The Cattle-Baron's Daughter

“Feeling kind of sick?” he said. “Well, it’s against the regulations, but there’s something that might fix you as well as tea in that can.”

Breckenridge smiled feebly. “The fact is, I have never travelled on a locomotive before, and when I took on the contract I didn’t quite know all I was letting myself in for,” he said.

“How far are we off the long down grade with the curve in it?” asked Grant.

“We might get there in ’bout ten minutes,” said the engineer.

“Slacken up before you reach the grade and put your headlamp out,” said Grant. “I want you to stop just this side of the curve, and wait for me five minutes.”

The engineer looked at him steadily. “Now, there’s a good deal I don’t understand about all this. What do you want me to stop there for?”

“I don’t see why you should worry. It does not concern you. Any way, I have hired this special, and I give you my word that nothing I am going to do will cause the least damage to any of the company’s property. I want you to stop, lend me a lantern, and sit tight in the cab until I tell you to go on. We will make it two dollars a minute.”

The engineer nodded. “I don’t know what you are after, but I guess I can take your word,” he said. “You seem that kind of a man.”

Ten minutes later the fireman vanished into the darkness, and the blaze of the headlamp went out before he returned and the roar of the drivers sank. The rhythmic din grew slack, and became a jarring of detached sounds again, the snow no longer beat on the glasses as it had done, and, rocking less, the great locomotive rolled slowly down the incline until it stopped, and Grant, taking the lantern handed him, sprang down from the cab. Four other men were waiting on the calaboose platform, and when Grant hid the lantern under his fur coat they floundered down the side of the graded track which there crossed a hollow. A raw wind whirled the white flakes about them and Breckenridge could scarcely see the men behind him. He was thankful when, slipping, sliding, stumbling, they gained the level.

From there he could just distinguish the road bed as something solid through the whirling haze, and he felt they were following a bend of it when Grant stopped and a clinking sound came out of the obscurity above them. It might have been made by somebody knocking out key wedges or spikes with a big hammer and in his haste striking the rail or chair.

Then Grant said something Breckenridge could not catch, and they were crawling up the slope, with the clinking and ringing growing a trifle louder. Breckenridge’s heart beat faster than usual, but he was tolerably collected now. He had a weapon he was not unskilled with in his pocket, and the chance of a fight with even desperate men was much less disconcerting than that of plunging down into a frozen river with a locomotive. He had also a reassuring conviction that if Larry could contrive it there would be no fight at all.

He crawled on, with the man behind clutching at him, now and then, and the one in front sliding back on him, until his arms were wet to the elbows and his legs to the knees; but the top of the grade seemed strangely difficult to reach, and he could see nothing with the snow that blew over it in his eyes. Suddenly Larry rose up, there was a shout and a flounder, and, though he did not quite know how he got there, Breckenridge found himself standing close behind his comrade, and in the light of the lantern held up saw a man drop his hammer. There were other men close by, but they were apparently too astonished to think of flight.

“It’s Larry!” somebody exclaimed.

“Stop where you are,” said Grant sharply as one man made a move. “I don’t want to shoot any of you, but I most certainly will if you make me. Are there any more of you?”

“No,” said one of the men disgustedly.

Grant walked forward swinging his lantern until his eyes rested on one partly loosened rail. “And that is as far as you have got?” he said. “Take up your hammer and drive the wood key in. Get hold of their rifles, Charley. I guess they are under that coat.”

There was an angry murmur, and a man started to speak; but Grant stopped him.

“Hammer the wedges in,” he said. “It was pure foolishness made me come here to save you from the cavalry who had heard of what you meant to do, because we have no use for men of your kind in this country. You haven’t even sense enough to keep your rifles handy, and there will be two or three less of you to worry decent folks if you keep us waiting.”

A man took up the hammer, and then waited a moment, looking at those who stood about Larry. He could see the faces of one or two in the lantern light, and recognized that he need expect no support from them. The men were resolute Americans, who had no desire for anything approaching anarchy.

“We are with Larry, and don’t feel like fooling. Hadn’t you better start in?” one of them said.

The rail was promptly fastened, and Grant, after examining it, came back.

“Go on in front of us, and take your tools along! It will not be nice for the man who tries to get away,” he said.

The prisoners plodded dejectedly up the track until they reached the calaboose, into which the others drove them. Then Grant and Breckenridge went back to the locomotive, and the former nodded to the engineer:

“Take us through to Boynton as fast as you can.”

“That is a big load off your mind,” Breckenridge said as the panting engine got under way.

But Grant, huddled in a corner, neither moved nor spoke until, half an hour later, they rolled into a little wooden town and the men in the calaboose got down. There was nobody about the depot to ask them any questions, and they crossed the track to the straggling street apparently on good terms with each other, though four of them knew that unpleasant results would follow any attempt at a dash for liberty. In answer to Grant’s knock, a man let them into one of the stores.

“I guess we’ll lock them in the back store until morning,” he said, after a short conference apart with Grant. “A little cooling down is not going to do them much harm, and I don’t think anyone could get out without an axe.”

The building looked secure and, when food and hot coffee had been served them, Grant retired to rest. He slept soundly, and it was close on daylight when a pounding on the door awakened him.

“I guess you had better get up at once,” their host called.

A few minutes later Grant and Breckenridge went downstairs with him, and the storekeeper, opening a door, lifted the lamp he held and pointed to an open window in the roof. A barrel, with a box or two laid upon it, stood suggestively beneath it.

Breckenridge glanced at Larry, and saw a curious little smile on his face. “Yes,” he said, “it’s quite simple. Now, I never saw that window. Where would they be likely to head for?”

“Pacific Slope,” said the storekeeper. “Wages are high just now, and they seemed quite afraid of you. The west-bound fast freight stopped here for water about two hours ago, and it was snowing that thick nobody would see them getting into a box car. They heave a few dry goods out here occasionally.”

Breckenridge turned to Grant. “You seem relieved.”

“Yes,” said Grant, with a little shake of his shoulders. “If they have lit out of the country it will content me. I have had quite enough hard things to do lately.”

A sudden thought struck Breckenridge. “You didn’t mean – ” he said with a shudder.

“I didn’t mean to let them go, but I’m glad they’ve gone,” Grant answered. “We made a warning of one of the cattle-barons’ men, and the man who takes the law into his own hands is doubly bound to do the square thing all round. If he does less, he is piling up a bigger reckoning than I would care to face.”

XXV

CHEYNE RELIEVES HIS FEELINGS

A blustering wind moaned outside the lonely building, and the stove snapped and crackled as the chilly draughts swept into the hall at Cedar Range. Jackson Cheyne had arrived on horseback in the creeping dusk an hour or two earlier, after spending most of four nights and days in the slushy snow, and was now resting contentedly in a big hide chair. Indeed, notwithstanding the fact that Hetty sat close by, he was feeling pleasantly drowsy when she turned to him.

“You have only told us that you didn’t find the train-wreckers, and you know we are just dying with curiosity,” she said.

Cheyne looked up languidly, wondering whether the half-indifferent inquisitiveness was assumed, as he remembered the anxiety he had seen in Hetty’s face when he first came in. Instead of answering directly, he glanced round the little group sitting about the stove – for Miss Schuyler, and Christopher Allonby and his cousin were there, as well as Hetty.

“One would scarcely fancy you were dying of anything,” he said. “In fact, it would be difficult to imagine any of you looking better. I wonder if you know that with the way that the light falls that dusky panelling forms a most effective background, Miss Schuyler?”

Flora Schuyler laughed. “We are not to be put off. Tell us what you found – and you needn’t have any diffidence: we are quite accustomed to hearing the most astonishing things at Cedar.”

“The trouble is that I didn’t find anything. I spent several most unpleasant hours watching a railroad-trestle in blinding snow, until the cattle-train went by in safety. Nobody seemed to have the slightest wish to meddle with it.”

Without exactly intending it he allowed his eyes to rest on Hetty a moment, and fancied he saw relief in her face. But it was Flora Schuyler who turned to him.

“What did you do then?”

“I and the boys then decided it would be advisable to look for a ranch where we could get food and shelter, and had some difficulty in finding one. In the morning, we made our way back to the depot, and discovered that a gentleman you know had hired a locomotive a little while after the cattle-train started.”

“Larry, of course!” ejaculated Chris Allonby. “I wanted to stake five dollars with Clavering that he would be too smart for him again.”

Cheyne looked at him inquiringly. “I don’t quite understand.”

“No?” and Allonby’s embarrassment was unmistakable. “Well, there is no great reason why you should. I have a habit of talking at random occasionally. There are quite enough sensible people in this country without me just now.”

“Then,” said Cheyne, “I went on to an especially forlorn place called Boynton, and discovered with some difficulty that Mr. Grant, who hired the locomotive, had stopped it at a dangerous curve and picked several men up. He took them on to Boynton, and there they seem to have disappeared, though it was suggested that they had departed for a place unknown, either on the top of, or underneath a fast freight train.”

Chris Allonby chuckled. “Well,” he said, “we haven’t the least use for Larry here, but I am almost proud he was a friend of mine.”

Cheyne glancing round at the others fancied there was a little glow in Hetty’s eyes and a trace of warmer colour in Flora Schuyler’s face. It was only just perceptible to him, but he had less doubt when he saw that Miss Allonby was watching her companion covertly, for he was quite aware that the perceptions of the average young woman were likely to be much keener than his own in such affairs.

“I can’t help fancying you have a clue to what really happened, Miss Torrance,” he said.

“Yes,” said Hetty quietly. “It is quite plain to me that Larry saved the train.”

Cheyne glanced at her sharply, and then turned to Allonby. “It strikes you that way, too?”

“Of course,” said Allonby unguardedly. “It is too bad of Larry. He has beaten us again, though Clavering fixed the thing quite nicely.”

Cheyne’s face grew stern. “I am to understand that you did not warn the engineer or any of the railroad men?”

“No,” said Allonby, with evident embarrassment. “We didn’t. It was necessary to make the thing as ugly for Larry’s friends as we could, and we knew you would be at the bridge. If you had caught them in the act, with the train not far away, it would have looked ever so much better for us – and you.”

He stopped, with an unpleasant feeling that he had blundered. Cheyne’s face had become grimmer. Miss Schuyler’s lips were curled in a little scornful smile, and there was a curious sparkle in Hetty’s eyes.

“I wonder if you quite recognize the depth of Mr. Grant’s iniquity yet?” Flora Schuyler asked.

Cheyne smiled. “I confess I should very much like to meet the man. You see, my profession prevents my being a partisan, and the cleverness and daring of what he has evidently done appeals to me. He took the chances of his own men turning on him to save them from an affray with us, brought them off, and sent your cattle-train through; and what, it seems to me, was more than all, disregarded the probability of his enemies associating him with the contriving of the outrage.”

“Wouldn’t you have done that?” asked Miss Allonby.

“No,” said the soldier quietly. “I don’t think I should. A man who would do what this one has done would be very likely to take a hand in that kind of thing.”

Again there was an almost embarrassing silence broken by Miss Allonby. “I wonder who could have told him.”

Nobody spoke until Cheyne felt it advisable to break the silence.

“You have no sympathy with Grant, Miss Allonby?”

“No,” said the girl plaintively. “I don’t go quite as far as Mr. Clavering and my cousin do – though Chris generally talks too much – but Larry is a nuisance, and really ought to be crushed. You see, we had everything we wanted before he and the others made the trouble here.”

“That is quite convincing,” Cheyne said, with somewhat suspicious gravity. He looked at the others, and fancied that Hetty would have answered but that Flora Schuyler flashed a warning glance at her.

“One could almost fancy that most of us have too much now,” she said. “Are we better, braver, stronger, or of choicer stuff than those others who have nothing, and only want the little the law would give them? Oh, yes, we are accomplished – very indifferently, some of us – and have been better taught, though one sometimes wonders at the use we make of it; but was that education given us for our virtues, or thrust upon us by the accident that our fathers happened to be rich?”

“You will scarcely approve, Miss Allonby?” said Cheyne.

The girl’s lips curled scornfully. “I never argue with people who talk like that. It would not be any use – and they would never understand me; but everybody knows we were born different from the rabble. It is unfortunate you and Larry couldn’t go up and down the country together, convincing people, Flo.”

Cheyne, seeing the gleam in Miss Schuyler’s eyes, wondered whether there had been malice in the speech, and was not sorry that Torrance and Clavering came in just then.

“I have just come from Newcombe’s and heard that you had failed,” said Torrance. “If you will come along to my room, I should like to hear about it.”

Cheyne smiled as he rose. “I don’t know that failed was quite the correct word. My object was to protect the track, and so far as I could discover, no attempt was made to damage it.”

Torrance glanced at him sharply as they moved away. “Now, we were under the impression that it was the capture of the man responsible for the affair.”

“Then,” said the soldier drily, “I am afraid you were under a misapprehension.”

He passed the next half-hour with Torrance amicably, and it was not until he was returning to the hall with Clavering that he found an opportunity of expressing himself freely. Torrance, he realized, was an old man, and quite incapable of regarding the question except from his own point of view.

“I am just a little astonished you did not consider it advisable to follow the thing up further, when you must have seen what it pointed to,” said Clavering.

“That,” said Cheyne, smiling, “is foolish of you. I would like to explain that I am not a detective or a police officer.”

“You were, at least, sent here to restore tranquillity.”

“Precisely!” said Cheyne. “By the State. To maintain peace, and not further the cattle-men’s schemes. I am, for the present, your leader’s guest; but I have no reason for thinking he believes that in any way constitutes me his ally. In his case I could not use the word accomplice.”

Clavering flashed an observant glance at him. “It should be evident which party is doing the most to bring about tranquillity.”

“It is not,” said Cheyne. “I don’t know that it is my business to go into that question; but one or two of the efforts you have made lately would scarcely impress the fact on me.”

“You are frank, any way,” with a disagreeable laugh.

“No,” said Cheyne, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m not sure that I am. We occasionally talk a good deal more plainly in the United States cavalry.”

He passed on to the hall and Clavering went back to Torrance’s room. “We have got to get rid of that man, sir,” he said. “If we don’t, Larry will have him. Allonby had better go and worry the Bureau into sending for another two or three squadrons under a superior officer.”

Torrance sighed heavily. “I’m ’most afraid they are not going to take kindly to any more worrying,” he said. “In fact, now it’s evident how the feeling of the State is going, I have an idea they’d sooner stand in with the homestead boys. Still, we can try it, any way.”

It was about the same time that Grant flung himself wearily into a chair in the great bare room at Fremont ranch. His face was haggard, his eyes heavy, for he had spent the greater part of several anxious days and nights endeavouring to curb the headstrong passions of his followers, and riding through leagues of slushy snow.

“Will you hurry Tom up with the supper, while I look through my letters?” he said.

Breckenridge went out, and, when he came back a little while later, found Grant with a strip of paper on his knee.

“More bad news?” he asked.

Grant made no answer, but passed the strip of paper across to him, and Breckenridge’s pulses throbbed fast with anger as he read: “It is quite difficult to sit on both sides of the fence, and the boys have no more use for you. Still, there was a time when you did what you could for us, and that is why I am giving you good advice. Sit tight at Fremont, and don’t go out at nights.”

“The consumed asses!” he said. “You see what he means? They have gone after the herring Clavering drew across the trail.”

The bronze grew darker in Larry’s face, and his voice was hoarse. “Yes – they figure the cattle-men have bought me over. Well, there were points that would have drawn any man’s suspicions – the packet I would not give up to Chilton – and, as you mention, Miss Torrance’s wallet. Still, it hurts.”

Breckenridge saw the veins swell up on his comrade’s forehead and the trembling of his hands. “Don’t worry about them. They are beasts, old man,” he said.

Grant said nothing for at least a minute, and then clenched one lean brown hand. “I felt it would come, and yet it has shaken most of the grit out of me. I did what I could for them – it was not easy – and they have thrown me over. That is hard to bear, but there’s more. No man can tell, now there is no one to hold them in, how far they will go.”

Breckenridge’s answer was to fling a cloth upon the table and lay out the plates. Grant sat very still; his voice had been curiously even, but his set face betrayed what he was feeling, and there was something in his eyes that Breckenridge did not care to see. He also felt that there were troubles too deep for any blundering attempt at sympathy, but the silence grew oppressive, and by and by he turned to his companion again.

“We’ll presume the fellow who wrote that means well,” he said. “What does his warning point to?”

Grant smiled bitterly. “An attempt upon my homestead or my life, and I have given them already rather more than either is worth to me,” he said.

Breckenridge was perfectly sensible that he was not shining in the rôle of comforter; but he felt it would be something accomplished if he could keep his comrade talking. He had discovered that verbal expression is occasionally almost a necessity to the burdened mind, though Larry was not greatly addicted to relief of that description.

“Of course, this campaign has cost you a good deal,” he said.

“Probably five thousand dollars – all that seemed good in life – and every friend I had.”

“After all, Larry, the thing may be no more than a joke or an attempt at bluff. Even admitting that it is not, it probably only expresses the views of a few of the boys.”

Grant shook his head. “No. I believe it is quite genuine. I saw how affairs were going even before I wouldn’t give Chilton the packet; most of the boys were ready to break away then. Well, one could scarcely blame them for not trusting me, and I felt I was laying down my authority when I sent the stock train through.”

“Not blame them!” said Breckenridge, clenching his fist, his eyes blazing. “Where in the wide world would the crazy fools get another man like you? But if you can take it quietly, I ought to, and the question is, what are you going to do?”

“What I can,” said Grant. “Hold the boys clear of trouble where it is possible. There are still one or two who will stand behind me, and what we can’t do may be done for us. When a man is badly wanted in this country he usually comes to the front, and I will be glad to drop out when I see him.”

“Larry,” Breckenridge said slowly, “I am younger than you are, and I haven’t seen as much, but it would be better for me if I had half your optimism. Still, that was not quite what I was asking. If the beasts actually mean to burn your place or attempt your life you are surely not going to give them the opportunity. Can’t we fix up a guard among the few sensible men or send for the cavalry?”

Grant smiled wearily as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “The one thing I can’t do is to lift my hand against the men I brought here in a private quarrel.”

Just then the cook came in with the supper, and, though the pair had eaten nothing since sunrise and ridden through soft snow most of that day, it cost Breckenridge an effort to clear the plate set before him. Grant scarcely touched the food, and it was a relief to both when the meal was over, and Grant’s plate, still half-filled, was taken away. After he had several times lighted a cigar and let it go out again, Breckenridge glanced at him deprecatingly.

“I can’t keep it up any longer, and I know how it is with you, because I feel the thing myself,” he said. “Now, if you want me here, I’ll stay, but I have a notion the poor attempts at talk I’m making are only worrying you.”

Grant smiled, but Breckenridge saw the answer in his face, and went out hastily, which was, under the circumstances, the wisest thing he could do. Then, Grant stretched his arms wearily above his head, and a faint groan escaped him.

“It had to come – but it hurts,” he said.

XXVI

LARRY’S REWARD

Late one night Larry came home to Fremont, wet with rain and splashed with mire, for it was thawing fast and he had ridden far. He sloughed off his outer garments, and turned to Breckenridge, who had been waiting him, with a little, weary smile.

“The dollars are safe, any way, and that is a big load off my mind,” he said. “Gillot has them in his safe, and nobody can touch them without a countersigned order from the executive.”

Breckenridge heaved a sigh of relief, for he knew that Gillot, who had a store in the railroad town, was a determined man, and quite capable of taking care of what had been entrusted him. The dollars in question, which had been raised by levy and sent by sympathizers, had been placed in Larry’s hands to further the homesteaders’ objects in that district as he deemed advisable. He had, however, for reasons Breckenridge was acquainted with, just relinquished the responsibility.

“I think you were wise,” said the lad. “It roused a good deal of feeling when you wouldn’t let Harper and his friends have what they asked for, and the boys were very bitter at the meeting while you were away!”

“Well,” said Grant drily, “I knew what they wanted those dollars for, and if I’d had twice as many I would not have given them one.”

“They could not have done much harm with the few they wanted, and it would have saved you a good deal of unpleasantness. I didn’t like the way the boys were talking, and it was quite plain the men who kept their heads were anxious. In fact, two or three of them offered to come over and sleep here until the dissatisfaction had simmered down.”