The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER XXI

  TIM SULLIVAN BREAKS A CONTRACT

  "And that will be the end of it," said Tim Sullivan, finality in histone, his face stern, his manner severe. "I've passed my word to oldMalcolm that you'll have his boy, and have him you will."

  "Boy!" said Joan.

  "In experience he's no lad, and I'm glad you've discovered it," saidTim, warming a little, speaking with more softness, not withoutadmiration for her penetration. "He'll be the better able to lookafter you, and see they don't get his money away from him like somesimpleton."

  "Oh, they'll get it, all right."

  Tim had arrived that morning from a near-by camp as Joan was about toset out for Dad Frazer's. From his way of plunging abruptly into thismatter, which he never had discussed with her before, and hissharpness and apparent displeasure with her, Joan knew that he hadseen Reid overnight. They were beside the sheep-wagon, to a wheel ofwhich Joan's horse was tied, all saddled and ready to mount. The sunwas already high, for Joan had helped Charley range the flock out forits day's grazing, and had put all things to rights in the camp,anxious as her mind was over Mackenzie's state.

  "I'll not have you treat the lad like a beggar come to ask of you,Joan; I'll not have it at all. Be civil with him; use him kindly whenhe speaks."

  "He's a thousand years older than I am; he knows things that you neverheard of."

  "Somebody's been whisperin' slanders of him in your ear. He's a finelad, able to hold his own among men, take 'em where they're found.Don't you heed what the jealous say about the boy, Joan; don't you letit move you at all."

  "I wouldn't have him if he brought his million in a wheelbarrow anddumped it at my feet."

  "It's not a million, as I hear it," Tim corrected, mildly, even a bitthoughtfully, "not more nor a half."

  "Then he's only half as desirable," smiled Joan, the little gleam ofhumor striking into her gloomy hour like a sudden ray of sun.

  "You'd run sheep till you was bent and gray, and the rheumatiz'got set in your j'ints, me gerrel, before you'd win to the half ofhalf a million. Here it comes to you while you're young, with thekeenness to relish it and the free hand to spend the interest offof it, and sail over the seas and see the world you're longin' toknow and understand."

  Joan's hat hung on the saddle-horn, the morning wind was trifling withlight breath in her soft, wave-rippled hair. Her brilliant necktie hadbeen put aside for one of narrower span and more sober hue, a bluewith white dots. The free ends of it blew round to her shoulder, wherethey lay a moment before fluttering off to brush her cheek, as if todraw by this slight friction some of the color back into it that thistroubled interview had drained away.

  She stood with her head high, her chin lifted, determination in hereyes. Thorned shrubs and stones had left their marks on her strongboots, the little teeth of the range had frayed the hem of her shortcloth skirt, but she was as fresh to see as a morning-glory in thesun. Defiance outweighed the old cast of melancholy that clouded hereyes; her lips were fixed in an expression which was denial in itselfas she stood looking into the wind, her little brown hands clenched ather sides.

  "I want that you should marry him, as I have arranged it with oldMalcolm," said Tim, speaking slowly to give it greater weight. "I havepassed my word; let that be the end."

  "I've got a right to have a word, too. Nobody else is as muchconcerned in it as me, Dad. You can't put a girl up and sell her likea sheep."

  "It's no sale; it's yourself that comes into the handlin' of themoney."

  Tim took her up quickly on it, a gleam in his calculative eye, as ifhe saw a convincing way opening ahead of him.

  "I couldn't do it, Dad, as far as I'd go to please you; I couldn't--neverin this world! There's something about him--something----"

  "It'll wear off; 'tis the strangeness of him, but three years willbring him closer; it will wear away."

  "It'll never wear away, because he isn't--he isn't _clean_!"

  "Clean?" Tim repeated, turning in amazement as if to seek a witness tosuch a preposterous charge. And again: "Clean? He's as fresh as adaisy, as clean as a lamb."

  "It's the way he seems to me," she insisted, with conviction that noargument would shake. "I don't know any other name for it--you can seeit in his eyes."

  "Three year here will brace him up, Joan; he'll come to you as freshas lumber out of the mill."

  "No, all the wind in the world can't blow it out of him. I can't doit, I'll never do it!"

  "And me with my word passed to old Malcolm!" Tim seemed to grieve overit, and the strong possibility of its repudiation; his face fell solong, his voice so accusing, so low and sad.

  "You'll not lose any money; you can square it up with him some way,Dad."

  "You've been the example of a dutiful child to me," Tim said, turningto her, spreading his hands, the oil of blarney in his voice. "You'vetook the work of a man off of my hands since you were twelve year old,Joan."

  "Yes, I have," Joan nodded, a shading of sadness for the lost years ofher girlhood in her tone. She did not turn to face him, her head highthat way, her chin up, her nose in the wind as if her assurance lay inits warm scents, and her courage came on its caress.

  "You've been the gerrel that's gone out in the storm and the bitterblast to save the sheep, and stood by them when their poor souls shookwith the fright, and soothed down their panic and saved their lives.You've been the gerrel that's worked the sheep over this range in rainand shine, askin' me nothing, not a whimper or a complaint out ofye--that's what you've been to me, Joan. It's been a hard life for alass, it's been a hard and a lonesome life."

  Joan nodded, her head drooping just a little from its proud lift.Tears were on her face; she turned it a bit to hide them from hiseyes.

  "You mind the time, Joan, four years ago it was the winter past, whenyou stood a full head shorter than you stand today, when the range wassnowed in, and the sheep was unable to break the crust that froze overit, and was huddlin' in the canyons starving wi' the hunger that wecouldn't ease? Heh--ye mind that winter, Joan, gerrel?"

  Joan nodded again, her chin trembling as it dropped nearer to thefluttering necktie at her warm, round throat. And the tears werecoursing hotter, the well of them open, the stone at the mouth of itrolled away, the recollection of those harsh days almost too hard tobear.

  "And you mind how you read in the book from the farmer college how ahandful of corn a day would save the life of a sheep, and tide it overthe time of stress and storm till it could find the grass in under thesnow? Ah-h, ye mind how you read it, Joan, and come ridin' to tell me?And how you took the wagons and the teams and drove that bitter lengthin wind and snow to old Wellfleet's place down on the river, andbrought corn that saved to me the lives of no less than twentythousand sheep? It's not you and me, that's gone through these thingsside by side, that forgets them in the fair days, Joan, my littledarlin' gerrel. Them was hard days, and you didn't desert me and leaveme to go alone."

  Joan shook her head, the sob that she had been smothering breakingfrom her in a sharp, riving cry. Tim, feeling that he had softenedher, perhaps, laid his hand on her shoulder, and felt her bodytrembling under the emotion that his slow recital of past hardshipshad stirred.

  "It'll not be that you'll leave me in a hole now, Joan," he coaxed,stroking her hair back from her forehead, his touch gentle as hisheart could be when interest bent it so.

  "I gave you that--all those years that other girls have to themselves,I mean, and all that work that made me coarse and rough and kept medown in ignorance--I gave you out of my youth till the well of mygiving has gone dry. I can't give what you ask today, Dad; I can'tgive you that."

  "Now, Joan, take it easy a bit, draw your breath on it, take it easy,gerrel."

  Joan's chin was up again, the tremor gone out of it, the shudder ofsorrow for the lost years stilled in her beautiful, strong body. Hervoice was steady when she spoke:

  "I'll go on working, share and share alike with you, like I'm doingnow, or no share, no nothing, if
you want me to, if you need me to,but I can't--I can't!"

  "I was a hard master over you, my little Joan," said Tim, gently, asif torn by the thorn of regret for his past blindness.

  "You were, but you didn't mean to be. I don't mind it now, I'm stillyoung enough to catch up on what I missed--I _am_ catching up on it,every day."

  "But now when it comes in my way to right it, to make all your lifeeasy to you, Joan, you put your back up like a catamount and tear atthe eyes of me like you'd put them out."

  "It wouldn't be that way, Dad--can't you see I don't care for him? IfI cared, he wouldn't have to have any money, and you wouldn't have toargue with me, to make me marry him."

  "It's that stubborn you are!" said Tim, his softness freezing over ina breath.

  "Let's not talk about it, Dad," she pleaded, turning to him, the tearsundried on her cheeks, the sorrow of the years he had made slow andheavy for her in her eyes.

  "It must be talked about, it must be settled, now and for good, Joan.I have plans for you, I have great plans, Joan."

  "I don't want to change it now, I'm satisfied with the arrangementwe've made on the sheep, Dad. Let me go on like I have been, studyingmy lessons and looking after the sheep with Charley. I'm satisfied theway it is."

  "I've planned better things for you, Joan, better from this dayforward, and more to your heart. Mackenzie is all well enough forteachin' a little school of childer, but he's not deep enough to beover the likes of you, Joan. I'm thinkin' I'll send you to Cheyenne tothe sisters' college at the openin' of the term; very soon now, you'llbe makin' ready for leavin' at once."

  "I don't want to go," said Joan, coldly.

  "There you'd be taught the true speech of a lady, and the twist of thetongue on French, and the nice little things you've missed here amongthe sheep, Joan darlin', and that neither me nor your mother nor JohnMackenzie--good lad that he is, though mistaken at times, woefulmistaken in his judgment of men--can't give you, gerrel."

  "No, I'll stay here and work my way out with the sheep," said she.

  Tim was standing at her side, a bit behind her, and she turned alittle more as she denied him, her head so high she might have beenlistening to the stars. He looked at her with a deep flush coming intohis brown face, a frown narrowing his shrewd eyes.

  "Ain't you that stubborn, now!" he said.

  "Yes, I am," said Joan.

  "Then," said Tim, firing up, the ashes of deceit blowing from the fireof his purpose at once, "you'll take what I offer or leave what you'vegot! I'll have no more shyin' and shillyin' out of you, and me with myword passed to old Malcolm Reid."

  Joan wheeled round, her face white, fright in her eyes.

  "You mean the sheep?" she asked.

  "I mean the sheep--just that an' no less. Do as I'll have you do, andgo on to school to be put in polish for the wife of a gentleman, orgive up the flock and the interest I allowed you in the increase, andgo home and scrape the pots and pans!"

  "You'd never do that, Dad--you'd never break your word with me, afterall I've gone through for you, and take my lambs away from me!"

  "I would, just so," said Tim. But he did not have the courage to lookher in the face as he said it, turning away like a stubborn man whohad no cause beneath his feet, but who meant to be stubborn and unjustagainst it all.

  "I don't believe it!" she said.

  "I will so, Joan."

  "Your word to Malcolm Reid means a whole lot to you, but your word tome means nothing!" Joan spoke in bitterness, her voice vibrating withpassion.

  "It isn't the same," he defended weakly.

  "No, you can rob your daughter----"

  "Silence! I'll not have it!" Tim could look at her now, having areason, as he saw it. There was a solid footing to his pretense atlast.

  "It's a cheap way to get a thousand lambs," said she.

  "Then I've got 'em cheap!" said Tim, red in his fury. "You'll flout meand mock me and throw my offers for your good in my face, and speakdisrespectful----"

  "I spoke the truth, no word but the----"

  "I'll have no more out o' ye! It's home you go, and it's there you'llstay till you can trim your tongue and bend your mind to obey myword!"

  "You've got no right to take my sheep; you went into a contract withme, you ought to respect it as much as your word to anybody!"

  "You have no sheep, you had none. Home you'll go, this minute, andleave the sheep."

  "I hope they'll die, every one of them!"

  "Silence, ye! Get on that horse and go home, and I'll be there afteryou to tend to your case, my lady! I'll have none of this chargin' meto thievery out of the mouth of one of my childer--I'll have none ofit!"

  "Maybe you've got a better name for it--you and old man Reid!" Joanscorned, her face still white with the cold, deep anger of her wrong.

  "I'll tame you, or I'll break your heart!" said Tim, doubly angrybecause the charge she made struck deep. He glowered at her, mumblingand growling as if considering immediate chastisement.

  Joan said no more, but her hand trembled, her limbs were weakunder her weight with the collapse of all her hopes, as she untied andmounted her horse. The ruin of her foundations left her in a daze, towhich the surging, throbbing of a sense of deep, humiliating,shameful wrong, added the obscuration of senses, the confusion ofunderstanding. She rode to the top of the hill, and there therecollection of Mackenzie came to her like the sharp concern for atreasure left behind.

  She reined in after crossing the hilltop, and debated a little whileon what course to pursue. But only for a little while. Always she hadobeyed her father, under injunctions feeling and unfeeling, just andunjust. He was not watching to see that she obeyed him now, knowingwell that she would do as he had commanded.

  With bent head, this first trouble and sorrow of her life upon her,and with the full understanding in her heart that all which had passedbefore this day was nothing but the skimming of light shadows acrossher way, Joan rode homeward. A mile, and the drooping shouldersstiffened; the bent head lifted; Joan looked about her at the sunmaking the sheeplands glad. A mile, and the short breath of anger diedout of her panting lungs, the long, deep inspiration of restoredbalance in its place; the pale shade left her cold cheeks, where thewarm blood came again.

  Joan, drawing new hope from the thoughts which came winging to her,looked abroad over the sunlit sheeplands, and smiled.