The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER XVII

  HERTHA CARLSON

  Swan Carlson or his woman was running a band of sheep very close tothe border of Tim Sullivan's lease. All afternoon Mackenzie had heardthe plaint of lambs; they had lifted their wavering chorus all duringJoan's lesson, giving her great concern that Carlson designedattempting a trespass on her father's land.

  Joan had come shortly after Reid's unexplained departure, and had goneback to her flock again uninformed of Reid's criminal career.Mackenzie felt that he did not need the record of his rival to holdJoan out of his hands. The world had changed around for him amazinglyin the past few days. Where the sheeplands had promised little for himbut a hard apprenticeship and doubtful rewards a little while ago,they now showered him with unexpected blessings.

  He ruminated pleasantly on this sudden coming round the corner intothe fields of romance as he went to the top of the hill at sunset tosee what Swan Carlson was about. Over in the next valley there spreada handful of sheep, which the shepherd was ranging back to camp.Mackenzie could not make sure at that distance whether the keeper waswoman or man.

  Reid had not returned when Mackenzie plodded into camp at dusk. Hisabsence was more welcome, in truth, than his company; Mackenzie hopedhe would sulk a long time and stay away until he got his course inthe sheep country plainly before his eyes. If he stayed his threeyears there it would be on account of sheep, and whatever he might winin his father's good graces by his fidelity. Joan was not to figurethenceforward in any of his schemes.

  Three years on the sheep range with no prospect of Joan! That was whatReid had ahead of him now.

  "I think I'd take mine in the pen," Mackenzie said, leaning back tocomfort with his pipe. Night came down; the dogs lay at his feet,noses on forepaws. Below him the sheep were still. So, for a longtime, submerged in dreams.

  One of the dogs lifted its head, its bristles rising, a low growl inits throat. The other rose cautiously, walking away crouching, withhigh-lifted feet. Mackenzie listened, catching no noise to account fortheir alarm. A little while, and the sound of Hertha Carlson's singingrose from the hill behind him, her song the same, the doleful qualityof its air unmodified.

  _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone, He promise na-fer to leafe me, Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_

  "Strange how she runs on that," Mackenzie muttered, listening for herto repeat, as he had heard her the night her singing guided him to hermelancholy door. A little nearer now the song sounded, the notesbroken as if the singer walked, stumbling at times, so much sadness init, so much longing, such unutterable hopelessness as to wring thelistener's heart.

  Swan was beating her again, neglecting her, subjecting her to thecruelties of his savage mind; there was no need for the woman to comenearer to tell him that. Only grief for which there was no comfort,despair in which there was no hope, could tune a human note to thateloquent expression of pain. Perhaps she was wandering in the nightnow for the solace of weariness, pouring out the three lines of hersong in what seemed the bitterness of accusation for a promiseunfulfilled.

  The dogs came back to Mackenzie's side, where they sat with earslifted, but with no expression of hostility or alarm in their bearingnow. They were only curious, as their master was curious, waiting tosee if the wandering singer would come on into camp.

  There was no glow of lantern to guide her, and no moon, but she camestraight for where Mackenzie sat. A little way off she stopped.

  "Hello!" she hailed, as if uncertain of her welcome.

  Mackenzie requested her to come on, lighting the lantern which he hadready to hand. Mrs. Carlson hesitated, drawing back a little when shesaw his face.

  "I thought it was Earl," she said.

  "Earl's not here tonight. Sit down and rest yourself, Mrs. Carlson.You don't remember me?"

  "I remember. You are the man who cut my chain."

  "I thought you'd forgotten me."

  "No, I do not forget so soon. A long time I wanted to kill you for theblow you gave Swan that night."

  "As long as Swan was good to you," said he, "of course you would. Howdo you feel about it now?"

  "I only cry now because he did not die. He was different a littlewhile after he got well, but again he forgets. He beats me; he leavesme alone with the sheep."

  "I knew he was beating you again," Mackenzie nodded, confirming hisspeculation of a little while before.

  "Sheep!" said she. "Swan thinks only of sheep; he is worse since hebought Hall's flock. It is more than I can endure!"

  Mrs. Carlson was worried and worn, fast losing all she had gained inflesh and color during Swan's period of kindness when she had thrownherself into his wild ways and ridden the range like a fighting womanat his side. Much of her comeliness remained in her sad face andgreat, luminous, appealing eyes, for it was the comeliness ofmelancholy which sorrow and hard usage refined. She would carry hergrace with her, and the pale shred of her youthful beauty, down to thelast hard day. But it was something that Swan was insensible to; itcould not soften his hand toward her, nor bend his wild thoughts togentleness. Now he had denied her again the little share he hadgranted her in his wild life, and must break the thing he had made,going his morose way alone.

  "I hadn't heard he'd bought Hall's sheep," Mackenzie said. "Is hegoing to run them on this range?"

  "No, he says I shall go there, where the wolves are many and bold,even by daylight, to watch over them. There I would be more alone thanhere. I cannot go, I cannot go! Let him kill me, but I will not go!"

  "He's got a right to hire a man to run them; he can afford it."

  "His money grows like thistles. Where Swan touches the earth with theseed of it, money springs. Money is a disease that he spreads when hewalks, like the scales that fall from a leper. Money! I pray God nightand day that a plague will sweep away his flocks, that a thief willfind his hiding place, that a fire will burn the bank that locks inhis gold, and make him poor. Poor, he would be kind. A man's proudheart bends down when he is poor."

  "God help you!" said Mackenzie, pitying her from the well of histender heart.

  "God is deaf; he cannot hear!" she said, bitter, hopeless, yetrebellious against the silence of heaven and earth that she could notpenetrate with her lamentations and bring relief.

  "No, you shouldn't let yourself believe any such thing," he chided,yet with a gentleness that was almost an encouragement.

  "This land is a vacuum, out of which sound cannot reach him, then,"she sighed, bending her sad head upon her hands. "I have cried out tohim in a sorrow that would move a stone on the mountain-side, but Godhas not heard. Yes, it must be that this land is a vacuum, such as Iread of when I was a girl in school. Maybe--" looking up with eagerhopefulness--"if I go out of it a little way, just on the edge of itand pray, God will be able to hear my voice?"

  "Here, as well as anywhere," he said, moved by her strange fancy, bythe hunger of her voice and face.

  "Then it is because there is a curse on me--the curse of Swan's money,of his evil ways!" She sprang up, stretching her long arms wildly. "Iwill pray no more, no more!" she cried. "I will curse God, I willcurse him as Job cursed him, and fling myself from the rocks anddie!"

  Mackenzie was on his feet beside her, his hand on her shoulder as ifhe would stay her mad intention.

  "No, no!" he said, shocked by the boldness of her declaration. "Yourtroubles are hard enough to bear--don't thicken them with talk likethis."

  She looked at him blankly, as if she did not comprehend, as though herreason had spent itself in this rebellious outbreak against the unseenforces of her sad destiny.

  "Where is your woman?" she asked.

  "I haven't any woman."

  "I thought she was your woman, but if she is not, Swan can have her.Swan can have her, then; I do not care now any more. Swan wants her,he speaks of her in the night. Maybe when he takes her he will set mefree."

  Mrs. Carlson sat again near the lantern, curling her legs beneath herwith the facility of a do
g, due to long usage of them in that manner,Mackenzie believed, when chained to the wall in her lonely house amongthe trees. Mackenzie stood a little while watching her as she sat,chin in her hands, pensive and sad. Presently he sat near her.

  "Where is Swan tonight?" he asked.

  "Drinking whisky beside the wagon with Hector Hall. They will notfight. No."

  "No," he echoed, abstractedly, making a mental picture of Carlson andHall beside the sheep-wagon, the light of a lantern on their faces,cards in their fists, a jug of whisky in the middle ground withinreach from either hand. It was such diversion as Swan Carlson wouldenjoy, the night around him as black as the shadows of his own deadsoul.

  "Earl did not come to me this night," she said, complaining in sadnote. "He promised he would come."

  "Has he been going over there to see you?" Mackenzie asked, resentfulof any advantage Reid might be seeking over this half-mad creature.

  "He makes love to me when Swan is away," she said, nodding slowly,looking up with serious eyes. "But it is only false love; there is alie in his eyes."

  "You're right about that," Mackenzie said, letting go a sigh ofrelief.

  "He tries to flatter me to tell him where Swan hides the money hebrought from the bank," she said, slowly, wearily, "but him I do nottrust. When I ask him to do what must first be done to make me free,he will not speak, but goes away, pale, pale, like a frightenedgirl."

  "You'd better tell him to stay away," Mackenzie counseled, his voicestern and hard.

  "But you would not do that," she continued, heedless of hisadmonition. She leaned toward him, her great eyes shining in thelight, her face eager in its sorrowful comeliness; she put out herhand and touched his arm.

  "You are a brave man, you would not turn white and go away into thenight like a wolf to hear me speak of that. Hush! hush! No, no--thereis no one to hear."

  She looked round with fearful eyes, crouching closer to the ground,her breath drawn in long labor, her hand tightening on his arm.Mackenzie felt a shudder sweep coldly over him, moved by the tragedyher attitude suggested.

  "Hush!" she whispered, hand to her mouth. And again, leaning andpeering: "Hush!" She raised her face to him, a great eagerness in herburning eyes. "Kill him, kill Swan Carlson, kind young man, and set mefree again! You have no woman? I will be your woman. Kill him, andtake me away!"

  "You don't have to kill Swan to get away from him," he told her, thetragedy dying out of the moment, leaving only pity in its place. "Youcan go on tonight--you never need to go back."

  Hertha came nearer, scrambling to him with sudden movement on herknees, put her arm about his neck before he could read her intentionor repel her, and whispered in his ear:

  "I know where Swan hides the money--I can lead you to the place. Killhim, good man, and we will take it and go far away from this unhappyland. I will be your woman, faithful and true."

  "I couldn't do that," he said gently, as if to humor her; "I couldn'tleave my sheep."

  "Sheep, sheep!" said she, bitterly. "It is all in the world men thinkof in this land--sheep! A woman is nothing to them when there aresheep! Swan forgets, sheep make him forget. If he had no sheep, hewould be a kind man to me again. Swan forgets, he forgets!"

  She bent forward, looking at the lantern as if drawn by the blaze,her great eyes bright as a deer's when it stands fascinated by atorchlight a moment before bounding away.

  "Swan forgets, Swan forgets!" she murmured, her staring eyes on thelight. She rocked herself from side to side, and "Swan forgets, Swanforgets!" she murmured, like the burden of a lullaby.

  "Where is your camp?" Mackenzie asked her, thinking he must take herhome.

  Hertha did not reply. For a long time she sat leaning, staring at thelantern. One of the dogs approached her, bristles raised in fear,creeping with stealthy movement, feet lifted high, stretched its neckto sniff her, fearfully, backed away, and composed itself to rest. Butnow and again it lifted its head to sniff the scent that came fromthis strange being, and which it could not analyze for good or ill.Mackenzie marked its troubled perplexity, almost as much at sea in hisown reckoning of her as the dog.

  "No, I could not show you the money and go away with you leaving Swanliving behind," she said at last, as if she had decided it finally inher mind. "That I have told Earl Reid. Swan would follow me to theedge of the world; he would strangle my neck between his hands andthrow me down dead at his feet."

  "He'd have a right to if you did him that kind of a trick," Mackenziesaid.

  "Earl Reid comes with promises," she said, unmindful of Mackenzie; "hesits close by me in the dark, he holds me by the hand. But kiss me Iwill not permit; that yet belongs to Swan." She looked up, sweepingMackenzie with her appealing eyes. "But if you would kill him, thenmy lips would be hot for your kiss, brave man--I would bend down anddraw your soul into mine through a long, long kiss!"

  "Hush!" Mackenzie commanded, sternly. "Such thoughts belong to Swan,as much as the other. Don't talk that way to me--I don't want to hearany more of it."

  Hertha sat looking at him, that cast of dull hopelessness in her faceagain, the light dead in her eyes.

  "There are strange noises that I hear in the night," she said,woefully; "there is a dead child that never drew breath pressedagainst my heart."

  "You'd better go back to your wagon," he suggested, getting to hisfeet.

  "There is no wagon, only a canvas spread over the brushes, where I lielike a wolf in a hollow. A beast I am become, among the beasts of thefield!"

  "Come--I'll go with you," he offered, holding out his hand to lifther.

  She did not seem to notice him, but sat stroking her face as if toease a pain out of it, or open the fount of her tears which muchweeping must have drained long, long ago.

  Mackenzie believed she was going insane, in the slow-preying, broodingway of those who are not strong enough to withstand the cruelties ofsilence and loneliness on the range.

  "Where is your woman?" she asked again, lifting her face suddenly.

  "I have no woman," he told her, gently, in great pity for her cruelburden under which she was so unmistakably breaking.

  "I remember, you told me you had no woman. A man should have a woman;he goes crazy of the lonesomeness on the sheep range without awoman."

  "Will Swan be over tomorrow?" Mackenzie asked, thinking to take hercase up with the harsh and savage man and see if he could not be movedto sending her away.

  "I do not know," she returned coldly, her manner changing like acapricious wind. She rose as she spoke, and walked away, disappearingalmost at once in the darkness.

  Mackenzie stood looking the way she went, listening for the sound ofher going, but she passed so surely among the shrubs and over theuneven ground that no noise attended her. It was as though her failingmind had sharpened her with animal caution, or that instinct had comeforward in her to take the place of wit, and serve as her protectionagainst dangers which her faculties might no longer safeguard.

  Even the dogs seemed to know of her affliction, as wild beasts arebelieved by some to know and accept on a common plane the dementedamong men. They knew at once that she was not going to harm the sheep.When she left camp they stretched themselves with contented sighs totheir repose.

  And that was "the lonesomeness" as they spoke of it there. A dreadfulaffliction, a corrosive poison that gnawed the heart hollow, for whichthere was no cure but comradeship or flight. Poor Hertha Carlson wasdenied both remedies; she would break in a little while now, and runmad over the hills, her beautiful hair streaming in the wind.

  And Reid had it; already it had struck deep into his soul, turning himmorose, wickedly vindictive, making him hungry with an unholy ambitionto slay. Joan must have suffered from the same disorder. It was not somuch a desire in her to see what lay beyond the blue curtain of thehills as a longing for companionship among them.

  But Joan would put away her unrest; she had found a cure for thelonesomeness. Her last word to him that day was that she did not wantto leave the sheep r
ange now; that she would stay while he remained,and fare as he fared.

  Rachel must have suffered from the lonesomeness, ranging her sheepover the Mesopotamian plain; Jacob had it when he felt his heartdissolve in tears at the sight of his kinswoman beside the well ofHaran. But Joan was safe from it now; its insidious poison wouldcorrode in her heart no more.

  Poor Hertha Carlson, deserving better than fate had given her withsheep-mad Swan! She could not reason without violence any longer, sooften she had been subjected to its pain.

  "It will be a thousand wonders if she doesn't kill him herself,"Mackenzie said, sitting down with new thoughts.

  The news of Swan's buying Hall out was important and unexpected. Freeto leave the country now, Hall very likely would be coming over tobalance accounts. There was his old score against Mackenzie for hishumiliation at the hands of the apprentice sheepherder, whichdoubtless had grown more bitter day by day; and there was his doubleaccount against Reid and Mackenzie for the loss of his sheep-killingbrother. Mackenzie hoped that he would go away and let matters standas they were.

  And Swan. It had not been all a jest, then, when he proposed tradinghis woman for Mackenzie's. What a wild, irresponsible, sheep-mad manhe was! But he hardly would attempt any violence toward Joan, eventhough he "spoke of her in the night."

  From Carlson, Mackenzie's thoughts ran out after Reid. Contempt rosein him, and deepened as he thought of the mink-faced youth carryinghis deceptive poison into the wild Norseman's camp. But insane as shewas, racked by the lonesomeness to be away from that unkindly land,Hertha Carlson remained woman enough to set a barrier up that Reid,sneak that he was, could not cross.

  What a condition she had made, indeed! Nothing would beguile her fromit; only its fulfilment would bend her to yield to his importunities.It was a shocking mess that Reid had set for himself to drink someday, for Swan Carlson would come upon them in their hand-holding inhis hour, as certainly as doom.

  And there was the picture of the red-haired giant of the sheeplandsand that flat-chested, sharp-faced youth drinking beside thesheep-wagon in the night. There was Swan, lofty, cold, unbending;there was Reid, the craft, the knowledge of the world's under placeswritten on his brow, the deceit that he practiced against his hosthidden away in his breast.

  Mackenzie sighed, putting it from him like a nightmare that calls aman from his sleep by its false peril, wringing sweat from him in itsagony. Let them bind in drink and sever in blood, for all that hecared. It was nothing to him, any way they might combine or clash.Joan was his; that was enough to fill his world.