The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Food I am thinking of, Miss,” he grinned at her. “We shall hurry, but it is not good to go hungry. Milk is outside in a cupboard. It is quicker than to make coffee.”

  “It will be dark before we can get him home,” said Lorraine uneasily. “And by the time a doctor can get out there——”

  “A doctor will be there, I think. You don’t believe, but that is no difference to his coming just the same.”

  He brought the milk, poured off the creamy top into a pitcher, stirred it, and quietly insisted that she drink two glasses. Lorraine observed that Swan himself ate very little, bolting down a biscuit in great mouthfuls while he carried a mattress and blankets out to spread in the wagon. It was like his pretence of weariness on the long carry down the canyon, she thought. It was for her more than for himself that he was thinking.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE QUIRT PARRIES THE FIRST BLOW

  A car with dimmed lights stood in front of the Quirt cabin when Swan drove around the last low ridge and down to the gate. The rattle of the wagon must have been heard, for the door opened suddenly and Frank stood revealed in the yellow light of the kerosene lamp on the table within. Behind Frank, Lorraine saw Jim and Sorry standing in their shirt sleeves looking out into the dark. Another, shorter figure she glimpsed as Frank and the two men stepped out and came striding hastily toward them. Lorraine jumped out and ran to meet them, hoping and fearing that her hope was foolish. That car might easily be only Bob Warfield on some errand of no importance. Still, she hoped.

  “That you, Raine? Where’s Brit? What’s all this about Brit being hurt? A doctor from Shoshone——”

  “A doctor? Oh, did a doctor come, then? Oh, help Swan carry dad in! I’m—oh, I’m afraid he’s awfully injured!”

  “Yes-s—but how’n hell did a doctor know about it?” Sorry, the silent, blurted unexpectedly.

  “Oh,—never mind—but get dad in. I’ll——” She ran past them without finishing her sentence and burst incoherently into the presence of an extremely calm little man with gray whiskers and dust on the shoulder of his coat. These details, I may add, formed the sum of Lorraine’s first impression of him.

  “Well! Well!” he remonstrated with a professional briskness, when she nearly bowled him over. “We seem to be in something of a hurry! Is this the patient I was sent to examine?”

  “No!” Lorraine flashed impatiently over her shoulder as she rushed into her own room and began turning down the covers. “It’s dad, of course—and you’d better get your coat off and get ready to go to work, because I expect he’s just one mass of broken bones!”

  The doctor smiled behind his whiskers and returned to the doorway to direct the carrying in of his patient. His sharp eyes went immediately to Brit’s face, pallid under the leathery tan, his fingers went to Brit’s hairy, corded wrist. The doctor smiled no more that evening.

  “No, he is not a mass of broken bones, I am happy to say,” he reported gravely to Lorraine afterwards. “He has a sufficient number, however. The left scapula is fractured, likewise the clavicle, and there is a compound fracture of the femur. There is some injury to the head, the exact extent of which I cannot as yet determine. He should be removed to a hospital, unless you are prepared to have a nurse here for some time, or to assume the burden of a long and tedious illness.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “The journey to Shoshone would be a considerable strain on the patient in his present condition. He has a splendid amount of constitutional vitality, or he would scarcely have survived his injuries so long without medical attendance. Can you tell me just how the accident occurred?”

  “Excuse me, doctor—and Miss,” Swan diffidently interrupted. “I could ask you to take a look on my shoulder, if you please. If you are done setting bones in Mr Hunter. I have a great pain on my shoulder from carrying so long.”

  “You never mentioned it!” Lorraine reproached him quickly. “Of course it must be looked after right away. And then, Doctor, I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.” She watched them retreat to the bunk-house together. Swan’s big form towering above the doctor’s slighter figure. Swan was talking earnestly, the mumble of his voice reaching Lorraine without the enunciation of any particular word to give a clue to what he was saying. But it struck her that his voice did not sound quite natural; not so Swedish, not so careful.

  Frank came tiptoeing out of the room where Brit lay bandaged and unconscious and stood close to Lorraine, looking down at her solemnly.

  “How’n ’ell did he git here—the doctor?” he demanded, making a great effort to hold his voice down to a whisper, and forgetting now and then. “How’d he know Brit rolled off’n the grade? Us here, we never knowed it, and I was tryin’ to send him back when you came. He said somebody telephoned there was a man hurt in a runaway. There ain’t a telephone closer’n the Sawtooth, and that there’s a good twenty mile and more from where Brit was hurt. It’s damn funny.”

  “Yes, it is,” Lorraine admitted uncomfortably. “I don’t know any more than you do about it.”

  “Well, how’n ’ell did it happen? Brit, he oughta know enough to rough-lock down that hill. An’ that team ain’t a runaway team. I never had no trouble with ’em—they’re good at holdin’ a load. They’ll set down an’ slide but what they’ll hold ’er. What become of the horses?”

  “Why—they’re over there yet. We forgot all about the horses, I think. Caroline was standing up, all right. The other horse may be killed. I don’t know—it was lying down. And Yellowjacket was up that little gully just this side of the wreck, when I left him. They did try to hold the load, Frank. Something must have happened to the brake. I saw dad crawling out from under the wagon just before I got to where the load was standing. Or some one did. I think it was dad. But Caroline kicked my horse down off the road, and, I only saw him a minute—but it must have been dad. And then, a little way down the hill, something went wrong.”

  Frank seemed trying to reconstruct the accident from Lorraine’s description. “He’d no business to start down if his rough-lock wasn’t all right,” he said. “It ain’t like him. Brit’s careful about them things—little men most always are. I don’t see how ’n ’ell it worked loose. It’s a damn queer layout all around; and this here doctor gitting here ahead of you folks, that there is the queerest. What’s he say about Brit? Think he’ll pull through?”

  The doctor himself, coming up just then, answered the question. Of course the patient would pull through! What were doctors for? As to his reason for coming, he referred them to Mr Vjolmar, whom he thought could better explain the matter.

  The three of them waited,—five of them, since Jim and Sorry had come up, anxious to hear the doctor’s opinion and anything else pertaining to the affair. Swan was coming slowly from the bunk-house, buttoning his coat. He seemed to feel that they were waiting for him and to know why. His manner was diffident, deprecating even.

  “We may as well go in out of the mosquitoes,” the doctor suggested. “And I wish you would tell these people what you told me, young man. Don’t be afraid to speak frankly; it is rather amazing but not at all impossible, as I can testify. In fact,” he added dryly, “my presence here ought to settle any doubt of that. Just tell them, young man, about your mother.”

  Swan was the last to enter the kitchen, and he stood leaning against the closed door, turning his old hat round and round, his eyes going swiftly from face to face. They were watching him, and Swan blushed a deep red while he told them about his mother in Boise, and how he could talk to her with his thoughts. He explained laboriously how the thoughts from her came like his mother speaking in his head, and that his thoughts reached her in the same way. He said that since he was a little boy they could talk together with their thoughts, but people laughed and some called them crazy, so that now he did not like to have somebody know that he could do it.

  “But Brit Hunter’s hurt bad, so a doctor must come quick, or I think he maybe will die. It takes too long to ride a horse to Echo from this r
anch, so I call on my mother, and I tell my mother a doctor must come quick to this ranch. So my mother sends a telephone to this doctor in Shoshone, and he comes. That is all. But I would not like it if everybody maybe finds it out that I do that, and makes talk about it.”

  He looked straight at Jim and Sorry, and those two unprepossessing ones looked at each other and at Swan and at the doctor and at each other again, and headed for the door. But Swan was leaning against it, and his eyes were on them. “I would like it if you say somebody rides to get the doctor,” he hinted quietly.

  Sorry looked at Jim. “I rode like hell,” he stated heavily. “I leave it to Jim.”

  “You shore’n hell did!” Jim agreed, and Swan removed his big form from the door.

  “You boys goin’ over t’ Spirit Canyon?” Frank wanted to know.

  “Yeah,” said Sorry, answering for them both, and they went out, giving Swan a sidelong look of utter bafflement as they passed him. Talking by the thought route from Spirit Canyon to Boise City was evidently a bit too much for even their phlegmatic souls to contemplate with perfect calm.

  “They’ll keep it to theirselves, whether they believe it or not,” Frank assured Swan in his laboured whisper. “It don’t go down with me. I ain’t supe’stitious enough fer that.”

  “The doctor he comes, don’t he?” Swan retorted. “I shall go back now and milk the cows and do chores.”

  “But if your shoulder is lame, Swan, how can you?” Lorraine asked in her unexpected fashion.

  Swan swallowed and looked helplessly at the doctor, who stood smoothing his chin. “The muscle strain is not serious,” he said calmly. “A little gentle exercise will prevent further trouble, I think.” Whereupon he turned abruptly to the door of the other room, glanced in at Brit and beckoned Lorraine with an upraised finger.

  “You have had a hard time of it yourself, young lady,” he told her. “You needn’t worry about Swan. He is not suffering appreciably. I shall mix you a very unpleasant dose of medicine, and then I want you to go to bed and sleep. I shall stay with your father tonight; not that it is necessary, but because I prefer daylight for the trip back to town. So there is no reason why you should sit up and wear yourself out. You will have plenty of time to do that while your father’s bones mend.”

  He proceeded to mix the unpleasant dose, which Lorraine swallowed and straightway forgot, in the muddle of thoughts that whirled confusingly in her brain. Little things distressed her oddly, while her father’s desperate state left her numb. She lay down on the cot in the farther corner of the kitchen where her father had slept just last night—it seemed so long ago!—and almost immediately, as her senses recorded it, bright sunlight was shining into the room.

  SAWTOOTH RANCH (Part 2)

  CHAPTER XIII

  LONE TAKES HIS STAND

  Lone Morgan, over at Elk Spring camp, was just sitting down to eat his midday meal when some one shouted outside. Lone stiffened in his chair, felt under his coat, and then got up with some deliberation and looked out of the window before he went to the door. All this was a matter of habit, bred of Lone’s youth in the feud country, and had nothing whatever to do with his conscience.

  “Hello!” he called, standing in the doorway and grinning a welcome to Swan, who stood with one arm resting on the board gate. “She’s on the table—come on in.”

  “I don’t know if you’re home with the door shut like that,” Swan explained, coming up to the cabin. “I chased a coyote from Rock City to here, and by golly, he’s going yet! I’ll get him sometime, maybe. He’s smart, but you can beat anything with thinking if you don’t stop thinking. Always the other feller stops sometimes, and then you get him. You believe that?”

  “It most generally works out that way,” Lone admitted, getting another plate and cup from the cupboard, which was merely a box nailed with its bottom to the wall, and a flour sack tacked across the front for a curtain. “Even a coyote slips up now and then, I reckon.”

  Swan sat down, smoothing his tousled yellow hair with both hands as he did so. “By golly, my shoulder is sore yet from carrying Brit Hunter,” he remarked carelessly, flexing his muscles and grimacing a little.

  Lone was pouring the coffee, and he ran Swan’s cup over before he noticed what he was doing. Swan looked up at him and looked away again, reaching for a cloth to wipe the spilled coffee from the table.

  “How was that?” Lone asked, turning away to the stove. “What-all happened to Brit Hunter?”

  Swan, with his plate filled and his coffee well sweetened, proceeded to relate with much detail the story of Brit’s misfortune. “By golly, I don’t see how he don’t get killed,” he finished, helping himself to another biscuit. “By golly, I don’t. Falling into Spirit Canyon is like getting dragged by a horse. It should kill a man. What you think, Lone?”

  “It didn’t, you say.” Lone’s eyes were turned to his coffee cup.

  “It don’t kill Brit Hunter—not yet. I think maybe he dies with all his bones broke, like that. By golly, that shows you what could happen if a man don’t think. Brit should look at that chain on his wheel before he starts down that road.”

  “Oh. His brake didn’t hold, eh?”

  “I look at that wagon,” Swan answered carefully. “It is something funny about that chain. I worked hauling logs in the mountains, once. It is something damn funny about that chain, the way it’s fixed.”

  Lone did not ask him for particulars, as perhaps Swan expected. He did not speak at all for awhile, but presently pushed back his plate as if his appetite were gone.

  “It’s like Fred Thurman,” Swan continued moralising. “If Fred don’t ride backwards, I bet he don’t get killed—like that.”

  “Where’s Brit now?” Lone asked, getting up and putting on his hat. “At the ranch?”

  “Or heaven, maybe,” Swan responded sententiously. “But my dog Yack, he don’t howl yet. I guess Brit’s at the ranch.”

  “Sorry I’m busy today,” said Lone, opening the door. “You stay as long as you like, Swan. I’ve got some riding to do.”

  “I’ll wash the dishes, and then I maybe will think quicker than that coyote. I’m after him, by golly, till I get him.”

  Lone muttered something and went out. Within five minutes Swan, hearing hoofbeats, looked out through a crack in the door and saw Lone riding at a gallop along the trail to Rock City. “Good bait. He swallows the hook,” he commented to himself, and his good-natured grin was not brightening his face while he washed the dishes and tidied the cabin.

  With Lone rode bitterness of soul and a sick fear that had nothing to do with his own destiny. How long ago Brit had been hurled into the canyon Lone did not know; he had not asked. But he judged that it must have been very recently. Swan had not told him of anything but the runaway, and of helping to carry Brit home—and of the “damn funny thing about the chain”—the rough-lock, he must have meant. Too well Lone understood the sinister meaning that probably lay behind that phrase.

  “They’ve started on the Quirt now,” he told himself with foreboding. “She’s been telling her father——”

  Lone fell into bitter argument with himself. Just how far was it justifiable to mind his own business? And if he did not mind it, what possible chance had he against a power so ruthless and so cunning? An accident to a man driving a loaded wagon down the Spirit Canyon grade had a diabolic plausibility that no man in the country could question. Brit, he reasoned, could not have known before he started that his rough-lock had been tampered with, else he would have fixed it. Neither was Brit the man to forget the brake on his load. If Brit lived, he might talk as much as he pleased, but he could never prove that his accident had been deliberately staged with murderous intent.

  Lone lifted his head and looked away across the empty miles of sageland to the quiet blue of the mountains beyond. Peace—the peace of untroubled wilderness—brooded over the land. Far in the distance, against the rim of rugged hills, was an irregular splotch of brown which was the hea
dquarters of the Sawtooth. Lone turned his wrist to the right, and John Doe, obeying the rein signal, left the trail and began picking his way stiff-legged down the steep slope of the ridge, heading directly toward the home ranch.

  John Doe was streaked with sweat and his flanks were palpitating with fatigue when Lone rode up to the corral and dismounted. Pop Bridgers saw him and came bow-legging eagerly forward with gossip titillating on his meddlesome tongue, but Lone stalked by him with only a surly nod. Bob Warfield he saw at a distance and gave no sign of recognition. He met Hawkins coming down from his house and stopped in the trail.

  “Have you got time to go back to the office and fix up my time, Hawkins?” he asked without prelude. “I’m quitting today.”

  Hawkins stared and named the Biblical place of torment. “What yuh quittin’ for, Lone?” he added incredulously. “All you boys got a raise last month; ain’t that good enough?”

  “Plenty good enough, so long as I work for the outfit.”

  “Well, what’s wrong? You’ve been with us five years, Lone, and it’s suited you all right so far——”

  Lone looked at him. “Say, I never set out to marry the Sawtooth,” he stated calmly. “And if I have married you-all by accident, you can get a bill of divorce for desertion. This ain’t the first time a man ever quit yuh, is it, Hawkins?”

  “No—and there ain’t a man on the pay roll we can’t do without,” Hawkins retorted, his neck stiffening with resentment. “It’s a kinda rusty trick, though, Lone, quittin’ without notice and leaving a camp empty.”

  “Elk Spring won’t run away,” Lone assured him without emotion. “She’s been left alone a week or two at a time during roundups. I don’t reckon the outfit’ll bust up before you get a man down there.”

  The foreman looked at him curiously, for this was not like Lone, whose tone had always been soft and friendly, and whose manner had no hint of brusqueness. There was a light, too, in Lone’s eyes that had not been there before. But Hawkins would not question him further. If Lone Morgan or any other man wanted to quit, that was his privilege,—providing, of course, that his leaving was not likely to menace the peace and security of the Sawtooth. Lone had made it a point to mind his own business, always. He had never asked questions, he had never surmised or gossiped. So Hawkins gave him a check for his wages and let him go with no more than a foreman’s natural reluctance to lose a trustworthy man.