The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  Seabeck meditated for a mile, and Billy Louise watched him uneasily from the tail of her eye. To tell the plain truth, she was in a panic of fear at what she had done. It had looked so simple and so practicable when she had planned it; and now when the words were out and the knowledge had reached Seabeck and was beyond her control, she could not think of any good reason for telling him.

  Last night, when she lay curled up by the stove under Ward’s wolf-skin coat, this seemed the only possible way out: To tell Seabeck and trust to his kindness and generosity to refrain from pushing the case. To have Charlie Fox give back what he had stolen or pay for it—anything that would satisfy Seabeck’s sense of justice—and let him start honestly. She had thought that Seabeck would be merciful, if she told him in the right way; but now, when she stole a glance at his bent, brooding face, she was frightened. He did not look merciful, but stern and angry. She remembered then that stealing cattle is the one crime a cattleman finds it hard to forgive.

  Billy Louise might have spared herself some mental anguish if she could have known that Seabeck was brooding over the wonder of a woman’s love that pardons and condones a man’s sins. He was wishing that such a love as Billy Louise’s had come to him, and he was wondering how a man could be tempted to go wrong when such a girl loved him. He was laboring under a misapprehension, of course. Billy Louise had permitted him to misunderstand her interest in the matter. If he had known that she was pleading solely for Marthy—poor, avaricious, gray, old Marthy—perhaps his mercy would have been less tinged with that smoldering resentment which was directed not so much at the wrongdoer, as at fate which had cheated him.

  “I’m glad you came and told me this,” he said at last. “Very glad, indeed, Miss MacDonald. Certain steps have been taken lately to push this—wipe out this rustling and general lawlessness, and if you had not told me, I’m afraid the mills of justice would have ground your—friends. Of course the law would be merciful to Mrs. Meilke. No jury would send an old woman like that— By the way, that breed they have had working for them—he is in the deal, too, I take it.”

  “Yes, of course. They had to have someone to help. Marthy can’t do any riding.” Billy Louise spoke with a dreary apathy that betrayed how the reaction had set in. “She stayed in the Cove, in case anyone came prowling down there. It seems there’s a wire fastened to the gate, and it rings a bell down at the house somewhere when the gate is opened. And besides that she had a dog that would tackle strangers. I don’t believe,” she went on, after a little silence, “that Marthy would have turned dishonest for herself. She was grasping, and all she cared for was getting ahead. It—sort of grew on her, after the years of trying to dig a bare living out of the ground. I—can understand that; and I can see how she would go to any length almost for—Charlie. But—”

  “Well, let’s not think any more about them until we have to.” There was a certain crude attempt at soothing her anxieties. “You’ve trusted me, Miss MacDonald. I’ll try and not disappoint you in the matter, though, unless they are quite separate from the gang which is being run down, it may be hard to protect them. Do you know—whether—any other cowman has suffered from their—mm-mm—haste to get rich?”

  “I don’t think there’s anyone but you,” Billy Louise replied lifelessly.

  “Hm-mm—do you know, Miss MacDonald, whether there was any intimacy between—your friends—and the man we had for stock inspector, Mr. Olney?”

  “I—can’t say, as to that.” Billy Louise, you see, did not know much about details, but the little she did know made her hedge.

  “There’s a queer story about Olney. You know he has left the country, don’t you? It seems he rode very hurriedly up to the depot at Wilmer to take the train. Just as he stepped on, a fellow who knew him by sight noticed a piece of paper pinned on the back of his coat. He jerked it loose. It was a—m-m—very peculiar document for a man to be wearing on his back.” Seabeck pulled at his whiskers, but it was not the pulling which quirked the corners of his lips. “The man said Olney seemed greatly upset over something and had evidently forgotten the paper until he felt it being pulled loose. He said Olney looked back then, and he was the color of a pork-rind. The train was pulling out. The man took the paper over to a saloon and let several others read it. They—mm-mm—decided that it should be placed in the hands of the authorities. Have—m-m—your—friends ever mentioned the matter to you?”

  “No,” said Billy Louise, and her eyes were wide.

  “Hm-mm! We must discover, if we can, Miss MacDonald, whether they are in any way implicated with this man Olney. I believe that this is at present more important than the recovery of any—m-m—cattle of mine which they may have appropriated.”

  Billy Louise looked at him for a minute. “Mr. Seabeck, you’re awfully dear about this!” she told him. “I haven’t been as square as you; and I’ve been— Listen here, Mr. Seabeck! I don’t love Charlie Fox a bit. I love somebody else, and I’m going to marry him. He’s so square, I’d hate to have him think I even let you believe something that wasn’t true. It’s Marthy I’m thinking of, Mr. Seabeck. I was afraid you wouldn’t let Charlie off just for her sake, but I thought maybe if you just thought I—wanted you to do it for mine, why, maybe—with two women to be sorry for, you’d kind of—”

  “Hm-mm!” Seabeck sent her a keen, blue, twinkling glance that made Billy Louise turn hot all over with shame and penitence. “Hm-mm!” he said again—if one can call that a saying—and pulled at his graying whiskers. “Hm-mmm!”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  MARTHY

  Billy Louise led the way down the gorge, through the meadow, and along the orchard to the little gate. The Cove seemed empty and rather forlorn, with the wind creeping up the river and rattling the dry branches of the naked fruit trees. Not much more than twenty-four hours had slid into the past since Billy Louise had galloped away from the place, yet she felt vaguely that life had taken a big stride here since she last saw it. Nothing was changed, though, as far as she could see. A few cattle fed in the meadow next the river, a fattening hog lifted himself from his bed of straw and grunted at them as they passed. A few chickens were hunting fishworms in the thawed places of the garden, and a yellow cat ran creepingly along the top rail of the nearest corral, crouched there with digging claws and pounced down into a flock of snowbirds. A drift of dead apple leaves stirred uneasily beside the footpath through the berry bushes. Billy Louise started nervously and glanced over her shoulder at Seabeck. For some reason she wanted the comfort of his presence. She waited until he came up to her—tall, straight like a soldier, and silent as the Cove itself.

  “I’m—scared,” said Billy Louise. She did not smile either when she said it. “I—hate empty-feeling places. I’m—afraid of emptiness.”

  “Yet you are always riding alone in the hills.” Seabeck looked down at her with a puzzled expression in his eyes.

  “The hills aren’t empty,” she told him impatiently. “They’re just big and quiet. This is—” She flung out a hand and did not try to find a word for what she felt.

  “Shall I go first? I thought you would rather—”

  “I would.” Billy Louise pulled herself together, angry at her sudden impulse to run, as she had run from Ward’s quiet cabin. She remembered that unreasoning panic—was it really only yesterday?—and went steadily up the path and across the little ditch which Marthy had dug. Why must sordid trouble and dull misery hang over a beauty-spot like this? she thought resentfully.

  She stopped for a minute on the doorstep, hesitating before she opened the door. Behind her, Seabeck drew close as if he would shield her from something; perhaps he, too, felt the deadly quiet and emptiness of the place.

  Billy Louise opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. She stopped and stood still, so that her slim figure would have hidden the interior from the eyes of Seabeck had he not been so tall. As it was, she barred his way so that he must stand on the step outside.

  By the kitchen table, with her
elbows on the soiled oilcloth, sat Marthy. Her uncombed hair hung in wisps about her head; her hard old face was lined and gray, her hard eyes dull with brooding. Billy Louise, staring at her from the doorway, knew that Marthy had been sitting like that for a long, long time.

  She went over to her diffidently. Hesitatingly she laid her gauntleted hand on Marthy’s stooped shoulder. She did not say anything. Marthy did not move under her touch, except to turn her dull glance upon Seabeck, standing there on the doorstep.

  “C’m in,” she said stolidly. “What’d yuh come fer?”

  “Miss MacDonald will perhaps explain—”

  “She ain’t got nothin’ to explain,” said hard old Marthy with grim finality. “I’ll do what explainin’s to be done. C’m in. Don’t stand there like a stump. And shut the door. It’s cold as a barn here, anyway.”

  “Oh, Marthy!” cried Billy Louise, with the sound of tears in her voice.

  “Don’t oh Marthy me,” said the harsh voice flatly. “I don’t want no Marthyin’ nor no sympathy. Well, old man, you’re here to colleck, I s’pose. Take what’s in sight; ’tain’t none of it yourn, far’s I know, but anything you claim you kin have, fer all me. I’ve lived honest all my days an’ worked fer what I got. I’ve harbored thieves in my old age and trusted them that wa’n’t fit to be trusted. I’ve allus paid my debts, Seabeck. I’m willin’ to pay now fer bein’ a fool.”

  “W-where’s Charlie?” Billy Louise leaned and whispered the question.

  “I d’no, and I don’t care. He’s pulled out—him an’ that breed. I’ll have t’ pay yuh for seven growed cattle I never seen till yist’day, Seabeck. You can set yer own price on ’em. I ain’t sure, but I’ve got an idee they was shot las’ night an’ dumped in the river. You c’n set yer price. I’ve got rheumatiz so bad I couldn’t go ’n’ put a stop to nothin’—but—”

  “Oh, Marthy!” Billy Louise was shivering and crying now. “Marthy! Don’t be so—so hard. It was all Charlie—”

  “Yes,” said Marthy harshly, “it was all Charlie. He was a thief, an’ I was sech a simple-minded old fool I never knowed what he was. I let him go ahead, an’ I set in the house with a white apurn tied on me an’ thought I was havin’ an easy time. I set here and let him rob my neighbors that I ain’t never harmed er cheated out of a cent, and soon’s he thought he was found out, he—left ole Marthy to look after herself. Never so much as fed the hogs or done the milkin’ first! Looky here, Seabeck! You’ll git paid back, an’ I’ll take your figgers fer what I owe, but if you git after Charlie, I’ll—kill yuh. You let ’im go, I’m the one he hurt most—and I ain’t goin’—” She laid her frowsy old head on her arms, like one who is utterly crushed and dumb.

  “Oh, Marthy!” Billy Louise knelt and threw her arms around Marthy’s shoulders.

  “You’ve got to come and lie down, Marthy,” said Billy Louise, after a long, unbroken silence.

  “Mr. Seabeck, if you’ll start a fire, I’ll make some tea for her. Come, Marthy—just to please me. Do it for Billy Louise, Marthy.”

  The old woman rose stiffly, and with a feebleness that seemed utterly foreign to her usual energy, permitted Billy Louise to lead her from the kitchen. In the sitting-room that Charlie had built and furnished for her, Marthy lay and stared around her with that same dull apathy she had shown from the first. Only once did she manifest any real emotion, and that was when Billy Louise came in with some tea and toast.

  “You take all them books outa them shelves an’ burn ’em up,” she commanded. “An’ you take them two pictures off’n that shelf, of him an’ her, an’ bring ’em t’ me.”

  Billy Louise set the toast and tea down on a chair and brought the pictures. She did not say a word, but she looked a little scared and her eyes were very big, just as they had been when Ward mistook her for Buck Olney and so let her see into another one of the dark places of life. It seemed to Billy Louise that she was being compelled to look into a good many dark places, lately.

  Marthy took the two photographs and looked at the first with hatred. “The Jezebel! She won’t git to run it over ole Marthy,” she muttered with sullen triumph and twisted the cardboard spitefully in her gnarled old fingers. “She can’t come here an’ take all I’ve got an’ never give me a thankye for it. I’m shet uh her, anyway.” She twisted again and yet again, till the picture was a handful of ragged scraps of cardboard. Then she raised herself to an elbow and flung the fragments far from her and lay down again with glum satisfaction.

  Her fingers touched the other picture, which had slid to the couch. Mechanically she picked it up and held it so that the light from the window struck it full. This was Charlie’s face—Charlie with the falsely frank smile in his eyes, and with his lips curved as they did when he was just going to say, “Now, Aunt Martha!” in tender protest against her too eager industry.

  Marthy’s chin began to quiver while she looked. Her lips sagged with the pull of her aching heart. For the third time in her life Billy Louise saw big, slow tears gather in Marthy’s hard blue eyes and slide down the leathery seams in her cheeks. Billy Louise looked, found her vision blurring with her own tears, and turned and tiptoed from the room.

  Seabeck was gone somewhere on his horse. Billy Louise guessed shrewdly that he was down in the meadows, looking over the cattle and trying to estimate the extent of the thievery. She put Blue in the stable and fed him, with that half-mechanical habit of attending to the needs of one’s mount which becomes second nature to the range-bred. She would not go on to the Wolverine; that needed no decision; she accepted it at once as a fact. Marthy needed her now more than anyone. More even than Ward, though Billy Louise hated to think of him up there alone and practically helpless. But Marthy must have her tonight. Marthy was facing her bitterest sorrow since Minervy died, and Marthy was old. Ward, Billy Louise reminded herself sternly, was not old, and he was facing happiness—so far as he or anyone knew. She wanted very much to be with Ward, but she could not delude her conscience into believing that he needed her more than did Marthy.

  Seabeck returned after awhile, and Billy Louise, who was watching from the doorway, met him at the little gate as he was coming up to the house.

  “Well, how bad is it, Mr. Seabeck?” she asked sharply, just because she felt the imperative need of facts—she who had struggled so long in the quicksands of suspicion and doubts and fears and suspense.

  “Hmm-mm—how bad is it—in the house?” he countered. “The real crime has been committed there, it seems to me. A few head of cattle, more or less, don’t count for much against the broken heart of an old woman.”

  “Oh!” Billy Louise, her hands clenched upon the gate, stared up wide-eyed into his face. And this was the real Seabeck, whom she had known impersonally all her life! This was the real man of him, whom she had never known; a flawless diamond of a soul behind those bright blue eyes and that pointed, graying beard; poet, philosopher, gentleman to the bone. “Oh! You saw that, too! And they’re your cattle that were stolen! You saw it—oh, you’re—you’re—”

  “Hmm-mm—a human being, I hope, Miss MacDonald, as well as a mere cattleman. How is the old lady?”

  “Crying,” said Billy Louise, with brief directness. “Crying over the picture of that—swine. Think of his running off and leaving her here all alone—and not even doing the chores first!” (Here, you must know, was broken an unwritten law of the ranch.) “And Marthy’s got rheumatism, too, so she can hardly walk—”

  “I’ll attend to the chores, Miss MacDonald.” Seabeck’s lips quirked under the fingers that pulled at his whiskers. “You say—over his picture?”

  “Yes, over his picture!” Billy Louise spoke with a suppressed fury. “With that honest look in his eyes—oh, I could kill him!”

  “Hmm-mm—it does seem a pity that one can’t. But if she can cry—”

  “I see. You believe too that tears are a necessary kind of weakness for a woman, like smoking tobacco is for a man—or swearing. Well, I can just tell you, Mr. S
eabeck, that some tears pull the very soul out of a person; they’re the red-hot pinchers of the torture-chamber of life, Mr. Seabeck. Every single, slow tear that Marthy sheds right now is taking that much away from her life. Why, she—she idolized that—that devil. She hadn’t much that was lovable in poor old Jase; he was just her husband; he wasn’t even a real man. And she never had any children to love, except a little girl that died. And she’s worked here and scrimped and saved till she got just fairly comfortable, and then Charlie Fox came and patted her on the back and called her a game little lady, and poor old Marthy just poured out all the love and all the trust she had in her, on him! And she’s old, and she had starved all her life for a little love—a little affection and a few kind words. I don’t suppose Jase kissed her once in twenty years; I couldn’t imagine him getting up steam enough to kiss anybody! And Charlie petted her and did little things for her that nobody had ever done in her life. It meant a whole lot to Marthy to have a man take the water bucket away from her and give her a little hug and tell her she mustn’t think of carrying water; oh, you’re a man, and I don’t suppose you can realize; I didn’t myself, till lately—” Billy Louise blushed and then twisted her lips, wondering if love had taught her all this.

  “And so Marthy just leaned more and more on him and let him take care of her and pet her; and she never once dreamed he was doing anything crooked. I thought she did, I know, Mr. Seabeck. I thought she was in it, too; but I see now that Marthy has been living the woman in her, these last two years; she’d never had a chance before. And now to have him—to know he’s just a common thief and to have him go off and leave her—Mr. Seabeck, I’d be willing to bet all I’ve got that Marthy would have forgiven his stealing cattle, if he had just stayed. She’d have done anything on earth for him; and the bigger the sacrifice she made for him, the more she would have loved him; women are like that. But to have him go off—and—leave her—and not bother his head about what happened to her, just so he got out of it—Mr. Seabeck, that’s going to kill Marthy. It’s going to kill her by inches.”