The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

by Ridgwell Cullum

  THE ONE-WAY TRAIL

  CHAPTER I

  A GENTLEMAN RANKER

  Dan McLagan shifted his cigar, and his face lit with a grin ofsatisfaction.

  "Seventy-five per cent. of calves," he murmured, glancing out at thesunlit yards. "Say, it's been an elegant round-up." Then hisenthusiasm rose and found expression. "It's the finest, luckiest ranchin Montana--in the country. Guess I'd be within my rights if I said'in the world.' I can't say more."

  "No."

  The quiet monosyllable brought the rancher down to earth. He lookedround at his companion with an inquiring glance.

  "Eh?"

  But Jim Thorpe had no further comment to offer.

  The two were sitting in the foreman's cabin, a small but roughlycomfortable split-log hut, where elegance and tidiness had place onlyin the more delicate moments of its occupant's retrospectiveimagination. Its furnishing belonged to the fashion of the prevailingindustry, and had in its manufacture the utilitarian methods of theWestern plains, rather than the more skilled workmanship of thefurniture used in civilization. Thus, the bed was a stretchersupported on two packing-cases, the table had four solid legs that hadonce formed the sides of a third packing-case, while the cupboard,full of cattle medicines, was the reconstructed portions of a fourthpacking-case.

  The collected art on the walls consisted of two rareties. One was atorn print of a woman's figure, classically indecent with regard toapparel; and the other was a fly-disfigured portrait of a sweet-facedold lady, whose refinement and dignity of expression suggestedsurroundings of a far more delicate nature than those in which she nowfound herself. Besides these, a brace of ivory-butted revolvers servedto ornament the wall at the head of the bed. And a stack of five orsix repeating rifles littered an adjacent corner.

  It was a man's abode, and the very simplicity of it, the lack of cheapornamentation, the carelessness of self in it, suggested a great dealof the occupant's character. Jim Thorpe cared as little for creaturecomforts as only a healthy-minded, healthy-bodied man, who has tastedof the best and passed the dish--or has had it snatched from him--willsometimes care. His thoughts were of the moment. He dared not lookbehind him; and ahead?--well, as yet, he had no desire to think toofar ahead.

  The ranch owner was sitting on the side of the stretcher, and JimThorpe, his foreman, stood leaning against the table. McLagan's Irishface, his squat figure and powerful head were a combination suggestingtremendous energy and determination, rather than any great mentalpower, and in this he strongly contrasted with the refined, thoughtfulface of his foreman.

  But then, in almost every characteristic the Irishman differed fromhis employee. While Jim's word was never questioned even by theveriest sceptic of the plains, McLagan was notoriously the greatest,most optimistic liar in the state of Montana. A reputation thatrequired some niceness of proficiency to retain.

  McLagan's ranch was known as the "AZ's." It was a brand selected toilluminate his opinion of his own undertakings. He said that his ranchmust be the beginning and end of all things in the cattle world, andhe was proud of the ingenuity in his selection of a brand. The lesscultured folk, who, perhaps, had more humor than respect for theIrishman, found his brand tripped much more easily off the tongue byreplacing the Z with an S, and invariably using the plural.

  "Say, Jim," the rancher went on, buoyed with his own enthusiasm, "it'sbeen a great round-up. Seventy-five per cent. Bully! I'll open out myscheme. Listen. Ther's Donagh's land buttin' on us. Thirty sections.They got stations for 10,000 head of stock. We'll buy 'em right out ofbusiness. See? I'm goin' to turn those stations into double. Thatslice of land will carry me backing right up into the foot-hills,which means shelter for my stock in winter. See? Then I'll rent off adozen or more homesteads for a supply of grain and hay. You know Ihate to blow hot air around, but I say right here I'm going to helpmyself to a mighty big cinch on Montana, and then--why, I'll lay righton the heels of Congress."

  He looked for approval into the bronzed face of his companion. ButThorpe hesitated, while a shadowy smile lurked in his clear, darkeyes.

  "That's so," he observed, with a suspicious quietness.

  "Sure," added the other, to clinch what he believed to be hiscompanion's approval.

  "And then?"

  The rancher stirred uneasily. The tone of Thorpe's inquiry suggesteddoubt.

  "And then?" McLagan repeated uncertainly.

  "Why, when you've got all this, and you're the biggest producer in thecountry, the beef folk in Chicago 'll beat you down to their price,and the automobile folk will cut the ground clear from under yourhorses' feet. You won't hit Congress, because you won't have thedollars to buy your graft with. Then, when you're left with nothing toround-up but a bunch of gophers, the government will come along andhave you seen to."

  The Irishman's face grew scarlet, and he began to splutter, but JimThorpe went on mercilessly.

  "Cut it out, boss. We're cattlemen, both of us. You've grown up tocattle, and I--well, I've acquired the habit, I guess. But cut it out,and put your change into automobiles. They aren't things to breedwith, I guess. But I'd say they'd raise a dust there's more dollars inthan there's beans in our supper hash."

  The rancher's swift anger had gone. He shook his head, and his hard,blue eyes stared out through the doorway at the busy life beyond. Hecould see the lines of buildings packed close together, as thoughhuddling up for companionship in that wide, lonesome world of grass.He could see the acres and acres of corrals, outlying, a rampart tothe ranch buildings. Then, beyond that, the barbed wire fencing, milesand miles of it. He could see horsemen moving about, engaged upontheir day's work. He could hear the lowing of the cattle in thecorrals. As Thorpe had said, he had grown up to cattle. Cattle andhorses were his life.

  He was rich now. This was all his. He was growing richer every year,and--Thorpe was prophesying the slump, the end. He couldn't believeit, or rather he wouldn't believe it. And he turned with a fierceexpression of blind loyalty to his calling.

  "To h---- with automobiles! It's cattle for me. Cattle or bust!"

  Thorpe shook his head.

  "There's no alternative, boss. I can see it all coming. Everybody can--ifthey look. There's nothing between grain farming and--automobiles. Theland here is too rich to waste on cattle. There's plenty other landelsewhere that'll feed stock, but wouldn't raise a carrot. Psha! Therewon't be need for horses to plough, or even haul grain; and you've got15,000 head. It'll be all automobiles!"

  "I'd 'scrap' the lot!" added the Irishman, briefly and feelingly. Thenhe glanced at his companion out of the tail of his eye. "I s'pose it'syour education, boy. That's what's wrong with you. Your head's runningwheels. You come into cattle too late. You've got city doings downyour backbone, and I guess you need weeding bad. Say, you're a WestPoint man, ain't you?"

  Thorpe seemed to shrink at the question. He turned aside, and his eyesrested for a moment on the portrait nailed upon his wall. It was onlyfor a moment his dark eyes encountered the tender old eyes that lookedout at him from the faded picture. Then he looked again at the ownerof the "AZ's," and gave him a smiling nod.

  "Sure, boss. I intended to go into the engineers."

  "Ah--wheels."

  "You see, we've all been soldiers, since way back when my folks cameover with the first lot from England. Guess I'm the first--backslider."

  "Nope. You ain't a backslider, Jim Thorpe. I sure wouldn't say that.Not on my life. Guess you're the victim of a cow-headed governmentthat reckons to make soldiers by arithmetic, an' wastin' ink makin'fool answers to a sight more fool questions. Gee, when I hit Congress,I'll make some one holler 'help.'"

  The foreman's smile broadened.

  "'Twasn't exams, boss," he said quietly. "I'd got a cinch on them, andthey were mostly past cutting any ice with me. It was--well, it don'tmatter now." He paused, and his eyes settled again on the portrait.The Irishman waited, and presently Jim turned from the picture, andhis quizzical smile encountered the hard blue eyes of the other.

&
nbsp; "You said just now my head was full of wheels," he began, with ahumorous light in his eyes that was yet not without sadness. "Maybe itis--maybe it has reason to be. You see, it was an automobile thatfinished my career at West Point. My mother came by her death in one.An accident. Automobiles were immature then--and--well, her incomedied with her, and I had to quit and hustle in a new direction.Curiously enough I went into the works of an automobile enterprise.I--I hated the things, but they fascinated me. I made good there, andgot together a fat wad of bills, which was useful seeing I had myyoung cousin's--you know, young Will Henderson, of Barnriff; he's atrapper now--education on my hands. Just as things were good anddollars were coming plenty the enterprise bust. I was out--plumb out.I hunched up for another kick. I had a dandy patent that was to do bigthings. I got together a syndicate to run it. I'd got a big car builtto demonstrate my patent, and it represented all I had in the world.It was to be on the race-track. Say, she didn't demonstrate worth acent. My syndicate jibbed, and I--well, here I am, a cattleman--yousee cattle haven't the speed of automobiles, but they mostly do what'sexpected. That's my yarn, boss. You didn't know much of me. It's not agreat yarn as life goes. Mostly ordinary. But there's a deal of lifein it, in its way. There's a pile of hope busted, and hope bustedisn't a pleasant thing. Makes you think a deal. However, WillHenderson and I--we can't kick a lot when you look around. I'm earninga good wage, and I've got a tidy job--that don't look like quitting.And Will--he's netting eighty a month out of his pelts. After allthings don't much count, do they? Fifty or sixty years hence ourdoings won't cut any ice. We're down, out, and nature shuts outmemory. That's the best of it. We shan't know anything. We'll haveforgotten everything we ever did know. We shan't be haunted by the'might-have-beens'. We shall have no regrets. It'll just be sleep, along, long sleep--and forgetfulness. And then--ah, well, boss, I'myarning a heap, and the boys are out on the fences with no one to seethey're not shooting 'craps.'"

  The rancher turned to the door.

  "I'm going out to the fences meself," he said, shortly. Then he wenton: "There's a dozen an' more three-year-olds in the corrals needsbustin'. You best set two o' the boys on 'em. Ther's a black mareamong 'em. I'll get you to handle her yourself. I'm goin' to ride her,an' don't want no fool broncho-buster tearing her mouth out."

  "Right-ho, boss." Jim was smiling happily at the man's broad back ashe stood facing out of the door. "But, if you've half a minute, I'vegot something else to get through me."

  "Eh?" McLagan turned. His Irish face was alight with sudden interest."Guess I ain't busy fer ten minutes."

  "That's more than enough," said Jim, readily. "It's about that land Iwas speaking to you of the other day. I told you those things aboutmyself--because of that. As I said, you didn't know much of me, exceptmy work for you."

  McLagan nodded, and chewed the end of his cigar. His keen eyes werestudying the other's face. At last he removed his cigar, and spat outa bit of tobacco leaf.

  "I know all I need to," he said cordially. "The proposition was onehundred and sixty acres for a homestead, with grazin' rights. You wanta lease. Gettin' married?"

  "It might happen that way," grinned the foreman somewhat sheepishly.

  "Found the leddy?"

  Jim nodded.

  "Marryin's a fool game anyway."

  "That's as maybe."

  McLagan shrugged.

  "Guess I don't want wimmin-folk in mine. You're goin' to hold yourjob?"

  "Sure. You see, boss----" Jim began to explain.

  But McLagan broke in.

  "You can have it for rent, boy," he said. "It suits me, if you don'tmean quittin'."

  "I don't mean quitting," said Jim. "I'm going to run it with a hiredman. Y'see I've got one hundred and fifty stock and a bit saved forbuilding. When I get married my wife'll see to things some. See thework is done while I'm here."

  McLagan grinned and nodded.

  "Guess you didn't seem like gettin' married jest now, talkin' of thosethings. You kind o' seemed 'down' some."

  Jim's eyes became thoughtful.

  "Makes you feel 'down' when you get remembering some things," he said."Y'see it makes you wonder what the future feels like doing in the wayof kicks. Things are going good about now, and--and I want 'em to keepon going good."

  McLagan laughed boisterously.

  "You've sure jest got to play hard to-day, let the future worry feritself. Well, so long. I'll hand you the papers when you've selectedthe ground, boy. An' don't forget the black mare."

  He left the hut and Jim watched him stumping busily away across to thebig barn where the saddle horses were kept. His eyes were smiling ashe looked after him. He liked Dan McLagan. His volcanic temper; hisimmoderate manner of expression suggested an open enough disposition,and he liked men to be like that.

  But his smile was at the thought that somehow he had managed to makehis "boss" think that extreme caution was one of his characteristics.Yes, it made him smile. If such had been the case many things in thepast, many disasters might have been averted.

  As a matter of fact he had been thinking of the woman he hoped to makehis wife. He was wondering if he had a reasonable prospect of helpingher to all the comfort in life she deserved. He took an ultra seriousview of matrimonial responsibilities. Eve must have a good, amplehome. She must have nothing to worry, none of little petty economiesto study which make life so burdensome. Yes, they must start withthat, and then, with luck, their stock would grow, he would buy moreland, and finally she would be able to hold her place with the wivesof all the richest ranchers in the district. That was what he wantedfor her when they were married.

  When they were married. Suddenly he laughed. He had not asked her yet.Still---- His eyes grew gloomy. His thoughts turned to another man, hiscousin, Will Henderson. He knew that Will liked Eve Marsham. It wasthe one cloud upon his horizon. Will was younger than he by a gooddeal. He was handsome, too. Eve liked him. Yes, she liked him, he wassure. But somehow he did not associate marriage with Will. Well,--itwas no good seeking trouble.

  He pushed his thoughts aside and stood up. But the cloud upon his darkface was not so easily got rid of. How could it be? for Eve Marshammeant the whole world to him.

  He moved toward the door, and as he looked out at the sunlit yards hestarted. A horseman had just come into view round the corner of one ofthe barns. But though his smile was lacking when the man came up anddrew rein at his door, there was no mistaking the kindly cordiality ofhis greeting as he held out his hand.

  "Why, Will," he cried, "I'm real glad you've come along."