CHAPTER V
THE INVASION OF PARADISE
Lemuel Fogg made other visits to Paradise Valley, as the seasons cameand went, and Justin learned to look forward with pleasure to hiscoming. Always he stayed over night, and talked long with Clayton, forwhom he had conceived a liking.
Clayton continued to cling to his lonely home. Though more than oncetempted to depart he had never been able to make up his mind to do so.He averred to Fogg, and to other acquaintances, that, having beendropped down into Paradise Valley quite by chance, mental and physicalinertia held him there; he was lazy, he said, and the indolent life ofParadise Valley had strong attraction for him.
Yet, as his reputation as an excellent doctor spread, he often rodemany weary miles to visit a patient. Always the studies went on, andthe writing, and the little glass slipping out of and into his pocketmade the whole earth radiant with life and beauty. And Justin became astalwart lad, whose strong handsome face, earnest blue eyes, andattractive personality, won new friends and held old ones.
The few farmers who remained had learned well some lessons with thepassing of the years. Ceasing to rely on the uncertain rainfall, theyhad decreased the areas of their tilled fields and pushed them closeto the stream, where the low-lying soil was blest with sufficientsub-irrigation to swell the deep taproots of the alfalfa. They keptsmall herds of cattle, and some sheep, which they grazed on the bunchgrass. The few things they had to sell, honey rifled from the alfalfablooms by the bees, poultry, eggs and butter, they found a market forin the town, or shipped to Denver.
Sloan Jasper was of those who remained, and Mary, a tall girl now, hadtaken the place of her mother in the farmer's home. Mrs. Jasper hadgiven up the struggle with hard climatic conditions, and had passedon, attended in her last illness by the faithful doctor.
With Lemuel Fogg there came, one day, a ranchman named Davison; and intheir wake followed herds of bellowing, half-wild cattle, and groupsof brisk-riding, shouting cowboys, who rode down the fields in themoist soil by the stream, as they galloped in pursuit of theirrefractory charges.
The advent of the cattle and the cowboys, the establishment of theDavison ranch, the erection of houses and bunk-rooms, stables andcorrals, filled Justin's life to the brim with excitement. Hefraternized with the cowboys, and struck up a warm friendship withPhilip Davison's son Ben, a lively young fellow older than himself,who could ride a horse not only like a cowboy, but like a circusathlete, for he could perform the admirable feat of standing in thesaddle with arms folded across his breast while his well-trainedbroncho tore around the new corral at a gallop.
When the other members of the Davison household came and weredomiciled in the new ranch house, Justin found that Lucy Davison, theranchman's niece, the "cousin" of whom Ben had talked, was a beautifulgirl of Mary's age, with more than Mary's charm of manner. She waspaler than Mary, and had not her rose-leaf cheeks, but she was morebeautiful in her way, and she had something which Mary lacked. Justindid not know what it was, for he was not yet analytical, but he wasinterested in a wholly new manner. He could not be with her enough,and when he was absent thoughts of her filled his mind and even hisdreams.
Mary Jasper hastened to call on Lucy Davison; and in doing so made theacquaintance of that most interesting person, Miss Pearl Newcome,Davison's housekeeper. Miss Newcome had passed the beauty stage, ifindeed she had ever dwelt at all in that delectable period whichshould come by right to every member of the sex; but she stillcherished the romantic illusions of her earlier years, and kept themembalmed, as it were, in sundry fascinating volumes, which were wardedand locked in her trunk up stairs. She brought these out atpsychological moments, smelling sweetly of cedar and moth balls, andread from them, to Mary's great delight; for there never were suchcharming romances in the world, and never will be again, no matter whowrites them. Some of them were in the form of pamphlets, yellow andfalling to pieces; others were in creaky-backed books; and stillothers, and these the most read, in cunning bindings of Miss Newcome'sown contriving.
Sitting on the flat lid of the trunk, with one foot tucked under herfor comfort, while Mary crouched on the floor with her rose-leafcheeks in her palms, Pearl Newcome would read whole chapters from"Fanny the Flower Girl, or the Pits and Pitfalls of London," from"Lady Clare, or Lord Marchmont's Unhappy Bride," from "The Doge'sDoom, or the Mysterious Swordsman of Venice," and many others. Themysterious swordsman in the "Doge's Doom" was especially entrancing,for he went about at night with a black mask over his face, and madelove and fought duels with the greatest imaginable nonchalance. Ittaxed the memory merely to keep count of his many loves and battles,and it was darkly hinted that he was a royal personage in disguise.
"The Black Mask's scabbard clanked ominously as he sprang from thegondola to the stone arches below the sombre building, while themoonlight was reflected from his shining coat of mail and from theplacid waters of the deep lagoon, showing in the pellucid waves alikethe untamed locks that hung about his shoulders and the whitefrightened face of the slender, golden-haired maiden who leaned towardhim with palpitating bosom from the narrow, open window above him."
When that point was reached Mary clasped her hands tightly across herknees and rocked in aching excitement; for who was to know whether theBlack Mask would succeed in getting the lovely maiden out of theclutches of the foul doge who held her a prisoner, or whether someguard concealed in a niche in the wall would not pounce out, havingbeen set there by the shrewd doge for the purpose, and slice the BlackMask's head off, in spite of the protecting coat of mail?
Aside from her duties as housekeeper, which she never neglected, therewas one other thing that could cause Pearl Newcome to surrendervoluntarily the joys of that perch on the trunk lid in the midst ofher redolent romances with Mary Jasper for an appreciative listener,and that was the voice of Steve Harkness, the ranch foreman. Theattraction of the printed page palled when she heard Harkness's heavytones, and stopping, with her finger between the leaves, she wouldstep to the window; and sometimes, to Mary's regret, would go downstairs, where she would cut out a huge triangle of pie and place it onthe kitchen table.
Harkness was big and jovial, and in no manner resembled the BlackMask, who was slender, lithe, had a small supple wrist, hair ofmidnight blackness, and "a voice like the tinkle of many waters."Harkness's voice was big and heavy, and his wrist was large and red.But he was usually clean-shaven, scented himself sweetly with cinnamondrops, and was altogether very becoming, in the eyes of Pearl Newcome.And she knew he liked pie. Sometimes Pearl came back to the trunk andcontinued the dropped romance. That was when Harkness was in a hurryand could not linger in the kitchen to joke and laugh with her. But iftime chanced to hang heavily on his hands and no troublesome cowboy orrefractory steer claimed his attention, she did not return at all, andMary, tired of waiting, crept down in disappointment.
Delightful as Mary Jasper and Justin Wingate found the people of thenew ranch, Curtis Clayton secluded himself more than ever with hisbooks and his writing, and was not to be coaxed out of his shell evenby Justin's stories of Ben's marvellous acrobatic and equestrian featsand of Lucy's brightness and clever talk.
Yet he was drawn out one day by a summons that could not be disobeyed.Harkness had been hurled against the new wire corral by a savagebroncho, and Clayton's services as a surgeon were demanded. He neverrefused a call like that.
He found Harkness sitting in the kitchen of the ranch house, to whichhe had come as to a shelter, with Pearl Newcome bending over him, acamphor bottle in one of her hands and a blood-stained cloth in theother. Davison, Fogg, and several cowboys, stood about in helplessawkwardness. Harkness's face looked white and faint, in spite of itsred tan. The sleeve of his flannel shirt had been rolled to theshoulder and a bloody bandage was wound round the arm.
"Nothin' to make a fuss about," he said, when he saw Clayton. "I gotslung up ag'inst the barbed wire and my arm was ripped open. It's beenbleedin' some, but that's good fer it."
"I shall have to take a number of
stitches," Clayton announced, whenhe had examined and cleansed the wound. He opened a pouch of hissaddle-bags.
"No chloryform ner anything of that kind fer me," said Harkness,regarding him curiously. "Jist go ahead with your sewin'."
Clayton obeyed; while Harkness, setting a lighted cigarette betweenhis teeth, talked and laughed with apparent nonchalance.
Brought thus into close contact with the people of the ranch, theshell of Clayton's exclusiveness was shattered. After that, daily, forsome time, he rode or walked over to the ranch house to see how hispatient was doing, or Harkness came over to see him. And he found thatthese people were good to know. They lessened the emptiness which hadgnawed. They were human beings, with wholly human hearts. And heneeded them quite as much as they needed him.
Justin Wingate, Ranchman Page 5