CHAPTER XVII
HOW THICK IS BLOOD?
No sterner figure ever rode the Bad Lands than Jeremiah Lambert appearedeight days after his escape out of his enemies' hands. The last fivedays of his internment he had spent in his own quarters, protesting toVesta that he was no longer an invalid, and that further receipt of hertender ministrations would amount to obtaining a valuable considerationby false pretense.
This morning as he rode about his duty the scar left by Jim Wilder'sknife in his cheek never had appeared so prominent. It cast over all hisface a shadow of grimness, and imparted to it an aged and seasonedappearance not warranted by either his experience or his years. Althoughhe had not carried any superfluous flesh before his night of torture, hewas lighter now by many pounds.
Not a handsome man that day, not much about him to recall thered-faced, full-blooded agent of the All-in-One who had pushed hisbicycle into the Syndicate camp that night, guided by Taterleg's song.But there was a look of confidence in his eyes that had not been his inthose days, which he considered now as far distant and embryonic; therewas a certainty in his hand that made him a man in a man's placeanywhere in the extreme exactions of that land.
Vesta was firm in her intention of giving up the ranch and leaving theBad Lands as soon as she could sell the cattle. With that program aheadof him, Lambert was going this morning to look over the herd andestimate the number of cattle ready for market, that he might place hisorder for cars.
He didn't question the wisdom of reducing the herd, for that was goodbusiness; but it hurt him to have Vesta leave there with droopingfeathers, acknowledging to the brutal forces which had opposed the ranchso long that she was beaten. He would have her go after victory overthem, for it was no place for Vesta. But he would like for her to stayuntil he had broken their opposition, and compelled them to take offtheir hats to her fence.
He swore as he rode this morning that he would do it. Vesta should notclean out the cattle, lock the lonesome ranchhouse, abandon the barnsand that vast investment of money to the skulking wolves who waited onlysuch a retreat to sneak in and despoil the place. He had fixed in hismind the intention, firm as a rock in the desert that defied storm anddisintegration, to bring every man of that gang up to the wire fence inhis turn and bend him before it, or break him if he would not bend.
This accomplished, the right of the fence established on such terms thatit would be respected evermore, Vesta might go, if she desired. Surelyit would be better for her, a pearl in those dark waters where herbeauty would corrode and her soul would suffer in the isolation too hardfor one of her fine harmony to bear. Perhaps she would turn the ranchover to him to run, with a band of sheep which he could handle andincrease on shares, after the custom of that business, to the profit ofboth.
He had speculated on this eventuality not a little during the days ofhis enforced idleness. This morning the thought was so strong in himthat it amounted almost to a plan. Maybe there was a face in thesecalculations, a face illumined by clear, dark eyes, which seemed tostrain over the brink of the future and beckon him on. Blood might standbetween them, and differences almost irreconcilable, but the facewithdrew never.
It was evening before he worked through the herd and made it round tothe place where Grace Kerr had cut the fence. There was no message forhim. Without foundation for his disappointment, he was disappointed. Hewondered if she had been there, and bent in his saddle to examine theground across the fence.
There were tracks of a horse, but whether old or new he was not educatedenough yet in range-craft to tell. He looked toward the hill from whichhe had watched her ride to cut the fence, hoping she might appear. Heknew that this hope was traitorous to his employer, he felt that hisdesire toward this girl was unworthy, but he wanted to see her and hearher speak.
Foolish, also, to yield to that desire to let down the fence where hehad hooked the wire and ride out to see if he could find her. Still,there was so little probability of seeing her that he was not ashamed,only for the twinge of a disloyal act, as he rode toward the hill, hislong shadow ambling beside him, a giant horseman on a mammoth steed.
He returned from this little sentimental excursion feeling somewhat likea sneak. The country was empty of Grace Kerr. In going out to seek herin the folly of a romance too trivial for a man of his serious mien, hewas guilty of an indiscretion deserving Vesta Philbrook's deepest scorn.He burned with his own shame as he dismounted to adjust the wire, likeone caught in a reprehensible deed, and rode home feeling foolishlysmall. Kerr! He should hate the name.
But when he came to shaving by lamplight that night, and lifted out hispied calfskin vest to find his strop, the little handkerchief broughtall the old remembrances, the old tenderness, back in a sentimentalflood. He fancied there was still a fragrance of violet perfume about itas he held it tenderly and pressed it to his cheek after a furtiveglance around. He folded it small, put it in a pocket of the garment,which he hung on the foot of his bed.
An inspiration directed the act. Tomorrow he would ride forth clothed inthe calfskin vest, with the bright handkerchief that he had worn on theSunday at Misery when he won Grace Kerr's scented trophy. Forsentimental reasons only; purely sentimental reasons.
No, he was not a handsome man any longer, he confessed, grinning at theadmission, rather pleased to have it as it was. That scar gave him acast of ferocity which his heart did not warrant, for, inwardly, hesaid, he knew he was as gentle as a dove. But if there was any doubt inher mind, granted that he had changed a good deal since she first sawhim, the calfskin vest and the handkerchief would settle it. By thosesigns she would know him, if she had doubted before.
Not that she had doubted. As her anger and fear of him had passed thatmorning, recognition had come, and with recognition, confidence. Hewould take a look out that way in the morning. Surely a man had a rightto go into the enemy's country and get a line on what was going onagainst him. So as he shaved he planned, arguing loudly for himself todrown the cry of treason that his conscience raised.
Tomorrow he would take a further look through the herd and conclude hisestimate. Then he'd have to go to Glendora and order cars for the firstshipment. Vesta wouldn't be able to get all of them off for many weeks.It would mean several trips to Chicago for him, with a crew of men totake care of the cattle along the road. It might be well along into theearly fall before he had them thinned down to calves and cows not readyfor market.
He shaved and smoothed his weathered face, turning his eyes now andagain to his hairy vest with a feeling of affection in him for thegarment that neither its worth nor its beauty warranted. Sentimentalreasons always outweigh sensible ones as long as a man is young.
He rode along the fence next morning on his way to the herd, debatingwhether he should leave a note on the wire. He was not in such a softand sentimental mood this morning, for sense had rallied to him andpointed out the impossibility of harmony between himself and one sonearly related to a man who had attempted to burn him alive. It seemedto him now that the recollection of those poignant moments would rise tostand between them, no matter how gentle or far removed from the sourceof her being she might appear.
These gloomy speculations rose and left him like a flock of somber birdsas he lifted the slope. Grace Kerr herself was riding homeward, justmounting the hill over which she must pass in a moment and disappear. Heunhooked the wire and rode after her. At the hilltop she stopped,unaware of his coming, and looked back. He waved his hat; she waited.
"Have you been sick, Duke?" she inquired, after greetings, looking himover with concern.
"My horse bit me," said he, passing it off with that old stockpleasantry of the range, which covered anything and everything that aman didn't want to explain.
"I missed you along here," she said. She swept him again with that slow,puzzled look of inquiry, her eyes coming back to his face in a frank,unembarrassed stare. "Oh, I know what it is now! You're dressed like youwere that day at Misery. I couldn't make it out for a minute."
She was not wearing her mannish garb this morning, but divided skirts ofcorduroy and a white waist with a bit of bright color at the neck. Herwhite sombrero was the only masculine touch about her, and that ratheradded to her quick, dark prettiness.
"You were wearing a white waist the first time I saw you," he said.
"This one," she replied, touching it with simple motion of fullidentification.
Neither of them mentioned the mutual recognition on the day she had beencaught cutting the fence. They talked of commonplace things, as youth isconstrained to do when its heart and mind are centered on something elsewhich burns within it, the flame of which it cannot cover from any eyesbut its own. Life on the range, its social disadvantages, its roughdiversions, these they spoke of, Lambert's lips dry with his eagernessto tell her more.
How quickly it had laid hold of him again at sight of her, thisunreasonable longing! The perfume of his romance suffused her, purgingaway all that was unworthy.
"I trembled every second that day for fear your horse would breakthrough the platform and throw you," she said, suddenly coming back tothe subject that he wanted most to discuss.
"I didn't think of it till a good while afterward," he said in slowreflection.
"I didn't suppose I'd ever see you again, and, of course, I never oncethought you were the famous Duke of Chimney Butte I heard so much aboutwhen I got home."
"More notorious than famous, I'm afraid, Miss Kerr."
"Jim Wilder used to work for us; I knew him well."
Lambert bent his head, a shadow of deepest gravity falling like a cloudover the animation which had brightened his features but a momentbefore. He sat in contemplative silence a little while, his voice lowwhen he spoke.
"Even though he deserved it, I've always been sorry it happened."
"Well, if you're sorry, I guess you're the only one. Jim was a bad kid.Where's that horse you raced the train on?"
"I'm resting him up a little."
"You had him out here the other day."
"Yes. I crippled him up a little since then."
"I'd like to have that horse. Do you want to sell him, Duke?"
"There's not money enough made to buy him!" Lambert returned, liftinghis head quickly, looking her in the eyes so directly that she colored,and turned her head to cover her confusion.
"You must think a lot of him when you talk like that."
"He's done me more than one good turn, Miss Kerr," he explained, feelingthat she must have read his harsh thoughts. "He saved my life only aweek ago. But that's likely to happen to any man," he added quickly,making light of it.
"Saved your life?" said she, turning her clear, inquiring eyes on himagain in that expression of wonder that was so vast in them. "How did hesave your life, Duke?"
"I guess I was just talking," said he, wishing he had kept a betterhold on his tongue. "You know we have a fool way of saying a man's lifewas saved in very trivial things. I've known people to declare that adrink of whisky did that for them."
She lifted her brows as she studied his face openly and with such adirectness that he flushed in confusion, then turned her eyes awayslowly.
"I liked him that day he outran the flier; I've often thought of himsince then."
Lambert looked off over the wild landscape, the distant buttes softenedin the haze that seemed to presage the advance of autumn, consideringmuch. When he looked into her face again it was with the harshness goneout of his eyes.
"I wouldn't sell that horse to any man, but I'd give him to you, Grace."
She started a little when he pronounced her name, wondering, perhaps,how he knew it, her eyes growing great in the pleasure of his generousdeclaration. She urged her horse nearer with an impetuous movement andgave him her hand.
"I didn't mean for you to take it that way, Duke, but I appreciate itmore than I can tell you."
Her eyes were earnest and soft with a mist of gratitude that seemed torise out of her heart. He held her hand a moment, feeling that he wasbeing drawn nearer to her lips, as if he must touch them, and riserefreshed to face the labors of his life.
"I started out on him to look for you, expecting to ride him to thePacific, and maybe double back. I didn't know where I'd have to go, butI intended to go on till I found you."
"It seemed almost a joke," she said, "that we were so near each otherand you didn't know it."
She laughed, not seeming to feel the seriousness of it as he felt it. Itis the woman who laughs always in these little life-comedies of ours.
"I'll give him to you, Grace, when he picks up again. Any other horsewill do me now. He carried me to the end of my road; he brought me toyou."
She turned her head, and he hadn't the courage in him to look and seewhether it was to hide a smile.
"You don't know me, Duke; maybe you wouldn't--maybe you'll regret youever started out to find me at all."
His courage came up again; he leaned a little nearer, laying his hand onhers where it rested on her saddle-horn.
"You wanted me to come, didn't you, Grace?"
"I hoped you might come sometime, Duke."
He rode with her when she set out to return home to the little valleywhere he had interposed to prevent a tragedy between her and VestaPhilbrook. Neither of them spoke of that encounter. It was avoided insilence as a thing of which both were ashamed.
"Will you be over this way again, Grace?" he asked when he stopped topart.
"I expect I will, Duke."
"Tomorrow, do you think?"
"Not tomorrow," shaking her head in the pretty way she had of doing itwhen she spoke in negation, like an earnest child.
"Maybe the next day?"
"I expect I may come then, Duke--or what is your real name?"
"Jeremiah. Jerry, if you like it better."
She pursed her lips in comical seriousness, frowning a little as ifconsidering it weightily. Then she looked at him in frank comradeship,her dark eyes serious, nodding her head.
"I'll just call you Duke."
He left her with the feeling that he had known her many years. Bloodbetween them? What was blood? Thicker than water? Nay, impalpable assmoke.
The Duke Of Chimney Butte Page 17