Again it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned a somersault. Again there followed a space during which there was no movement.
Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did this of his own accord. The steer scrambled to its feet, hesitated an instant, and then lunged furiously toward the tormenting horse and rider.
Patches snorted; Ruth was certain it was with disgust. He leaped—again the girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement—directly toward the enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and passing to its rear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the pony braced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearly and distinctly to the girl.
She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richly deserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled to face the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer again scrambled to its feet.
This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of the rope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could not be successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson the steer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lesson Randerson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. It explained Randerson’s seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herself sharply for doubting him.
She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shaking its head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort of work; the fight had all been taken out of it. Again the pony stiffened, and again the steer went down with a thud. This time, while it struggled on the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulation that ran from his hand to the loop around the steer’s leg, loosening it. And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, head and tail in the air, grunting with relief.
A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope, a grin on his face. He stopped before her, and his grin broadened.
“Range steers are sort of peculiar, ma’am,” he said gently. “They’re raised like that. They don’t ever see no man around them unless he’s forkin’ his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin’ it around a range steer—it ain’t accordin’ to the rules. Your range steer ain’t used to seein’ a man walkin’. On his pony he’s safe—nine times out of ten. The other time a range steer will tackle a rider that goes to monkeyin’ around him promiscuous. But they have to be taught manners, ma’am—the same as human bein’s. That scalawag will recognize the rope now, ma’am, the same as a human outlaw will recognize the rope—or the law. Of course both will be outlaws when there’s no rope or no law around, but—Why, ma’am,” he laughed—“I’m gettin’ right clever at workin’ my jaw, ain’t I? Are you headin’ back to the Flyin’ W? Because if you are, I’d be sort of glad to go along with you—if you’ll promise you won’t go to galivantin’ around the country on foot no more. Not that that steer will tackle you again, ma’am—he’s been taught his lesson. But there’s others.”
She laughed and thanked him. As they rode she considered his subtle reference to the law and the rope, and wondered if it carried any personal significance to anyone. Twice she looked at him for evidence of that, but could gain nothing from his face—suffused with quiet satisfaction.
* * *
CHAPTER XVII
THE TARGET
Earlier in the morning, Ruth had watched Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha ride away in the buckboard toward Lazette. She had stood on the porch, following them with her eyes until the buckboard had grown dim in her vision—a mere speck crawling over a sun-scorched earth, under a clear white sky in which swam a sun that for days had been blighting growing things. But on the porch of the ranchhouse it was cool.
Ruth was not cool. When the buckboard had finally vanished into the distance, with nothing left of it but a thin dust cloud that spread and disintegrated and at last settled down, Ruth walked to a rocker on the porch and sank into it, her face flushed, her eyes glowing with eager expectancy.
A few days before, while rummaging in a wooden box which had been the property of her uncle, William Harkness, she had come upon another box, considerably smaller, filled with cartridges. She had examined them thoughtfully, and at last, with much care and trepidation, had taken one of them, found Uncle Harkness’ big pistol, removed the cylinder and slipped the cartridge into one of the chambers. It had fitted perfectly. Thereafter she had yielded to another period of thoughtfulness—longer this time.
A decision had resulted from those periods, for the day before, when a puncher had come in from the outfit, on an errand, she had told him to send Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And she was expecting him now.
She had tried to dissuade Uncle Jep and Aunt Martha from making the trip to Lazette today, but, for reasons which she would not have admitted—and did not admit, even to herself—she had not argued very strongly. And she had watched them go with mingled regret and satisfaction; two emotions that persisted in battling within her until they brought the disquiet that had flushed her cheeks.
It was an hour before Randerson rode up to the edge of the porch, and when Patches came to a halt, and her range boss sat loosely in the saddle, looking down at her, she was composed, even though her cheeks were still a little red.
“You sent for me, ma’am.”
It was the employee speaking to his “boss.” He was not using the incident of a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voice was low, deferential. But Willard Masten’s voice had never made her feel quite as she felt at this moment.
“Yes, I sent for you,” she said, smiling calmly—trying to seem the employer but getting something into her voice which would not properly belong there under those circumstances. She told herself it was not pleasure—but she saw his eyes flash. “I have found some cartridges, and I want you to teach me how to shoot.”
He looked at her with eyes that narrowed with amusement, after a quick glint of surprise.
“I reckon I c’n teach you. Are you figurin’ that there’s some one in this country that you don’t want here any more?”
“No,” she said; “I don’t expect to shoot anybody. But I have decided that as long as I have made up my mind to stay here and run the Flying W, I may as well learn to be able to protect myself—if occasion arises.”
“That’s a heap sensible. You c’n never tell when you’ll have to do some shootin’ out here. Not at men, especial,” he grinned, “but you’ll run across things—a wolf, mebbe, that’ll get fresh with you, or a sneakin’ coyote that’ll kind of make the hair raise on the back of your neck, not because you’re scared of him, but because you know his mean tricks an’ don’t admire them, or a wildcat, or a hydrophobia polecat, ma’am,” he said, with slightly reddening cheeks; “but mostly, ma’am, I reckon you’ll like shootin’ at side-winders best. Sometimes they get mighty full of fight, ma’am—when it’s pretty hot.”
“How long will it take you to teach me to shoot?” she asked.
“That depends, ma’am. I reckon I could show you how to pull the trigger in a jiffy. That would be a certain kind of shootin’. But as for showin’ you how to hit somethin’ you shoot at, why, that’s a little different. I’ve knowed men that practiced shootin’ for years, ma’am, an’ they couldn’t hit a barn if they was inside of it. There’s others that can hit most anything, right handy. They say it’s all in the eye an’ the nerves, ma’am—whatever nerves are.”
“You haven’t any nerves, I suppose, or you wouldn’t speak of them that way.”
“If you mean that I go to hollerin’ an’ jumpin’ around when somethin’ happens, why I ain’t got any. But I’ve seen folks with nerves, ma’am.”
He was looking directly at her when he spoke, his gaze apparently without subtlety. But she detected a gleam that seemed far back in his eyes, and she knew that he referred to her actions of the other night.
She blushed. “
I didn’t think you would remind me of that,” she said.
“Why, I didn’t, ma’am. I didn’t mention any names. But of course, a woman’s got nerves; they can’t help it.”
“Of course men are superior,” she taunted.
She resisted an inclination to laugh, for she was rather astonished to discover that man’s disposition to boast was present in this son of the wilderness. Also, she was a little disappointed in him.
But she saw him redden.
“I ain’t braggin’, ma’am. Take them on an average, an’ I reckon woman has got as much grit as men. But they show it different. They’re quicker to imagine things than men. That makes them see things where there ain’t anything to see. A man’s mother is always a woman, ma’am, an’ if he’s got any grit in him he owes a lot of it to her. I reckon I owe more to my mother than to my father.”
His gaze was momentarily somber, and she felt a quick, new interest in him. Or had she felt this interest all along—a desire to learn something more of him than he had expressed?
“You might get off your horse and sit in the shade for a minute. It is hot, you’ve had a long ride, and I am not quite ready to begin shooting,” she invited.
He got off Patches, led him to the shade of the house, hitched him, and then returned to the porch, taking a chair near her.
“Aunt Martha says you were born here,” Ruth said. “Have you always been a cowboy?”
A flash that came into his eyes was concealed by a turn of the head. So she had asked Aunt Martha about him.
“I don’t remember ever bein’ anything else. As far back as I c’n recollect, there’s been cows hangin’ around.”
“Have you traveled any?”
“To Denver, Frisco, Kansas City. I was in Utah, once, lookin’ over the Mormons. They’re a curious lot, ma’am. I never could see what on earth a man wanted half a dozen wives for. One can manage a man right clever. But half a dozen! Why, they’d be pullin’ one another’s hair out, fightin’ over him! One would be wantin’ him to do one thing, an’ another would be wantin’ him to do another. An’ between them, the man would be goin’ off to drown himself.”
“But a woman doesn’t always manage her husband,” she defended.
“Don’t she, ma’am?” he said gently, no guile in his eyes. “Why, all the husbands I’ve seen seemed to be pretty well managed. You can see samples of it every day, ma’am, if you look around. Young fellows that have acted pretty wild when they was single, always sort of steady down when they’re hooked into double harness. They go to actin’ quiet an’ subdued-like—like they’d lost all interest in life. I reckon it must be their wives managin’ them, ma’am.”
“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” she said, her chin lifting.
“The men seem to like it, ma’am. Every day there’s new ones makin’ contracts for managers.”
“I suppose you will never sacrifice yourself?” she asked challengingly.
“It ain’t time, yet, ma’am,” he returned, looking straight at her, his eyes narrowed, with little wrinkles in the corners. “I’m waitin’ for you to tell Masten that you don’t want to manage him.”
“We won’t talk about that, please,” she said coldly.
“Then we won’t, ma’am.”
She sat looking at him, trying to be coldly critical, but not succeeding very well. She was trying to show him that there was small hope of him ever realizing his desire to have her “manage” him, but she felt that she did not succeed in that very well either. Perplexity came into her eyes as she watched him.
“Why is it that you don’t like Willard Masten?” she asked at length. “Why is it that he doesn’t like you?”
His face sobered. “I don’t recollect to have said anything about Masten, ma’am,” he said.
“But you don’t like him, do you?”
A direct answer was required. “No,” he said simply.
“Why?” she persisted.
“I reckon mebbe you’d better ask Masten,” he returned, his voice expressionless. Then he looked at her with an amused grin. “If it’s goin’ to take you any time to learn to shoot, I reckon we’d better begin.”
She got up, went into the house for the pistol and cartridges, and came out again, the weapon dangling from her hand.
“Shucks!” he said, when he saw the pistol, comparing its huge bulk to the size of the hand holding it, “you’ll never be able to hold it, when it goes off. You ought to have a smaller one.”
“Uncle Jep says this ought to stop anything it hits,” she declared. “That is just what I want it to do. If I shoot anything once, I don’t want to have to shoot again.”
“I reckon you’re right bloodthirsty, ma’am. But I expect it’s so big for you that you won’t be able to hit anything.”
“I’ll show you,” she said, confidently. “Where shall we go to shoot? We shall have to have a target, I suppose?”
“Not a movin’ one,” he said gleefully. “An’ I ain’t aimin’ to hold it for you!”
“Wait until you are asked,” she retorted, defiantly. “Perhaps I may be a better shot than you think!”
“I hope so, ma’am.”
She looked resentfully at him, but followed him as he went out near the pasture fence, taking with him a soap box that he found near a shed, and standing it up behind a post, first making sure there were no cattle within range in the direction that the bullets would take. Then he stepped off twenty paces, and when she joined him he took the pistol from her hands and loaded it from the box. He watched her narrowly as she took it, and she saw the concern in his eyes.
“Oh, I have used a revolver before,” she told him, “not so large a one as this, of course. But I know better than to point it at myself.”
“I see you do, ma’am.” His hand went out quickly and closed over hers, for she had been directing the muzzle of the weapon fairly at his chest. “You ought never point it at anybody that you don’t want to shoot,” he remonstrated gently.
He showed her how to hold the weapon, told her to stand sideways to the target, with her right arm extended and rigid, level with the shoulder.
He took some time at this; three times after she extended her arm he seemed to find it necessary to take hold of the arm to rearrange its position, lingering long at this work, and squeezing the pistol hand a little too tightly, she thought.
“Don’t go to pullin’ the trigger too fast or too hard,” he warned; “a little time for the first shot will save you shootin’ again, mebbe—until you get used to it. She’ll kick some, but you’ll get onto that pretty quick.”
She pulled the trigger, and the muzzle of the pistol flew upward.
“I reckon that target feels pretty safe, ma’am,” he said dryly. “But that buzzard up there will be pullin’ his freight—if he’s got any sense.”
She fired again, her lips compressed determinedly. At the report a splinter of wood flew from the top of the post. She looked at him with an exultant smile.
“That’s better,” he told her, grinning; “you’ll be hittin’ the soap box, next.”
She did hit it at the fourth attempt, and her joy was great.
For an hour she practiced, using many cartridges, reveling in this new pastime. She hit the target often, and toward the end she gained such confidence and proficiency that her eyes glowed proudly. Then, growing tired, she invited him to the porch again, and until near noon they talked of guns and shooting.
Her interest in him had grown. His interest in her had always been deep, and the constraint that had been between them no longer existed.
At noon she went into the house and prepared luncheon, leaving him sitting on the porch alone. When she called Randerson in, and he took a chair across from her, she felt a distinct embarrassment. It was not because she was there alone with him, for he had a right to be there; he was her range boss and his quarters were in the house; he was an employee, and no conventions were being violated. But the embarrassment was there.
Did
Randerson suspect her interest in him? That question assailed her. She studied him, and was uncertain. For his manner had not changed. He was still quiet, thoughtful, polite, still deferential and natural, with a quaintness of speech and a simplicity that had gripped her, that held her captive.
But her embarrassment fled as the meal progressed. She forgot it in her interest for him. She questioned him again; he answered frankly. And through her questions she learned much of his past life, of his hopes and ambitions. They were as simple and natural as himself.
“I’ve been savin’ my money, ma’am,” he told her. “I’m goin’ to own a ranch of my own, some day. There’s fellows that blow in all their wages in town, not thinkin’ of tomorrow. But I quit that, quite a while ago. I’m lookin’ out for tomorrow. It’s curious, ma’am. Fellows will try to get you to squander your money, along with their own, an’ if you don’t, they’ll poke fun at you. But they’ll respect you for not squanderin’ it, like they do. I reckon they know there ain’t any sense to it.” Thus she discovered that there was little frivolity in his make-up, and pleasure stirred her. And then he showed her another side of his character—his respect for public opinion.
“But I ain’t stingy, ma’am. I reckon I’ve proved it. There’s a difference between bein’ careful an’ stingy.”
“How did you prove it?”
He grinned at her. “Why, I ain’t mentionin’,” he said gently.
But she had heard of his generosity—from several of the men, and from Hagar Catherson. She mentally applauded his reticence.
She learned that he had read—more than she would have thought, from his speech—and that he had profited thereby.
“Books give the writer’s opinion of things,” he said. “If you read a thoughtful book, you either agree with the writer, or you don’t, accordin’ to your nature an’ understandin’. None of them get things exactly right, I reckon, for no man can know everything. He’s got to fall down, somewhere. An’ so, when you read a book, you’ve got to do a heap of thinkin’ on your own hook, or else you’ll get mistaken ideas an’ go to gettin’ things mixed up. I like to do my own thinkin’.”
The Range Boss Page 13