The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “Don’t the outfit suit you?” asked one gently. “If it don’t, we’ll try to do better!”

  “Your conduct has been amazin’ good—considerin’,” grinned Randerson, light-hearted for the time; for this mark of affection was not lost upon him.

  “If there’s anybody in the outfit that’s disagreeable to you, why, say the word an’ we’ll make him look mighty scarce!” declared another, glancing belligerently around him.

  “Shucks, this outfit’ll be a blamed funeral!” said Blair. “We’ll be gettin’ to think that we don’t grade up, nohow. First Vickers packs his little war-bag an’ goes hittin’ the breeze out; an’ now you’ve got some fool notion that you ought to pull your freight. If it’s anything botherin’ you, why, open your yap, an’ we’ll sure salivate that thing!”

  “I ain’t mentionin’,” said Randerson. “But it ain’t you boys. You’ve suited me mighty well. I’m sure disturbed in my mind over leavin’ you.”

  “Then why leave at all?” said Owen, his face long.

  But Randerson evaded this direct question. “An’ you standin’ in line for my job?” he said in pretended astonishment. “Why, I reckon you ought to be the most tickled because I’m goin’!”

  “Well, if it’s a go, I reckon we’ll have to stand for it,” said Blair a little later, as Randerson mounted his pony. Their parting words were short, but eloquent in the sentiment left unsaid.

  “So long,” Randerson told them as he rode away. And “so long” came the chorus behind him, not a man omitting the courtesy.

  They stood in a group, watching him as he faded into the distance toward the ranchhouse.

  “Somethin’ is botherin’ him mighty bad,” said Owen, frowning.

  “He’s made the outfit feel like a lost doggie,” grumbled Blair. “The blamed cuss is grievin’ over somethin’.” And they went disconsolately to their work.

  Randerson rode on his way. He felt a little relieved. No longer was he bound by his job; he was now a free agent and could do as he pleased. And it would please him to settle his differences with Masten. He would “go gunnin’ for him” with a vengeance.

  It was about noon when he rode in to the ranchhouse. He did not turn his pony into the corral, but hitched it to one of the columns of the porch, for he intended to go on to the Diamond H as soon as he could get his belongings packed. If his old job was still open (he had heard that it was) he would take it, or another in case the old one had been filled. In any event, he would leave the Flying W.

  Dejection was heavy in his heart when he crossed the porch to go to his room, for he had liked it here; it had been more like the home of his ideals than any he had yet seen. For his imagination and affection had been at work, and in Aunt Martha he had seen a mother—such a mother as he could have wished his own to be, had she lived. And Uncle Jepson! The direct-talking old gentleman had captivated him; between them was respect, understanding, and admiration that could hardly have been deeper between father and son.

  But he felt reluctant to tell them of his decision to go, he wanted to delay it—if possible, he did not want to let them know at all, for he could come here, sometimes, to see them, when Ruth had gone. And so he was much pleased when, entering the house, he did not see them. But he looked for them, to be certain, going into all the rooms. And finally from a kitchen window he saw them out in the cottonwood back of the house, walking arm in arm, away, deeper into the wood. He turned with a gentle smile, and went upstairs to his room.

  * * * *

  Shortly after Abe Catherson’s departure from the cabin, Ruth came to the door and looked out. Her face was whiter than it had been when she had reached the cabin, she was more composed, and her eyes were alight with mingled resignation and thankfulness. For Hagar had yielded her secret, and Ruth had realized how near she had come to linking her life with that of the despicable creature who had preyed on her friend. The son of this great waste of world loomed big in her thoughts as she stood in the doorway; she saw now that those outward graces which had charmed her, in Masten, had been made to seem mockeries in contrast to the inward cleanness and manliness of the man that she had condemned for merely defending himself when attacked.

  She went back into the cabin and sat beside Hagar, a queer sensation of joy possessing her, despite her pity for Hagar and her disgust for Masten, for she knew in this instant that she would never allow Randerson to quit the Flying W. Her joy was infectious; it brought a fugitive smile to the face of the nester’s daughter, and as Ruth led her out upon the porch, her arms around her, Hagar looked at her worshipfully.

  Out at the edge of the porch, Hagar shot a dreading glance around. She started, and her eyes filled with anxiety as her gaze rested on the corral. She seized Ruth’s arm tightly.

  “Dad’s gone!” she said gulpingly.

  “Well, perhaps it is all for the best, Hagar,” consoled Ruth. “He will ride for a while, and he will come back to forgive you.”

  But the girl’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Oh, I’m afraid he’ll do somethin’ terrible!” she faltered. “Before you came, he asked me if—if it had been Randerson. I told him no, but he didn’t seem satisfied, an’ when I wouldn’t tell him who it was, he went out, cursin’ Rex. I’m afraid, Ruth—I’m afraid!” She glanced wildly around, and her gaze rested on the piece of paper that Catherson had left on the edge of the porch. In an instant she had pounced upon it.

  “He’s gone to kill Randerson!” she screamed shrilly. She did not seem to see Ruth; the madness of hysterical fear was upon her; her eyes were brilliant, wide and glaring. She was in her bare feet, but she darted past Ruth, disregarding the rocks and miscellaneous litter that stretched before her, reached Ruth’s pony and flung herself into the saddle, her lips moving soundlessly as she set the animal’s head toward the path.

  “You stay here!” she shouted to Ruth as the Flying W girl, stunned to inaction by the other’s manner, watched her. “I’m goin’ to ketch dad. Oh, durn him, the mis’able hot head!”

  She hit the pony a vicious slap with a bare hand. It lunged, as the reins loosened, reaching its best speed within a hundred yards, but urged to increasing effort by voice and hand and heel, the girl leaning far over its mane, riding as she had never ridden before. But up at the Flying W ranchhouse, a tall, grim, bearded giant of a horseman was just dismounting, his pony trembling because of heart-breaking effort.

  * * * *

  Randerson had not seen Ruth, of course. But he had wondered much over her whereabouts when he had been looking through the house for Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha. And when he had seen them out in the cottonwoods, back of the house, he had supposed her to be with them. He was glad she was not here, to make these last moments embarrassing. He would not disturb her.

  He found pencil and paper and wrote his resignation, sitting long over it, but making it brief. It read:

  “I’m going, ma’am. I’ve left Red Owen in charge. I’m wishing you luck.”

  “There, that’s settled,” he said, rising. “But I was hopin’ it would be different. Dreams are silly things—when they don’t come true. I’ll be soured on girls, hereafter,” he told himself, morosely.

  He packed his war-bag. While engaged in this work he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but he paid no attention, though he colored uncomfortably, for he thought he had been wrong in thinking that Ruth had been in the cottonwood grove, and that she had been away and was just returning. And when he heard a soft tread downstairs he was certain that it was she, and he reddened again. He stopped his work and sat silent, then he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs, for now he would have to face her. When he saw the door of his room begin to swing slowly back, he got up, his face grave, ready to deliver his resignation in person. And when the door swung almost open, and he saw Abe Catherson standing in the opening, his heavy pistol in hand, cocked, a finger on the trigger, he stiffened, standing silent, looking at the intruder.

  Abe’s eyes still wore the frenzy that had been in them when
he had been speaking with Ruth. If anything, the frenzy was intensified. His legs were trembling, the big finger on the trigger of his weapon was twitching; his lips, almost hidden by the beard, were writhing. He was like a man who had been seized by some terrible illness fighting it, resolved to conquer it through sheer effort. His voice stuck in his throat, issuing spasmodically:

  “I’ve got you, Randerson,” he said, “where—I want you! I’m goin’ to kill you, empty my gun in you! You mis’able whelp!” He took two steps into the room and then halted, tearing at the collar of his shirt with his free hand, as though to aid his laboring lungs to get the air they demanded.

  Randerson’s face was white and set, now. He was facing death at the hands of a man whom he had befriended many times. He did not know Catherson’s motive in coming here, but he knew that the slightest insincere word; a tone too light or too gruff, the most insignificant hostile movement, would bring about a quick pressure of the trigger of Catherson’s pistol. Diplomacy would not answer; it must be a battle of the spirit; naked courage alone could save him, could keep that big finger on the trigger from movement until he could discover Catherson’s motive in coming to kill him.

  He had faced death many times, but never had he faced it at the hands of a friend, with the strong drag of regard to keep his fingers from his own weapons. Had Catherson been an enemy, he would have watched him with different feelings; he would have taken a desperate chance of getting one of his own pistols to work. But he could not kill Catherson, knowing there was no reason for it.

  He had no difficulty in getting genuine curiosity into his voice, and he kept it to just the pitch necessary to show his surprise over Catherson’s threat and manner:

  “What you reckonin’ to kill me for, Abe?”

  “For what you done to my Hagar!” The convulsive play of Catherson’s features betrayed his nearness to action. His gun arm stiffened. He spoke in great gasps, like a man in delirium. “I want you to know—what for. You come—sneakin’—around—givin’ me—money—”

  “Steady, there, Abe!”

  Randerson’s sharp, cold voice acted with the effect of a dash of water in Catherson’s face. He started, his big hand trembling, for though he had come to kill, he unknowingly wanted to hear some word from Randerson’s lips in proof of his innocence. Had Randerson flinched, he would have taken that as a sign of guilt, as he now took the man’s sternness as an indication of his innocence. He stepped forward until he was no more than a foot from Randerson, and searched his face with wild intentness. And then, suddenly, the weapon in his hand sank down, his legs wavered, he leaned against the wall while his chin dropped to his chest.

  “You didn’t do it, Rex, you couldn’t do it!” he muttered hoarsely. “No man who’d done a thing like that could look back at me like you looked. But I’m goin’ to git—” He stopped, for there was a rapid patter of feet on the stairs, and a breathless voice, crying wildly:

  “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

  And while both men stood, their muscles tensed to leap into action in response to the voice, Hagar burst into the room, looked at them both; saw Catherson’s drawn pistol, and then threw herself upon her father, hid her face on his breast and sobbed: “It wasn’t Rex, dad; it was Masten!”

  Catherson’s excitement was over. The first terrible rage had expended itself on Randerson, and after a violent start at Hagar’s words he grew cold and deliberate. Also, the confession seemed to make his resentment against his child less poignant, for he rested his hand on her head and spoke gently to her:

  “It’s all right, Hagar—it’s all right. Your old dad ain’t goin’ to hold it ag’in you too hard. We all make mistakes. Why, I was just goin’ to make a mighty whopper myself, by killing Rex, here. You leave this to me.” He pushed her toward Randerson. “You take her back to the shack, Rex. I reckon it won’t take me long to do what I’m goin’ to do. I’ll be back afore dark, mebbe.”

  The girl clung to him for an instant. “Dad,” she said. “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “If you was a good guesser—” said Catherson coldly. And then he grinned felinely at Randerson and went out. They could hear him going down the stairs. They followed presently, Hagar shrinking and shuddering under Randerson’s arm on her shoulders, and from the porch they saw Catherson, on his pony, riding the trail that Ruth had taken on the day she had gone to see Chavis’ shack.

  Randerson got Hagar into the saddle, recognizing the pony and speaking about it. When she told him that Ruth was at her cabin, his face lighted. He thought about the written resignation lying in his room, and he smiled.

  “I come mighty near not havin’ to use it,” he said to himself.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  REALIZING A PASSION

  Ruth stood for a long time on the porch after Hagar’s departure, gripped by emotions, that had had no duplicates in all her days. Never before had she thought herself capable of experiencing such emotions. For the man she loved was in danger. She knew at this minute that she loved him, that she had loved him all along. And she was not able to go to him; she could not even learn, until Hagar returned, whether the girl had been in time, or whether he had succumbed to the blind frenzy of the avenger. The impotence of her position did much to aggravate her emotions, and they surged through her, sapping her strength. It was hideous—the dread, the uncertainty, the terrible suspense, the dragging minutes. She walked back and forth on the porch, her hands clenched, her face drawn and white, praying mutely, fervently, passionately, that Hagar might be in time.

  Thinking to divert her mind, she at last went into the cabin and began to walk about, looking at various objects, trying to force herself to take an interest in them.

  She saw, back of a curtain, a number of the dresses and other garments she had given Hagar, and she could not disperse the thought that perhaps if she had not given the clothing to Hagar, Masten might not have been attracted to her. She drew the curtain over them with something near a shudder, considering herself not entirely blameless.

  She endeavored to interest herself in Catherson’s pipe and tobacco, on a shelf near the stove; wondering over the many hours that he had smoked in this lonesome place, driving away the monotony of the hours. What a blow this must be to him! She began to understand something of the terrible emotions that must have seized him with the revelation. And she had brought Masten here, too! Innocent, she was to blame there! And she unconsciously did something, as she walked about, that she had never before attempted to do—to put herself into other persons’ positions, to try to understand their emotions—the motives that moved them to do things which she had considered vicious and inhuman. She had forced her imagination to work, and she succeeded in getting partial glimpses of the viewpoints of others, in experiencing flashes of the passions that moved them. She wondered what she would do were Hagar her daughter, and for an instant she was drunken with the intensity of the passion that gripped her.

  Before her trip around the interior of the cabin was completed, she came upon a six-shooter—heavy, cumbersome, like the weapon she had used the day Randerson had taught her to shoot. It reposed on a shelf near the door that led to the porch, and was almost concealed behind a box in which were a number of miscellaneous articles, broken pipes, pieces of hardware, buckles, a file, a wrench. She examined the weapon. It was loaded, in excellent condition. She supposed it was left there for Hagar’s protection. She restored it to its place and continued her inspection.

  She had grown more composed now, for she had had time to reflect. Catherson had not had much of a start; he would not ride so fast as Hagar; he did not know where, on the range, he might find Randerson. Hagar was sure to catch him; she would catch him, because of her deep affection for Randerson. And so, after all, there was nothing to worry about.

  She was surprised to discover that she could think of Masten without the slightest regret; to find that her contempt for him did not cause her the slightest wonder. Had she always known, subconsciously, that he was a scoundrel?
Had that knowledge exerted its influence in making her reluctant to marry him?

  Standing at a rear window she looked out at the corral, and beyond it at a dense wood. She had been there for about five minutes, her thoughts placid, considering the excitement of the day, when at a stroke a change came over her. At first a vague disquiet, which rapidly grew into a dread fear, a conviction, that some danger lurked behind her.

  She was afraid to turn. She did not turn, at once, listening instead for any sound that might confirm her premonition. No sound came. The silence that reigned in the cabin was every bit as intense as that which surrounded it. But the dread grew upon her; a cold chill raced up her spine, spreading to her arms and to her hands, making them cold and clammy; to her head, whitening her face, making her temples throb. And then, when it seemed that she must shriek in terror, she turned. In the doorway, leaning against one of the jambs, regarding her with narrowed, gleaming eyes, a pleased, appraising smile on his face, was Tom Chavis.

  Her first sensation was one of relief. She did not know what she had expected to see when she turned; certainly something more dire and terrible than Tom Chavis. But when she thought of his past actions, of his cynical, skeptical, and significant looks at her; of his manner at this minute; and reflected upon the fact that she was alone, she realized that chance could have sent nothing more terrible to her.

  He noted her excitement, and his smile broadened. “Scared?” he said. “Oh, don’t be.” His attitude toward her became one of easy assurance. He stepped inside and walked to the rough table that stood near the center of the room, placing his hands on it and looking at her craftily.

  “Nobody here,” he said, “but you—eh? Where’s Catherson? Where’s Hagar?”

  “They’ve gone to the Flying W,” she answered, trying to make her voice even, but not succeeding. There was a quaver in it. “You must have seen them,” she added, with a hope that some one at the ranchhouse might have seen him. She would have felt more secure if she had known that someone had seen him.