“This here cayuse,” he said to Vickers, when the latter instructed him to return to his outfit, saying that Miss Ruth thought she could now ride the pony without trouble, “is got a heap of devilment in him, yet—which ought to come out.”
“Miss Ruth’s got a fellow,” said the range boss, in seeming irrelevance. But the young puncher sneered a malignant denial and rode away to his camp.
There were fourteen other men employed by the Flying W. Ruth met them at various times. Invariably they were looking for strays. They seemed—some of them—content to look at her; others, bolder, manufactured ingenuous pretexts to talk; but—all were gentlemen.
She arose one morning during the third week of her stay at the ranch, to be greeted by one of those perfect days that late spring brings. It had been dry for a week, with a hint of receding chill in the air, and the comfort of a wrap was still felt. But on this morning the sun was showing his power, and a balmy south breeze that entered her window was burdened with the aroma of sage, strong and delicious. She got out of bed and looked out of the window. It was a changed world. Summer had come overnight. No morning in the East had ever made her feel quite like this.
Out on the front porch later in the morning, with Chavis and Pickett standing near, she asked Masten to ride with her.
He seemed annoyed, but spoke persuasively.
“Put it off a day, won’t you, Ruth? There’s a good girl. I’ve promised to go to Lazette with the boys this morning, and I don’t want to disappoint them.” Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he added: “Where did you want to ride?”
“Why,” she said, hoping that, after all, he might change his mind, “I’m only going to the box canyon, down the river. There’s such a pretty stretch of timber there.”
He smiled indulgently. “I’ll try to meet you there, this afternoon about three, if I can make it. But don’t wait longer.” He turned his back to her and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett.
She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near the corral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepson standing near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. She forced a smile and went into the house.
A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river. She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spite of the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face during their talk.
It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, and she made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly two o’clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to a tree. Seating herself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait.
It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch, impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was about to rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofs near her.
With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the direction from which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying to appear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. He did care, after all, enough to part with his companions—for her sake. She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when she heard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands to keep from turning to face him.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips.
Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom Chavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did not fear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at him composedly, for she half suspected that Masten had sent him, fearing that she would wait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up and faced Chavis.
“Mr. Masten couldn’t come, I suppose?” she said.
“That’s right,” he said, looking at her oddly; “he couldn’t come. You see, he’s sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan’s, over in Lazette, an’ he couldn’t very well break away.”
“A biscuit shooter!” she said, uncomprehendingly.
“Sure. I reckon that back East you’d call her a waitress, or somethin’. I ain’t admirin’ his taste none. She ain’t nowheres near as good-lookin’ as you.”
Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made her physically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But the sensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed, the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her.
“Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?” she asked icily.
“Why, no. I did it on my own hook. I knowed you’d be waitin’—I heard you makin’ the date with Willard, this mornin’. An’ I figgered that what was fair for one was fair for another. So I sneaked away from Willard an’ come here. I’ve taken quite a shine to you, ma’am; you’ve sure got me some flustered. An’ I reckon—” here he took a step toward her and grinned significantly “that I’ll make a rattlin’ good substitute for Willard.”
She struck at him, blindly, savagely. She felt her open hand strike his cheek, heard him curse, and then, in a daze she was running toward her pony. She did not turn, but furiously raced the animal across the plains toward the ranchhouse.
She was calmer when she reached the house, but went directly to her room, where she changed her clothes and sat for a long time at one of the windows, looking toward the river—and toward Lazette.
Downstairs, Uncle Jepson, who from a window of the bunkhouse had seen her come in, had followed her into the house, to remark grumblingly to Aunt Martha:
“Willard didn’t meet her, drat him!”
Ruth passed a miserable night, thinking over Chavis’ words. The man might have been lying. Obviously, common fairness demanded that she tell Masten of the circumstance. On one thing she was determined: that Chavis should leave the ranch, whether he had lied to her or not. She would have instructed Vickers to attend to that, but Vickers had gone again to Red Rock on business, and would not return for two or three days. She would wait until Vickers returned to discharge Chavis, but she must tell Masten of the insult, for she yearned to see Chavis punished.
She waited until after breakfast the following morning, and then she induced Masten to walk with her, under pretext of examining the flower beds. Reaching them, she faced him fairly.
“Willard,” she said, her lips white and stiff, “there must be no double-dealing between you and me. Tom Chavis told me yesterday that you are interested in a waitress in Lazette. Is that true?”
He started, flushed darkly, and then smiled blandly.
“Tom Chavis is romancing, my dear. If there is a waitress in Lazette I have not seen her.” He seized her by the shoulders and spoke earnestly. “I am interested in Ruth Harkness, my dear. You surely don’t believe such a story, do you, Ruth?”
He looked at her so frankly that her jealousy took wings, and she blushed and lowered her eyes. She raised them again, almost instantly, however; they were glowing vindictively.
“Tom Chavis came to the box canyon at three yesterday afternoon,” she said firmly. “He insulted me. I want you to discharge him; Vickers is not here to do it. And I do not want to see him again.”
He pressed his lips together and avoided her gaze, and a slow red stole into his face. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
“Tom Chavis is a valuable man here, Ruth,” he said. “If the insult was one that can be overlooked, you would do well to let the matter rest. But be assured that I shall have a talk with Chavis, and you may believe that he will not repeat the offense.” He patted her shoulder. “In the meantime,” he said, with a hurt expression in his eyes, “do have some faith in me.”
Reassured, convinced that she had done him an injustice in believing Chavis, she passed the remainder of the day in comparative light-heartedness. But when the awesome darkness
of the West settled over the country, and deep, stirring thoughts came to her on her pillow, she found herself thinking of the rider of the river. He grew very vivid in her thoughts, and she found herself wondering,—remembering the stern manliness of his face,—whether he, listening to the story of Chavis’ insult from her lips, would have sought to find excuses for her insulter.
* * *
CHAPTER V
LOVE VS. BUSINESS
On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson were sitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was reading and thinking—thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap. Masten was smoking a cigar—one of the many that he had brought with him—and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Masten seemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silent during long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed and immaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country, where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication of effeminacy.
Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in the first place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party in Poughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the country gallants at the party as he had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seen since coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he had quite captivated her, and after their engagement—which had been a rather matter-of-fact affair—she had not found it possible to refuse him permission to accompany her to the West.
“Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?” Masten inquired at last.
“Neighbor!” Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing her place. “Why, I didn’t know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond H!”
Masten’s lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant memories.
“A nester,” he said, and then added after a pause—“and his daughter. Only two miles from here, across the river. There’s a trail, through a break in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of the river. The man’s name is Catherson—Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he was something of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to steal Flying W cattle. He’s an old savage.”
“And the daughter?” inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.
“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”
“How old is she, Willard?”
“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”
“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.
“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.
“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:
“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:
“Some one is coming!”
During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind.
It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.
Plainly there was something on Vickers’ mind, for he smiled mechanically as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.
“Well, I’m back,” he said. He looked at Ruth. “There’s somethin’ I’d like to say to you. It’s business. If you’d rather hear it private—”
“I think there is nothing—” she began.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to leave here.”
Ruth’s face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. Aunt Martha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleam was in his eyes.
“Isn’t that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?” questioned Ruth after a silence.
“Well, mebbe it is, to you,” said Vickers, with some embarrassment. “But the fact is, I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ for a long time—about a year to be exact. I was goin’ before your uncle died, but I kept holdin’ on because he wanted me to. You see, ma’am, I’ve got a mother back East. She’s been poorly for quite a while now, an’ has been wantin’ me to come. I’ve been puttin’ it off, but it’s got to the point where it can’t be put off any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an’ he says that she can’t last a heap longer. So—I’m goin’.”
“That’s too bad,” sympathized Ruth. “You ought to go, and go quickly.”
“I’m aimin’ to, ma’am. But I’ve got to tell you somethin’ before I go. Me an’ your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap.”
“Yes,” said Ruth; “he told me that he liked and trusted you.”
“Well, you’ll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, we was talkin’ of him goin’. He knowed it, ma’am. We was talkin’ about the ranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. ‘What’ll I do for a range boss when you’re gone?’ he asked me. ‘I won’t go till you ain’t here any more,’ I tells him. An’ he grinned. ‘I’m goin’ to leave the Flyin’ W to my niece, Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie,’ he says. ‘I’d like her to stay an’ run it—if she likes it here. You’ll be gone then, an’ who in Sam Hill will be range boss then?’ I told him I didn’t have no thoughts on the subject, an’ he continues: ‘Rex Randerson, Vickers—he’ll be range boss. Do you understand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randerson would be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An’ if you’ve got any say-so after I’m gone, an’ Ruth wants to keep the ranch, you tell her that—that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be range boss after Wes Vickers don’t want it any more.’ That’s what he said, ma’am; them’s his very words.”
Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth’s cheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still, Randerson hadn’t really used him ill at the river, and besides, he had apologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also, she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward Tom Chavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in her unsophisticated mind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten to jealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers’ gaze, fixed curiously upon her.
“Could you recommend this man—Randerson?” she asked.
“Why, ma’am, he’s got the best reputation of any man in these parts!”
“But is he efficient?”
“Meanin’ does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He’s got the best head for range work of any man in the country! He’s square, ma’am. An’ there ain’t no man monkeyin’ with him. I’ve knowed him for five years, an’ I ain’t ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin’”—and here he scratched his head and grinned reminiscently—“when he gets the devil in him which he does occasionally, ma’am—an’ goes to jokin’, ma’am. But they’re mostly harmless jokes, ma’am; he’s never hurt nobody, bad. But he got a level head—a heap leveler than a lot of folks that—”
“I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth,” said Masten. He did not look at her, and his words were expressionless.
“Mister man,” said Vic
kers evenly, “what do you know about Tom Chavis?”
Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face slowly reddening.
“He’s foreman now, isn’t he?” he said. “It seems that Harkness trusted him that much.”
“There’s a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister,” said Vickers.
Masten’s voice was almost a sneer.
“Why don’t you tell Chavis that?”
“I’ve told him, Mister—to his face.” Vickers’ own face was growing dark with wrath.
“You were range boss after Harkness’ death,” persisted Masten. “Why didn’t you discharge Chavis?”
“I’m askin’ the new boss for permission to do it now,” declared Vickers. “It’ll be a good wind-up for my stay here.”
“We shall keep Chavis for the present,” said Ruth. “However,” she added firmly, “he shall not be range boss. I do not like him.”
Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten’s face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control.
“Of course, it is your affair, Ruth,” he said. “I beg your pardon for offering the suggestion.”
But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walking toward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had gone to a distant part of the range.
Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on the porch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, and then he took Ruth’s hand and held it long.
The Range Boss Page 4