The Man from the Bitter Roots

by Caroline Lockhart

  XIII

  "OFF HIS RANGE"

  Bruce stood before the blackboard in the Bartlesville station studyingthe schedule. A train went west at 11.45. The first train went east at11.10. He hesitated a moment, then the expression of uncertainty uponhis face hardened into decision. He turned quickly and bought a ticketeast. If Sprudell had lied he was going to find it out.

  As he sat by the car window watching the smug, white farm-houses and bigred barns of the middle west fly by, their dull respectability, theircommonplace prosperity vaguely depressed him. What if he should besentenced for life to walk up to his front door between two rows ofwhitewashed rocks, to live surrounded by a picket fence, and to diebehind a pair of neat green blinds? But mostly his thoughts were ajumble of Sprudell, of his insincere cordiality and the unexpecteddenouement when Abe Cone's call had forced his hand; of Dill and hismission, and disgust at his own carelessness in failing to record hisclaims.

  They concentrated finally upon the work which lay before him once he haddemonstrated the truth or falsity of Sprudell's assertion that Slim'sfamily were not to be found. He turned the situation over and over inhis mind and always it resolved itself into the same thing, namely, hislack of money. That obstacle confronted him at every turn and yet inspite of it, in spite of the doubts and fears which reason and cautiontogether thrust into his mind, his determination to win, to outwitSprudell, to make good his boast, grew stronger with every turn of thecar wheels.

  Ambition was already awake within him; but it needed Sprudell's sneersto sting his pride, Sprudell's ingratitude and arrogant assumption ofsuccess in whatever it pleased him to undertake, to arouse in Bruce thatstubborn, dogged, half-sullen obstinacy which his father had calledmulishness but which the farmer's wife with her surer woman's intuitionhad recognized as one of the traits which make for achievement. It is aquality which stands those who have it in good stead when failure staresthem in the face.

  It did not take Bruce long to discover that in whatever else Sprudellhad prevaricated he at least had told the truth when he said that theNaudain family had disappeared. They might never have existed, for allthe trace he could find of them in the city of a million.

  The old-fashioned residence where "Slim" had lived, with its dingytrimmings, and its marble steps worn in hollows, affected him strangelyas he stood across the street where he could see it from roof tobasement. It made "Slim" seem more real, more like "folks" and less likea malignant presence. It had been an imposing house in its time but nowit was given over to doctors' offices and studios, while a malehair-dresser in the basement transformed the straight locks offashionable ladies into a wonderful marcelle.

  Bruce went down to make some inquiries and he stared at the proprietoras though he were some strange, hybrid animal when he came forwardtesting the heat of a curling-iron against his fair cheek.

  No, the hair-dresser shook his fluffy, blonde head, he never had heardof a family named Naudain, although he had been four years in thebuilding and knew everyone upstairs. A trust company owned the placenow; he was sure of that because the rent collector was just a shademore prompt than the rising sun. Yes, most certainly he would give Brucethe company's address and it was no trouble at all.

  He was a fascinating person to Bruce, who would have liked to prolongthe conversation, but the disheveled customer in the chair was growingrestless, so he took the address, thanked him, and went out wonderingwhimsically if through any cataclysm of nature he should turn up ahair-dresser, sweet-scented, redolent of tonique, smelling of pomade,how it would seem to be curling a lady's hair?

  Back in the moderate-priced hotel where he had established himself, heset about interviewing by telephone the Naudains whose names appeared inthe directory. It was a nerve-racking task to Bruce, who was unfamiliarwith the use of the telephone, and those of the name with whom hesucceeded in getting in communication seemed singularly busy folk,indifferent to the amenities and entirely uninterested in his quest. Buthe persisted until he had exhausted the list.

  Since there was no more to do that night, in fact no more to do at allif the trust company failed him, he went to bed: but everything was toostrange for him to sleep well.

  A sense of the nearness of people made him uneasy, and the room seemedclose although there was no steam and the window was wide open. Thenoises of the street disturbed him; they were poor substitutes for theplaintive music of the wind among the pines. His bed was far too soft;he believed he could have slept if only he had had his mattress ofpine-boughs and his bear-grass pillow. The only advantage that hispresent quarters had over his cabin was the hot and cold water. Itreally was convenient, he told himself with a grin, to have a spring inthe room.

  The street lamp made his room like day and as he lay wide-eyed in thewhite light listening to the clatter of hoofs over the pavement, herecalled his childish ambition to buy up all the old horses in the worldwhen he was big--he smiled now at the size of the contract--all thehorses he could find that were stiff and sore, and half dead on theirfeet from straining on preposterous loads; the horses that were lashedand cut and cursed because in their wretched old age they could not stepout like colts. He meant to turn them into a pasture where the grass wasknee-deep and they could lie with their necks outstretched in the sunand rest their tired legs.

  He had explained the plan to his mother and he remembered how she hadassured him gravely that it was a fine idea indeed. It was from her thathe had inherited his passionate fondness for animals. Cruelty to a dumbbrute hurt him like a blow.

  On the trip out from Ore City an overworked stage horse straining on asixteen per cent. grade and more had dropped dead in the harness--avictim to the parsimony of a government that has spent millions onuseless dams, pumping plants, and reservoirs, but continues to paycheerfully the salaries of the engineers responsible for the blunders;footing the bills for the junkets of hordes of "foresters," of"timber-inspectors" and inspectors inspecting the inspectors, and whatnot, yet forcing the parcel post upon some poor mountain mail-contractorwithout sufficient compensation, haggling over a pittance with the manit is ruining like some Baxter street Jew.

  Like many people in the West, Bruce had come to have a feeling for someof the departments of the government, whose activities had come underhis observation, that was as strong as a personal enmity.

  He put the picture of the stage-horse, staggering and dying on its feet,resolutely from his mind.

  "I never will sleep if I get to thinking of that," he told himself. "Itmakes me hot all over again."

  From this disquieting subject his thought reverted to his own affairs,to "Slim's" family and his self-appointed task, to the placer andSprudell. Nor were these reflections conducive to sleep. More and morehe realized how much truth there was in Sprudell's taunts. Without moneyhow could he fight him in the Courts? There were instances in plentywhere prospectors had been driven from that which was rightfully theirsbecause they were without the means to defend their property.

  Squaw Creek was the key to the situation. This was a fact which becamemore and more plain. However, Sprudell was undoubtedly quite as wellaware of this as he was himself and would lose no time in applying forthe water right. The situation looked dark indeed to Bruce as he tossedand turned. Then like a lost word or name which one gropes for forhours, days, weeks perhaps, there suddenly jumped before Bruce's eyes aparagraph from the state mining laws which he had glanced overcarelessly in an idle moment. It stood out before him now as though itwere in double-leaded type.

  "If it isn't too late! If it isn't too late!" he breathed excitedly."Dog-gone, if it isn't too late!"

  With the same movement that he sprang out on the floor he reached forhis hat; then he recalled that telegraph operators were sometimes ladiesand it would be as well to dress. He made short work of the performance,however, and went downstairs two steps at a time rather than wait forthe sleepy bell-boy, who did double duty on the elevator at night. Thetelegraph office was two squares away, the wondering night-clerk toldhim, and Bruce, s
tepping frequently on his shoelaces, went up the streetat a gait which was more than half suspicious to the somnambulantofficer on the beat.

  The trust company's doors had not been opened many minutes the nextmorning before Bruce arrived. The clerk who listened to his inquirieswas willing enough to give him any information that he had but he hadnone beyond the fact that the property in question had passed from thepossession of a family named Dunbar into the hands of the trust companymany years ago, and no person named Naudain had figured in the transfer,or any other transfer so far as he could ascertain from consultingvarious deeds and documents in the vault.

  It was puzzling enough to Bruce, who was sure that he had read thenumber and the street correctly and had remembered it, but the clerk waswaiting politely for him to go, so he thanked him and went out.

  As Bruce stood in the wide stone archway of the building watching thestream of passers-by hastening to their offices and shops, some faintglimmerings of the magnitude of the task he had set himself in raisingmoney among strangers to defend the placer ground if need be and installthe hydro-electric plant for working it, came to him. He had little, ifany, idea how to begin or where, and he had a feeling as he studied theself-centred faces of the hurrying throng that if he should fall on hisknees before anyone among them and beg for a hearing they would merelywalk around him and go on.

  It occurred to Bruce that the clerk inside was an uncommonly goodfellow, and friendly; he believed he would ask his advice. He might makesome useful suggestions. Bruce acted at once upon the idea and again theclerk came forward cheerfully. Going to the point at once, Brucedemanded:

  "How would a stranger go about raising money here for a miningproposition?"

  A quizzical expression came into the clerk's eyes and a faint smileplayed about his mouth. He looked Bruce over with some personal interestbefore he answered.

  "If I was the stranger," he said dryly, "I'd get a piece of lead-pipeand stand in an area-way about 11.30 one of these dark nights. That'sthe only way I know to raise money for mining purposes in this town."

  Bruce stepped back abruptly and his dark face reddened.

  "Sorry I bothered you," he eyed the clerk steadily, "but I made amistake in the way I sized you up."

  It was the clerk's turn to flush, but because he really was a goodfellow and there was that in Bruce's unusual appearance that he liked,he called him back when he would have gone.

  "I apologize," he said frankly, "I hadn't any business to get funnywhen you asked me a civil question, but the fact is the town's beenworked to death with mining schemes. Nearly everyone's been bitten tothe point of hydrophobia and I doubt if you can raise a dollar withoutfriends."

  "I wouldn't say I had much show if that's the case," Bruce answered,"for I'm a long way off my range."

  In his well-worn Stetson, with his dark skin tanned by sun and wind andsnow to a shade that was only a little lighter than an Indian's; using,when he talked, the wide, careless gestures that bespeak the far West,Bruce was so obviously of the country beyond the Mississippi that theclerk could not repress a smile.

  "I've never promoted anything more important than a theatre party or amotor trip," the clerk vouchsafed, "but I should think some of thebrokers who handle mining stocks would be the people to see. There's agood firm two doors above. I can give you the names of a few people whosometimes take 'flyers' on the side but even they don't go into anythingthat isn't pretty strongly endorsed by someone they know. There's alwaysthe chance though," he continued, looking Bruce over speculatively,"that someone may take a fancy to you personally. I've noticed thatpersonality sometimes wins where facts and figures couldn't get a lookin."

  Bruce answered simply:

  "That lets me out again, I've no silver tongue. I've talked with too fewpeople to have much fluency."

  The clerk did not contradict him though he was thinking that Bruce couldthank his personality for the time he was giving him and the pains hewas taking to help him.

  "Here," handing Bruce a hastily written list. "You needn't tell them Isent you for it wouldn't do any good. Some of them come in here oftenbut they look upon me as an office fixture--like this mahogany desk, orthat Oriental rug."

  "This is mighty good of you," said Bruce, as grateful as though he hadwritten special letters of endorsement for him to all his friends."Say," with his impulsive hospitality, "I wish you could come out andvisit me. Couldn't you get away the end of August when the bull-troutand the redsides are biting good?"

  "Me?" The clerk started, then he murmured wistfully: "When thebull-trout and the redsides are biting good! Gee! I like the way thatsounds! Then," with a resigned gesture, "I was never farther west thanSouth Bethlehem; I never expect to have the price."

  He looked so efficient and well dressed that Bruce had thought he mustreceive a large salary and he felt badly to learn that the prosperity ofsuch a nice chap was only clothes deep. He promised to look in on himbefore he left the city and tell him how he had gotten on; then he tookhis list and went back to the hotel prepared to spend some anxious hoursin the time which must intervene before he could expect to hear from hisnight telegram. He hoped the answer would come in the morning, fordisappointments, he had learned, were easier to bear when the sun shone.

  The telegram was awaiting him when he returned from an excursion to adepartment store which had been fraught with considerable excitement. Amajestic blonde had assumed a kind of protectorate over him anddissuaded him from his original intention of buying thirty yards ofruching for Ma Snow with a firmness that approached a refusal to sellhim anything so old-fashioned, although he protested that it had lookedbeautiful in the neck and sleeves of his mother's gowns some fifteenyears before. Neglecting to explain that his gift was for a woman all offifty, a pink crepe-de-chine garment was held alluringly before hisembarrassed eyes and a filmy petticoat, from beneath which, in hismind's eye, Bruce could see Pa Snow's carpet-slippers, in which Ma Snow"eased her feet," peeping in and out. In the end he fought his wayout--through more women than he had seen together in all his life--witha box of silk hose in appallingly vivid colors and a beaded bag which,he had it on the saleslady's honor, was "all the rage."

  Bruce took the yellow envelope which the desk-clerk handed him andlooked at it with a feeling of dread. He had counted the hours until itshould come and now he was afraid to open it. It meant so much tohim--everything in fact--the moment was a crisis but he managed to tearthe envelope across with no outward indication of his dread.

  He took in the contents at a glance and there was such relief, suchrenewed hope in his radiant face that the desk-clerk was moved toobserve smilingly: "Good news, I gather." And Bruce was so glad, sohappy, that for the moment he could think of nothing more brilliant toanswer than--"Well I should say so! I should say so!"