shutters at all the windows,” he said. “I suppose you have them closed and fastened every night?”

  “Oh, my, no!” she cried, laughing. “We never close them except for dust storms and Indians.”

  “But suppose they come unexpectedly?”

  “Then we stand a chance of getting dust or Indians in the house.”

  “I think you had better have them closed nights while Miss Manill is here.” he said. “I’m afraid she will be very nervous.”

  “Oh, your rooms are on the second floor,” she replied, “and you can lock them all up tight — possibly you’ll get enough air from the patio. The nights are always cool, you know, but I’d feel stuffy with all the shutters closed.”

  “We’ll see,” was all he said, but there was something about the way he said it that she did not like. In fact, Diana Henders was sure that she was not going to like Mr. Maurice B. Corson at all.

  As they sat down to supper an hour later Lillian Manill looked inquiringly at her cousin. “Where is Mr. Colby?” she asked.

  “Over at the cook-house eating his supper, I suppose,” replied Diana.

  “Don’t he eat with us? He seems such a nice fellow.”

  “He is a nice fellow,” replied Diana, “but the boys would rather eat by themselves. Women folks would take away their appetites. You have no idea how we terrify some of them.”

  “But Mr. Colby seemed very much at ease,” insisted Lillian.

  “Hal is different, but the very fact that he is foreman makes it necessary for him to eat with the other men — it is customary.”

  “Mr. Bull seemed at ease too, after I got him started,” continued Lillian. “He isn’t much of a talker, but he didn’t seem a bit afraid of me.”

  “Bull is not afraid of anything,” Diana assured her; “but if you got him to talk at all you must exercise a wonderful power over men. I can scarcely ever get a dozen words out of him.”

  “Well, I guess I’ve got a way with men,” said Lillian, complacently.

  “I’m afraid that you will find that Bull is not very susceptible,” said Diana, with just the vaguest hint of tartness.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied the other; “he has promised to teach me to ride and shoot.”

  Diana ate in silence for several minutes. She was wondering already if she were going to like her cousin. But then, of course she was — how silly of her to think she was not, she concluded.

  “I met an old friend on the stage today,” remarked Corson, presently.

  Diana raised her eyebrows politely. “How nice,” she said.

  “Yes, it was. Haven’t seen him for a couple of years. Nice chap, Jefferson Wainright. Fraternity brother. Of course I was years ahead of him, but I used to see him when I’d go down to Cambridge for the games. His governor’s a nice old chap, too, and got a wad of the long green.”

  “So he has told us,” said Diana.

  “Oh, you know them? They didn’t mention it.”

  “I have met them. Mr. Wainright tried to buy the ranch.”

  “Oh, yes, I believe he did mention something of the kind. Why didn’t you sell it to him?”

  “His offer was too low, for one reason, and the other is that I do not care to sell my interest.”

  Corson and Miss Manill exchanged a quick glance that escaped Diana.

  “How much did he offer you?” asked Corson.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “W
hy that seems a very fair price,” said Corson.

  “It is ridiculous, Mr. Corson,” replied Diana, “and if you are at all familiar with Mr. Manill’s business you know it as well as I.”

  “I am very familiar with it,” replied the New Yorker. “In fact, from your remarks I imagine that I am much more familiar with it than you.”

  “Then you know that the cattle interests alone are worth three times that amount, without considering the mine at all.”

  Corson shook his head. “I’m afraid that way out here you are too far from the financial center of the country to have a very comprehensive grasp of values. Now, as a matter of fact, the bottom has dropped out of the live-stock market. We’ll be lucky if we make expenses for the next year or so, and it probably never will come back to what it was. And as for the mine, that, of course, is about done. It won’t pay to work it a year from now. If we could get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for this business we’d be mighty lucky; but I doubt if old Wainright would renew that offer — he’s too shrewd a business man.”

  Diana Henders made no reply. She was wondering just how much Maurice B. Corson did know about the live-stock market and the mine. She was inclined to believe that he knew a great deal more than his remarks concerning them would indicate.

  At the same hour Mary Donovan’s boarders were gathered about her table. She had other guests this evening in addition to her regular clientele. There were the Wainrights, and Bull was there for supper and breakfast as was usual when the bullion came down from the mine.

  It was not a gay company. Mack Harber and Jim Welter looked with suspicion on Bull, an attitude that would have blossomed into open and active hostility could they have gained the support of Gum Smith; but Gum was not searching for trouble. He glowered at his plate and hated Bull. Wildcat Bob inhaled soup and hated Gum Smith.

  The Wainrights scarcely raised their eyes from the business of eating for fear of the embarrassment of meeting those of the man who had run the elder Wainright off the Bar Y Ranch — an occurrence which rankled horribly in the breasts of both. Bull, taciturn as usual, ate in silence with something of the mien of a lion feeding among jackals. Mary Donovan hovered in the doorway. Bull laid down his spoon, drank a glass of water and rose from the table.

  “Sure an’ won’t ye have another helpin’ o’ puddin’ now, Bull?” urged Mary.

  “No, thanks, Mrs. Donovan,” he replied, “I’m plumb full.” He walked past her into the kitchen and out the back door. An almost audible sigh of relief rose from the remaining guests.

  “I reckon he thinks he owns the shack,” commented Jim Weller apropos of Bull’s exit through the sacred precincts of Mary Donovan’s kitchen.

  “Sure, he could have it fer the askin’, the fine b’y he is,” shot back Mary. “Him a-goin’ out to fetch in wood fer me while the loikes o’ ye, Jim Weller, what ain’t fit to black his boots, sits here and makes remarks about him, ye lazy whelp!” Mr. Weller subsided.

  The meal over, the guests departed with the exception of Mack Harber, Jim Weller, and the Wainrights who had congregated on the veranda.

  “You don’t seem to like the fellow they call Bull,” remarked the younger Wainright to Weller.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like him an’ I didn’t say I did,’ ; replied Weller, noncommittally.

  “Well, I don’t like him,” said Mack, vehemently. “I wouldn’t like my grandmother if she shot me in the belly.”

  “You mean that he shot you?” asked Wainright.

  “The Black Coyote shot me, an’ if Bull ain’t The Black Coyote my name’s McGinnis.”

  “You really think that he has been pulling off these holdups?” demanded the elder Wainright.

  “I ain’t the only one what thinks so,” replied Mack. “Everyone, ‘most, thinks so, an’ ef we had a decent sheriff that feller’d be behind the bars where he belongs, er strung up to a cottonwood in Hell’s Bend. ‘Pears to me like Gum was either in on the deal er afeard of Bull.”

  “Gum’s afeard of every one,” said Weller.

  “Well,” remarked Jefferson Wainright, senior, “when we come over on this side o’ the hills I calc’late as how things air goin’ to be a heap sight different. There won’t be no more o’ this here funny gunplay stuff. I’m a-goin’ to run all o’ these would-be bad-men out o’ the country.”

  “You figgerin’ on cumin’ over here?” asked Mack.

  “I certainly am. I’m a-goin’ to buy the whole Bar Y outfit.”

  “The Hell you is!” exclaimed Mack. “I heard that Miss Di wouldn’t sell it to you.”

  “She ain’t got nothin’ to say about it. I’m a-goin’ to buy it from the man that’s runnin’ that outfit now, an’ he’s a mighty good business man, too.”

  “Who’s that — Colby?”

  “No, Colby nothin’ — it’s Mr. Corson of Noo York. He’s handlin’ all o’ John Manill’s interests an’ he just come here today with Manill’s daughter. We come over on the stage with them. I was tellin’ Corson of the fine airs that chit of a Henders girl puts on, but things is goin’ to be different now. Corson’s goin’ to close out the estate an’ the holdin’s here is as good as sold to me already.”

  10. WILDCAT BOB GOES COURTING

  Bull sat in a corner of The Chicago Saloon watching the play at the faro table. It was too early to go to bed and he was not a man who read much, nor cared to read, even had there been anything to read, which there was not. He had skimmed the latest eastern papers that had come in on the stage and his reading was over until the next shipment of gold from the mine brought him again into contact with a newspaper. Then he would read the live- stock market reports, glance over the headlines and throw the paper aside, satisfied. His literary requirements were few.

  A man who had drunk not wisely but too well lurched up to him.

  “Have a drink, stranger!” he commanded. It was not an invitation.

  “Ain’t drinkin’,” replied Bull, quietly.

  “Oh, yes, you be,” announced the hospitable one. “When I says drink, you drinks, see? I’m a bad-man, I am. Whoopee!” and drawing a six-shooter he commenced firing into the floor at Bull’s feet.

  Suddenly a large man enveloped him from the rear, held his gun hand aloft and dragged him away into an opposite corner, where, to the accompaniment of a deluge of lurid profanity, he counselled him to a greater discretion.

  “Why you blankety, blank, blank, blank!’” he cried. “You tryin’ to commit sewerside? Don’t you know who that is, you blitherin’ idjit?” then he whispered something in the other’s ear. The effect was electrical. The man seemed sobered instantly. With staring eyes he looked across the room at Bull.

  “I’m goin’ to git out o’ here,” he said, “he might change his mind.”

  “I cain’t see yit why he didn’t bore ye,” agreed his friend. “You better go an’ apologize.”

  Slowly the pseudo bad-man crossed the room toward Bull, who had not moved sufficiently to have changed his position since the man had first accosted him. The man halted in front of Bull, a sickly grin on his bloated countenance.

  “No offense, pardner. Jest had a drop too much. No offense intended. Jest jokin’ — thet was all jest jokin’.”

  Bull eyed him intently for a moment. “Oh, yes,” he said presently, “I remember you now — you’re the flannel mouth that got gay with of Wildcat a coupla months ago. Did you ever return that window sash you took with you? I hearn Gum was powerful cut up about that window sash.” Not the shadow of a smile crossed Bull’s face. “I warn’t there, but I hearn all about it.”

  The other flushed, attempted some witty repartee that fell fiat, and finally managed to make his escape amid a roar of laughter from the nearer card players and spectators who had overheard the brief dialogue.

  Bull rose. “coin’?” asked an acquaintance.

  “I reckon so. Good night.”

  “Good night, Bull.”

  The man stepped out into the clear, star-lit n
ight. Involuntarily he turned and looked toward the northeast in the direction of the Bar Y ranch. Diana was there. For a long time he stood motionless gazing out across the arid, moon-bathed level that stretched away to her loved feet. What emotions played behind the inscrutable mask of his face? Who may say?

  As he stood there silently he heard voices coming from between The Chicago Saloon and Gums Place — Liquors and Cigars.

  “He’s in there now,” said one. “I kin see him. If there weren’t so tarnation many fellers at the bar I c’d git him from here.”

  “You’d better come along afore you git in more trouble than you got the capacity to handle,” urged a second voice.

  “Thas all right. I know what I’m doin’. There cain’t no dried up of buffalo chip like thet run me out o’ no man’s saloon an’ get away with it, an’ thas all they is to thet.”

  “Well, I’m goin’ home,” stated the second voice. “I know when I’m well off.”

  “You go home. After I shoot the ears offen this Wildcat Bob party I’m comin’ home, too.”

  “You go to shootin’ any ears offen Wildcat Bob an’ you won’t need no blankets where you’re goin’.”

  “Thas-so? Well, here goes — you better stay an’ see the fun.”

  “I’m goin’ now while I got the chanct,” said the other, and Bull heard him coming from the side of the building. The former stepped quickly back into the doorway of the Chicago Saloon and an instant later he saw the large man who had dragged his friend from him a few minutes before pass up the street at a rapid walk. Then Bull looked from his place of concealment, just in time to see another figure emerge from between the buildings and enter Gum’s Place.

  Bull was close behind him. The door was open a crack. He saw that the other had advanced into the room a few feet and was standing behind one of the rough columns that supported the second story. Across the room, at the far end, Wildcat Bob had just set down his whiskey glass upon the bar, wiped his beard on his sleeve, and turned away toward the tables where the gambling was in progress. For a moment he would be alone, with only the rough rear wall behind him.