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

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XX

  APPROACHING THE TRIBUNAL

  The sun was mounting royally in the eastern sky. There was not abreath of air to temper the rapidly heating atmosphere. The greengrassland rolled away on every hand, a fascinating, limitless plainwhose monotony drives men to deep-throated curses, and yet holds themto its bosom as surely as might a well-loved mistress. It was amorning when the heart of man should be stirred with the joy of life,when lungs expand with deep draughts of the earth's purest air, whenthe full, rich blood circulates with strong, virile pulsations, andthe power to do tingles in every nerve.

  It was no day on which a man, branded with the worst crime known to acattle country, should set out to face his fellow men. There shouldhave been darkening clouds on every horizon. There should have beendistant growlings of thunder, and every now and then the heavensshould have been "rent in twain with appalling floods of cruel light,"to match the hopeless gloom of outraged innocence.

  But the glorious summer day was there to mock, as is the way of thingsin a world where the struggles and disasters of humanity must becounted so infinitesimal.

  This was the morning when Jim Thorpe turned his stiffly squared backupon the "AZ" ranch. He wanted no melodramatic accompaniment. Hewanted the light, he wanted the cheering sun, he wanted that wealthof natural splendor, which the Western prairie can so amply afford,to lighten the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon him.

  It was another of Fate's little tricks that had been aimed at him,another side of that unfortunate destiny which seemed to be everdogging him. Well might he have cried out, "How long? How long?"Whatever the fates had done for him in the past, whatever hisdisappointments, whatever his disasters, crime had found no place inthe accusations against him. It almost seemed as though his destinywas working its heartless pranks upon him with ever-growingdevilishness.

  With subtle foresight, and knowledge of its victim it timed itsefforts carefully, and directed them on a course that could hurt hisspirit most. Even when his inclinations, his sensibilities were attheir highest pitch, down came the bolt with unerring aim, and surelyin the very direction which, at the moment, could drive him thehardest, could bow his head the lowest.

  Four years in the cattle world had ingrained in him the instincts of atraffic which possesses a wholesome appeal to all that is most manlyin men. Four years had taught him to abhor crime against that trafficin a way that was almost as fanatical as it was in such men as McLaganand those actually bred to it. He was no exception. He had caught thefever; and the cattleman's fever is not easily shaken off. As McLaganwould show no mercy to his own brother were he a proven cattle-thief,so Jim loathed the crime in little less degree. And he was about toface the world, his world, branded with that crime.

  It was a terrible thought, a hideous thought, and, in spite of hissquared shoulders, his stiffened back, his spirit, for the time, wascrushed under the burden so unjustly thrust upon him. He thought ofPeter Blunt, and wondered vaguely what he would say. He wondered whatwould be the look in the kindly gray eyes when he spoke the words ofcomfort and disbelief which he knew would await him. That was it. Thelook. It was the thought behind the words that mattered--and could sohurt.

  As the miles swept away under his horse's raking stride, he tried topuzzle out the riddle, or the "nut" he had set out to crack, asMcLagan had been pleased to call it. He could see no explanation ofit. Why his brand? He knew well enough that cattle rustlers preferredto use established brands of distant ranches when it was necessary tohold stolen cattle in hiding before deporting them from the district.But _his_ brand. It was absurd from a rustler's point of view.Everybody knew his small bunch of cattle. Any excessive number withhis brand on would excite suspicion. It was surely, as he had said,the work of a prentice hand. No experienced thief would have done it.

  He thought and thought, but he could see no gleam of light on thematter.

  As the miles were covered he still floundered in a maze of speculationthat seemed to lead him nowhither. But his efforts helped himunconsciously. It kept his mind from brooding on the disaster tohimself, and, to a man of his sensibilities, this was healthy. He hadall the grit to face his fellow men in self-defense, but, to his proudnature, it was difficult to stand up under the knowledge of a disgracewhich was not his due.

  He was within a few miles of Barnriff when his mind suddenly lurchedinto a fresh channel of thought. With that roving, groping after aclue to the crime of which he was morally accused, Eve suddenly grewinto his focus. He thought with a shudder what it would have meant toher had she married him instead of Will. He tried to picture her braveface, while she writhed under the taunts of her sex, and the meaningglances of the men-folk. It was a terrible picture, and one thatbrought beads of perspiration to his brow.

  It was a lucky--yes, in spite of Will's defections--thing for her shehad married the man she did. Besides, Will had mended his ways. He hadkept to the judgment that Peter Blunt had passed on him. Well, hewould have the laugh now.

  Then there was Will's success. Everything had gone his way. Fortunehad showered her best on him, whether he deserved it or not. Sheapparently found no fault in him. And they said he was turning outthousands of dollars. But there, it was no use thinking and wondering.The luck had all gone Will's way. It was hard--devilish hard.

  Poor Eve! He caught himself pitying her. No, he had no right to pityher. The pity would have been had she married him. And yet--perhapsthis would never have happened had she married him. No, he toldhimself, it would never, could never have happened then. For, in thefact of having won her, would not his luck have been the reverse ofwhat it was?

  Suddenly he wondered what she would think when he told her--or whenothers told her, as, doubtless by this time, they had already done. Heshuddered. She was in a cattle country. She was ingrained with allits instincts. Would she condemn him without a hearing? When he wentto speak to her, would she turn from him as from something unclean?Again the sweat broke out at his thought. She might. The facts weredeadly against him. And yet--and yet somehow---- No, he dared notspeculate; he must wait.

  There was the humble little village on ahead of him, nestling likesome tiny boat amidst the vast rollers of the prairie ocean. There,ahead, were his judges, and amongst them the woman who was still moreto him than his very life. He must face them, face them all. And whentheir verdict was pronounced, as he knew it would be in no uncertainmanner, then, with girded loins, he must stand out, and, conscious ofhis innocence, fight the great battle. It was the world--hisworld--against him, he knew. What--what must be the result?