The Range Dwellers

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER IX.

  The Old Life--and the New.

  Now that I was there, I was no good to anybody. The nurse wouldn't let meput my nose inside dad's door for a week, and I hadn't the heart to go outmuch while he was so sick. Rankin was about all the recreation I had, andhe palled after the first day or two. I told him things about Montana thatmade him look painful because he hardly liked to call me a liar to myface; and the funny part was that I was telling him the truth.

  Then dad got well enough so the nurse had no excuse for keeping me out,and I spent a lot of time sitting beside his bed and answering questions.By the time he was sitting up, peevish at the restraint of weakness anddoctor's orders, we began to get really acquainted and to be able to talktogether without a burdensome realization that we were father and son--anda mighty poor excuse for the son. Dad wasn't such bad company,I discovered. Before, he had been mostly the man that handled thecarving-knife when I dined at home, and that wrote checks and dictatedletters to Crawford in the privacy of his own den--he called it his study.

  Now I found that he could tell a story that had some point to it, andcould laugh at yours, in his dry way, whether it had any point or not.I even got to telling him some of the scrapes I had got into, and aboutPerry Potter; dad liked to hear about Perry Potter. The beauty of it was,he could understand everything; he had lived there himself long enough toget the range view-point. I hate telling a yarn and then going back overit explaining all the fine points.

  I remember one night when the fog was rolling in from the ocean till youcould hardly see the street-lamps across the way, we sat by the fire--dadwas always great for big, wood fires--and smoked; and somehow I got strungout and told him about that Kenmore dance, and how the boys rigged up inmy clothes and went. Dad laughed harder than I'd ever heard him before;you see, he knew the range, and the picture rose up before him allcomplete. I told that same yarn afterward to Barney MacTague, and therewas nothing to it, so far as he was concerned. He said: "Lord! they musthave been an out-at-heels lot not to have any clothes of their own." Now,what do you think of that?

  Well, I went on from that and told dad about my flying trips throughKing's Highway, too--with the girl left out. Dad matched his finger-tipstogether while I was telling it, and afterward he didn't say much; only:"I knew you'd play the fool somehow, if you stayed long enough." He didn'texplain, however, just what particular brand of fool I had been, or whathe thought of old King, though I hinted pretty strong. Dad has got asmooth way of parrying anything he doesn't want to answer straight out,and it takes a fellow with more nerve than I've got to corner him and justmake him give up an opinion if he doesn't want to. So I didn't find out athing about that old row, or how it started--more than what I'd learned atthe Ragged H, that is.

  Frosty had written me, a week or two after I left, that our fellows hadreally burned King's sheds, and that Perry Potter had a bullet just scrapethe hair off the top of his head, where he hadn't any to spare. It madehim so mad, Frosty said, that he wanted to go back and kill, slay, andslaughter--that is Frosty's way of putting it. Another one of the boys hadbeen hit in the arm, but it was only a flesh wound and nothing serious. Sofar as they could find out, King's men had got off without a scratch,Frosty said; which was another great sorrow to Perry Potter, who wentaround saying pointed things about poor markmanship and fellows whocouldn't hit a barn if they were locked inside--that kept the boys stirredup and undecided whether to feel insulted or to take it as a joke.I wished that I was back there--until I read, down at the bottom of thelast page, that Beryl King and her Aunt Lodema had gone back to the East.

  The next day I learned the same thing from another source. Edith Loromanhad kept her promise--as I remembered her, she wasn't great at that sortof thing, either--and sent me a picture of White Divide just before I leftthe ranch. Somehow, after that, we drifted into letter-writing. I wrote tothank her for the picture, and she wrote back to say "don't mentionit"--in effect, at least, though it took three full pages to get thateffect--and asked some questions about the ranch, and the boys, and FrostyMiller. I had to answer that letter and the questions--and that's how itbegan. It was a good deal of a nuisance, for I never did take much to penwork, and my conscience was hurting me half the time over delayed answers;Edith was always prompt; she liked to write letters better than I did,evidently.

  But when she wrote, the day after I got that letter from Frosty, and saidthat Beryl and Aunt Lodema had just returned and were going to spend thewinter in New York and join the Giddy Whirl, I will own that I was a muchbetter--that is, prompt--correspondent. Edith is that kind of girl whocan't write two pages without mentioning every one in her set; like thoseLocal Items from little country towns; a paragraph for everybody.

  So, having a strange and unwholesome hankering to hear all I could aboutBeryl, I encouraged Edith to write long and often by setting her anexample. I didn't consider that I was taking a mean advantage of her,either, for she's the kind of girl who boasts about the number of herproposals and correspondents. I knew she'd cut a notch for me on the stickwhere she counted her victims, but it was worth the price, and I'mpositive Edith didn't mind.

  The only drawback was the disgusting frequency with which the words "Beryland Terence Weaver" appeared; that did rather get on my nerves, and I didask Edith once if Terence Weaver was the only man in New York. In fact,I was at one time on the point of going to New York myself and taking itout of Mr. Terence Weaver. I just ached to give him a run for his money.But when I hinted it--going to New York, I mean--dad looked rather hurt.

  "I had expected you'd stay at home until after the holidays, at least," heremarked. "I'm old-fashioned enough to feel that a family should betogether Christmas week, if at no other time. It doesn't necessarilyfollow that because there are only two left--" Dad dropped his glassesjust then, and didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. I'd havestayed, then, no matter what string was pulling me to New York. It's soseldom, you see, that dad lowers his guard and lets you glimpse the realfeeling there is in him. I felt such a cur for even wanting to leave him,that I stayed in that evening instead of going down to the Olympic, wherewas to be a sort of impromptu boxing-match between a couple of ourswiftest amateurs.

  Talking to dad was virtuous, but unexciting. I remember we discussed theprofit, loss, and risk of cattle-raising in Montana, till bedtime came fordad. Then I went up and roasted Rankin for looking so damned astonished atmy wanting to go to bed at ten-thirty. Rankin is unbearablyrighteous-looking, at times. I used often to wish he'd do somethingwicked, just to take that moral look off him; but the pedestal of hissolemn virtue was too high for mere human temptations. So I had to contentmyself with shying a shoe his way and asking him what there was funnyabout me.

  After dad got well enough to go back to watching his millions grow, anddidn't seem to need me to keep him cheered up, life in our house droppedback to its old level--which means that I saw dad once a day, maybe. Hegave me back my allowance and took to paying my bills again, and I wasfree to get into the old pace--which I will confess wasn't slow. TheMontana incident seemed closed for good, and only Frosty's letters and arather persistent memory was left of it.

  In a month I had to acknowledge two emotions I hadn't counted on: surpriseand disgust. I couldn't hit the old pace. Somehow, things weredifferent--or I was different. At first I thought it was because BarneyMacTague was away cruising around the Hawaii Islands, somewhere, with aparty.

  I came near having the _Molly Stark_ put in commission and going afterhim; but dad wouldn't hear of that, and told me I'd better keep on dryland during the stormy months. So I gave in, for I hadn't the heart to godead against his wishes, as I used to do. Besides, he'd have had to put upthe coin, which he refused to do.

  So I moped around the clubs, backed the light-weight champion of the hourfor a big match, put up a pile of money on him, and saw it fade away andtake with it my trust in champions. Dad was good about it, and put up whatI'd gone over my allowance without a whimper. Then I chased around th
ecountry in the _Yellow Peril_ and won three races down at Los Angeles,touring down and back with a fellow who had slathers of money, wore blueties, and talked through his nose. I leave my enjoyment of the trip toyour imagination.

  When I got back, I had the _Yellow Peril_ refitted and the tonneau putback on, and went in for society. I think that spell lasted as long asthree weeks; I quit immensely popular with a certain bunch of widows andthe like, and with a system so permeated with tea and bridge that it tooka stiff course of high-balls and poker to take the taste out of my mouth.

  I think it was in March that Barney came back; but he came back an engagedyoung man, so that in less than a week Barney began to pall. His fianceehad got him to swear off on poker and prize-fighting and smokers andeverything. And I leave it to you if there would be much left of a fellowlike Barney. All he was free to do--or wanted to do--was sit in a retiredcorner of the club with _Shasta_ water and cigarettes for refreshments,and talk about Her, and how It had happened, and the pangs of uncertaintythat shot through his heart till he knew for sure. Barney's full as tallas I am, and he weighs twenty-five pounds more; and to hear a great,hulking brute like that talking slush was enough to make a man forswearlove in all forms forever. He'd show me her picture regular, every timeI met him, and expect me to hand out a jolly. She wasn't so much, either.Her nose was crooked, and she didn't appear to have any eyebrows to speakof. I'd like to have him see--well, a certain young woman with eyelashesand--Oh, well, it wasn't Barney's fault that he'd never seen a realbeauty, and so was satisfied with his particular Her. I began to shy atBarney, and avoided him as systematically as if I owed him money; whichI didn't. I just couldn't stand for so much monologue with a girl with noeyebrows and a crooked nose for the never-failing subject.

  My next unaccountable notion was manifested in an unreasoning dislike ofRankin. He got to going to some mission-meetings, somewhere down near theBarbary Coast; I got out of him that much, and that he sometimes led themeetings. Rankin can't lie--or won't--so he said right out that he wasdoing what little he could to save precious souls. That part was allright, of course; but he was so beastly solemn and sanctimonious that hecame near sending my soul--maybe it isn't as precious as those he waslaboring with--straight to the bad place.

  Every morning when he appeared like the ghost of a Puritan ancestor'sremorse at my bedside, I swore I'd send him off before night. To look athim you'd think I had done a murder and he was an eye-witness to the deed.Still, it's pretty raw to send a man off just because he's the embodimentof punctiliousness and looks virtuously grieved for your sins. In hisgeneral demeanor, I admit that Rankin was quite irreproachable--and that'swhy I hated him so.

  Besides, Montana had spoiled me for wanting to be dressed like a baby, andI would much rather get my own hat and stick; I never had the chance,though. I'd turn and find him just back of my elbow, with the things inhis hands and that damned righteous look on his face, and generally I'dswear he did get on my nerves so.

  I'm afraid I ruined him for a good servant, and taught him habits ofidleness he'll never outgrow; for every morning I'd send him below--Iwon't state the exact destination, but I have reasons for thinking henever got farther than the servants' hall--with strict--and for the mostpart profane--orders not to show his face again unless I rang. Even atthat, I always found him waiting up for me when I came home. Oh, there wasno changing the ways of Rankin.

  I think it was about the middle of May when my general discontent withlife in the old burgh took a virulent form. I'd been losing a lot one wayand another, and Barney and I had come together literally and with muchforce when we were having a spurt with our cars out toward Ingleside. TheYellow Peril looked pretty sick when I picked myself out of the mess andfound I wasn't hurt except in my feelings. Barney's car only had the lampssmashed, and as he had run into me, that made me sore. We said things, andI caught a street-car back to town. Barney drove in, about as hot asI was, I guess.

  So, when I got home and found a letter from Frosty, my mind was open forsomething new. The letter was short, but it did the business and gave mea hunger for the old days that nothing but a hard gallop over theprairie-lands, with the wind blowing the breath out of my nostrils, couldsatisfy. He said the round-up would start in about a week. That was aboutall, but I got up and did something I'd never done before.

  I took the letter and went straight down to dad's private den andinterrupted him when he was going over his afternoon letters withCrawford. Dad was very particular not to be interrupted at such times; hismail-hours were held sacred, and nothing short of a life-or-death matterwould have taken me in there--in any normal state of mind.

  Crawford started out of his chair--if you knew Crawford that one actionwould tell you a whole lot--and dad whirled toward me and asked what hadhappened. I think they both expected to hear that the house was on fire.

  "The round-up starts next week, dad," I blurted, and then stopped. It justoccurred to me that it might not sound important to them.

  Dad matched his finger-tips together. "Since I first bought a bunch ofcattle," he drawled, "the round-up has never failed to start some timeduring this month. Is it vitally important that it should _not_ start?"

  "_I've_ got to start at once, or I can't catch it." I fancied, just then,that I detected a glimmer of amusement on Crawford's face. I wanted to hithim with something.

  "Is there any reason why it must be caught?" dad wanted to know, in hisworst tone, which is almost diabolically calm.

  "Yes," I rapped out, growing a bit riled, "there is. I can't stand thisdo-nothing existence any longer. You brought me up to it, and never let meknow anything about your business, or how to help you run it--"

  "It never occurred to me," drawled dad, "that I needed help to run mybusiness."

  "And last spring you rose up, all of a sudden, and started in to cure meof being a drone. The medicine you used was strong; it did the businesspretty thoroughly. You've no kick coming at the result. I'm going tostart to-morrow."

  Dad looked at me till I began to feel squirmy. I've thought since that hewasn't as surprised as I imagined, and that, on the whole, he was pleased.But, if he was, he was mighty careful not to show it.

  "You would better give me a list of your debts, then," he saidlaconically. "I shall see that your allowance goes on just the same; youmay want to invest in--er--cattle."

  "Thank you, dad," I said, and turned to go.

  "And I wish to Heaven," he called after me, "that you'd take Rankin alongand turn him loose out there. He might do to herd sheep. I'm sick of thathark-from-the-tombs face of his. I made a footman of him while you weregone before, rather than turn him off; but I'm damned if I do it again."

  I stopped just short of the door and grinned back at him. "Rankin,"I said, "is one of the horrors I'm trying to leave behind, dad."

  But dad had gone back to his correspondence. "In regard to that Clark,Marsden, and Clark affair, I think, Crawford, it would be well--"

  I closed the door quietly and left them. It was dad's way, and I laughed alittle to myself as I was going back to my room to round up Rankin and sethim to packing. I meant to stand over him with a club this time, ifnecessary, and see that I got what I wanted packed.

  The next evening I started again for Montana--and I didn't go in dad'sprivate car, either. Save for the fact that I had no grievance with him,and that we ate dinner alone together and drank a bottle of extra dry tothe success of my pilgrimage, I went much as I had gone before: humbly andunheralded except for a telegram for some one to meet me at Osage.

  Rankin, I may say, did not go with me, though I did as dad had suggestedand offered to take him along and get him a job herding sheep. The memoryof Rankin's pained countenance lingers with me yet, and cheers me in manya dark hour when there's nothing else to laugh over.