CHAPTER XXVI
DAVE ACCEPTS AN INVITATION
Crawford and Dave, with their prisoner, lay out in the chaparral for anhour, then made their way back to Malapi by a wide circuit. They did notwant to meet Shorty and Doble, for that would result in a pitched battle.They preferred rather to make a report to the sheriff and let him attemptthe arrest of the bandits.
Reluctantly, under the pressure of much prodding, Miller repeated hisstory to Sheriff Applegate. Under the circumstances he was not sorry thathe was to be returned to the penitentiary, for he recognized that hislife at large would not be safe so long as Shorty and Doble were rangingthe hills. Both of them were "bad men," in the usual Western acceptanceof the term, and an accomplice who betrayed them would meet short shriftat their hands.
The sheriff gave Crawford a receipt for the gold after they had countedit and found none missing.
The old cattleman rose from the table and reached for his hat.
"Come on, son," he said to Dave. "I'll say we've done a good day's work.Both of us were under a cloud. Now we're clear. We're goin' up to thehouse to have some supper. Applegate, you'll get both of the confessionsof Miller fixed up, won't you? I'll want the one about George Doble'sdeath to take with me to the Governor of Colorado. I'm takin' the trainto-morrow."
"I'll have the district attorney fix up the papers," the sheriffpromised.
Emerson Crawford hooked an arm under the elbow of Sanders and left theoffice.
"I'm wonderin' about one thing, boy," he said. "Did Miller kill GeorgeDoble accidentally or on purpose?"
"I'm wondering about that myself. You remember that Denver bartender saidthey had been quarreling a good deal. They were having a row at the verytime when I met them at the gate of the corral. It's a ten-to-one shotthat Miller took the chance to plug Doble and make me pay for it."
"Looks likely, but we'll never know. Son, you've had a rotten deal handedyou."
The younger man's eyes were hard as steel. He clamped his jaw tight, buthe made no comment.
"Nobody can give you back the years of yore life you've lost," thecattleman went on. "But we'll get yore record straightened out, anyhow,so that won't stand against you. I know one li'l' girl will be tickled tohear the news. Joy always has stuck out that you were treated shameful."
"I reckon I'll not go up to your house to-night," Dave said in acarefully modulated voice. "I'm dirty and unshaven, and anyhow I'd rathernot go to-night."
Crawford refused to accept this excuse. "No, sir. You're comin' with me,by gum! I got soap and water and a razor up at the house, if that'swhat's troublin' you. We've had a big day and I'm goin' to celebrate bytalkin' it all over again. Dad gum my hide, think of it, you solemn-facedold owl! This time last night I was 'most a pauper and you sure were.Both of us were under the charge of havin' killed a man each. To-nightwe're rich as that fellow Crocus; anyhow I am, an' you're haided thatway. And both of us have cleared our names to boot. Ain't you got any redblood in that big body of yore's?"
"I'll drop in to the Delmonico and get a bite, then ride out to theJackpot."
"You will not!" protested the cattleman. "Looky here, Dave. It's ashowdown. Have you got anything against me?"
Dave met him eye to eye. "Not a thing, Mr. Crawford. No man ever had abetter friend."
"Anything against Joyce?"
"No, sir."
"Don't hate my boy Keith, do you?"
"How could I?"
"Then what in hell ails you? You're not parlor-shy, are you? Say theword, and we'll eat in the kitchen," grinned Crawford.
"I'm not a society man," said Sanders lamely.
He could not explain that the shadow of the prison walls was a barrier hecould not cross; that they rose to bar him from all the joy and happinessof young life.
"Who in Mexico's talkin' about society? I said come up and eat supperwith me and Joy and Keith. If you don't come, I'm goin' to be good andsore. I'll not stand for it, you darned old killjoy."
"I'll go," answered the invited man.
He went, not because he wanted to go, but because he could not escapewithout being an ungracious boor.
Joyce flew to meet her father, eyes eager, hands swift to caress hisrough face and wrinkled coat. She bubbled with joy at his return, andwhen he told her that his news was of the best the long lashes of thebrown eyes misted with tears. The young man in the background was struckanew by the matronly tenderness of her relation to her father. Shehovered about him as a mother does about her son returned from the wars.
"I've brought company for supper, honey," Emerson told her.
She gave Dave her hand, flushed and smiling. "I've been so worried," sheexplained. "It's fine to know the news is good. I'll want to hear itall."
"We've got the stolen money back, Joy," exploded her father. "We know whotook it--Dug Doble and that cowboy Shorty and Miller."
"But I thought Miller--"
"He escaped. We caught him and brought him back to town with us."Crawford seized the girl by the shoulders. He was as keen as a boy toshare his pleasure. "And Joy--better news yet. Miller confessed hekilled George Doble. Dave didn't do it at all."
Joyce came to the young man impulsively, hand outstretched. She wasglowing with delight, eyes kind and warm and glad. "That's the best yet.Oh, Mr. Sanders, isn't it good?"
His impassive face gave no betrayal of any happiness he might feel in hisvindication. Indeed, something almost sardonic in its expression chilledher enthusiasm. More than the passing of years separated them from thedays when he had shyly but gayly wiped dishes for her in the kitchen,when he had worshiped her with a boy's uncritical adoration.
Sanders knew it better than she, and cursed the habit of repression thathad become a part of him in his prison days. He wanted to give her happysmile for smile. But he could not do it. All that was young and ardentand eager in him was dead. He could not let himself go. Even whenemotions flooded his heart, no evidence of it reached his chill eyes andset face.
After he had come back from shaving, he watched her flit about the roomwhile she set the table. She was the competent young mistress of thehouse. With grave young authority she moved, slenderly graceful. Heknew her mind was with the cook in the kitchen, but she found time toorder Keith crisply to wash his face and hands, time to gather flowersfor the center of the table from the front yard and to keep up a runningfire of talk with him and her father. More of the woman than in the dayswhen he had known her, perhaps less of the carefree maiden, she wasessentially unchanged, was what he might confidently have expected her tobe. Emerson Crawford was the same bluff, hearty Westerner, a friend totie to in sunshine and in storm. Even little Keith, just escaping fromhis baby ways, had the same tricks and mannerisms. Nothing was differentexcept himself. He had become arid and hard and bitter, he told himselfregretfully.
Keith was his slave, a faithful admirer whose eyes fed upon his herosteadily. He had heard the story of this young man's deeds discusseduntil Dave had come to take on almost mythical proportions.
He asked a question in an awed voice. "How did you get this Miller toconfess?"
The guest exchanged a glance with the host. "We had a talk with him."
"Did you--?"
"Oh, no! We just asked him if he didn't want to tell us all about it, andit seems he did."
"Maybe you touched his better feelin's," suggested Keith, with memoriesof an hour in Sunday School when his teacher had made a vain appeal tohis.
His father laughed. "Maybe we did. I noticed he was near blubberin'. Iexpect it's 'Adios, Senor Miller.' He's got two years more to serve, andafter that he'll have another nice long term to serve for robbin' thestage. All I wish is we'd done the job more thorough and sent somefriends of his along with him. Well, that's up to Applegate."
"I'm glad it is," said Joyce emphatically.
"Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?" asked the president of thatcompany.
"Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at thepost-office," Mi
ss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because ablush insisted on flowing into her cheeks. "He says it's the biggestthing he ever saw, but it's going to be awf'ly hard to control. Where_is_ that note? I must have put it somewhere."
Emerson's eyes flickered mischief. "Oh, well, never mind about the note.That's private property, I reckon."
"I'm sure if I can find it--"
"I'll bet my boots you cayn't, though," he teased.
"Dad! What will Mr. Sanders think? You know that's nonsense. Bob wrotebecause I asked him to let me know."
"Sure. Why wouldn't the secretary and field superintendent of the JackpotCompany keep the daughter of the president informed? I'll have it readinto the minutes of our next board meetin' that it's in his duties tokeep you posted."
"Oh, well, if you want to talk foolishness," she pouted.
"There's somethin' else I'm goin' to have put into the minutes of thenext meetin', Dave," Crawford went on. "And that's yore election astreasurer of the company. I want officers around me that I can trust,son."
"I don't know anything about finance or about bookkeeping," Dave said.
"You'll learn. We'll have a bookkeeper, of course. I want some one fortreasurer that's level-haided and knows how to make a quick turn when hehas to, some one that uses the gray stuff in his cocoanut. We'll fix asalary when we get goin'. You and Bob are goin' to have the activemanagement of this concern. Cattle's my line, an' I aim to stick to it.Him and you can talk it over and fix yore duties so's they won'tconflict. Burns, of course, will run the actual drillin'. He's an A1man. Don't let him go."
Dave was profoundly touched. No man could be kinder to his own son, couldshow more confidence in him, than Emerson Crawford was to one who had noclaims upon him.
He murmured a dry "Thank you"; then, feeling this to be inadequate,added, "I'll try to see you don't regret this."
The cattleman was a shrewd judge of men. His action now was not basedsolely upon humanitarian motives. Here was a keen man, quick-witted,steady, and wholly to be trusted, one certain to push himself to thefront. It was good business to make it worth his while to stick toCrawford's enterprises. He said as much to Dave bluntly.
"And you ain't in for any easy time either," he added. "We've got oil.We're flooded with it, so I hear. Seve-re-al thousand dollars' worth aday is runnin' off and seepin' into the desert. Bob Hart and Jed Burnshave got the job of puttin' the lid on the pot, but when they do thatyou've got a bigger job. Looks bigger to me, anyhow. You've got to getrid of that oil--find a market for it, sell it, ship it away to make roomfor more. Get busy, son." Crawford waved his hand after the manner of onewho has shifted a responsibility and does not expect to worry about it."Moreover an' likewise, we're shy of money to keep operatin' until we cansell the stuff. You'll have to raise scads of mazuma, son. In this oilgame dollars sure have got wings. No matter how tight yore pockets arebuttoned, they fly right out."
"I doubt whether you've chosen the right man," the ex-cowpuncher said,smiling faintly. "The most I ever borrowed in my life was twenty-fivedollars."
"You borrow twenty-five thousand the same way, only it's easier if theluck's breakin' right," the cattleman assured him cheerfully. "Theeasiest thing in the world to get hold of is money--when you've alreadygot lots of it."
"The trouble is we haven't."
"Well, you'll have to learn to look like you knew where it grew onbushes," Emerson told him, grinning.
"I can see you've chosen me for a nice lazy job."
"Anything but that, son. You don't want to make any mistake about thisthing. Brad Steelman's goin' to fight like a son-of-a-gun. He'll strikeat our credit and at our market and at our means of transportation. He'llfight twenty-four hours of the day, and he's the slickest, crookedestgray wolf that ever skulked over the range."
The foreman of the D Bar Lazy R came in after supper for a conferencewith his boss. He and Crawford got their heads together in thesitting-room and the young people gravitated out to the porch. Joycepressed Dave into service to help her water the roses, and Keith hungaround in order to be near Dave. Occasionally he asked questionsirrelevant to the conversation. These were embarrassing or not as ithappened.
Joyce delivered a little lecture on the culture of roses, not because sheconsidered herself an authority, but because her guest's conversation wasmostly of the monosyllabic order. He was not awkward or self-conscious;rather a man given to silence.
"Say, Mr. Sanders, how does it feel to be wounded?" Keith blurted out.
"You mustn't ask personal questions, Keith," his sister told him.
"Oh! Well, I already ast this one?" the boy suggested ingenuously.
"Don't know, Keith," answered the young man. "I never was really wounded.If you mean this scratch in the shoulder, I hardly felt it at all tillafterward."
"Golly! I'll bet I wouldn't tackle a feller shootin' at me the way thatMiller was at you," the youngster commented in naive admiration.
"Bedtime for li'l boys, Keith," his sister reminded him.
"Oh, lemme stay up a while longer," he begged.
Joyce was firm. She had schooled her impulses to resist the littlefellow's blandishments, but Dave noticed that she was affectionate evenin her refusal.
"I'll come up and say good-night after a while, Keithie," she promised asshe kissed him.
To the gaunt-faced man watching them she was the symbol of all most to bedesired in woman. She embodied youth, health, charm. She was life'sspringtime, its promise of fulfillment; yet already an immaculate Madonnain the beauty of her generous soul. He was young enough in his knowledgeof her sex to be unaware that nature often gives soft trout-pool eyes oftenderness to coquettes and wonderful hair with the lights and shadows ofan autumn-painted valley to giggling fools. Joyce was neither coquettenor fool. She was essential woman in the making, with all the faults andfine brave impulses of her years. Unconsciously, perhaps, she was showingher best side to her guest, as maidens have done to men since Eve firstsmiled on Adam.
Dave had closed his heart to love. It was to have no room in his life. Tohis morbid sensibilities the shadow of the prison walls still stretchedbetween him and Joyce. It did not matter that he was innocent, that allhis small world would soon know of his vindication. The fact stood. Foryears he had been shut away from men, a leprous thing labeled "Unclean!"He had dwelt in a place of furtive whisperings, of sinister sounds. Hisnostrils had inhaled the odor of musty clothes and steamed food. Hisfingers had touched moisture sweating through the walls, and in his smalldark cell he had hunted graybacks. The hopeless squalor of it at timeshad driven him almost mad. As he saw it now, his guilt was of minorimportance. If he had not fired the shot that killed George Doble, thatwas merely a chance detail. What counted against him was that his soulwas marked with the taint of the criminal through association and habitof thought. He could reason with this feeling and temporarily destroy it.He could drag it into the light and laugh it away. But subconsciously itpersisted as a horror from which he could not escape. A man cannot touchpitch, even against his own will, and not be defiled.
"You're Keith's hero, you know," the girl told Dave, her face bubblingto unexpected mirth. "He tries to walk and talk like you. He asks thequeerest questions. To-day I caught him diving at a pillow on the bed.He was making-believe to be you when you were shot."
Her nearness in the soft, shadowy night shook his self-control. The musicof her voice with its drawling intonations played on his heartstrings.
"Think I'll go now," he said abruptly.
"You must come again," she told him. "Keith wants you to teach him how torope. You won't mind, will you?"
The long lashes lifted innocently from the soft deep eyes, which restedin his for a moment and set clamoring a disturbance in his blood.
"I'll be right busy," he said awkwardly, bluntly.
She drew back within herself. "I'd forgotten how busy you are, Mr.Sanders. Of course we mustn't impose on you," she said, cold and stiff asonly offended youth can be.
Strid
ing into the night, Dave cursed the fate that had made him what hewas. He had hurt her boorishly by his curt refusal of her friendship. Yetthe heart inside him was a wild river of love.
Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West Page 26