The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “I reckon you’ve been writin’ some of that book, ma’am,” he said, seeing the papers lying on the rock beside her. “I don’t see why you should want to write a Western story. Do folks in the East get interested in knowin’ what’s goin’ on out here?”

  She suddenly thought of herself. Had she found it interesting? She looked swiftly at him, appraising him from a new viewpoint, feeling a strange, new interest in him.

  “It would be strange if they didn’t,” she returned. “Why, it is the only part of the country in which there still remains a touch of romance. You must remember that this is a young country; that its history began at a comparatively late date. England can write of its feudal barons; France of its ancient aristocracy; but America can look back only to the Colonial period—and the West.”

  “Mebbe you’re right,” he said, not convinced. “But I expect there ain’t a heap of romance out here. Leastways, if there is it manages to keep itself pretty well hid.”

  She smiled, thinking of the romance that surrounded him—of which, plainly, he was not conscious. To him, romance meant the lights, the crowds, the amusements, the glitter and tinsel of the cities of the East, word of which had come to him through various channels. To her these things were no longer novel,—if they had ever been so—and so for her romance must come from the new, the unusual, the unconventional. The West was all this, therefore romance dwelt here.

  “Of course it all seems commonplace to you,” she returned; “perhaps even monotonous. For you have lived here long.”

  He laughed. “I’ve traveled a heap,” he said. “I’ve been in California, Dakota, Wyoming, Texas, an’ Arizona. An’ now I’m here. Savin’ a man meets different people, this country is pretty much all the same.”

  “You must have had a great deal of experience,” she said. “And you are not very old.”

  He gravely considered her. “I would say that I am about the average age for this country. You see, folks don’t live to get very old out here—unless they’re mighty careful.”

  “And you haven’t been careful?”

  He smiled gravely. “I expect you wouldn’t call it careful. But I’m still livin’.”

  His words were singularly free from boast.

  “That means that you have escaped the dangers,” she said. “I have heard that a man’s safety in this country depends largely upon his ability to shoot quickly and accurately. I suppose you are accounted a good shot?”

  The question was too direct. His eyes narrowed craftily.

  “I expect you’re thinkin’ of that book now ma’am,” he said. “There’s a heap of men c’n shoot. You might say they’re all good shots. I’ve told you about the men who can’t shoot good. They’re either mighty careful, or they ain’t here any more. It’s always one or the other.”

  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, shuddering slightly. “In that case I suppose the hero in my story will have to be a good shot.” She laughed. “I shouldn’t want him to get half way through the story and then be killed because he was clumsy in handling his weapon. I am beginning to believe that I shall have to make him a ‘two-gun’ man. I understand they are supposed to be very good shots.”

  “I’ve seen them that wasn’t,” he returned gravely and shortly.

  “How did you prove that?” she asked suddenly.

  But he was not to be snared. “I didn’t say I’d proved it,” he stated. “But I’ve seen it proved.”

  “How proved?”

  “Why,” he said, his eyes glinting with amusement, “they ain’t here any more, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Then it doesn’t follow that because a man wears two guns he is more likely to survive than is the man who wears only one?”

  “I reckon not, ma’am.”

  “I see that you have the bottoms of your holsters tied down,” she said, looking at them. “Why have you done that?”

  “Well,” he declared, drawling his words a little, “I’ve always found that there ain’t any use of takin’ chances on an accident. You mightn’t live to tell about it. An’ havin’ the bottoms of your holsters tied down keeps your guns from snaggin’. I’ve seen men whose guns got snagged when they wanted to use them. They wasn’t so active after.”

  “Then I shall have to make my hero a ‘two-gun’ man,” she said. “That is decided. Now, the next thing to do is to give some attention to his character. I think he ought to be absolutely fearless and honest and incapable of committing a dishonorable deed. Don’t you think so?”

  While they had talked he had come closer to her and stood beside the shelf rock, one foot resting on it. At her question he suddenly looked down at the foot, shifting it nervously, while a flush started from above the blue scarf at his throat and slowly suffused his face.

  “Don’t you think so?” she repeated, her eyes meeting his for an instant.

  “Why, of course, ma’am,” he suddenly answered, the words coming sharply, as though he had only at that instant realized the import of the question.

  “Why,” said she, aware of his embarrassment, “don’t you think there are such men?”

  “I expect there are, ma’am,” he returned; “but in this country there’s a heap of argument could be made about what would be dishonorable. If your two-gun should happen to be a horse thief, or a rustler, I reckon we could get at it right off.”

  “He shan’t be either of those,” she declared stoutly. “I don’t think he would stoop to such contemptible deeds. In the story he is employed by a ranch owner to kill a rustler whom the owner imagines has been stealing his cattle.”

  His hands were suddenly behind him, the fingers clenched. His eyes searched her face with an alert, intense gaze. His embarrassment was gone; his expression was saturnine, his eyes narrowed with a slight mockery. And his voice came, cold, deliberate, even.

  “I reckon you’ve got your gun-man true to life, ma’am,” he said.

  She laughed lightly, amused over the sudden change that she saw and felt in him. “Of course the gun-man doesn’t really intend to kill the rustler,” she said. “I don’t believe I shall have any one killed in the story. The gun-man is merely attracted by the sum of money promised him by the ranch owner, and when he accepts it is only because he is in dire need of work. Don’t you think that could be possible?”

  “That could happen easy in this country, ma’am,” he returned.

  She laughed delightedly. “That vindicates my judgment,” she declared.

  He was regarding her with unwavering eyes. “Is that gun-man goin’ to be the hero in your story, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

  “Why, of course.”

  “An’ I’m to be him?”

  She gave him a defiant glance, though she blushed immediately.

  “Why do you ask?” she questioned in reply. “You need have no fear that I will compel my hero to do anything dishonorable.”

  “I ain’t fearin’ anything,” he returned. “But I’d like to know how you come to think of that. Do writers make them things up out of their own minds, or does someone tell them?”

  “Those things generally have their origin in the mind of the writer,” she replied.

  “Meanin’ that you thought of that yourself?” he persisted.

  “Of course.”

  He lifted his foot from the rock and stood looking gravely at her. “In most of the books I have read there’s always a villain. I reckon you’re goin’ to have one?”

  “There will be a villain,” she returned.

  His eyes flashed queerly. “Would you mind tellin’ me who you have picked out for your villain?” he continued.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “It is Leviatt.”

  He suddenly grinned broadly and held out his right hand to her. “Shake, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon if I was writin’ a book Leviatt would be the villain.”

  She rose from the rock and took his outstretched hand, her eyes drooping as they met his. He felt her hand tremble a little, and he looked at it, marveling. She glance
d up, saw him looking at her hand, swiftly withdrew it, and turned from him, looking down into the flat at the base of the hill. She started, uttering the sharp command:

  “Look!”

  Perhaps a hundred yards distant, sitting on his pony in a lounging attitude, was a horseman. While they looked the horseman removed his broad brimmed hat, bowed mockingly, and urged his pony out into the flat. It was Leviatt.

  On the slight breeze a laugh floated back to them, short, sharp, mocking.

  For a time they stood silent, watching the departing rider. Then Ferguson’s lips wreathed into a feline smile.

  “Kind of dramatic, him ridin’ up that-a-way,” he said. “Don’t you think puttin’ him in the book will spoil it, ma’am?”

  CHAPTER XIII

  “DO YOU SMOKE?”

  Leviatt rode down through the gully where Miss Radford had first caught sight of Ferguson when he had entered the flat. He disappeared in this and five minutes later came out upon a ridge above it. The distance was too great to observe whether he turned to look back. But just before he disappeared finally they saw him sweep his hat from his head. It was a derisive motion, and Miss Radford colored and shot a furtive glance at Ferguson.

  The latter stood loosely beside her, his hat brim pulled well down over his forehead. As she looked she saw his eyes narrow and his lips curve ironically.

  “What do you suppose he thought?” she questioned, her eyes drooping away from his.

  “Him?” Ferguson laughed. “I expect you could see from his actions that he wasn’t a heap tickled.” Some thought was moving him mightily. He chuckled gleefully. “Now if you could only put what he was thinkin’ into your book, ma’am, it sure would make interestin’ readin’.”

  “But he saw you holding my hand!” she declared, aware of the uselessness of telling him this, but unable to repress her indignation over the thought that Leviatt had seen.

  “Why, I expect he did, ma’am!” he returned, trying hard to keep the pleasure out of his voice. “You see, he must have been lookin’ right at us. But there ain’t nothin’ to be flustered over. I reckon that some day, if he’s around, he’ll see me holdin’ your hand again.”

  The red in her cheeks deepened. “Why, how conceited you are!” she said, trying to be very severe, but only succeeding in making him think that her eyes were prettier than he had thought.

  “I don’t think I am conceited, ma’am,” he returned, smiling. “I’ve liked you right well since the beginning. I don’t think it’s conceit to tell a lady that you’re thinkin’ of holdin’ her hand.”

  She was looking straight at him, trying to be very defiant. “And so you have liked me?” she taunted. “I am considering whether to tell you that I was not thinking of you as a possible admirer.”

  His eyes flashed. “I don’t think you mean that, ma’am,” he said. “You ain’t treated me like you treated some others.”

  “Some others?” she questioned, not comprehending.

  He laughed. “Them other Two Diamond men that took a shine to you. I’ve heard that you talked right sassy to them. But you ain’t never been sassy to me. Leastways, you ain’t never told me to ‘evaporate’.”

  She was suddenly convulsed. “They have told you that?” she questioned. And then not waiting for an answer she continued more soberly: “And so you thought that in view of what I have said to those men you had been treated comparatively civilly. I am afraid I have underestimated you. Hereafter I shall talk less intimately to you.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” he pleaded. “You don’t need to be afraid that I’ll be too fresh.”

  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, with a pretense of delight. “It will be very nice to know that I can talk to you without fear of your placing a false construction on my words. But I am not afraid of you.”

  He stepped back from the rock, hitching at his cartridge belt. “I’m goin’ over to the Two Diamond now, ma’am,” he said. “And since you’ve said you ain’t afraid of me, I’m askin’ you if you won’t go ridin’ with me tomorrow. There’s a right pretty stretch of country about fifteen miles up the crick that you’d be tickled over.”

  Should she tell him that she had explored all of the country within thirty miles? The words trembled on her lips but remained unspoken.

  “Why, I don’t know,” she objected. “Do you think it is quite safe?”

  He smiled and stepped away from her, looking back over his shoulder. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll ride over for you some time in the mornin’.” He continued down the hill, loose stones rattling ahead of him. She looked after him, radiant.

  “But I didn’t say I would go,” she called. And then, receiving no answer to this, she waited until he had swung into the saddle and was waving a farewell to her.

  “Don’t come before ten o’clock!” she advised.

  She saw him smile and then she returned to her manuscript.

  When the Sun-Gods kissed the crest of the hill and bathed her in the rich rose colors that came straight down to the hill through the rift in the mountains, she rose and gathered up her papers. She had not written another line.

  It was late in the afternoon when Leviatt rode up to the door of Stafford’s office and dismounted. He took plenty of time walking the short distance that lay between him and the door, and growled a savage reply to a loafing puncher, who asked him a question. Once in the office he dropped glumly into a chair, his eyes glittering vengefully as his gaze rested on Stafford, who sat at his desk, engaged in his accounts. Through the open window Stafford had seen the range boss coming and therefore when the latter had entered he had not looked up.

  Presently he finished his work and drew back from the desk. Then he took up a pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and puffed with satisfaction.

  “Nothin’s happened?” he questioned, glancing at his range boss.

  Leviatt’s reply was short. “No. Dropped down to see how things was runnin’.”

  “Things is quiet,” returned Stafford. “There ain’t been any cattle missed for a long time. I reckon the new stray-man is doin’ some good.”

  Leviatt’s eyes glowed. “If you call gassin’ with Mary Radford doin’ good, why then, he’s doin’ it!” he snapped.

  “I ain’t heard that he’s doin’ that,” returned Stafford.

  “I’m tellin’ you about it now,” said Leviatt. “I seen him to-day; him an’ her holdin’ hands on top of a hill in Bear Flat.” He sneered. “He’s a better ladies’ man than a gunfighter. I reckon we made a mistake in pickin’ him up.”

  Stafford smiled indulgently. “He’s cert’nly a good looker,” he said. “I reckon some girls would take a shine to him. But I ain’t questionin’ his shootin’. I’ve been in this country a right smart while an’ I ain’t never seen another man that could bore a can six times while it’s in the air.”

  Leviatt’s lips drooped. “He could do that an’ not have nerve enough to shoot a coyote. Him not clashin’ with Ben Radford proves he ain’t got nerve.”

  Stafford smiled. The story of how the stray-man had closed Leviatt’s mouth was still fresh in his memory. He was wondering whether Leviatt knew that he had heard about the incident.

  “Suppose you try him?” he suggested. “That’d be as good a way as any to find out if he’s got nerve.”

  Leviatt’s face bloated poisonously, but he made no answer. Apparently unaware that he had touched a tender spot Stafford continued.

  “Mebbe his game is to get in with the girl, figgerin’ that he’ll be more liable that way to get a chancst at Ben Radford. But whatever his game is, I ain’t interferin’. He’s got a season contract an’ I ain’t breakin’ my word with the cuss. I ain’t takin’ no chances with him.”

  Leviatt rose abruptly, his face swelling with an anger that he was trying hard to suppress. “He’d better not go to foolin’ with Mary Radford, damn him!” he snapped.

  “I reckon that wind is blowin’ in two directions,” grinned Stafford.
“When I see him I’ll tell him—” A clatter of hoofs reached the ears of the two men, and Stafford turned to the window. “Here’s the stray-man now,” he said gravely.

  Both men were silent when Ferguson reached the door. He stood just inside, looking at Stafford and Leviatt with cold, alert eyes. He nodded shortly to Stafford, not removing his gaze from the range boss. The latter deliberately turned his back and looked out of the window.

  There was insolence in the movement, but apparently it had no effect upon the stray-man, beyond bringing a queer twitch into the corners of his mouth. He smiled at Stafford.

  “Anything new?” questioned the latter, as he had questioned Leviatt.

  “Nothin’ doin’,” returned Ferguson.

  Leviatt now turned from the window. He spoke to Stafford, sneering. “Ben Radford’s quite a piece away from where he’s hangin’ out,” he said. He again turned to the window.

  Ferguson’s lips smiled, but his eyes narrowed. Stafford stiffened in his chair. He watched the stray-man’s hands furtively, fearing the outcome of this meeting. But Ferguson’s hands were nowhere near his guns. They were folded over his chest—lightly—the fingers of his right hand caressing his chin.

  “You ridin’ up the crick to-day?” he questioned of Leviatt. His tone was mild, yet there was a peculiar quality in it that hinted at hardness.

  “No,” answered Leviatt, without turning.

  Ferguson began rolling a cigarette. When he had done this he lighted it and puffed slowly. “Well, now,” he said, “that’s mighty peculiar. I’d swore that I saw you over in Bear Flat.”

  Leviatt turned. “You’ve been pickin’ posies too long with Mary Radford,” he sneered.

  Ferguson smiled. “Mebbe I have,” he returned. “There’s them that she’ll let pick posies with her, an’ them that she won’t.”

  Leviatt’s face crimsoned with anger. “I reckon if you hadn’t been monkeyin’ around too much with the girl, you’d have run across that dead Two Diamond cow an’ the dogie that she left,” he sneered.

  Ferguson’s lips straightened. “How far off was you standin’ when that cow died?” he drawled.

  A curse writhed through Leviatt’s lips. “Why, you damned—”