by B. M. Bower
“Never mind what Dick said.” Mrs. Kate thrust the bread toward him, half buttered.
“Dick’s mad, I guess. He’s mad at Ford, too.”
Buddy regarded his mother gravely over the slice of bread.
“First I’ve heard of it,” Ford remarked lightly. “I think you must be mistaken, old-timer.”
But Buddy never considered himself mistaken about anything, and he did not like being told that he was, even when the pill was sweetened with the term “old-timer.” He rolled his eyes at Ford resentfully.
“Dick is mad! He got mad when you galloped over where Jo’s red ribbon was hanging onto a bush. I saw him a-scowling when you rolled it up and put it in your shirt pocket. Dick wanted that ribbon for his bridle; and you better give it to him. Jo ain’t your girl. She’s Dick’s girl. And you have to tie the ribbon of your bestest girl on your bridle. That’s why,” he added, with belated gallantry, “I tie my own mamma’s ribbons on mine. And,” he returned with terrible directness to the real issue, “Jo’s Dick’s girl, ’cause he said so. I heard him tell Jim Felton she’s his steady, all right—and you are his girl, ain’t you, Jo?”
His mother had tried at first to stop him, had given up in despair, and was now sitting in a rather tragic calm, waiting for what might come of his speech.
Josephine might have saved herself some anxious moments, if she had been so minded; perhaps she would have been minded, if she had not caught Ford’s eyes fixed rather intently upon her, and sensed the expectancy in them. She bit her lip, and then she laughed.
“A man shouldn’t make an assertion of that sort,” she said quizzically, in the direction of Buddy—though her meaning went straight across the table to another—“unless he has some reason for feeling very sure.”
Buddy tried to appear quite clear as to her meaning. “Well, if you are Dick’s girl, then you better make Ford give that ribbon—”
“I have plenty of ribbons, Buddy,” Josephine interrupted, smiling at him still. “Don’t you want one?”
“I tie my own mamma’s ribbons on my bridle,” Buddy rebuffed. “My mamma is my girl—you ain’t. You can give your ribbons to Dick.”
“Mamma won’t be your girl if you don’t stop talking so much at the table—and elsewhere,” Mrs. Kate informed him sternly, with a glance of trepidation at the others. “A little boy mustn’t talk about grown-ups, and what they do or say.”
“What can I talk about, then? The boys talk about their girls all the time—”
“I wish to goodness I had let you go with your dad. I shall not let you eat with us, anyway, if you don’t keep quiet. You’re getting perfectly impossible.” Which even Buddy understood as a protest which was not to be taken seriously.
Ford stayed long enough to finish drinking his tea, and then he left the house with what he privately considered a perfectly casual manner. As a matter of fact, he was extremely self-conscious about it, so that Mrs. Kate felt justified in mentioning it, and in asking Josephine a question or two—when she had prudently made an errand elsewhere for Buddy.
Josephine, having promptly disclaimed all knowledge or interest pertaining to the affair, Mrs. Kate spoke her mind plainly.
“If Ford’s going to fall in love with you, Phenie,” she said, “I think you’re foolish to encourage Dick. I believe Ford is falling in love with you. I never thought he even liked you till tonight, but what Buddy said about that ribbon—”
“I don’t suppose Bud knows what he’s talking about—any more than you do,” snapped Josephine. “If you’re determined that I shall have a love affair on this ranch, I’m going home.” She planted her chin in her two palms, just as she had done at dinner, and stared into vacancy.
“Where?” asked Mrs. Kate pointedly, and then atoned for it whole-heartedly. “There, I didn’t mean that—only—this is your home. It’s got to be; I won’t let it be anywhere else. And you needn’t have any love affair, Phene—you know that. Only you shan’t hurt Ford. I think he’s perfectly splendid! What he did for Chester—I—I can’t think of that without getting a lump in my throat, Phene. Think of it! Going without food himself, because there wasn’t enough for two, and—and—well, he just simply threw away his own chance of getting through, to give Chester a better one. It was the bravest thing I ever heard of! And the way he has conquered—?”
“How do you know he has conquered? Rumor says he hasn’t. And lots of men save other men’s lives; it’s being done every day, and no one hears much about it. You think it was something extraordinary, just because it happened to be Chester that was saved. Anybody will do all he can for a sick partner, when they’re away out in the wilds. I haven’t a doubt Dick would have done the very same thing, when it comes to that.” Josephine got up from the table then, and went haughtily into her own room.
Mrs. Kate retired quite as haughtily into the kitchen, and there was a distinct coolness between them for the rest of the day, and a part of the next. The chill of it affected Ford sufficiently to keep him away from the house as much as possible, and unusually silent and unlike himself when he was with the men.
But, unlike many another, he did not know that his recurrent dissatisfaction with life was directly traceable to the apparent intimacy between Josephine and Dick. Ford, if he had tried to put his gloomy unrest into words, would have transposed his trouble and would have mistaken effect for cause. In other words, he would have ignored Josephine and Dick entirely, and would have said that he wanted whisky—and wanted it as the damned are said to want water.
CHAPTER XII
At Hand-Grips with the Demon
Mose was mad. He was flinging tinware about the kitchen with a fine disregard of the din or the dents, and whenever the blue cat ventured out from under the stove, he kicked at it viciously. He was mad at Ford; and when a man gets mad at his foreman—without knowing that the foreman has been instructed to bear with his faults and keep him on the pay-roll at any price—he must, if he be the cook, have recourse to kicking cats and banging dishes about, since he dare not kick the foreman. For in late November “jobs” are not at all plentiful in the range land, and even an angry cook must keep his job or face the world-old economic problem of food, clothing, and shelter.
But if he dared not speak his mind plainly to Ford, he was not averse to pouring his woes into the first sympathetic ear that came his way. It happened that upon this occasion the ear arrived speedily upon the head of Dick Thomas.
“Matter, Mose?” he queried, sidestepping the cat, which gave a long leap straight for the door, when it opened. “Cat been licking the butter again?”
Mose grunted and slammed three pie tins into a cupboard with such force that two of them bounced out and rolled across the floor. One came within reach of his foot, and he kicked it into the wood-box, and swore at it while it was on the way. “And I wisht it was Ford Campbell himself, the snoopin’, stingy, kitchen-grannying, booze-fightin’, son-of-a-sour-dough bannock!” he finished prayerfully.
“He surely hasn’t tried to mix in here, and meddle with you?” Dick asked, helping himself to a piece of pie. You know the tone; it had just that inflection of surprised sympathy which makes you tell your troubles without that reservation which a more neutral listener would unconsciously impel.
I am not going to give Mose’s version, because he warped the story to make it fit his own indignation, and did not do Ford justice. This, then, is the exact truth:
Ford chanced to be walking up along the edge of the gully which ran past the bunk-house, and into which empty cans and other garbage were thrown. Sometimes a can fell short, so that all the gully edge was liberally decorated with a gay assortment of canners’ labels. Just as he had come up, Mose had opened the kitchen door and thrown out a cream can, which had fallen in front of Ford and trickled a white stream upon the frozen ground. Ford had stooped and picked up the can, had shaken it, and heard the slosh which told of waste. He had investigated further, and decided that throwing out a cream can before it was quite empt
y was not an accident with Mose, but might be termed a habit. He had taken Exhibit A to the kitchen, but had laughed while he spoke of it. And these were his exact words:
“Lordy me, Mose! Somebody’s liable to come here and get rich off us, if we don’t look out. He’ll gather up the cream cans you throw into the discard and start a dairy on the leavings.” Then he had set the can down on the water bench beside the door and gone away.
“I’ve been cookin’ for cow-camps ever since I got my knee stiffened up so’s’t I couldn’t ride—and that’s sixteen year ago last Fourth—and it’s the first time I ever had any darned foreman go snoopin’ around my back door to see if I scrape out the cans clean!” Mose seated himself upon a corner of the table with the stiff leg for a brace and the good one swinging free, and folded his bare arms upon his heaving chest.
“And that ain’t all, Dick,” he went on aggrievedly. “He went and cut down the order I give him for grub. That’s something Ches never done—not with me, anyway. Asked me—asked me, what I wanted with so much choc’late. And I wanted boiled cider for m’ mince-meat, and never got it. And brandy, too—only I didn’t put that down on the list; I knowed better than to write it out. But I give Jim money—out uh my own pocket!—to git some with, and he never done it. Said Ford told him p’tic’ler not to bring out nothin’ any nearer drinkable than lemon extract! I’ve got a darned good mind,” he added somberly, “to fire the hull works into the gully. He don’t belong on no cow ranch. Where he’d oughta be is runnin’ the W.C.T.U. So darned afraid of a pint uh brandy—”
“If I was dead sure your brains wouldn’t get to leaking out your mouth,” Dick began guardedly, “I might put you wise to something.” He took a drink of water, opened the door that he might throw out what remained in the dipper, and made sure that no one was near the bunk-house before he closed the door again. Mose watched him interestedly.
“You know me, Dick—I never do tell all I know,” he hinted heavily.
“Well,” Dick stood with his hand upon the door-knob and a sly grin upon his face, “I ain’t saying a word about anything. Only—if you might happen to want some—eggs—for your mince pies, you might look good under the southeast corner of the third haystack, counting from the big corral. I believe there’s a—nest—there.”
“The deuce!” Mose brightened understandingly and drummed with his fingers upon his bare, dough-caked forearm. “Do yuh know who—er—what hen laid ’em there?”
“I do,” said Dick with a rising inflection. “The head he-hen uh the flock. But if I was going to hunt eggs, I’d take down a chiny egg and leave it in the nest, Mose.”
“But I ain’t got—” Mose caught Dick’s pale glance resting with what might be considered some significance upon the vinegar jug, and he stopped short. “That wouldn’t work,” he commented vaguely.
“Well, I’ve got to be going. Boss might can me if he caught me loafing around here, eating pie when I ought to be working. Ford’s a fine fellow, don’t you think?” He grinned and went out, and immediately returned, complaining that he never could stand socks with a hole in the toe, and he guessed he’d have to hunt through his war-bag for a good pair.
Mose, as need scarcely be explained, went immediately to the stable to hunt eggs; and Dick, in the next room, smiled to himself when he heard the door slam behind him. Dick did not change his socks just then; he went first into the kitchen and busied himself there, and he continued to smile to himself. Later he went out and met Ford, who was riding moodily up from the river field.
“Say, I’m going to be an interfering kind of a cuss, and put you next to something,” he began, with just the right degree of hesitation in his manner. “It ain’t any of my business, but—” He stopped and lighted a cigarette. “If you’ll come up to the bunk-house, I’ll show you something funny!”
Ford dismounted in silence, led his horse into the stable, and without waiting to unsaddle, followed Dick.
“We’ve got to hurry, before Mose gets back from hunting eggs,” Dick remarked, by way of explaining the long strides he took. “And of course I’m taking it for granted, Ford, that you won’t say anything. I kinda thought you ought to know, maybe—but I’d never say a word if I didn’t feel pretty sure you’d keep it behind your teeth.”
“Well—I’m waiting to see what it is,” Ford replied non-committally.
Dick opened the kitchen door, and led Ford through that into the bunk-room. “You wait here—I’m afraid Mose might come back,” he said, and went into the kitchen. When he returned he had a gallon jug in his hand. He was still smiling.
“I went to mix me up some soda-water for heartburn,” he said, “and when I picked up this jug, Mose took it out of my hand and said it was boiled cider, that he’d got for mince-meat. So when he went out, I took a taste. Here: You sample it yourself, Ford. If that’s boiled cider, I wouldn’t mind having a barrel!”
Ford took the jug, pulled the cork, and sniffed at the opening. He did not say anything, but he looked up at Dick significantly.
“Taste it once!” urged Dick innocently. “I’d just like to have you see the brand of slow poison a fool like Mose will pour down him.”
Ford hesitated, sniffed, started to set down the jug, then lifted it and took a swallow.
“That isn’t as bad as some I’ve seen,” he pronounced evenly, shoving in the cork. “Nor as good,” he added conservatively. “I wonder where he got it.”
“Search me—oh, by jiminy, here he comes! I’m going to take a scoot, Ford. Don’t give me away, will you? And if I was you, I wouldn’t say anything to Mose—I know that old devil pretty well. He’ll keep mighty quiet about it himself—unless you jump him about it. Then he’ll roar around to everybody he sees, and claim it was a plant.”
He slid stealthily through the outer door, and Ford saw him run down into the gully and disappear, while Mose was yet half-way from the stable.
Ford sat on the edge of a bunk and looked at the jug beside him. If Dick had deliberately planned to tempt him, he had chosen the time well; and if he had not done it deliberately, there must have been a malignant spirit abroad that day.
For twenty-four hours Ford had been more than usually restless and moody. Even Buddy had noticed that, and complained that Ford was cross and wouldn’t talk to him; whereupon Mrs. Kate had scolded Josephine and accused her of being responsible for his gloom and silence. Since Josephine’s conscience sustained the charge, she resented the accusation and proceeded deliberately to add to its justice; which did not make Ford any the happier, you may be sure. For when a man reaches that mental state which causes him to carry a girl’s ribbon folded carefully into the most secret compartment of his pocketbook, and to avoid the girl herself and yet feel like committing assault and battery with intent to kill, because some other man occasionally rides with her for an hour or two, he is extremely sensitive to averted glances and chilly tones and monosyllabic conversation.
Since the day before, when she had ridden as far as the stage road with Dick, when he went to the line-camp, Ford had been fighting the desire to saddle a horse and ride to town; and the thing that lured him townward confronted him now in that gray stone jug with the brown neck and handle.
He lifted the jug, shook it tentatively, pulled out the cork with a jerk that was savage, and looked around the room for some place where he might empty the contents and have done with temptation; but there was no receptacle but the stove, so he started to the door with it, meaning to pour it on the ground. Mose just then shambled past the window, and Ford sat down to wait until the cook was safe in the kitchen. And all the while the cork was out of that jug, so that the fumes of the whisky rose maddeningly to his nostrils, and the little that he had swallowed whipped the thirst-devil to a fury of desire.
In the kitchen, Mose rattled pans and hummed a raucous tune under his breath, and presently he started again for the stable. Dick, desultorily bracing a leaning post of one of the corrals, saw him coming and grinned. He glanced toward the bu
nk-house, where Ford still lingered, and the grin grew broader. After that he went all around the corral with his hammer and bucket of nails, tightening poles and braces and, incidentally, keeping an eye upon the bunk-house; and while he worked, he whistled and smiled by turns. Dick was in an unusually cheerful mood that day.
Mose came shuffling up behind him and stood with his stiff leg thrust forward and his hands rolled up in his apron. Dick could see that he had something clasped tightly under the wrappings.
“Say, that he-hen—she laid twice in the same place!” Mose announced confidentially. “Got ’em both—for m’mince pies!” He waggled his head, winked twice with his left eye, and went back to the bunk-house.
Still Ford did not appear. Josephine came, however, in riding skirt and gray hat and gauntlets, treading lightly down the path that lay all in a yellow glow which was not so much sunlight as that mellow haze which we call Indian Summer. She looked in at the stable, and then came straight over to Dick. There was, when Josephine was her natural self, something very direct and honest about all her movements, as if she disdained all feminine subterfuges and took always the straight, open trail to her object.
“Do you know where Mr. Campbell is, Dick?” she asked him, and added no explanation of her desire to know.
“I do,” said Dick, with the rising inflection which was his habit, when the words were used for a bait to catch another question.
“Well, where is he, then?”
Dick straightened up and smiled down upon her queerly. “Count ten before you ask me that again,” he parried, “because maybe you’d rather not know.”
Josephine lifted her chin and gave him that straight, measuring stare which had so annoyed Ford the first time he had seen her. “I have counted,” she said calmly after a pause. “Where is Mr. Campbell, please?”—and the “please” pushed Dick to the very edge of her favor, it was so coldly formal.
