The Ranchman

The two made slow progress to the porch; and Taylor’s ascent to the porch and his final achievement of the rocking-chair were accomplished slowly, with the assistance of Miss Harlan.

Then, with a face almost the color of the scarlet neckerchief he wore, Taylor watched the retreat of the puncher.

His face became redder when Miss Harlan drew another rocker close to his and demanded to be told the story of the accident.

“My own fault,” declared Taylor. “I was in a hurry. Accidents always happen that way, don’t they? Slipped trying to swing on my horse, with him running. Missed the stirrup. Clumsy, wasn’t it?”

Eager to keep his word, of course, Marion reasoned. She had insisted that he be gone when she arrived, and he had injured himself hurrying.

She watched him as he talked of the accident. And now for the first time she understood why he had acquired the nickname Squint.

His eyes were deep-set, though not small. He did not really squint, for there was plenty of room between the eyelids – which, by the way, were fringed with lashes that might have been the envy of any woman; but there were many little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which spread fanwise toward cheek and brow, and these created the illusion of squinting.

Also, he had a habit of partially closing his eyes when looking directly at one; and at such times they held a twinkling glint that caused one to speculate over their meaning.

Miss Harlan was certain the twinkle meant humor. But other persons had been equally sure the twinkle meant other emotions, or passion. Looking into Taylor’s eyes in the dining-car, Carrington had decided they were filled with cold, implacable hostility, with the promise of violence, to himself. And yet the squint had not been absent.

Whatever had been expressed in the eyes had been sufficient to deter Carrington from his announced purpose to “knock hell out of” their owner.

The girl was aware that Taylor was not handsome; that his attractions were not of a surface character. Something about him struck deeper than that. A subtle magnetism gripped her – the magnetism of strength, moral and mental. In his eyes she could see the signs of it; in the lines of his jaw and the set of his lips were suggestions of indomitability and force.

All the visible signs were, however, glossed over with the deep, slow humor that radiated from him, that glowed in his eyes.

It all made her conscious of a great similarity between them; for despite the doubts and suspicions of the people of Westwood, she had been able to survive – and humor had been the grace that had saved her from disappointment and pessimism. Those other traits in Taylor – visible to one who studied him – she knew for her own; and her spirits now responded to his.

Her cheeks were glowing as she looked at him, and her eyes, half veiled by the drooping lashes, were dancing with mischief.

“You were in that hot bunkhouse all morning,” she said. “Why didn’t you send word before?”

“You were careful to tell me that you didn’t want me around when you came.”

There was a gleam of reproach in his eyes.

“But you were injured!”

“Look how things go in the world,” he invited, narrowing his eyes at her. “It’s almost enough to make a man let go all holds and just drift along. Maybe a man would be just as well off.

“Early this morning I knew I had to light out for the day, and I didn’t want to go any more than a gopher wants to go into a rattlesnake’s den. But I had to keep my word. Then Spotted Tail gets notions – ”

“Spotted Tail?” she interrupted.

“My horse,” he grinned at her. “He gets notions. Maybe he wants to get away as much as I want to stay. Anyhow, he was in a hurry; and things shape up so that I’ve got to stay.

“And then, when I hang around the bunkhouse all morning, worrying because I’m afraid you’ll find out that I didn’t keep my word, and that I’m still here, you send word that you’ll not object to me coming on the porch with you. I’d call that a misjudgment all around – on my part.”

“Yes – it was that,” she told him. “You certainly are entitled to the comforts of your own house – especially when you are hurt. But are you sure you worried because you were afraid I would discover you were here?”

“I expect you can prove that by looking at me, Miss Harlan – noticing that I’ve got thin and pale-looking since you saw me last?”

She threw a demure glance at him. “I am afraid you are in great danger; you do not look nearly as well as when I saw you, the first time, on the train.”

He looked gravely at her.

“The porter threw them out of the window,” he said. “That is, I gave him orders to.”

“What?” she said, perplexed. “I don’t understand. What did the porter throw out of the window?”

“My dude clothes,” he said.

So he had observed the ridicule in her eyes.

She met his gaze, and both laughed.

He had been curious about her all along, and he artfully questioned her about Westwood, gradually drawing from her the rather unexciting details of her life. Yet these details were chiefly volunteered, Taylor noticed, and did not result entirely from his questions.

Carrington’s name came into the discussion, also, and Parsons. Taylor discovered that Carrington and Parsons had been partners in many business deals, and that they had come to Dawes because the town offered many possibilities. The girl quoted Carrington’s words; Taylor was convinced that she knew nothing of the character of the business the men had come to Dawes to transact.

Their talk strayed to minor subjects and to those of great importance, ranging from a discussion of prairie hens to sage comment upon certain abstruse philosophy. Always, however, the personal note was dominant and the personal interest acute.

That atmosphere – the deep interest of each for the other – made their conversation animated. For half the time the girl paid no attention to Taylor’s words. She watched him when he talked, noting the various shades of expression of his eyes, the curve of his lips, wondering at the deep music of his voice. She marveled that at first she had thought him uninteresting and plain.

For she had discovered that he was rather good-looking; that he was endowed with a natural instinct to reach accurate and logical conclusions; that he was quiet-mannered and polite – and a gentleman. Her first impressions of him had not been correct, for during their talk she discovered through casual remarks, that Taylor had been educated with some care, that his ancestors were of that sturdy American stock which had made the settling of the eastern New-World wilderness possible, and that there was in his manner the unmistakable gentleness of good breeding.

However, Taylor’s first impressions of the girl had endured without amendations. At a glance he had yielded to the spell of her, and the intimate and informal conversation carried on between them; the flashes of personality he caught merely served to convince him of her desirability.

Twice during their talk Martha cleared her throat significantly and loudly, trying to attract their attention.

The efforts bore no fruit, and Martha might have been entirely forgotten if she had not finally got to her feet and laid a hand on Marion’s shoulder.

“I’s gwine to lie down a spell, honey,” she said. “You-all don’t need no third party to entertain you. An’ I’s powerful tiahd.” And over the girl’s shoulder she smiled broadly and sympathetically at Taylor.

The sun was filling the western level with a glowing, golden haze when Miss Harlan got to her feet and announced that she was going home.

“It’s the first day I have really enjoyed,” she told Taylor as she sat in the saddle, looking at him. He had got up and was standing at the porch edge. “That is, it is the first enjoyable day I have passed since I have been here,” she added.

“I wouldn’t say that I’ve been exactly bored myself,” he grinned at her. “But I’m not so sure about Friday; for if you come Friday the chances are that my ankle will be well again, and I’ll have to make myself scarce. You see, my excuse will be gone.”

Martha was sitting on her horse close by, and her eyes were dancing.

“Don’ you go an’ bust your haid, Mr. Taylor!” she warned. “I knows somebuddy that would be powerful sorry if that would happen to you!”

“Martha!” said Marion severely. But her eyes were eloquent as they met Taylor’s twinkling ones; and she saw a deep color come into Taylor’s cheeks.

Taylor watched her until she grew dim in the distance; then he turned and faced the tall young puncher, who had stepped upon the porch and had been standing near.

The puncher grinned. “Takin’ ’em off now, boss?” he asked.

He pointed to the bandages on Taylor’s right foot. In one of the young puncher’s hands was Taylor’s right boot.

“Yes,” returned Taylor.

He sat down in the rocker he had occupied all afternoon, and the young puncher removed the bandages, revealing Taylor’s bare foot and ankle, with no bruise or swelling to mar the white skin.

Taylor drew on the sock which the puncher drew from the boot; then he pulled on the boot and stood up.

The puncher was grinning hugely, but no smile was on Taylor’s face.

“It worked, boss,” said the puncher; “she didn’t tumble. I thought I’d laff my head off when I seen her fixin’ the pillow for you – an’ your foot not hurt more than mine. You ought to be plumb tickled, pullin’ off a trick like that!”

“I ain’t a heap tickled,” declared Taylor glumly. “There’s no fun in fooling her!”

Which indicated that Taylor’s thoughts were now serious.

CHAPTER XII – LIFTING THE MASK

Elam Parsons awoke early in the morning following that on which Marion Harlan’s visit to the Arrow occurred. He lay for a long time smiling at the ceiling, with a feeling that something pleasurable was in store for him, but not able to determine what that something was.

It was not long, however, before Parsons remembered.

When he had got out of bed the previous morning he had discovered the absence of Marion and Martha. Also, he found that two of the horses were missing – Marion’s, and one of the others he had personally bought.

Parsons spent the day in Dawes. Shortly before dusk he got on his horse and rode homeward. Dismounting at the stable, he noted that the two absent horses had not come in. He grinned disagreeably and went into the house. He emerged almost instantly, for Marion and Martha had not returned.

Later he saw them, Marion leading, coming up the slope that led to the level upon which the house stood.

Marion had retired early, and after she had gone to her room Parsons had questioned Martha.

Twice while getting into his clothes this morning Parsons chuckled audibly. There was malicious amusement in the sound.

Once he caught himself saying aloud:

“I knew it would come, sooner or later. And she’s picked out the clodhopper! This will tickle Carrington!”

Again he laughed – such a laugh as the good people of Westwood might have used had they known what Parsons knew – that Marion Harlan had visited a stranger at his ranchhouse – a lonely place, far from prying eyes.

Parsons hated the girl as heartily as he had hated her father. He hated her because of her close resemblance to her parent; and he had hated Larry Harlan ever since their first meeting.

Parsons likewise had no affection for Carrington. They had been business associates for many years, and their association had been profitable for both; but there was none of that respect and admiration which marks many partnerships.

On several occasions Carrington had betrayed greediness in the division of the spoils of their ventures. But Carrington was the strong man, ruthless and determined, and Parsons was forced to nurse his resentment in silence. He meant some day, however, to repay Carrington, and he lost no opportunity to harass him. And yet it had been Parsons who had brought Carrington to Westwood two years before. He knew Carrington; he knew something of the big man’s way with women, of his merciless treatment of them. And he had invited Carrington to Westwood, hoping that the big man would add Marion Harlan to his list of victims.

So far, Carrington had made little progress. This fact, contrary to Parsons’ principles, had afforded the man secret enjoyment. He liked to see Carrington squirm under disappointment. He anticipated much pleasure in watching Carrington’s face when he should tell him where Marion had been the day before.

He breakfasted alone – early – chuckling his joy. And shortly after he left the table he was on a horse, riding toward Dawes.

He reached town about eight and went directly to Carrington’s rooms in the Castle.

Carrington had shaved and washed, and was sitting at a front window, coatless, his hair uncombed, when Parsons knocked on the door.

“You’re back, eh?” said Parsons as he took a chair near the window. “Danforth was telling me you went to see the governor. Did you fix it?”

Carrington grinned. “Taylor was to take the oath today. He won’t take it – at least, not the sort of oath he expected.”

“It’s lucky you knew the governor.”

“H-m.” The grim grunt indicated that, governor or no governor, Carrington would not be denied.

Parsons smirked. But Carrington detected an unusual quality in the smirk – something more than satisfaction over the success of the visit to the governor. There was malicious amusement in the smirk, and anticipation. Parsons’ expressed satisfaction was not over what had happened, but over what was going to happen.

Carrington knew Parsons, and therefore Carrington gave no sign of what he had seen in Parsons’ face. He talked of Dawes and of their own prospects. But once, when Carrington mentioned Marion Harlan, quite casually, he noted that Parsons’ eyes widened.

But Parsons said nothing on the subject which had brought him until he had talked for half an hour. Then, noting that his manner had aroused Carrington’s interest, he said softly:

“This man, Taylor, seems destined to get in your way, doesn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” demanded Carrington shortly.

“Do you remember telling me – on the train, with this man, Taylor, listening – that your story to Marion, of her father having been seen in this locality, was a fairy tale – without foundation?”

At Carrington’s nod Parsons continued:

“Well, it seems it was not a fairy tale, after all. For Larry Harlan was in his section for two or three years!”

“Who told you that?” Carrington slid forward in his chair and was looking hard at Parsons.

Parsons was enjoying the other’s astonishment, and Parsons was not to be hurried – he wanted to taste the flavor of his news; it was as good to his palate as a choice morsel of food to the palate of a disciple of Epicurus.

“It came in a sort of roundabout way, I understand,” said Parsons. “It seems that during your absence Marion made a number of inquiries about her father. Then a man named Ben Mullarky rode over to the house and told her that Larry had been in this country – that he had worked for the Arrow.”

“That’s Taylor’s ranch,” said Carrington. A deep scowl furrowed his forehead; his lips extended in a sullen pout.

Parsons was enjoying him. “Taylor again, eh?” he said softly. “First, he appears on the train, where he gets an earful of something we don’t want him to hear; then he is elected mayor, which is detrimental to our interests; then we discover that Larry Harlan worked for him. You’ll be interested to know that Marion went right over to the Arrow – in fact, she spent part of Monday there, and practically all of yesterday. More, Taylor has invited her to come whenever she wants to.”

“She went alone?” demanded Carrington.

“With Martha, my negro housekeeper. But that – ” Parsons made a gesture of derision and went on: “Martha says Taylor was there with her, and that the two of them – with Martha asleep in the house – spent the entire afternoon on the porch, talking rather intimately.”

To Parsons’ surprise Carrington did not betray the perturbation Parsons expected. The scowl was still furrowing his forehead, his lips were still in the sullen pout; but he said nothing, looking steadily at Parsons.

At last his lips moved slightly; Parsons could see the clenched teeth between them.

“Where’s Larry Harlan now?”

Parsons related the story told him by Martha – which had been imparted to the negro woman by Marion in confidence – that Larry Harlan had been accidentally killed, searching for a mine.

When Parsons finished Carrington got up. There was a grin on his face as he stepped to where Parsons sat and placed his two hands heavily on the other’s shoulders.

There was a grin on his face, but his eyes were agleam with a slumbering passion that made Parsons catch his breath with a gasp. And his voice, low, and freighted with menace, caused Parsons to quake with terror.

“Parsons,” he said, “I want you to understand this: I am going to be the law out here. I’ll run things to suit myself. I’ll have no half-hearted loyalty, and I’ll destroy any man who opposes me! Those who are not with me to the last gasp are against me!” He laughed, and Parsons felt the man’s hot breath on his face – so close was it to his own.

“I was born a thousand years too late, Parsons!” he went on. “I am a robber baron brought down to date – modernized. I believe that in me flows the blood of a pirate, a savage, or an ancient king; I have all the instincts of a tribal chief whose principles are to rule or ruin! I’ll have no law out here but my own desires; and hypocrisy – in others – doesn’t appeal to me!

“You’ve told me a tale that interested me, but in the telling of it you made one mistake – you enjoyed the discomfiture you thought it would give me. You tingled with malice. Just to show you that I’ll not tolerate disloyalty from you – even in thought – I’m going to punish you.”

He dropped his big hands to Parsons’ throat, shutting off the incipient scream that issued from between the man’s lips. Parsons fought with all his strength to escape the grip of the iron fingers at his throat, twisting and squirming frenziedly in the chair. But the fingers tightened their grip, and when the man’s face began to turn blue-black, Carrington released him and looked down at his victim, laughing vibrantly.

CHAPTER XIII – THE SHADOW OF TROUBLE

Elam recovered slowly, for Carrington had choked him into unconsciousness. Out of the blank, dark coma Parsons came, his brain reeling, his body racked with agonizing pains. His hands went to his throat before he could open his eyes; he pulled at the flesh to ease the constriction that still existed there; he caught his breath in great gasps that shrilled through the room. And when at last he succeeded in getting his breath to come regularly, he opened his eyes and saw Carrington seated in a chair near him, watching him with a cold, speculative smile.

He heard Carrington’s voice saying: “Pretty close, wasn’t it, Parsons?” But he did not answer; his vocal cords were still partially paralyzed.

He closed his eyes again and stretched out in the chair. Carrington thought he had fainted, but Parsons was merely resting – and thinking.

His thoughts were not pleasant. Many times during the years of their association he had seen the beast in Carrington’s eyes, but this was the first time Carrington had even shown it in his presence, naked and ugly. Carrington had told him many times that were he not hemmed in with laws and courts he would tramp ruthlessly over every obstacle that got in his way; and Parsons knew now that the man had meant what he said. The beast in him was rampant; his passions were to have free rein; he had thrown off the shackles of civilization and was prepared to do murder to attain his aims.

Parsons realized his own precarious predicament. Carrington controlled every cent Parsons owned – it was in the common pool, which was in Carrington’s charge. Parsons might leave Dawes, but his money must stay – Carrington would never give it up. More, Parsons was now afraid to ask for an accounting or a division, for fear Carrington would kill him.

Parsons knew he must stay in Dawes, and that from now on he must play lackey to the master who, at last in an environment that suited him, had so ruthlessly demonstrated his principles.

In a spirit of abject surrender Parsons again opened his eyes and sat up. Carrington rose and again stood over him.

“You understand now, Parsons, I’m running things. You stay in the background. If you interfere with me I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you if you laugh at me again. Your job out here is to take care of Marion Harlan. You’re to keep her here. If she gets away I’ll manhandle you! Now get out of here!”

An hour later Parsons was sitting on the front porch of the big house, staring vacantly out into the big level below him, his heart full of hatred and impotent resentment; his brain, formerly full of craft and guile, now temporarily atrophied through its attempts to comprehend the new character of the man who had throttled him.

In Dawes, Carrington was getting into his clothing. He was smiling, his eyes glowing with grim satisfaction. At nine o’clock Carrington descended the stairs, stopped in the hotel lobby to light a cigar; then crossed the street and went into the courthouse, where he was greeted effusively by Judge Littlefield. Quinton Taylor, too, was going to the courthouse.

This morning at ten o’clock, according to information received from Neil Norton – sent to Taylor by messenger the night before – Taylor was to take the oath of office.

Taylor was conscious of the honor bestowed upon him by the people of Dawes, though at first he had demurred, pointing out that he was not actually a resident of the town – the Arrow lying seven miles southward. But this objection had been met and dismissed by his friends, who had insisted that he was a resident of the town by virtue of his large interests there, and from the fact that he occupied an apartment above the Dawes bank, and that he spent more time in it than he spent in the Arrow ranchhouse.

But on the ride to Dawes – on Spotted Tail – (this morning wonderfully docile despite Tuesday’s slander by his master) – Taylor’s thoughts dwelt not upon the honor that was to be his, but upon the questionable trick he had played on Marion Harlan, with the able assistance of the tall young puncher, Bud Hemmingway.

He looked down at the foot, now unbandaged, with a frown. The girl’s complete and matter-of-fact belief in the story of his injury; her sympathy and deep concern; the self-accusation in her eyes; the instant pardon she had granted him for staying at the ranchhouse when he should not have stayed – all these he arrayed against the bald fact that he had tricked her. And he felt decidedly guilty.

And yet somehow there was some justification for the trick. It was the justification of desire. The things a man wants are not to be denied by the narrow standards of custom. Does a man miss an opportunity to establish acquaintance with a girl he has fallen in love with, merely because custom has decreed that she shall not come unattended – save by a negro woman – to his house?

Taylor made desire his justification, and his sense of guilt was dispelled by half.

Nor was the guilt so poignant that it rested heavily on his conscience since he had done no harm to the girl.

What harm had been done had been done to Taylor himself. He kept seeing Marion as she sat on the porch, and the spell of her had seized him so firmly that last night, after she had left, the ranchhouse had seemed to be nothing more than four walls out of which all the life had gone. He felt lonesome this morning, and was in the grip of a nameless longing.

All the humor had departed from him. For the first time in all his days a conception of the meaning of life assailed him, revealing to him a glimpse of the difficulties of a man in love. For a man may love a girl: his difficulties begin when the girl seems to become unattainable.

Looming large in Taylor’s thoughts this morning was Carrington. Having overheard Carrington talking of her on the train, Taylor thought he knew what Carrington wanted; but he was in doubt regarding the state of the girl’s feelings toward the man. Had she yielded to the man’s intense personal magnetism?

Carrington was handsome; there was no doubt that almost any girl would be flattered by his attentions. And had Carrington been worthy of Marion, Taylor would have entertained no hope of success – he would not even have thought of it.