The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  Ace’s approach was diffident, though ambition urged him on. He rode up to the edge of the porch, dismounted, and greeted his boss with an earnestness that contrasted oddly with his embarrassment. He took the chair that Hollis motioned him to, sitting on the edge of it and shifting nervously under Hollis’s direct gaze.

  “I reckon Norton told you about my poems,” he began. He caught Hollis’s nod and continued: “Well, I got a bunch of ’em here which I brung over to show you. Folks back home used to say that I was a genyus. But I reckon mebbe they was hittin’ her up a little bit strong,” he admitted, modestly; “folks is that way—they like to spread it on a bit. But”—and the eyes of the genius flashed proudly—“I reckon I’ve got a little talyunt, the evidence of which is right here!” With rather more composure than had marked his approach he now drew out a prodigious number of sheets of paper, which he proceeded to spread out on his knee, smoothing them lovingly.

  “Mebbe I ain’t much on spellin’ an’ grammar an’ all that sort of thing,” he offered, “but there’s a heap of sense to be got out of the stuff I’ve wrote. Take this one, for instance. She’s a little oday to ‘Night,’ which I composed while the boys was poundin’ their ears one night—not bein’ affected in their feelin’s like I was. If you ain’t got no objections I’ll read her.” And then, not waiting to hear any objections, he began:

  The stars are bright to-night;

  They surely are a sight,

  Sendin’ their flickerin’ light

  From an awful, unknown height.

  Why do they shine so bright?

  I’m most o’ercome with fright―

  “Of course I reely wasn’t scared,” he offered with a deprecatory smile, “but there wasn’t any other word that I could think of just then an’ so I shoved her in. It rhymes anyhow an’ just about says what I wanted.”

  He resumed:

  When I look up into the night,

  An’ see their flickerin’ light.

  He ceased and looked at Hollis with an abashed smile. “It don’t seem to sound so good when I’m readin’ her out loud,” he apologized. “An’ I’ve thought that mebbe I’ve worked that ‘night’ an’ ‘light’ rhyme over-time. But of course I’ve got ‘fright’ an’ ‘sight’ an’ ‘height’ in there to kind of off-set that.” He squirmed in his chair. “You take her an’ read her.” He passed the papers over to Hollis and rose from his chair. “I’ll be goin’ back to the outfit; Norton was sayin’ that he wanted me to look up some strays an’ I don’t want him to be waitin’ for me. But I’d like to have one of them pomes printed in the Kicker—just to show the folks in this here country that there’s a real pote in their midst.”

  “Why―” began Hollis, about to express his surprise over his guest’s sudden determination to depart. But he saw Nellie Hazelton standing just outside the door, and the cause of Ace’s projected departure was no longer a mystery. He had gone before Hollis could have finished his remonstrance, and was fast disappearing in a cloud of dust down the trail when Hollis turned slowly to see Nellie Hazelton smiling broadly.

  “I just couldn’t resist coming out,” she said. “It rather startled me to discover that there was a real poet in the country.”

  “There seems to be no doubt of it,” returned Hollis with a smile. But he immediately became serious. “Ace means well,” he added. “I imagine that it wasn’t entirely an ambition to rush into print that moved him to submit his poems; he wants to help fill up the paper.”

  Miss Hazelton laughed. “I really think,” she said, looking after the departing poet, “that he might have been fibbing a little when he said that the ‘night’ had not ‘scared’ him. He ran from me,” she added, amusement shining in her eyes, “and I should not like to think that any woman could appear so forbidding and mysterious as the darkness.”

  Hollis had been scanning one of the poems in his hand. He smiled whimsically at Miss Hazelton as she concluded.

  “Here is Ace’s opinion on that subject,” he said. “Since you have doubted him I think it only fair that you should give him a hearing. Won’t you read it?”

  She came forward and seated herself in the chair that the poet had vacated, taking the mass of paper that Hollis passed over to her.

  “Shall I read it aloud?” she asked with a smile at him.

  “I think you had better not,” he returned; “it might prove embarrassing.”

  She blushed and gave her attention to the poem. It was entitled: “Woman,” and ran;

  “Woman she dont need no tooter,

  be she skule mam or biscut shooter.

  she has most curyus ways about her,

  which leads a man to kinda dout her.

  Though lookin at her is shure a pleasur

  there aint no way to get her measure

  i reckon she had man on the run

  a long while before the world begun.

  I met a biscut shooter in the chance saloon

  when i was blowin my coin in ratoon

  while the coin lasted i owned her an the town

  but when it was gone she throwed me down.

  An so i say she dont need no tooter

  be she skule mam or biscut shooter

  she fooled me an my hart she stole

  which has opened my eyes an hurt my sole.”

  Miss Hazelton laid the manuscript in her lap and laughed heartily.

  “What a harrowing experience!” she declared. Hollis was grinning at her.

  “That was a bad thing to have happen to a man,” he observed; “I suppose it rather shattered Ace’s faith in woman. At least you could observe by his actions just a moment ago that he isn’t taking any more chances.”

  She fixed him with a defiant eye. “But he still admits that he takes pleasure in looking at a woman!” she told him triumphantly.

  “So he does. Still, that isn’t remarkable. You see, a man couldn’t help that—no matter how badly he had been treated.”

  She had no reply to make to this, though she gave him a look that he could not mistake. But he laughed. “I think Ace’s effort ought to go into the Kicker” he said. “I have no doubt that many who read the poem will find in it a great deal of truth—perhaps a reflection of their own personal experiences.”

  Her face clouded and she regarded him a little soberly. “Of your own, perhaps?” she suggested.

  “Not guilty,” he returned laughing. “You see, I have never had any time to devote to the study of women, let alone time to allow them to fool me. Perhaps when I do have time to study them I may find some truth in Ace’s effort.”

  “Then women do not interest you?” She was looking down the Coyote trail.

  “Well, no,” he said, thinking of the busy days of his past, and not being aware of the furtive, significant glance she threw toward him. “You see, there have always been so many important things to engage my attention.”

  “How fortunate!” she said mockingly, after a pause during which he had time to realize that he had been very ungracious. He saw Ace’s manuscript flutter toward him, saw her rise and heard the screen door slam after her. During the remainder of the afternoon he was left alone on the porch to meditate upon the evils that arise from thoughtless speech.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE COALITION

  Perhaps there were some persons in Union County who, acquainted with the details of the attack on Hollis, expected to read an account of it in the Kicker. If there were any such they were disappointed. There was nothing about the attack printed in the Kicker—nor did Hollis talk to any stranger concerning it.

  Ace’s poem entitled “Woman” had gone into the paper, causing the poet—for many days following the appearance of his composition—to look upon his fellow punchers with a sort of condescending pity. On the second day after his discussion with Miss Hazelton over Ace’s poem Hollis returned to the Circle Bar. He had succeeded in convincing Nellie that he had answered thoughtlessly when he had informed her that he took no interest in women, and
though she had defiantly assured him that she had not taken offense, there had been a light in her eyes upon his departure which revealed gratification over his repentance. She stood long on the porch after he had taken leave of her, watching him as he rode slowly down the trail and disappeared around a turn. Then she smiled regretfully, sighed, and went into the house.

  Hollis’s return to the Circle Bar was unostentatious and quite in keeping with his method of doing things. Within the next few days he met several of the Circle Bar men and there were mutterings against Dunlavey, but Hollis discouraged action, assuring the mutterers that his differences with Dunlavey were entirely personal and that he intended carrying on the fight alone.

  His wounds mended rapidly, and within two weeks—except for the broken wrist—he was well as ever. Meanwhile Potter had succeeded in getting the Kicker out on time, though there had been a noticeable lack of aggressiveness in the articles. Especially was this true of the articles bearing upon the situation in Union County. Hollis had dictated some of these, but even those which he had dictated had seemed to lack something.

  Nothing had been heard of Dunlavey—it seemed that after the attack upon Hollis he had withdrawn from the scene to await the latter’s next move.

  But Hollis was in no hurry; he had lost some of the enthusiasm that had marked his attitude in the beginning, but this enthusiasm had been replaced by determination. He was beginning to realize that in Dunlavey he had met a foe worthy of his most serious efforts. He had determined that there would be no repetition of the attack upon him, and therefore during his convalescence he had sent to Las Vegas for a repeating rifle, and this he carried with him on his trips to and from Dry Bottom.

  Meanwhile the drought continued. The sky was cloudless, the desultory breezes that swept the plains blighted growing things, raising little whirlwinds of fine, flinty alkali dust and spreading it over the face of the world. The storm that had caught Hollis on the Dry Bottom trail had covered only a comparatively small area; it had lasted only a brief time and after its passage the country was dry as before.

  Rabbit-Ear Creek of all the streams in the vicinity of Dry Bottom held water. From all points of the compass cattle drifted to the Rabbit-Ear, slaking their thirst and refusing to leave. Bronzed riders on drooping ponies trailed them, cutting them out, trying to keep their herds intact, but not succeeding. Confusion reigned. For miles in both directions Rabbit-Ear Creek became one huge, long watering trough. Temporary camps were made; chuck wagons rattled up to them, loaded with supplies for the cowboys, and rattled back to distant ranches for more. There had been other droughts, but this one was unexpected—unprecedented. There had always been a little water everywhere. Now Rabbit-Ear Creek held all there was.

  Only the small cattle owners suffered because of the drought. Riders told of the presence of plenty of water in the Canadian, the Cimarron, and the Ute. Carrizo held some. In fact, nearly all the streams held by the large ranchers seemed to contain plenty. The smaller owners, whose herds were smaller and whose complement of punchers was necessarily limited, had apparently been selected by Providence for ruin.

  There were mutterings against the large owners, against Providence. Particularly were there mutterings against Dunlavey when word came to the owners of the herds that if the drought was not broken within the next ten days the Circle Cross manager would drive all foreign cattle from the Rabbit-Ear. He would not allow his own herds to suffer to save theirs, he said.

  On the night following the day upon which the small owners had received this word from Dunlavey a number of the former waited upon Hollis. They found him seated on the lower gallery of the ranchhouse talking to Norton and Potter. Lemuel Train, of the Pig-pen outfit, had been selected as their spokesman. He stood before Hollis, a big man, diffident in manner and rough in appearance, surrounded by his fellow ranchers, bronzed, bearded, serious of face. Though the sun had been down three hours the heat was frightful and the visitors shuffled their feet and uncomfortably wiped the perspiration from their brows.

  “Sit down,” invited Hollis. He rose and stood while the men draped themselves on the edge of the gallery floor—all except the spokesman, Lemuel Train. The latter faced Hollis. His face was grim in the dusk.

  “We’ve come to see what you’ve got to say about water,” he said.

  Days before Norton had told Hollis that these men who were now herding at the Rabbit-Ear were the small ranchers who had refused to aid the elder Hollis in his fight against Dunlavey some years before. Therefore Hollis did not answer at once. When he did his voice was dry and cold. He too had heard of Dunlavey’s ultimatum concerning the water.

  “Before I say anything on that subject I should like to know to whom I am talking,” he said.

  Train swept a ponderous hand toward his fellow visitors, pointing them out in turn. “There’s Truxton, of the Diamond Dot; Holcomb, of the Star; Henningson, of the Three Bar; Yeager, of the Three Diamond; an’ Clark, of the Circle Y.”

  “Correct,” affirmed Norton, behind Hollis.

  Hollis smiled grimly; he had caught a belligerent note in Norton’s voice. Plainly, if the range boss were allowed a voice in the matter, these visitors would have now received as little encouragement as they had received from Dunlavey. But Hollis’s smile showed that he held different views.

  “I am Kent Hollis,” he said to the men; “I suppose you know that.”

  “I reckon we know you,” said Train; “you’re Jim Hollis’s boy.”

  “Then you know that Dunlavey and my father were not exactly bosom friends,” returned Hollis.

  Several heads bobbed affirmatively; others sat grimly silent. Hollis smiled.

  “How many of you offered to help my father when he came to you asking for assistance in his fight against Dunlavey?”

  Train fidgeted. “I reckon they wasn’t much chance―” he began, and then hesitated, looking around at his fellows.

  “Of course,” returned Hollis quietly, after an embarrassed pause, “there wasn’t much chance for you to win then. And you had to take a big risk to help my father. But he had to take a bigger risk to fight alone. Still he fought. And he fought alone. He was almost ruined. And now you men are facing ruin. And you have come to Jim Hollis’s son to help you. Do you think he ought?”

  The men sat silent; the spokesman was without words.

  “How many men can the six of you muster—in case Dunlavey should try to carry out his decision to drive your cattle from the Rabbit-Ear—or shoot them?”

  “Eighteen, I reckon,” returned Train, looking at the others, who nodded affirmatively to his question.

  Hollis turned to Norton. “How many men does Dunlavey employ?” he questioned.

  “Thirty,” snapped Norton. “But in case he needed them he c’n get a hundred.”

  “Big odds,” smiled Hollis. “Why should I volunteer to help you fight Dunlavey? My cattle are certain of getting enough water. Why should I not be selfish, as you men were when my father went to you for assistance?”

  There was no answer. The faces that surrounded Hollis in the semi-darkness showed plainly that their owners had given up thoughts of assistance. Grim, hard lines came into them; two or three sneered. Of course they would fight Dunlavey; there was no alternative, for they could not stand idly by and see their cattle slain—Dunlavey could not drive them from water, they would have to be shot. They had reckoned on securing help from Hollis; he held one side of the Rabbit-Ear and with his support they were in a position to make things very unpleasant for any of Dunlavey’s men who might, from the opposite side of the river, attempt to shoot their cattle. But with Hollis against them they would be powerless; with Hollis against them Dunlavey’s men could swarm both sides of the river and the destruction of their cattle would be certain.

  All of the men knew this. Yet they did not answer Hollis’s question. They had not come to plead with him; they knew that the situation had narrowed down to a point where they could depend only on their own resources. They would no
t plead, yet as they silently started to file off the gallery there were bitter smiles on several of their faces. There were no threats; perhaps Hollis had succeeded in showing them the similarity between his conduct and their own in the long ago, when his father had gone to them for assistance. At least this was what he had tried to show them.

  Lemuel Train was the last man down the gallery. He turned as he reached the ground and looked back over his shoulder at Hollis.

  “So-long,” he said shortly. “I reckon you’re even now.”

  Hollis had not moved. “Wait, Train!” he said. The visitors halted and faced him.

  “Men,” he said quietly, “you have not answered my question. I am going to repeat it: Why should I not be selfish, as you men were when my father went to you for assistance?”

  Lemuel Train smiled ironically. “Why, I reckon it’s your trick, mister man,” he said; “you’ve got all the cards.”

  “Come back here, men,” said Hollis. “Since none of you care to answer my question I will answer it myself.” He stood silent while the men filed back and resumed seats on the gallery edge. Darkness had come on while he had been talking to the men and inside the ranchhouse Mrs. Norton had lighted the kerosene lamp and its weak, flickering rays straggled out into the darkness and upon Hollis’s face and the faces of several of the men who sat on the edge of the gallery.

  Hollis knew that he might readily become melodramatic in the few words that he purposed to say to the men, and so when he began talking he adopted a low, even tone, confidential, serious. He told them that the things he had written in his salutatory in the Kicker, months before, had been an honest declaration of the principles in which he believed. This was America, he repeated; they were all Americans; they were all entitled to that freedom of thought, speech, and movement for which their forefathers had fought. For one, he purposed to fight, if necessary, to retain his rights.