‘Though lookin’ at her is sure a pleasure;
There ain’t no way to get her measure.
I reckon she had man on the run
A long while before the world begun.’
“That seems to be the exact truth,” he laughed.
Norton grinned at him. “You single guys have certa’nly got a whole lot to learn,” he said, “for a fact. Of course if she’s any kind of a woman at all she’s got him runnin’. But which way?”
“Why, toward her, of course!” laughed Hollis.
Norton’s smile widened. “You’ve tumbled to that, then,” he observed dryly. “Then you’re ready for the next lesson.”
“And that?” questioned Hollis.
Norton smiled with ineffable pity. “Lordy!” he laughed; “you single guys don’t know a thing not a durned thing!”
After that they rode on in silence. When they came in sight of the Hazelton cabin Norton reined in his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, grinning at Hollis.
“You run along now,” he advised. “I’ll be hittin’ her off toward the Dry Bottom trail for the rest of the way—I sorta like that trail better anyway.”
He urged his pony off at a tangent and Hollis continued on his way. He found Nellie alone, her brother having gone out on the range. She came out on the porch, hearing his pony’s hoofs on the hard sand and rocks of the trail, and there was a sincere welcome in her eyes. It was the first time that he had visited the cabin since he had returned to the Circle Bar.
“Oh!” she said delightedly. And then, aware of the sudden light that had come into Hollis’s eyes at this evidence of interest, she blushed and looked down at the hem of her skirt, nervously pushing it out with the toe of her shoe.
During the days of Hollis’s convalescence at the Hazelton cabin he had seen the young woman in many moods. In none of them, however, had she seemed so attractive as now. Confusion became her, he decided, and he regarded her with a new interest as he sat on his pony, awaiting her invitation to dismount. It came presently.
“It is frightfully hot,” she said, moving over to where stood two chairs—one in which he had passed many hours during the days of his convalescence, the other in which she had sat quite often—near him. Not until now did he realize how full and satisfying those days had been. As he dismounted and tied his pony to one of the slender porch columns he smiled—thinking of Norton’s question during their discussion of Ace’s poem. “Of course”—the range boss had said—“if she’s any kind of a woman at all she’s got him runnin’. But which way?” Of course—literally—she did not have him running, but he knew that some uncommon passion had gripped him and that he was unaccountably pleased.
His smile grew when he remembered her sudden indignation over his thoughtless statement that women had never interested him. Of course he would not tell her that he felt a serious interest in one woman. When he dropped into his favorite chair, removing his hat and mopping the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief, he caught her looking swiftly at the scar under his right eye—which would always be a reminder of his experience on the night of the storm. She saw his brows contract in a frown.
“You have quite recovered,” she said; “except for that slight scar under the eye you are the same as before the meeting with Dunlavey’s men.”
He looked beyond her at the tawny mountains that rose in the distance,—miles on the other side of the big basin—swimming in the shimmering blur of white sky—somber guardians of a mysterious world. What secret did they guard? What did they know of this world of eternal sunlight, of infinite distance? Did they know as much of the world upon which they frowned as he knew of the heart of the slender, motherly girl whose eyes betrayed her each time he looked into them?
A smile that lurked deep within him did not show in his face—it was unborn and it gripped him strangely, creating a sensation in his breast that he could not analyze, but which pleaded to be expressed. He could not express it—now. He feared to trust himself and so he fought it down, assuring himself that it was not yet time. But he knew that he was not the same as before his experience with Dunlavey on the night of the storm. Something had stolen into his heart and was enthroned there; something deeper than a mere scar—a girl who had mothered him in his extremity; who had hovered over him, attending to his bruises, binding his wounds, tenderly smoothing his brow during the days and nights of the fever; attending his wants during convalescence; erecting a citadel in his heart which would stand as a monument to his gratitude. No, not gratitude merely. The smile was born. He turned and looked at her, meeting her eyes fairly, and hers dropped in confusion.
“Do you think that I am the same as before?” he asked suddenly.
She stood up, radiant, pointing a finger toward the Coyote trail. “Ed is coming!” she declared.
Before he could say another word she was down off the porch and running toward her brother, holding his horse while he dismounted, kissing him, patting him lovingly as they came toward the porch.
The latter greeted Hollis warmly. “A fellow couldn’t help but feel good with a sister like that—now could he?” he inquired as he came upon the porch and took the chair which Nellie had vacated. She had disappeared into the cabin, not even looking at Hollis, but she could not have heard Hollis’s reply had she remained. For it was wordless. There are times when men understand perfectly without speech.
Hollis stayed for dinner. Nellie was radiantly silent during the meal, attending to the wants of the two men, listening while they discussed recent happenings in the county. Ed was much pleased to hear of the coming of Ben Allen.
“That guy is business—through and through,” he assured Hollis. “He was the best sheriff Colfax County ever had—and it’s had some good ones. Allen’s quiet, but there ain’t anyone going to herdride him. Some have tried it, but they found it didn’t pay and so they don’t try it any more.”
After dinner they went out on the porch for a smoke, leaving Nellie inside. They could hear her singing as she washed the dishes. Hazelton smiled as a particularly happy note reached his ears. “I don’t know what’s got into Sis,” he said, flashing a swift glance at Hollis. “I don’t know as I ever heard her sing that well before.”
Hollis made no reply and the conversation turned to the drought—as all conversations did during that period. Word had come to Hazelton of Dunlavey’s warning to the cattle owners. He had heard also of Hollis’s announced intention of taking sides with the small owners.
“Dunlavey’s ten days is up the day after tomorrow,” said Hazelton. “If Dunlavey starts anything what are you going to do?”
“That will depend on what Dunlavey starts,” smiled Hollis.
“H’m!” inexpressively grunted Hazelton. He flashed a glance at the face of the young man beside him, noting the firm mouth, the steady eyes, and the faint, grim smile. “H’m!” he said again. “I suppose you know who you’re going to give your water to?” he questioned.
Hollis nodded. “To men who refused to help my father when he needed help,” he returned.
Hazelton smiled oddly. “I’ve heard about that,” he said. He laughed. “It strikes me that I wouldn’t give such men any water,” he added.
Hollis turned and looked at him, meeting his gaze fairly, and holding it.
“Yes, you would, Hazelton,” he said, a broad smile on his face.
“How do you know that?” queried the latter, slightly defiant.
Hollis motioned toward the kitchen door. “I know,” he said; “you’re her brother.”
“Well,” began Hazelton hesitatingly,—“I―”
The screen door opened—slammed, and Nellie Hazelton came out upon the porch. She had found time to change her morning dress for a soft, fluffy creation of some sort, and she stood before them, flushing slightly as both looked at her, a picture that smote Hollis’s heart with a sudden longing. Only one glance did she give him and then she was over near Ed’s chair, leaning over him, stroking his hair.
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For a long time Hollis sat, watching them with sympathetic, appreciative eyes. Then he thought of the letter in his pocket, the one postmarked “Chicago,” which he had discovered at the Kicker office on returning from the court house. He drew it from his pocket and read the legend in the upper left hand corner:
“Dr. J. J. Hammond, ― Hospital, Chicago, Ill.”
He studied the legend for some little time, his thoughts busy with the contents of the envelope. Fortunately, his letter to the great physician had fallen into the hands of the son, Tom Hammond, and the latter, not forgetting his old schoolmate, had appealed to his father. This was what the surgeon had written in the letter—he would not have agreed to accept the case had it not been for the fact that Hollis had been, and was Tom’s friend. He would be pleased if the patient would make the journey to Chicago within a month, that he might be able to take up his case before entering upon some scientific investigations which had been deferred a long time, etc.
Hollis had been reading the letter again. He finished it and looked up, to see Ed and Nellie watching him. He flushed and smiled, holding out the letter to Nellie.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I found this interesting. Perhaps you will also find it so.”
He leaned back with a smile and watched them. But he did not, watch long. He saw Nellie start, saw the color slowly recede from her face, saw her hands clench tightly—as she began to read the letter. He turned away, not caring to watch them during that sacred moment in which they would read the line of hope that the great surgeon had written. He looked—it seemed—for a long time down the Coyote trail, and when he finally turned his head toward them he saw Ed Hazelton sitting erect in his chair, apparently stunned by the news. But before him, close to him, so close that he felt her breath in his face—her eyes wide with delight, thankfulness—and perhaps something more—Nellie was kneeling.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Hollis!” she said earnestly, her lips all a-quiver; “Thank you, and God bless you!”
He tried to sit erect; tried to open his lips to tell her that he had done only what any man would have done under the circumstances. But he moved not, nor did he speak, for her arms had gone around his shoulders, and her lips were suddenly pressed firmly and quickly to his. Then he was released and she turned, crying:
“Come and thank him, Ed!”
But Ed had taken himself off—perhaps he did not care to allow anyone to witness his joy.
Some time during the evening Hollis took his departure from the Hazelton cabin. Ed had come back, silently taking Hollis’s hand and gripping it earnestly. And before Hollis had departed Ed had taken himself into the house. Perhaps he divined that there were other’s joys beside his.
That night before retiring Nellie stole softly into her brother’s room and kissed him lightly on the forehead. That same night also Hollis rode up to the Circle Bar corral gate—singing. Norton and Potter were sitting on the gallery, waiting for him. While Hollis was removing the saddle from his pony Norton rose from his chair and smiled at Potter.
“Well,” he said to the latter, “I’m goin’ to bed.” He moved a few steps toward the door and then turned and looked back at Potter, who had also risen. He laughed.
“Listen, Potter,” he said. Then he quoted:
“Woman—she don’t need no tooter
Be she skule ma’am or biscuit shooter.”
He hesitated and looked again at Potter. “Why,” said the latter, puzzled, “that’s from Ace’s poem!”
“Sure,” laughed Norton; “that’s just what it is!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE RUSTLER
The following day Hollis rode to town over the Dry Bottom trail. Had he followed a perfectly natural inclination he would have taken the Coyote, for it would have brought him to the Hazelton cabin. But he succeeded in forcing himself to go the other way, arguing that Nellie and her brother might wish to be alone to consider the great good fortune that had come upon them.
And so they did, though had Hollis appeared to them this morning as they sat upon the porch he would have been assured of a royal welcome. Indeed, during the early morning hours Nellie had cast many furtive, expectant glances down the Coyote trail. When eight o’clock came and Hollis did not appear she gave him up.
The dawn found her kneeling beside her brother’s bed.
“Ed!” she said, leaning over him, waking him, her eyes alight with joy; “Ed, he says you can be cured!”
He struggled and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Gosh, sis!” he said in an awed voice. “Then it’s true! I was afraid I’d been dreaming!”
“It is no dream,” she returned ecstatically; “it is reality—beautiful reality! Wasn’t it simply great of him to take such an interest in us?”
“Us?” grinned Ed, noting her crimson, happy face. “Well, mebbe he did it for us,” he added subtly, “but I take it I’ve got a right to have another opinion on that.”
She fled from him without answering and a little later he heard her singing as she prepared breakfast. After the meal Ed made a short trip out into the basin to look after his cattle and then returned to the cabin. Sitting on the porch he and Nellie devoted several hours to a grave discussion of the situation. They discovered that it had a serious side.
In the first place there was the dangerous nature of the operation. Here Ed laughed away his sister’s fears by assuring her that he had an excellent constitution and that since the fall from the pony had not killed him he was in no danger from the knife. If Nellie entertained any doubt of this she wisely remained silent, though Ed could see that she was not entirely reassured. He swept away her last objection to this forbidding feature when he told her that he preferred taking the risk to living in constant dread of a recurrence of an acute attack of his malady—such as he had experienced when he had attacked Hollis in Devil’s Hollow.
There were many other things to be discussed—chiefly the care of the cattle and the cabin during his absence in Chicago. He would not listen to her suggestion to accompany him—he would prefer to have her remain at the cabin. Or he would try to arrange with Hollis for her to stay at the Circle Bar. There she would have Mrs. Norton for a companion, and she might ride each day to the cabin. He was certain that Hollis would arrange to have his men care for the cattle. He assured her that he would settle that question with Hollis when the latter passed the cabin that night on his return to the Circle Bar. Of course Hollis would take the Coyote trail to-night, he insinuated, grinning hugely at the blushes that reached her face.
But Hollis did not pass the cabin that night. He had taken the Dry Bottom trail on his return to the Circle Bar.
He had accomplished very little that day on account of the heat—and a certain vision that had troubled him—taking his mind off his work and projecting it to a little cabin in a small basin, to a porch where sat a girl—the girl of his vision. She had voluntarily kissed him. Had it been all on account of gratitude? Of course—though—Well, memory of the kiss still lingered and he was willing to forgive her the slight lapse of modesty because he had been the recipient.
There had been one interesting development in Dry Bottom during the day. All day the town had swarmed with ranch owners who had come in to the court house to list their cattle for taxation and register their brands. Shortly after noon Ben Allen had dropped into the Kicker office with the news that every owner in the county with the exception of Dunlavey had responded to the law’s demands.
To Hollis’s inquiry regarding the course he would pursue in forcing Dunlavey to comply with the law, Allen remarked with a smile that there was “plenty of time.” He had had much experience with men of the Dunlavey type.
Potter and Hollis exchanged few words during the ride to the Circle Bar. The heat—the eternal, scorching, blighting heat—still continued; the dust had become an almost unbearable irritation. During the trip to the ranch the two men came upon an arroyo over which Hollis had passed many times. At a water hole where he had
often watered his horse they came upon several dead steers stretched prone in the green slime. The water had disappeared; the spring that had provided it had dried and there was nothing to tell of it except a small stretch of damp earth, baking in the sun. The steers were gaunt, lanky creatures, their hides stretched tight as drum-heads over their ribs, their tongues lolling out, black and swollen, telling mutely of their long search for water and their suffering. Coyotes had been at work on them; here lay a heap of bare bones; there a skull glistened in the white sunlight.
A few miles farther on they came upon one of the punchers from the Circle Y with a calf thrown over the saddle in front of him. He was driving several gaunt, drooping cattle toward the Rabbit-Ear. The calf bellowed piteously at sight of Hollis and Potter. The puncher hailed them.
“You’re Hollis, of the Circle Bar, ain’t you?” he said when the latter had spurred his pony close to him. At Hollis’s nod he grinned ironically. “Hot!” he said, coming quickly to the universal topic of conversation; “I reckon this wouldn’t be called hot in some places—in hell, for instance. Say,” he said as he saw Hollis’s lips straighten, “to-morrow the ten days is up. Mebbe it’ll be hotter then. The damned skunk!”
Of course he referred to Dunlavey—the latter’s threat to drive all foreign cattle from the Rabbit-Ear had been carried far and wide by riders—the whole country knew of it. There had been much condemnation and some speculation, but there was nothing to be done until after the tenth day. Even then much depended upon Hollis’s attitude. Would he make war upon Dunlavey in defense of the men who had refused aid to his father in time of need?
Hollis was still of the opinion that Dunlavey would not attempt to carry out his threat. He smiled at the malevolent expression in the puncher’s eyes.
“Somehow,” he said quietly, “I have always been able to distinguish between empty boast and determination. Dunlavey has done some foolish things, no doubt, and is doing a foolish thing in defying the law, but I don’t anticipate that he will do anything quite so rash as to further antagonize the small owners.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 147
