The Fighting Shepherdess

by Lockhart, Caroline

  She nodded.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “Emptied my sack?”

  “You’ve talked.”

  He lay motionless, staring at her fixedly; then, as if arriving at a conclusion:

  “Guess I didn’t say much.”

  “You said plenty,” significantly.

  “But not enough, eh?” he jeered.

  She regarded him silently.

  “Where am I, anyhow?”

  “In my camp.”

  “Oh.” He considered a moment, then mocked, “Got religion?”

  “Not yet,” curtly.

  “Jest wanted me close? Ol' friends are the best friends—ain’t they?” He grinned weakly at her.

  “Pete,” slowly, “there are some questions I want to ask you.”

  “Thought it was about time for the pumps to start. What do you want to know?”

  Kate’s heart leaped. She endeavored to steady her voice, to keep out of her face the eagerness with which she trembled, as she replied:

  “I want to know who my father is—where he is, if he’s alive. Oh, Pete!” Her hands came together beseechingly, “Tell me that—I beg of you tell me about him.”

  Satisfaction glistened in his eyes.

  “I thought that would be it! The only civil words I ever got out of you when you was a kid was when you hoped to make me loosen up and talk to you about him.” Then he asked again with an expression she could not interpret, “You’re sure you’d ruther I give up that than anything else on earth?”

  “Yes, Pete!” she gulped. “It means so much to me.”

  “I guess yes. The ground wouldn’t be good enough for your feet if the 'Old Man’ had you.”

  “Is that the truth? He’d care for me like that? Oh, Pete!”

  “Care? He’d worship you. Them Prouty folks would bite themselves if they could see your Old Man,” he chuckled faintly.

  “He is still living, then? Oh, Pete!” She extended two pleading hands impulsively, “Don’t make me wait!”

  Something other than fever glittered in his eyes, and there was more than satisfaction in his voice when he said:

  “That’s somethin’ like it—somethin’—not quite! It’s sweeter nor music to hear you beg. But, damn you, you ain’t humble enough yet!”

  “What do you want me to do?” she cried. “I’ll—I’ll get down on my knees, if only you’ll tell me what I want to know!”

  “That’s it!” in shrill excitement. “Get down on your knees. I ain’t forgot that you called me a ‘nigger’ once, and hit me with a quirt. It’ll kinda wipe it out to see you crawlin’ to Pete, that you always treated like dirt. Git down on your knees and beg, if you want me to talk!”

  She sank to the floor of the wagon without a word.

  He looked at her queerly as she knelt. There was intense gratification in his voice, “You do want to know, when you’ll swaller that.”

  “Yes, Pete,” humbly, “I do.”

  His thin hands lay inert upon the soogan. His head turned weakly while he kept his eyes upon her as though enjoying the situation to the utmost. There was a silence in which he seemed both to be gathering strength and considering how to begin.

  “He’s the kind of a feller—your Old Man—that don’t have to holler his head off to git himself heard. They’d listen in any man’s country when he talks. He don’t talk much, but what he says goes—the kind that can always finish what he starts.

  “He’s six feet, and there wasn’t any man in the country could handle him in those days. I’ve seen him throw a three-year-ol' steer like you’d slap over a kid. He was easy and quiet, commonly, like one of them still deep rivers that slip along peaceful till somethin’ gits in its way. The patientest feller I ever see with dumb brutes, and a patience that wasn’t hardly human, even with folks. But when he did break loose—well, them that thought he was 'harmless’ and went too far on account of it never made the same mistake twice.”

  He continued with evident relish:

  “That’s where he fooled her—Isabelle—she didn’t read him right. She thought he was ‘soft’ because she had her way with him.”

  “They were married, Pete?”

  “Married, right enough—he never thought any other way about her. She was all-the-same angel to him,” he grinned. “She never was straight—we all knowed that but him, but she was slick, and she was swingin’ her throwrope for him in about a week after they brought her in from the Middle West to teach the school in that district. Anybody that said a word ag'in’ her to him would have gone to the hospital. So he went ahead and married her—while she laffed at him to his own hired men.

  “If he’d worked her over with a quirt about onct a month, instead of wonderin’ what he could do for her next, he might have had her yet.

  “If he made a door-mat out of hisself before, it was worse after you come. He was the greatest hand for little things that ever I see—colts, kittens, calves, puppies and a baby! He walked the floor carrying you on a pillow for fear you’d break.

  “It was too slow for Isabelle—that life—and only one man to fetch and carry for her. We used to make bets among ourselves as to how long ’twould last, and the short-time man won out. She liked ’em ‘tough,’ she said—no white-collared gents for her; and she got what she was lookin’ for when she throwed in with Freighter Sam that hauled supplies from the railroad to the ranch.

  “They skipped out between daylight and dark and made as clean a getaway as ever was pulled off. But where she made her big mistake was takin’ you along. If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t a-walked a half mile to bring her back. Twenty-four hours put ten years on him, and he never squeaked. But if he’d caught that freighter he’d took him by the heels and swung him like you’d knock a rabbit’s brains out agin a post.

  “He went over the country with a fine-tooth comb, hopin’ to git you back. A couple of times he almost closed in on ’em, but they managed to give him the slip and headed north while mostly he hunted south and west.

  “You was well growed before I run into ’em. Freighter Sam used to bang her head agin the door jamb about twict a week, and they got along good until he fell for a hasher in an eatin’ house and quit Isabelle cold. She hit bottom pretty pronto after that.” Mullendore stopped.

  “But my father, Pete;—tell me more about him!”

  He eyed her with a quizzical and appraising look before he replied:

  “You favor the Old Man as much as if you was made out of the mud that was left when they was done workin’ on him. Your eyes, your mouth, your chin—the way you walk and stand—the easy style you set a horse. As the sayin’ is, 'You’re the spit out of his mouth.' God A'mighty! Wouldn’t he spile you if you was with him!”

  “But you don’t tell me where he is, Pete!”

  He ignored the interruption and said with slow malice, watching her face:

  “I’ve often thought what a shame it was that you two never got together—a hankerin’ for each other so.”

  Something in his tone struck terror to her heart.

  “But you’re going to tell me, Pete? You are! You are!” She crawled closer to the bunk, on her knees.

  A passionate satisfaction glittered in his eyes.

  “Yes! it’s a plumb pity that you and him never happened to meet up.”

  There was cold cruelty in his tantalizing voice.

  “You mean—you mean—” she stammered with colorless lips—“that—that you’re only tormenting me again—you don’t intend—”

  “That depends.” His pupils dilated, his white teeth gleamed.

  “But you promised, Pete! Haven’t you any honor—not a speck?”

  “I git what I want any way I can git it. That’s me—Mullendore.”

  “Tell me what you want! Is it money, Pete?”

  “Money! Hell! What’s money good for to me? Money’s only to blow after you’ve got enough to eat. What do you spose I want? I want you!”

  “What do you
mean?”

  “Just that.” An oath came between his clenched teeth. “I’m stuck on you! I want you so I hate you, if you can understand that—and always have. I’d like to take you off like a dog packs a bone away for himself. I’ve dealt you and your sheep all the misery I could, because every step you took up was just so far from me. What I’ve done,” savagely, “is nothin’ to what I’ll do when I git out of this, if you don’t say yes.”

  Kate’s face, that had gone scarlet, was a grayish white as she got up slowly from her knees.

  Her breathing was labored as she demanded:

  “You—mean—that—you’ll—not—tell me anything more unless I do what you ask?”

  “You got it right.”

  Kate’s nerves and self-control gave way as a taut string snaps. In the center of a black disc she saw only the mocking eyes and evil face of Mullendore.

  “I’m going to kill you, Pete! I’m—going—to choke you—to death! You—shan’t torment me—any more!”

  Her strong hands were close to his throat while he shrank from the white fury in her face. Suddenly her arms dropped to her sides. Such a feeling of physical repulsion swept over her that she could not touch him even in her rage.

  “Lost your nerve?” he mocked. “Old Pete wins again, eh, Kate?”

  She did not answer but stepped out on the wagon tongue that the cool rain might patter in her face. Her knees were shaking beneath her and she felt nauseated—sick with a feeling of absolute defeat.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIII

  WHEN THE BLACK SPOT HIT

  Teeters moved in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.

  Outwardly, there would seem to be no possible connection between his presence in the living room at Happy Wigwam making himself even more than ordinarily agreeable, and the confession he desired to wring from the murderer of Mormon Joe.

  Years of “Duding,” however, had given Teeters a confidence in himself and his diplomacy which would seem to be justified, for, as he rightly argued, “A man who can handle dudes can do anything.”

  Now, he knew that if he had come to Mrs. Taylor and bluntly asked the use of her supernatural gifts in Kate’s behalf she would have refused him.

  Kate had gone to Teeters in despair after her failure with Mullendore, hoping that he might have something to suggest which had not occurred to her. She had told him all that had happened, and among other things, that she knew now that the “breed” had negro blood in him.

  “It probably accounts for his secret belief in an old-fashioned, brimstone hell,” she had added. “He denies it, of course, but I’m sure it’s the one thing he’s really afraid of.”

  The information had impressed Teeters.

  “You go back and keep the varmit alive until I git there,” he had advised her. “I got a black speck in my brain, and every time it hits the top of my head I get an idea—I think it’s goin’ to strike directly.”

  The present visit was evidence that it had done so. The situation was one which demanded all his subtlety, but what possible bearing the deep interest with which he was eying the garment Mrs. Taylor was repairing could have upon it, the most astute would have found it difficult to imagine.

  The bifurcated article of wearing apparel was of outing flannel, roomy where amplitude was most needed, gathered at the waist with a drawstring, confined at the ankle by a deep ruffle—a garment of amazing ugliness.

  “I suppose,” Teeters ventured guilelessly, “them things is handier than skirts to git over fences and do chores in?” Then, with an anticipatory air, he waited.

  He was not disappointed. Mrs. Taylor laid down her work and, throwing back her head, burst into laughter that was ringing, Homeric, reverberating through the house like some one shouting in a canyon. It continued until Teeters was alarmed lest he had overdone matters.

  She subsided finally and, wiping her streaming eyes on a ruffle, shook a playful finger at him:

  “Clarence, you are killing—simply killing!”

  Teeters did not deny it. He had not yet recovered from the fear that he might be. But he had accomplished what he had intended—he had furnished Mrs. Taylor with the “one good laugh a day” which she declared her health and temperament demanded.

  After a pensive silence Teeters looked up wistfully:

  “I wonder if you and Miss Maggie would sing somethin’. I git a reg'lar cravin’ to hear good music.”

  Mrs. Taylor laid down her work with a pleased expression.

  “Certainly, Clarence. Is there anything in particular?”

  “If it ain’t too much trouble, I’d like, 'Oh, Think of the Home Over There.'”

  “I’m delighted that your mind sometimes turns in that direction. I’ve sometimes feared, Clarence, that you were not religious.”

  Mr. Teeters looked pained at the suggestion.

  “I don’t talk about religion much,” he replied earnestly, “but there’s somethin’ come up the last few days that set me thinkin’ pretty serious.”

  Mrs. Taylor looked her curiosity.

  “It’s a turrible thing,” Teeters wagged his head solemnly, “to see a feller layin’ on his death-bed denyin’ they’s a Hereafter.”

  “Why, how dreadful! Who is it?”

  “A sheepherder. He says they ain’t no hell—nor nothin’.”

  “The po-oo-or soul! Is there any way I could talk to him?”

  “I was hopin’ you’d say that, but I didn’t like to ask you, seein’ as he’s a sheepherder.”

  “They’re human beings, Clarence,” reproved Mrs. Taylor.

  “I’ve heerd that questioned,” declared Teeters, “but anyhow, a person with a heart in him no bigger than a bullet would have to be sorry to see this feller goin’ to his everlasting punishment without repentin’. He’s done murder.”

  “Murder!”

  “I’ll tell you about it to-morrow on the way over.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At Kate Prentice’s—at headquarters.”

  Mrs. Taylor stiffened.

  “I shouldn’t care to go there, Clarence.” Seeing that his face clouded, she added: “Of course, if your heart is set upon it—the woman wouldn’t construe it as a ‘call’ and return it, would she?”

  “I hardly think so,” replied Teeters dryly.

  * * *

  As a result of this conversation, the following morning Kate saw Teeters driving up Bitter Creek with a second person on the seat beside him. She had just come down from Burnt Basin and was not in too good a humor. Bowers, who was staying with Mullendore, came out of the wagon when he heard her and asked:

  “How was it lookin’?”

  “The spring was trampled to a bog,” she said in an exasperated voice, “and the range is covered with bare spots where that dry-farmer has salted his cattle. I’ll throw two bands of sheep in there, and when I take ’em off there won’t be roots enough left to grow grass for five years. If it’s fight he wants, I’ll give him all he’s looking for.” Her brow cleared as she added:

  “Teeters is coming up the road and bringing some one with him.” She nodded towards the wagon, “How is he?”

  “I doubt if he lasts the day out.”

  Kate frowned when she recognized Mrs. Taylor. They passed occasionally on the road to Prouty, but always without speaking. Kate never had forgiven the affront at the Prouty House, while Mrs. Taylor preserved her uncompromising attitude towards “rough characters.”

  Mrs. Taylor looked like a grenadier in a long snuff-brown coat and jaunty sailor hat as she descended from the buckboard without using the step. The benign cow-like complacency of her face always had irritated Kate, and now, as she advanced with the air of a great lady slumming, Kate felt herself tingling.

  “How do you do, my dear?” She extended a large hand with a brown cotton glove upon it.

  Kate’s hand remained at her side, as she said coldly:

  “How do you do, Mrs. Taylor?”

  Mrs. Taylor’s manner sa
id that it was the gracious act of an unsullied woman extending a hand to a fallen sister when she laid her brown cotton paw upon Kate’s arm and quavered pityingly:

  “You po-oo-or soul!”

  “You stupid woman!” Kate’s eyes at the moment looked like steel points emitting sparks.

  Mrs. Taylor drew herself up haughtily and was about to retort, but thought better of it. Instead, she declared with noble magnanimity:

  “I am not angery. I have not been angery in thirty years. You are very rude, but I can rise above it and forgive you, because I realize you’ve had no raising.”

  “I hope,” said Kate hotly, “that you realize also that you are not here by my invitation.”

  Mrs. Taylor looked as if she was not only about to forget that she was a saint but a lady, while Teeters had a sensation of being rent by feline claws.

  It seemed like a direct intervention of Providence when Bowers hung out of the door of the wagon and called excitedly:

  “I believe he’s goin’!”

  The exigencies of the moment, and curiosity, combined to make Mrs. Taylor overlook temporarily that she had been insulted, and she hastened with Teeters to the dying man’s side.

  Emaciated, yellow, Mullendore was lying with closed eyes when they entered.

  “Say, feller—” said Teeters, hoping to rouse him.

  Only Mullendore’s faint breathing told them that he was living.

  Mrs. Taylor laid her hand upon his damp forehead and withdrew it quickly.

  “The po-oo-or soul! I’ll sing something.”

  “It might help to git ong rapport with the sperrits,” agreed Teeters.

  As Mrs. Taylor droned a familiar camp-meeting hymn, Mullendore opened his eyes and looked at her dully:

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Mrs. Taylor quavered, “I’ve come to bring the Truth to you.”

  Mullendore looked at her, uncomprehending.

  Teeters thrust himself in the sick man’s line of vision and elucidated:

  “Feller, I’m sorry to tell you you ain’t goin’ to 'make the grade'—they’s no possible show fur you—an’ Mis’ Taylor here, who’s a personal friend, you might say, of all the leadin’ sperrits in the Sperrit World, has come to kind of prepare you—”