The Fighting Shepherdess

by Lockhart, Caroline

  “Priscilla’s in the kitchen.”

  Mrs. Pantin looked up in surprise at her caller’s entrance.

  “How perfectly sweet of you to come out a day like this!” she chirped. “You’ll excuse me if I go on getting dinner? We only have two meals a day when we don’t exercise. This wind—isn’t it dreadful? I haven’t been out of the house for a week.”

  She placed two rolls in the warming oven and broke three eggs into a bowl.

  “Abram and I are so fond of omelette,” she said, as the egg-beater whirred. “Tell me,” she beamed brightly upon Mrs. Toomey, “what have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Priscilla—Prissy—” Mrs. Toomey caught her breath—“I’ve been miserable—and that’s the truth!”

  “Why, my dear!” The egg-beater stopped. “Aren’t you well? No wonder—I’m as nervous as a witch myself.” The egg-beater whirred again encouragingly. “You must use your will power—you mustn’t allow yourself to be affected by these external things.”

  “It’s not the wind.” Mrs. Toomey’s eyes were swimming now. “I’m worried half to death.”

  Mrs. Pantin had not lived twelve years with Abram in vain. A look of suspicion crossed her face, and there was a little less solicitude in her voice as she inquired:

  “Is it anything in particular? Bad news from home?”

  “It’s money!” Mrs. Toomey blurted out. “We’re dreadfully hard up. I came to see if we could get a loan.”

  The egg-beater went on, but the milk of human kindness which, presumably, flowed in Mrs. Pantin’s breast stopped—congealed—froze up tight. Her blue eyes, whose vividness was accentuated as usual by the robin’s egg blue dress she wore, had the warm genial glow radiating from a polar berg. It was, however, only a moment before she recovered herself and was able to say with sweet earnestness:

  “I haven’t anything to do with that, my dear. You’ll have to see Mr. Pantin.”

  Mrs. Toomey clasped her fingers tightly together and stammered:

  “If—if you would speak to him first—I—I thought perhaps—”

  Mrs. Pantin’s set society smile was on her small mouth, but the finality of the laws of the Medes and the Persians was in her tone as she replied:

  “I never think of interfering with my husband’s business or making suggestions. As fond as I am of you, Delia, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  Mrs. Toomey had the feeling that they never would be quite on the same footing again. She knew it from the way in which Mrs. Pantin’s eyes travelled from the unbecoming brown veil on her head to her warm but antiquated coat, stopping at her shabby shoes which, instinctively, she drew beneath the hem of her skirt.

  To be shabby from carelessness was one thing—to be so from necessity was another, clearly was in Mrs. Pantin’s mind. She had known, of course, of the collapse of their cattle-raising enterprise, but she had not dreamed they were in such a bad way as this. She hoped she was not the sort of person who would let it make any difference in her warm friendship for Delia Toomey; nevertheless, Mrs. Toomey detected the subtle note of patronage in her voice when she said:

  “Abram is alone in the living room—you might speak to him.”

  “I think I will.” Mrs. Toomey endeavored to repair the mistake she felt she had made by speaking in a tone which implied that a loan was of no great moment after all, but she walked out with the feeling that she used to have in the presence of the more opulent members of her father’s congregation when the flour barrel was low.

  Mrs. Toomey was not too agitated to note how immaculate and dainty the dining room table looked with its fine linen and cut glass. There were six dices of apple with a nut on top on the handsome salad plates, and the crystal dessert dishes each held three prunes swimming in their rich juice.

  The living-room, too, reflected Mrs. Pantin’s taste. A framed motto extolling the virtues of friendship hung over the mantel and the “Blind Girl of Pompeii” groped her way down the staircase on the neutral-tinted wall. A bookcase filled with sets of the world’s best literature occupied a corner of the room, while ooze leather copies of Henry Van Dyke gave an unmistakable look of culture to the mission table in the center of the room. A handsome leather davenport with a neat row of sofa pillows along the back, which were of Mrs. Pantin’s own handiwork, suggested luxurious ease. But the chief attraction of the room was the brick fireplace with its spotless tiled hearth. One of Mr. Pantin’s diversions was sitting before the glowing coals, whisk and shovel in hand, waiting for an ash to drop.

  Seeing Mrs. Toomey, Mr. Pantin again hastily thrust his toes into his slippers—partly because he was cognizant of the fact that no real gentleman will receive a lady in his stocking feet, and partly to conceal the neat but large darn on the toe of one sock. He was courteous amiability itself, and Mrs. Toomey’s hopes shot up.

  “I came to have a little talk.”

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Pantin’s smile deceived her and she plunged on with confidence:

  “I—we would like to arrange for a loan, Mr. Pantin.”

  “To what amount, Mrs. Toomey?”

  Mrs. Toomey considered.

  “As much as you could conveniently spare.”

  The smile which Mr. Pantin endeavored to conceal was genuine.

  “For what length of time?”

  Mrs. Toomey had not thought of that.

  “I could not say exactly—not off-hand like this—but I presume only until my husband gets into something.”

  “Has he—er—anything definite in view?”

  “I wouldn’t say definite, not definite, but he has several irons in the fire and we expect to hear soon.”

  “I see.” Mr. Pantin’s manner was urbane but, observing him closely, Mrs. Toomey noted that his eyes suddenly presented the curious illusion of two slate-gray pools covered with skim ice. It was not an encouraging sign and her heart sank in spite of the superlative suavity of the tone in which he inquired:

  “What security would you be able to give, Mrs. Toomey?”

  Security? Between friends? She had not expected this.

  “I—I’m afraid I—we haven’t any, Mr. Pantin. You know we lost everything when we lost the ranch. But you’re perfectly safe—you needn’t have a moment’s anxiety about that.”

  Immediately it seemed as though invisible hands shot out to push her away, yet Mr. Pantin’s tone was bland as he replied:

  “I should be delighted to be able to accommodate you, but just at the present time—”

  “You can’t? Oh, I wish you would reconsider—as a matter of friendship. We need it—desperately, Mr. Pantin!” Her voice shook.

  Again she had the sensation of invisible hands fighting her off.

  “I regret very much—”

  The hopelessness of any further plea swept over her. She arose with a gesture of despair, and Mr. Pantin, smiling, suave, urbane, bowed her out and closed the door. He watched her go down the walk and through the gate, noting her momentary hesitation and wondering where she might be going in such a wind. When she started in the opposite direction from home and walked rapidly down the road that led out of town it flashed through his mind that she might be bent on suicide—she had looked desperate, no mistake, but, since there was no water in which to drown herself, and no tree from which to hang herself, and the country was so flat that there was nothing high enough for her to jump off of and break her neck, he concluded there was no real cause for uneasiness.

  It was Mr. Pantin’s proud boast that he never yet had “held the sack,” and now he thought complacently as he turned from the window, grabbed the shovel and whisk and leaped for an ash that had dropped, that this was an instance where he had again shown excellent judgment in not allowing his warm heart and impulses to control his head.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  THE BLOOD OF JEZEBEL

  The prognostication made by the citizens of Prouty that it was “gettin’ ready for somethin’” seemed about to be verified
out on the sheep range twenty miles distant, for at five o’clock one afternoon the wind stopped as suddenly as it had arisen and heavy snow clouds came out of the northeast with incredible swiftness.

  Mormon Joe walked to the door of the cook tent and swept the darkening hills with anxious eyes. Kate should have been back long before this. He always had a dread of her horse falling on her and hurting her too badly to get back. That was about all there was to fear in summer time, but to-night there was the coming storm.

  Kate’s sense of direction was remarkable, but the most experienced plainsman would be apt to lose himself in these foothills, with the snow falling thick and the night so black he could not see his hand before his face.

  Mormon Joe shook his head and turned back to his task of peeling potatoes. While he worked he reproached himself that he had not hunted those horses himself; but she had been so insistent upon going. She did not mind the wind, she had said, but then she did not “mind” anything, when it came to that. What would have been hardships for another were merely adventures to her.

  At any rate, Kate was more comfortable now than she had been the year before. He smiled a little as he recalled her delight in the sheep wagon which he had given her to be her own quarters. He had had to borrow the money at the bank in addition to what he already had borrowed for running expenses, but his circumstances justified it. He was getting ahead, not with phenomenal rapidity, but satisfactorily. With the leases, and the land he owned, he was building the future upon a substantial foundation. A few years more of economy and attention to business and he could give Kate the advantages he wished. He listened, got up from the condensed-milk box upon which he sat and walked to the entrance of the tent once more. He strained his ears, but death itself was not more still than the opaque night.

  Kate had left immediately after breakfast, and since the horses had only a few hours’ start and would probably feed as they went, she had expected to be back by noon.

  Kate was exceedingly resourceful—she knew what to do if caught out, he assured himself, unless she had been hurt. It was this thought that gave him a curious stillness at his heart. What would life be without her now? With the knife in his hand he stopped as he turned inside and stared at the potatoes on the box. He never had thought of that before—it left him aghast.

  The girl had twined herself into every fiber of his nature from the time she had come to him as a child. She was identified with every hope. Humph! He knew well enough what the answer would be if anything happened to Kate. He would shoot the chutes, again—quick. It was she who had awakened his ambition and kept him tolerably straight. Without her? Humph!

  He stoked the sheet-iron camp stove, put the potatoes to boil, cut chops enough for two and laid the table with the steel knives and forks and tin plates. Then he set out a tin of molasses and the sour-dough bread, after which there was nothing to do but wait for the potatoes to boil, and for Kate.

  He was trying the potatoes with a fork when he raised his head sharply. He was sure he heard the rattle of rocks. A faint whoop followed.

  “Thank God!” He breathed the ejaculation fervently, yet he said merely as he stood in the entrance puffing his pipe as she rode up, “Got ’em, I see, Katie!”

  “Sure. Don’t I always get what I go after?” Then, with a tired laugh, “I’m disappointed; I thought you would be worried about me.”

  He smiled quizzically.

  “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

  “I’ll know better next time,” she replied good-humoredly, as she swung down with obvious weariness.

  “There won’t be any next time,'” he replied abruptly, “at least not at this season of the year.”

  “Oh, but I’m glad I went,” she interposed hastily.

  As Mormon Joe unwrapped the lead-rope from the saddle horn and took the horses away to picket, he wondered what wonderful adventure she would have to relate, for she seemed able to extract entertainment from nearly anything. By the time he returned she had removed her hat, gloves and spurs, washed her dust-streaked face, smoothed her hair, slipped on an enveloping apron over her riding clothes and had the chops frying.

  The sight warmed his heart as he paused for a moment outside the circle of light which came through the entrance.

  He had seen the same thing often before, but it never had impressed him particularly. Her presence in the canvas tent made the difference between home and a mere shelter. The small crumbs of bread he had cast upon the water were indeed coming back to him.

  “I’ve ridden over forty miles since morning,” she chattered, while he flung the snow flakes from his hat brim and brushed them from his shoulders. “The wind blew the horses’ tracks out so I couldn’t follow them. I never caught sight of them until just this side of Prouty. You can sit down, Uncle Joe—everything’s ready.”

  They talked of the coming snowstorm, and the advisability of holding the sheep on the bed-ground if it should be a bad one; of the trip to town that he was contemplating; of the coyote that was bothering and the possibility of trapping him. There was no dearth of topics of mutual interest. Nevertheless, Mormon Joe knew that she was holding something in reserve and wondered at this reticence. It came finally when they had finished and still lingered at the table.

  “Who do you suppose I met to-day when I was hunting horses?”

  “Teeters?” Mormon Joe was tearing a leaf from his book of cigarette papers.

  “Guess again.”

  He shook his head.

  “Can’t imagine.”

  She announced impressively:

  “Mrs. Toomey!”

  He was distributing tobacco from the sack upon the crease in the paper with exactitude. He made no comment, so Kate said with increased emphasis:

  “She was crying!”

  Still he was silent, and she demanded:

  “Aren’t you surprised?”

  She looked crestfallen, so he asked obligingly:

  “Where did all of this happen?”

  “In a draw a couple of miles this side of Prouty, where I found the horses. They had gone there to get out of the wind and it was by only a chance that I rode down into it.

  “She was in the bottom, huddled against a rock, and didn’t see me until I was nearly on her. I thought she was sick—she looked terrible.”

  “And was she?”

  “No—she was worried.”

  “Naturally. Any woman would be who married Toomey.”

  “About money.”

  “Indeed.” His tone and smile were ironic.

  Kate, a trifle disconcerted, continued:

  “He’s had bad luck.”

  “He’s had the best opportunities of any man who’s come into the country.”

  “Anyway,” she faltered, “they haven’t a penny except when they sell something.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, then asked teasingly:

  “Well—what were you thinking of doing about it?”

  “I said—I promised,” she blurted it out bluntly, “that we’d loan them money.”

  “What!” incredulously.

  “I did, Uncle Joe.”

  He answered with a frown of annoyance:

  “You exceeded your authority, Katie.”

  “But you will, won’t you?” she pleaded. “You’ve never refused me anything that I really wanted badly, and I’ve never asked much, have I?”

  “No, girl, you haven’t,” he replied gently. “And there’s hardly anything you could ask, within reason, that wouldn’t be granted.”

  “But they only need five hundred until he gets into something. You could let them have that, couldn’t you?”

  His face and eyes hardened.

  “I could, but I won’t,” he replied curtly.

  When Prouty was in its infancy, certain citizens had been misled by Mormon Joe’s mild eyes, low voice and quiet manner. His easy-going exterior concealed an incredible hardness upon occasions, but this was Kate’s first knowledge of it. He never had displayed t
he slightest authority. In any difference, when he had not yielded to her good-naturedly, they had argued it out as though they were in reality partners. At another time she would have been wounded by his brusque refusal, but to-night it angered her. Because of her intense eagerness and confidence that she had only to ask him, it came as the keenest of disappointments. This together with her fatigue combined to produce a display of temper as unusual in her as Mormon Joe’s own attitude.

  “But I promised!” she cried, impatiently. “And you’ve told me I must always keep my promise, 'if it takes the hide'!”

  “You exceeded your authority,” he reiterated. “You’ve no right to promise what doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Then it’s all ‘talk’ about our being partners,” she said, sneeringly. “You don’t mean a word of it.”

  “You shan’t make a fool of yourself, Katie, if I can help it,” he retorted.

  “Because you don’t care for friends, you don’t want me to have any!” she flung at him hotly.

  He was silent a long time, thinking, while she waited angrily, then he responded quietly and with obvious effort:

  “That’s where you’re mistaken, Katie. If I have one regret it is that in the past I have not more deliberately cultivated the friendship of true men and gentle women when I have had the opportunity. It doesn’t make much difference whether they are brilliant or rich or successful, if only they are true-hearted. Loyalty is the great attribute—but,” and he shrugged a shoulder, “it is my judgment that you will not find it in that quarter.”

  “You’re prejudiced.”

  “It is my privilege to have an opinion,” he replied coldly.

  “We were going to be friends—Mrs. Toomey and I—we shook hands on it!” Tears of angry disappointment were close to the surface.

  He replied, doggedly:

  “If you have to buy your friendships, Katie, you’d better keep your money.”