The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack
Page 47
“And the daughter?” inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.
“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”
“How old is she, Willard?”
“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”
“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.
“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.
“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:
“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:
“Some one is coming!”
During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind.
It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.
Plainly there was something on Vickers’ mind, for he smiled mechanically as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.
“Well, I’m back,” he said. He looked at Ruth. “There’s somethin’ I’d like to say to you. It’s business. If you’d rather hear it private—”
“I think there is nothing—” she began.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to leave here.”
Ruth’s face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. Aunt Martha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleam was in his eyes.
“Isn’t that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?” questioned Ruth after a silence.
“Well, mebbe it is, to you,” said Vickers, with some embarrassment. “But the fact is, I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ for a long time—about a year to be exact. I was goin’ before your uncle died, but I kept holdin’ on because he wanted me to. You see, ma’am, I’ve got a mother back East. She’s been poorly for quite a while now, an’ has been wantin’ me to come. I’ve been puttin’ it off, but it’s got to the point where it can’t be put off any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an’ he says that she can’t last a heap longer. So—I’m goin’.”
“That’s too bad,” sympathized Ruth. “You ought to go, and go quickly.”
“I’m aimin’ to, ma’am. But I’ve got to tell you somethin’ before I go. Me an’ your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap.”
“Yes,” said Ruth; “he told me that he liked and trusted you.”
“Well, you’ll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, we was talkin’ of him goin’. He knowed it, ma’am. We was talkin’ about the ranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. ‘What’ll I do for a range boss when you’re gone?’ he asked me. ‘I won’t go till you ain’t here any more,’ I tells him. An’ he grinned. ‘I’m goin’ to leave the Flyin’ W to my niece, Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie,’ he says. ‘I’d like her to stay an’ run it—if she likes it here. You’ll be gone then, an’ who in Sam Hill will be range boss then?’ I told him I didn’t have no thoughts on the subject, an’ he continues: ‘Rex Randerson, Vickers—he’ll be range boss. Do you understand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randerson would be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An’ if you’ve got any say-so after I’m gone, an’ Ruth wants to keep the ranch, you tell her that—that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be range boss after Wes Vickers don’t want it any more.’ That’s what he said, ma’am; them’s his very words.”
Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth’s cheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still, Randerson hadn’t really used him ill at the river, and besides, he had apologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also, she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward Tom Chavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in her unsophisticated mind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten to jealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers’ gaze, fixed curiously upon her.
“Could you recommend this man—Randerson?” she asked.
“Why, ma’am, he’s got the best reputation of any man in these parts!”
“But is he efficient?”
“Meanin’ does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He’s got the best head for range work of any man in the country! He’s square, ma’am. An’ there ain’t no man monkeyin’ with him. I’ve knowed him for five years, an’ I ain’t ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin’”—and here he scratched his head and grinned reminiscently—“when he gets the devil in him which he does occasionally, ma’am—an’ goes to jokin’, ma’am. But they’re mostly harmless jokes, ma’am; he’s never hurt nobody, bad. But he got a level head—a heap leveler than a lot of folks that—”
“I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth,” said Masten. He did not look at her, and his words were expressionless.
“Mister man,” said Vickers evenly, “what do you know about Tom Chavis?”
Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face slowly reddening.
“He’s foreman now, isn’t he?” he said. “It seems that Harkness trusted him that much.”
“There’s a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister,” said Vickers.
Masten’s voice was almost a sneer.
“Why don’t you tell Chavis that?”
“I’ve told him, Mister—to his face.” Vickers’ own face was growing dark with wrath.
“You were range boss after Harkness’ death,” persisted Masten. “Why didn’t you discharge Chavis?”
“I’m askin’ the new boss for permission to do it now,” declared Vickers. “It’ll be a good wind-up for my stay here.”
“We shall keep Chavis for the present,” said Ruth. “However,” she added firmly, “he shall not be range boss. I do not like him.”
Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten’s face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control.
“Of course, it is your affair, Ruth,” he said. “I beg your pardon for offering the suggestion.”
But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walking toward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had gone to a distant part of the range.
Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on the porch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, and then he took Ruth’s hand and held it long.
“You’ll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl,” he said. “I’m ridin’ over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his new job. Don’t make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An’ if any trouble comes sneakin’ around you, take it to Rex; he’ll stick on the right side till hell freezes over.”
CHAPTER VI
A MAN AND HIS JOB
Just what Ruth’s sensations were the next morning she could not have told. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation. A
lso, she could account for it—she wanted to see Randerson. But her reason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom, though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairs she devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson well enough to wish to see him merely on that account—that was ridiculous, in spite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, for she had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was too practical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet by afternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason for certainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding. She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself—at least, she could not find him. She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon that he had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over a shallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a wood through which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for some distance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe house stood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and was debating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out of the door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. The dog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantly wheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs at it.
“Nig, you ol’ duffer, git in hyeh where you b’long! Can’t you see that that there’s a lady!” came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog, still growling, but submissive, drew off.
Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. A girl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of some checkered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too small for her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, her hair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had been combed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean, though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, in spite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strange mixture of admiration and defiance.
“Dad ain’t hyeh this mornin’,” she volunteered as Ruth climbed off her pony.
“I came to see you,” said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over the pony’s head and advanced, holding out a hand. “I am Ruth Harkness,” she added, “the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month, and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?”
“I reckon,” said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth to take her hand. But she drew it away immediately. “I’ve heard of you,” she said; “you’re a niece of that ol’ devil, Bill Harkness.” She frowned. “He was always sayin’ dad was hookin’ his doggoned cattle. Dad didn’t steal ’em—ol’ Bill Harkness was a liar!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I reckon you’ll be sayin’ the same thing about dad.”
“No indeed!” declared Ruth. “Your dad and I are going to be friends. I want to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad with stealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. I want to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W and get acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren’t you going to invite me inside? I would if you came to visit me, you know.” She smiled winningly.
The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which, Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished but clean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near a rough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her hands hanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the ragged apron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning to realize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grew conscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor’s raiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own—though Ruth’s was merely a simple riding habit of brown corduroy.
Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted to discover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions were as she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worse than she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth’s wisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealth of delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was in question. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end of that time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with the girl’s pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again. Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fine raiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from the East, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in the least needed by her—an incumbrance, rather—and which, she hinted, might become the property of another, if suitable in size.
The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside the pony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of both that gave promise of future sincere friendship.
“Good-bye, Hagar,” said the Flying W girl.
“Good-bye, lady,” said the girl. “Ruth,” she changed, as the Flying W girl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruth rode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in her eyes.
Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson’s face.
“I cal’late you’ve got here,” he said.
“Looks mighty like it,” returned the horseman. “You reckon my new boss is anywheres around?”
“She’s gone off ridin’,” Uncle Jepson told him. “It’s likely she’ll be back shortly.”
“I reckon I’d better wait,” said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.
“There’s plenty of sittin’ room on the porch here,” invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs.
“Thank you—reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters.”
He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted:
“I cal’late you’d better wait here.”
“If you insist,” said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson’s eyes as his met Uncle Jepson’s was not to be mistaken.
“So Vickers has gone,” said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. “He’s a mighty fine man.”
“Willard wanted Chavis to have his job,” whispered Uncle Jepson.
“You don’t say!” Randerson’s eyes gleamed. “An’ Miss Ruth didn’t want him, I reckon.” He caught Uncle Jepson’s nod. “She’s allowin’ that she’s goin’ to be boss. But of course she would,” he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled.
“I reckon you like it here?” he said gently to Aunt Martha.
“I like it very much. But there are differences—after Poughkeepsie. One doesn’t notice them so much at first.”
“I expect you find it sort of rough here,” he said, looking at her. “They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together—that there’s conveniences. There ain’t a heap of conveniences here.” He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners.
“No—no conveniences,” said Aunt Martha. “But it’s a wonderful country, my boy—wonderful!”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said gravely.
Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over the rims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. For she saw something in this figure of a new type that sat before her—something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at—nor his leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, the high-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were the badges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she saw them not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling honesty that radiated from him, she saw—and admired. But above all she saw the boy in him—the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.
“You were born here?” she asked.
“In Colfax, ma’am.”
“Is that a city?”
“Bless yu’, ma’am, no. It’s a county.”
“And you were born on a ranch, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep was his admiration of her.
“And your parents?”
“Both dead, ma’am.” A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his bare head.
“If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you,” she said.
He blushed crimson. “Why, ma’am—” he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.