The Young Runaway, page 11
Andrew flung himself into one of the old crude chairs, and threw his sombrero aside. His brow and hair were moist. No matter how hot it was in the sun, the shade was always cool. Bligh's cattle grazed along the river banks and down in the bottom lands. Soon they would work up into the draws of the hills; and then the real riding for Andrew would begin. There were horses out on the grassy slope.
All at once it struck Andrew that a rift had come into his new and pleasant way of life. He did not need to puzzle it out. That amber-eyed girl! He thought he had dismissed her and the disturbing thoughts she had aroused with a scornful finality. And here she was back!
"What a sweet, pretty kid!" he mused regretfully. "She will put this range on the blink...Damn it, I like her! Maybe she didn't hand it to me! Eyes and lips! Never will I forget those eyes...If that girl was only straight I'd—I'd—fall for her like a ton of bricks."
Andrew admitted this startling possibility. He realized, too, that he was in a strangely receptive and unusual condition of mind. He had severed old ties. He had traveled far and every league, it seemed, had eased his pain and bitterness. This great open range land had expanded his soul. Now this new self seemed in conflict with the old.
While Andrew was in the midst of these introspective self-confessions, the little Arizonian, Jim Fenner, limped into the cabin.
"Where are you, Andrew?"
"Come out here, Jim."
"Bligh wants some goods trucked from town. Will you drive me in? I'm leery of thet truck. She bucked on me last time."
"Jim, I can make her run if anybody can."
"Wal, I'd like to see you take to hosses thet way. But we haven't a decent nag in the outfit."
"What'd a good horse cost, Jim?"
"Around fifty. An' thet reminds me. I heerd the little cyclone who jest blew in askin' about hosses. Andrew, we haven't one thet's safe for her. An' Bligh can't afford to buy one."
"Is he pretty hard up, Jim?" queried Andrew thoughtfully.
"Hard up ain't tellin' it. But I'm glad this niece came. She'll put new life in us, Andrew."
"Life? If that were only all!"
"Say, I was in the barn when you an' Martha had thet set-to," confided the Arizonian.
"Yeah?...Then you heard me get fired?"
"Wal, I reckon, an' told to go to blazes...Andrew, you an' me took to each other right off. We're goin' to get along. Mebbe thet doesn't give me license to be too curious. All the same I'll risk it...Wasn't you an' Martha kinda gone on each other—before you landed out west?"
"No. I never met her until one night on the road. I came on her in the hands of a tramp, so I slugged him. We met once after that."
"An' what happened then?"
"Nothing. We had very few words until this meeting. Then we had plenty, believe me."
"I savvied thet you had sort of a pore opinion of her an' it riled her."
"Yes."
"How pore an opinion, Bonnin'?"
Andrew shook his head as if reluctant to interrogate himself. "Pretty poor, I'm afraid, Jim."
"Wal, you know these eastern youngsters. An' I reckon they're a wild outfit these days. It shore was a turrible thing for thet kid to run off from home an' come out here alone."
Andrew nodded gloomily.
"But she's honest, Andrew."
"Honest?" echoed Andrew, quickly.
"Straight, I mean. No matter how wild thet kid's been she is decent. "
The curt assertion of the Arizonian annoyed Andrew as much as the hint of his own lack of chivalry.
"Jim, I'm sure I didn't think—"
"Wal, I'm glad you didn't," interrupted Jim bluntly. "My hunch came from my wife, Sue. She never made a mistake about figgerin' a girl. She cottoned pronto to this pore little runaway. An' so did I. An' Bligh, why she'll make a new man out of him. I'm tellin' you, Andrew, 'cause I want you on our side of the fence."
"Thanks, Jim...Lordy, I'm not such a poor fish...And see here, old-timer, I've got something to tell you. It has weighed on my mind."
"Wal, go ahaid an' shoot," replied the Arizonian, leaning back against a post to fix Andrew with his penetrating eyes.
"Listen. The night I reached town I camped out in the brush," began Andrew swiftly. "Walked in to buy some grub. It was dark when I got back to camp. You couldn't see my car from the road. I was about to make a fire when a horseman came along from the open country. Then a man on foot from town. They met—came off the road—near where I had crouched down. Briefly, the rider was a cowboy called Texas something. The other was a cattleman. He owed the cowboy money for branding calves with his brand. The man's name was McCall. He told Texas about Bligh's recent arrival on the range—that Bligh had driven in so much stock, an' he wanted Texas to begin what I grasped to be wholesale stealing. Texas refused. He agreed to brand calves as before. Also to carry a message for McCall to another cowboy, named Smoky Reed, who was to clean out Bligh...I heard all the conversation distinctly. When Texas rode away McCall made a crack that showed he feared the cowboy."
"Wal, you don't say?" mused Jim thoughtfully.
"I forgot to include some pertinent remarks about Sheriff Slade. He must get a rake-off from bootleggers and Texas knows it. Next morning when I was about to start out here that sheriff searched my car. Quite a crowd collected, and I told Slade to his face that for all I knew he might be a bootlegger himself."
"Andy, you'll do," returned Jim dryly. And Andrew gathered that a compliment greater than he could estimate had been paid him. "Wal, I oughta have a smoke...Say, why didn't you tell Bligh about this deal?"
"I meant to. But he seemed already to be bearing a pretty heavy burden. I didn't want to add to it."
"You figgered correct. It'd never do to tell the boss right now. You an' me have got to handle this deal."
"Jim, that tickles me," responded Andrew eagerly. "Do you know I had a fool notion I'd like to work it out alone. Absurd, of course, but it sure got into me."
"Wal, you an' me together can handle it at present. I don't know about later."
"How'd you suggest we handle it, Jim?"
"We'll ketch those cowpunchers red-handed."
"Then what?"
"I reckon beatin' the rustlin' out of them would be a good idee. Of course we used to string up rustlers in the old days. Jail is about all they get now, an' thet not for long."
"Humph! That Texas cowboy wouldn't take a beating. He'd shoot, Jim. Struck me as a tough proposition."
"Wal, if it comes to shootin' you'd be in serious."
"I'm okay with a rifle."
"Good, so long as you ain't in close quarters."
"You'll have to coach me, Jim...What'd you mean when you said you didn't know how to handle the deal later?"
"Wal, Andy, if Bligh loses a lot of his cattle or if McCall gyps him, an' I reckon both is liable to happen, it'll take a long time to build up again. I'd hate to fail on this range. So I'd persuade Bligh to keep on. He's gettin' along in years an' a crownin' disappointment would go hard."
"But Jim, how can disaster be averted?"
"It cain't. Thet's the hell of this cattle business. Good grass, good water at times are no better than a bad drought. Because all the calves will be stole. It's not easy to trace stolen calves. You jest can't unless you ketch the brander with his runnin' iron."
"You believe there's a paying ranch business to be developed here?"
"Payin'? Hell, there's twenty per cent at least."
"How'd you go about developing this ranch to clear such a big percentage of profit?"
"Wal, son, you gotta have some coin. Cattle are way down now. You can buy cheap. If Bligh could restock, say with a mixed herd of two thousand haid, an' get some Arizona punchers to ride this range, why he'd double his money when prices went up."
"That's the rub, then? Bligh is without means to restock...Couldn't he borrow?"
"The banks jest ain't lendin' money without big securities."
"Why hire Arizona cowboys?"
"Wal, to be shore, they ain't any better than Wyomin' punchers. But they'd be on the prod. They'd be like a pack of hounds. Playin' one outfit agin a rival one used to be an old trick of mine. I've been foreman on some great ranches. Bucked the Hash Knife outfit once. An' I still carry some of their lead."
"What was the Hash Knife outfit?"
"Hardest ridin', drinkin', shootin', an' sometimes hardest stealin' outfit in Arizona."
"You'll have to tell me all about it some day...Well, Jim, then it's lack of capital that handicaps our boss—and that stands between us and a swell job?"
"It is, Andy. But what's the use to smoke our pipes? We're all broke, an' the best we can hope for is to make a bare livin' for Bligh an' ourselves. Andy, we wouldn't have any jobs at all if we asked wages."
"Jim! Are you working for your board, the same as I am?"
"Shore am, an' satisfied, too. I tell you, son, I don't mind for myself, but it sticks in my craw thet I can't give Sue the pretty things women like."
"Jim, wait a minute," said Andrew, acting upon an impulse. He ran inside to return with his wallet which he got out of his grip. "I've got a little money—and I'm going to lend you some, Jim."
"Hell, no!"
"Yes, I am. It worries me, all this dough. There—two hundred bucks. I'd lose it in town. I've got a little left, Jim. I want to buy some lumber and tools and odd things to fix up my place here."
The Arizonian fingered the crisp bills while his eyes shed a warm light on Andrew.
"Son, you don't know me."
"I'll gamble on you, anyhow."
Jim folded the greenbacks and stowed them carefully in an inside vest pocket.
"Wal, all my life I've found two kinds of men. One kind makes you want to keep on fightin' an' hopin'...Let's go in to dinner. I heerd the bell."
"I'll wait and get mine in town," replied Andrew hastily. "When will you be ready?"
"Pronto. You see if you can start thet truck."
"Okay."
Half an hour later Andrew drove the truck over in front of the house and honked the horn. Jim and his wife came out beaming, to be followed by Bligh and his niece. Andrew had only to see her again to realize why he had shirked dinner when he was hungry. Martha had changed her gray blouse to a white shirt, and she had done something to her hair. It was fluffy and shone like spun gold.
"All aboard," sang out Andrew. "Mrs. Fenner, hadn't you better come with Jim? I won't guarantee his sobriety."
"Wal, will," declared Jim, as he climbed in.
Whereupon Andrew reacted to a sudden impulse. "Miss Dixon, there's room for you. Won't you come? You'll get a kick out of my driving."
"I'd do anything under the sun for a kick, Mr. Bonning, as you know—except ride with you," she replied coldly.
"Wal, Sue, you'd better wait up for us," said Jim.
"I haven't done thet for years, but I shall tonight," returned his wife, with an air of happy mystery.
"Mr. Bligh, what can I fetch you?" inquired Andrew casually.
"Jim has the list."
"Don't you dare forget spoke up Martha saucily. "Go to a dry-goods store and ask the price of what I want. It's all carefully written out. If the price comes to more than fifteen dollars cut out the articles checked off. Can you remember all those instructions?"
"Andrew, you heerd them, so you can jar my memory."
"If we forget or lose the list we'll buy lollipops, gum, candy, some movie magazines and a victrola with a dozen jazz records," replied Andrew facetiously.
Martha Dixon did not join in the laugh that followed, but fixed Andrew with unfathomable eyes. She might either have hated or loved him, to judge by the took she gave him.
"Mr. Bonning will be surprised to see that I can make my own clothes," said the girl.
Andrew spent a strenuous and absorbing afternoon in town. What with Jim's supplies and the bulky nature of his own purchases, they had a good load by the time they were ready to start back. Leaving after supper, they gave several hours to the return drive, but Jim made the trip seem short by the resumption of his coaching of the tenderfoot. Andrew let all the Arizonian told him sink in. If there were any range subjects Jim did not touch upon Andrew could not imagine them.
"I shore liked both the hosses you bought," Jim said on one occasion. "Thet bay has good points, an' the pinto is a purty dogie. I reckon he'll make trouble for you at the ranch, an' I ain't sayin' how...Hosses are most important on the range. Now when you're ridin' to an' fro practice with your rope. You don't do so bad. But practice. Rope everythin'. An' shoot at every jack rabbit an' coyote you see. Learn to see trails an' tracks on the ground. By studyin' your own hoss tracks an' others at the ranch, fresh or old, you can judge other tracks out on the range. For instance, you see your fresh track. You study it. An' then one made earlier. You see what has happened to it—a little dust blown in or water, or mebbe another track over it. You know just when they was made, an' if you make pictures of them in your mind soon you'll get the hang of a tracker. Don't miss nothin', Andrew. Use yore eyes. You've got field glasses. Use them when you're undecided or too far away from somethin'. When you're lookin' for strange riders keep out of sight. In the brush or timber, behind ridges an' back from canyon rims. If you're ridin' in the open do it bold, as if you saw nothin'. When the cattle get up in the foothills—an' thet'll be any day soon—you can ride out at daybreak, find a hidin' place an' watch. I'll be with you part of the time, an' I'll tell you how to look an' what you see. But shore you'll be alone a good deal. An' it'll happen when you're alone. These two-bit rustlers of McCall's will be slick an' keep to cover. But often they'll drive a cow an' calf from the open into rough goin'. You listen for a gun shot an' look for smoke. An' when you sneak up on one of them, draw down on him with your rifle. Order him to throw up his hands an' turn his back. Then disarm him an' march him to the boss."
Andrew was up with the dawn. How many years had he slept away the beautiful hours from the break of day to the burst of the sunrise! The soft mist above the river, the winging of ducks across the bars, the obscurity of the range yielding to a sudden magic brightness, the ghosts of mountains growing clear—these new facets of the morning held him absorbed. Then came the change from gray to rose and at last the glory of the lord of day.
He unloaded the truck and packed his purchases inside the old cabin. He discovered a fondness for tools, as well as hands unskilled in their use except when it came to tinkering with automobiles.
Mornings and evenings thereafter he labored at the pleasant task of rendering his new abode dry and warm and less bare to his gaze. But he had made no luxurious purchases. A hard, primitive simplicity seemed to be Andrew's goal.
As he ate with Jim in the kitchen and was absent from the house except at meal hours, he saw little of Martha Ann Dixon. Nevertheless she seemed omnipresent. She filled the lives of her uncle and this Arizona couple. They had suddenly awakened to something joyous. Andrew watched her from afar and sometimes, to his discomfiture, he was caught in the act. Yet he wondered how she could have caught him had she not also been taking cognizance of him. He had to listen to Jim's talk of her interest in horses, in the ranch, in everything and everyone but Andrew Bonning. On Sunday more visitors called on Bligh than during the entire preceding time since he had arrived on the Sweetwater. Some of these were cowboys, spick-and-span in their Sunday best, with boots as shiny as their hair. Andrew regarded them with a vague uneasiness.
Late one afternoon Andrew was riding in from the range, and coming to a wide shallow valley he espied a saddled but riderless horse galloping up the opposite slope toward the ranch. The distance was too great for him to recognize the horse, which disappeared before he could bring his field glasses into use.
Andrew rode rapidly down into the draw, and had not proceeded far along one of the banks when he saw a bright object on the sand. Urging on his horse, he plunged down into the dry stream bed to verify his fears. He came upon Martha Dixon sitting on the sand, her face white and drawn with pain, her hands tremblingly endeavoring to unlace one of her boots. Andrew leaped off his mount to rush to her side.
"Miss Dixon, you've had a spill?" he queried anxiously.
"Yeah," she replied, without looking up.
"I saw your horse galloping home...Did he buck you off?"
"The old bag of bones tripped in the sand."
"I hope you're not badly hurt," continued Andrew solicitously. "There's blood on your cheek."
"That's rouge...I hate to ask you, Mr. Bonningbut please ride to the house and send Jim or Uncle."
"Nonsense. Take all that time while you're suffering? Let me see. You appear to have sprained an ankle." Andrew knelt down to place his hands gently on the boot she had half unlaced.
"Thank you—never mind," she said, pulling her foot away. "I can get it off. You go for help."
"But I can help you, Miss Dixon," he said, looking up into a frowning face lighted by pain darkened eyes. "I don't want you to."
"But it's only common courtesy."
"I'd lie here and die before I'd let you help me," she said, turning her face away. He could not help noticing, before she did so, that her lips were trembling.
"So I see. All the same I shall not allow you to sacrifice yourself...Take your hands away." He pulled them free and unlaced the rest of her boot and despite his care in removing it, he hurt her.
"Oh-h! You brute...Great, big, strong, he-man stuff, eh?"
"Your ankle is swollen. I advise you not to try to walk on it."
"Mr. Bonning, you seem to know all about the shape of peoples' ankles—"
"I have been in college athletics," he replied stiffly.
Struggling to her feet she tried to take a step with the injured member, but faltered. With a moan she sank to the sandy floor of the draw.
"You stubborn little fool. I told you," he burst out, sorry for her, but angrier still.
"Go get—somebody," she said faintly.
"I'll do nothing of the kind. I'm going to pack you up to the house."
"You will not!"
"Watch me!" Whereupon he led his horse beside a low bank from which he could easily step astride the saddle. Then he returned to the girl.
