The Cattle-Baron's Daughter

“You did not accept their offer?”

“No, but I wish you would.”

Grant shook his head. “It wouldn’t suit me to own up that I was afraid of my friends – and I don’t want to believe there are any of them who would injure me. If there were, I could not draw trigger on them in defence of my own property.”

“Then we will hope for the best,” said Breckenridge, somewhat doubtfully.

Grant, who had had supper somewhere else, presently retired, and Breckenridge, who found the big room dreary without him, followed a little later. It was long before he slept, for he had seen the temper of the more reckless spirits at the meeting he had attended, and he could not shake off the memory of his comrade’s face. Larry had made no protest, but Breckenridge could understand what he was feeling. The ranch was very quiet, but he did not think his comrade slept; in this, however, he was wrong, for, worn out by physical effort and mental strain, Larry had sunk into heavy slumber.

Two or three hours later Breckenridge awakened suddenly. He sat up listening, still a little dazed with sleep, but nothing disturbed the silence of the wooden building, and it was a moment or two before the moan of the wind forced itself on his perceptions. Then, he thought he heard the trampling of a horse and stealthy footsteps in the mire below, and, springing from his bed, ran to the window. The night was dark, but he could dimly see a few shadowy figures moving towards the house. In another minute he slipped into part of his clothing and hastening into Grant’s room shook him roughly.

“Get up! There are men outside.”

Larry was on his feet in a few seconds and struggling into his garments. “Light the lamps downstairs,” he ordered.

Breckenridge stood still, astonished. “That would give them an advantage. They might be the Sheriff’s boys.”

“No,” said Larry, with a laugh that sounded very bitter, “I don’t think they are! Go down, and do what I tell you.”

Breckenridge went, but his fingers shook so that he broke several sulphur matches in his haste before he had lighted one big lamp in the log-built hall. Then, as he turned towards the living room, there was a pounding on the door, and while he stood irresolute Grant, partly dressed, came running down the stairway. Two other men showed dimly behind him, but Breckenridge scarcely saw them, for he sprang through the doorway into the unlighted room, and the next moment fell over a table. Picking himself up with an objurgation, he groped along the wall for the rack where the rifles stood, and was making his way back towards the blink of light with two of them in his hands, when a hoarse voice demanded admission and the door rattled under the blows showered upon it. Then, as he came out into the hall, Grant turned to him.

“Put those rifles down,” he said quietly.

Breckenridge stared at him. “But – ”

“Put them down!” said Grant, with a little impatient gesture; Breckenridge let the weapons fall but he was pleased to see the cook, who now stood at the foot of the stairway, slip softly forward and pick up one of them. Grant was looking at the door and did not see the man move back half-way up the stairs as silently as he came.

Once more a hoarse shout rose from outside: “Open that door before we break it in!”

For a moment or two, as if to give point to the warning, the door creaked and rattled as the axe-heads beat upon it, and then the din ceased suddenly, for Grant, who recognized the voice, raised his hand.

“Open it for them,” he said, so loudly that he could be heard outside.

Breckenridge was almost glad to obey. It would have pleased him better to have taken his place, rifle in hand, with the cook on the stairway, but since Grant had evidently determined not to oppose the assailants’ entrance by violence, it was a relief to do anything that would terminate the suspense. Still, his heart throbbed painfully as he seized the bolt, and he glanced round once more in what he felt was futile protest. Grant, who evidently saw what he was thinking in his face, only smiled a little and signed with his hand.

Breckenridge drew the bolt, and sprang backwards as the door swung open. Men with axes and rifles showed up in the light; but while here and there an axe flashed back a twinkling gleam, or a face shone white, the rest was blurred and shadowy, and he could only see hazy figures moving against the blackness of the night. His companion was standing alone in the middle of the hall, motionless and impassive, with nothing in his hands.

“Now,” he said, in a voice that jarred on Breckenridge’s ears, “the door is open. What do you want?”

“We want you,” said one of the men outside.

“Then, I’ll come out and talk to you,” said Grant.

Breckenridge laid a restraining hand upon his arm, but he shook it off, and moving forward stopped just outside the threshold. The lad could not see his face, but he noticed that he stood very straight, with his head thrown back a trifle, and that one or two of those without edged farther into the shadowy crowd. Glancing behind him, he also saw the cook leaning forward on the stairway with the rifle glinting in his hands.

“Well?” said Grant, and his voice rang commandingly.

“We have come for the dollars,” said a man. “We want them, and they’re ours.”

“Then, you must ask your committee for them. They are not in my house.”

“Bluff!” said somebody; and an angry clamour broke out.

“Hand them out,” cried one voice, “before we burn the place for you.”

Larry swung up one hand commandingly, and Breckenridge felt a thrill of pride when, as if in tribute to his comrade’s fearlessness, a sudden silence followed. Larry stood alone, statuesque in poise, with arm stretched out in the face of the hostile crowd, and once more the respect the men had borne him asserted itself.

“You will listen to me, boys, and it may be the last time I shall speak to you,” he said. “You know that right back from the beginning I have done the best I could for you, and now I feel it in me that if you will wait just a little longer the State will do more than I could ever do. Can’t you understand that if you go round destroying railroad-trestles, shooting cattle, and burning ranches, you are only playing into the hand of your enemies, and the very men in the legislature who would, if you kept your patience, make your rights sure to you, will be forced to turn the cavalry loose on you? Can’t you sit tight another month or two, instead of throwing all we have fought for away?”

The silence that followed the speech lasted for a space of seconds, and then, when Breckenridge hoped Grant might still impose prudence upon the crowd, there were murmurs of doubt and suspicion. They grew rapidly louder, and a man stepped out from the rest.

“The trouble is that we don’t believe in you, Larry,” he said. “You were with us solid one time, but that was before the cattle-barons bought you.”

A derisive laugh followed, and when Grant turned a little Breckenridge saw his face. The bronze in it had faded, and left paler patches, that seemed almost grey, while the lad, who knew his comrade’s pride and uprightness, fancied he could guess how that taunt, made openly, had wounded him.

“Well,” he said, very slowly, “I can only hope you will have more confidence in your next leader; but I am on the list of the executive still, and if the house was full of dollars I wouldn’t give you one of them with which to make trouble that you’ll most surely be sorry for. Any way, those I had are safe in a place where, while your committee keep their heads, you will not lay hands on them.”

A shout of disbelief was followed by uproar, through which there broke detached cries: “Pull him down! He has them all the time! Pound them out of him! Burn the place down for a warning to the cattle-men!”

They died away when one of the men, with emphatic gestures, demanded attention. Moving out from the rest, he turned to Grant. “You have rifles and cartridges here, and after all, those are what we want the most. Now – and it’s your last chance – hand them out.”

“No,” said Grant.

The man made a little gesture of resignation. “Boys,” he said, “you will have to go in and take them.”

Grant still stood motionless and unyielding on his threshold, but he had only a moment’s grace, for the men outside surged on again, and one swung a rifle-butt over him. Breckenridge saw his comrade seize it, and had sprung to his side when a rifle flashed on the stairway behind him and a man cried out and fell. The next instant another rifle-butt whirled, and Grant, reeling sideways, went down and was trampled on.

Breckenridge ran towards the rifle still lying in the hall, but before he could reach it there was a roar of voices and a rush of feet, and the men who poured in headlong were upon him. Something hard and heavy smote him in the face, and as he reeled back gasping there was another flash on the stairway. His head struck something, and he was never sure of what happened during the next half-hour.

When, feeling very dizzy, Breckenridge raised himself in the corner where he had been lying, the hall was empty save for two huddled figures in the doorway, and while he blinked at them in a half-dazed fashion, it seemed to him that a red glare, which rose and fell, shone in. He could also smell burning wood, and saw dim wreaths of smoke drive by outside. His hearing was not especially acute just then, but he fancied that men were trampling, and apparently dragging furniture about, all over the building. Then, as his scattered senses came back to him, he rose feebly to his feet, and finding to his astonishment that he still possessed the power of locomotion, walked unevenly towards the motionless objects in the doorway. One of them, as he expected, was Grant, who was lying very white and still, just as he had fallen.

“Larry,” Breckenridge said, and shivered at the sound of his own voice. “Larry!”

But there was no answer, and Breckenridge sat down by Grant’s side with a little groan, for his head swam once more and he felt a horrible coldness creeping over him. How long he sat there, while the smoke that rolled in from outside grew denser, he did not know; but by and by he was dimly conscious that the men were coming down the stairway. They clustered about him, and one of them, stooping over the injured homesteader, signed to his comrades.

“Put him into the wagon, and start off at once,” he said.

Three or four men came out from the rest, and when they shuffled away with their burden, the one who seemed to be leader pointed to Grant as he turned to Breckenridge.

“He would have it, and the thump on the head he got would have put an end to most men,” he said. “Still, I don’t figure you need worry about burying him just yet, and I want a straight answer. Are those dollars in the house?”

Breckenridge sat blinking at him a moment, and then very shakily dragged himself to his feet, and stood before the man, with one hand clenched. His face was white and drawn and there was a red smear on his forehead.

“If you would not believe the man who lies there, will you take my word?” he said unevenly. “He told you they were not.”

“I guess he spoke the truth,” said somebody. “Any way, we can’t find them. Well, what is to be done with him?”

Breckenridge, who was not quite himself, laughed bitterly. “Leave him where he is, and go away. You have done enough,” he said. “He gave you all he had – and I know, as no other man ever will, what it cost him – and this is how you have repaid him.”

Some of the men looked confused, and the leader made a deprecatory gesture. “Any way, we’ll give you a hand to put him where you want.”

Breckenridge waved him back fiercely. “I am alone; but none of you shall lay a hand on him while I can keep you off. If you have left any life in him, the touch of your fingers would hurt him more than anything.”

The other man seemed to have a difficulty in finding an answer, and while he stared at Breckenridge there was a trample of hoofs in the mire outside, and a shout. Breckenridge could not catch its meaning, but the men about him streamed out of the hall and he could hear them mounting in haste. As the rapid beat of hoofs gradually died away, looking up at a sound, he saw the cook bending over his comrade. The man, seeing in his eyes the question he dared not ask, shook his head.

“No, I guess they haven’t killed him,” he said. “Kind of knocked all the senses out of him; and now I’ve let the rest out, we’ll get him to bed.”

“The rest?” Breckenridge asked bewildered.

The man nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I guess I got one or two of the homestead-boys, and then Charley and I lit out through a back window, and slipped round to see why the stockboys weren’t coming. It was quite simple. The blame firebugs had put a man with a rifle at the door of their sleeping shed.”

Three or four other men trooped in somewhat sheepishly, though, as the cook had explained, it was not their fault they had arrived after the fight was over; and while they carried their master upstairs Breckenridge thought he heard another beat of hoofs. He paid no great attention to it, but when Larry had been laid on the bed glanced towards the window at the streaks of flame breaking through the smoke that rolled about a birch-log building.

“What can be done?” he said.

“I don’t know that we can do anything,” answered the cook. “The fire has got too good a holt, but it’s not likely to light anything else the way the wind is. It was one of them blame Chicago rustlers put the firestick in.”

“Pshaw!” said Breckenridge. “Let it burn. I mean, what can be done for Larry?”

“We might give him some whiskey – only we haven’t any. Still, I’ve seen this kind of thing happen in the Michigan lumber-camps, and I guess he’s most as well without it. You want to give a man’s brains time to settle down after they’ve had a big shake-up.”

Breckenridge sat down limply on the foot of the bed, faint and dizzy, and wondering if he really heard a regular, rhythmic drumming through the snapping of the flame. It grew louder while he listened, and a faint musical jingling became audible with it.

“That sounds like cavalry,” the cook said. “They have been riding round and seen the blaze.”

And a few minutes later a voice rose sharply outside, and some, at least, of the riders pulled up. The cook, at a sign from Breckenridge, went down, and came back by and by with a man in bespattered blue uniform.

“Captain Cheyne, United States cavalry – at your service,” he said. “I am afraid I have come a trifle late to be of much use; but a few of my men are trying to pick up the rustlers’ trail. Now, how did that man get hurt, and what is the trouble about?”

Breckenridge told him as concisely as he could, and Cheynes bent over the silent figure on the bed.

“Quietness is often good in these cases; but there is such a thing as collapse following the shock, and I guess by your friend’s face it might be well to try to rouse him,” he said. “Have you any brandy?”

“No,” said Breckenridge. “It has been quite a time since we had that or any other luxuries in this house. Its owner stripped himself for the benefit of the men who did their best to kill him.”

Cheyne brought out a flask. “This should do as well,” he said. “You can tell that man to boil some water, and in the meanwhile help me to get the flask top into your partner’s mouth.”

It was done with some difficulty, and Breckenridge waited anxiously until a quiver ran through the motionless body. Then Cheyne repeated the dose, and Larry gasped and slowly opened his eyes. He said something the others could not catch, and closed them again; but Breckenridge fancied a little warmth crept into his pallid skin.

“I guess that will do,” said Cheyne. “In one or two of my stations we had to be our own field hospital; but I don’t know enough of surgery to take the responsibility of stirring up his circulation any further. Still, when you can get them ready, we will have hot bottles at his feet.”

“My boys have got the fire under,” Cheyne said, coming in an hour later. “Now, I have been in the saddle most of the day, and while your cook has promised to billet the boys, I’ll have to ask you for shelter. If you told me a little about what led up to this trouble, it might pass the time.”

“I don’t see why I should,” Breckenridge informed him.

“It could not hurt you, any way,” suggested Cheyne, “and it might do you good.”

Breckenridge looked at him steadily, and felt a curious confidence in the discretion of the quiet, bronze-faced man. As the result of it, he told him a good deal more than he had meant to do when he commenced the story.

“I think you have done right,” Cheyne said. “A little rough on him! I had already figured he was that kind of a man. Well, I hear the rest of the boys coming back, and I’ll send up a sergeant who knows a good deal about these accidents to look after him.”

The sergeant came up by and by and kept watch with Breckenridge for a while; but, after an hour or so Breckenridge’s head grew very heavy, and the sergeant, taking his arm, silenced his protests by nipping it and quietly put him out of the room. When he awoke next morning he found that Grant was capable at least of speech, for Cheyne was asking him questions, and receiving very unsatisfactory answers.

“In fact,” said the cavalry officer, “you don’t feel disposed to tell me who the men that tried to burn your place were, or anything about them?”

“No,” Larry said feebly. “It would be pleasanter if you concluded I was not quite fit to talk just now.”

Cheyne glanced at Breckenridge, who was watching him anxiously. “In that case I could not think of worrying you, and have no doubt I can find out. In the meanwhile I guess the best thing you can do is to go to sleep again.”

He drew Breckenridge out of the room, and shook hands with him. “If you are wanted I’ll send for you,” he said. “Keep your comrade quiet, and I should be astonished if he is not about again in a day or two.”

Then, he went down the stairway and swung himself into the saddle, and with a rattle and jingle he and the men behind him rode away.

XXVII

CLAVERING’S LAST CARD

There was an impressive silence in Hetty’s little drawing-room at Cedar Range when Cheyne, who had ridden there the day after he left Fremont, told his story. He had expected attention, but the effect his narrative produced astonished him. Hetty had softly pushed her chair back into the shadow where the light of the shaded lamp did not fall upon her, but her stillness was significant. He could, however, see Miss Schuyler, and wondered what accounted for the impassiveness of her face, now the colour that had flushed her cheek had faded. The silence was becoming embarrassing when Miss Schuyler broke it.

“Mr. Grant is recovering?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Cheyne. “He was coming round when I left him. The blow might have been a dangerous one; but I had a suspicion he had more than that to contend with.”

“Yes?” said Hetty, a little breathlessly.

“Of course, his affairs were not my business,” Cheyne went on, “but it seemed to me the man had been living under a heavy strain; and though we were strangers, I could not help feeling a sympathy that almost amounted to a liking for him. He must have found it trying when the men he had done his best for came round to burn his place; but I understand he went out to speak to them with empty hands when they struck him down.”

“What made them attack him?” asked Miss Schuyler.

“I’m not quite sure, but I have an idea they were displeased because he did not countenance their attempt to wreck the cattle-train. Then, I believe he held some dollars in trust for them, and, as they presumably wanted them for some fresh outrage, would not give them up. Mr. Grant is evidently a man with a sense of responsibility.”

Hetty looked up suddenly. “Yes,” she said. “He would have let them tear him to pieces before he gave them one.”

Cheyne noticed the faint ring in her voice, and fancied it would have been plainer had she not laid a restraint upon herself. A vague suspicion he had brushed away once more crept into his mind.

“Well,” he said, slowly, watching Hetty the while, “I fancy the efforts he made to save your friends’ stock will cost him a good deal. The point is that a man of his abilities must have recognized it at the time.”

Hetty met his glance, and Cheyne saw the little glow in her eyes. “Do you think that would have counted for anything with such a man?”

Cheyne made a little gesture of negation that in a curious fashion became him. “No. That is, I do not believe he would have let it influence him.”

“That,” said Miss Schuyler, “is a very comprehensive admission.”

Cheyne smiled. “I don’t know that I could desire a higher tribute paid to me. Might one compliment you both on your evident desire to be fair to your enemies?”

He saw the faint flush in Hetty’s face, and was waiting with a curious expectancy for her answer, when Torrance came in. He appeared grimly pleased at something as he signed to Cheyne.

“His friends have burned the rascal out,” he said. “Well, I don’t know that we could have hoped for anything better; but I want to hear what you can tell me about it. You will have to spare me Captain Cheyne for a little, Hetty.”

Cheyne rose and went away with him, while, when the door closed behind them, Hetty – who had seen the vindictive satisfaction in her father’s face – turned to her companion with a flash of imperious anger in her eyes.

“Flo,” she said, “how can he? It’s wicked of him.”

Miss Schuyler checked her with a gesture. “Any way, he is your father.”

Hetty flushed, but the colour faded and left her face white again. “Well,” she said, “Clavering isn’t, and it is he who has made him so bitter against Larry. Flo, it’s horrible. They would have been glad if the boys had killed him, and when he’s ill and wounded they will not let me go to him.”

Her voice broke and trembled, and Flora Schuyler laid a hand restrainingly upon her arm. “Of course. But why should you, Hetty?”

Hetty, who shook off her grasp, rose and stood quivering a little, but very straight, looking down on her with pride, and a curious hardness in her eyes.

“You don’t know?” she said. “Then I’ll tell you. Because there is nobody like Larry, and never will be. Because I love him better than I ever fancied I could love anybody, and – though it’s ’most wonderful – he has loved me and waited ever so patiently. Now they are all against him, I’m going to him. Flo, they have ’most made me hate them, the people I belong to, and I think if I was a man I could kill Clavering.”

Flora Schuyler sat very still a moment, but it was fortunate she retained her composure whatever she may have felt, for Hetty was in a mood for any rashness. Stretching out her hand, she drew the girl down beside her with a forceful gentleness.

“Hetty,” she said, “I think I know how such a man as Larry is would feel, and you want him to be proud of you. Well, there are things that neither he nor you could do, and you must listen to me quietly.”

She reasoned with the girl for a while until Hetty shook the passion from her.

“Of course you are right, Flo,” she said, and her voice was even. “If he could bear all that, I can be patient too. Larry has had ever so many hard things to do, but it is only because it would not be fair to him I’m not going to him now. Flo, you will not leave me until the trouble’s through?”

Miss Schuyler turned and kissed her, and then, rising quietly, went out of the room. She had shown Hetty her duty to Larry, which she felt would be more convincing just then than an exposition of what she owed her father, and had reasons for desiring solitude to grapple with affairs of her own. What she had done had cost her an effort, but Flora Schuyler was fond of Hetty and recognized the obligation of the bond she was contracting when she made a friend.

Some minutes had passed when Hetty rose and took down her writing-case from a shelf. She could at least communicate with Larry, for the maid, who had more than one admirer among the cow-boys, had found a means by which letters could be conveyed; but the girl could not command her thoughts, and written sympathy seemed so poor and cold a thing. Two letters were written and flung into the stove, for Flora Schuyler’s counsel was bearing fruit; and she had commenced two more when there was a tapping at the door. Hetty looked up with a little flash in her eyes, and swept the papers into the writing-case as Clavering came in. Then she rose, and stood looking at him very coldly.