The Range Boss

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  Randerson and Owen started toward the gunman, to determine how badly he had been hit; they were met by Blair. There was amazement and incredulity in the man’s eyes.

  “He’s goin’ to cash in—quick,” he said. “You got him, pretty nearly proper—just over the heart. But, but, he says he’s Watt Kelso! An’ that that eastern dude, Masten, sent him over here—payin’ him five hundred cold, to perforate you!”

  Randerson ran to where Kelso lay, gasping and panting for breath. He knelt beside him.

  “You talkin’ straight, Kelso?” he asked. “Did Masten hire you to put me out of business?”

  “Sure,” whispered Kelso.

  “Where’s Masten stayin’?”

  “With Chavis—in the shack. He’s been there right along, except,” he finished, with a grim attempt at humor, “when he’s been rushin’ that biscuit-shooter in Lazette.”

  Five minutes later, standing near one of the wheels of the chuck-wagon, gazing somberly at the men, who were carrying Kelso away, Randerson spoke grimly to Owen, who was standing beside him.

  “Pickett an’ then Kelso! Both of them was sure bad enough. But I reckon Masten’s got them both roped an’ hog-tied for natural meanness.” He turned to Owen. “I reckon I had to do it, old man,” he said, a quaver in his voice.

  “Buck up, Wrecks!” Owen slapped him on the shoulder, and turned toward the men.

  Randerson watched him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I reckon she’d have wanted it different,” he said to himself.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIX

  READY GUN AND CLEAN HEART

  Uncle Jepson understood the cow-punchers because he understood human nature, and because he had a strain of the wild in him that had been retained since his youth. Their simplicity, their directness, had been his own; their frankness and generosity, their warm, manly impulses—all reminded him of the days before age, with its accompanying conservatism of thought and action, had placed a governor upon them. They understood him, too, recognizing him as their kind. Blair, especially, had taken a fancy to him, and therefore it was not many days after the shooting of Kelso that Uncle Jepson got the story, with all its gruesome details, from his lips.

  The tale was related in strictest confidence, and Uncle Jepson did not repeat it.

  But the main fact, that Randerson had killed another man in his outfit, found its way to Ruth’s ears through the medium of a roaming puncher who had stopped for an hour at the ranchhouse. Ruth had confirmed the news through questioning several Flying W men, and, because of their reluctance to answer her inquiries, their expressionless faces, she gathered that the shooting had not met with their approval. She did not consider that they had given her no details, that they spoke no word of blame or praise. She got nothing but the bare fact—that Randerson’s gun had again wrought havoc.

  She had not seen Masten. A month had slipped by since the day of his departure, when she got a note from him, by messenger, from Lazette, saying that his business was not yet concluded, and that possibly, two weeks more would elapse before he would be able to visit the Flying W.

  Had Randerson, standing near the chuck wagon on the night of the shooting of Kelso, known what effect the news would have on Ruth? “I reckon she would have wanted it different,” he had reflected, then. And he had been entirely correct, for the news had destroyed something that had been growing and flourishing in her heart. It had filled her soul with disappointment, at least; repugnance and loathing were not very far away. She had almost been persuaded, that day when he had taught her how to use the pistol. The killing of Pickett had grown dim and distant in her mental vision; Randerson had become a compelling figure that dominated her thoughts. But this second killing! She could no longer interpret the steady, serene gleam in his eyes as mild confidence and frank directness; as she saw them now they reflected hypocrisy—the cold, designing cunning of the habitual taker of human life.

  She had been very near to making a mistake; she had almost yielded to the lure of the romance that had seemed to surround him; the magnetic personality of him had attracted her. He attracted her no longer—her heart was shut to him. And, during the days of Masten’s continuing absence—in the times when she reflected on her feelings toward Randerson on the day he had taught her the use of the pistol, she bitterly reproached herself for her momentary lack of loyalty to the Easterner. She had been weak for an instant—as life is measured—and she would make it up to Masten—by ceasing to be irritated by his moods, through paying no attention to his faults, which, she now saw, were infinitely less grave than those of the man who had impressed her for an instant—and by yielding to his suggestion that she marry him before the fall round-up.

  In these days, too, she seriously thought of discharging Randerson, for he had not ridden in to report the killing and to offer a defense for it, but she remembered Vickers’ words: “Randerson is square,” and she supposed that all cowboys were alike, and would shoot—to kill—if they considered their provocation to be great enough.

  But these thoughts did not occupy all of her time. She found opportunities to ride and sew and talk—the latter mostly with Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson. And she kept making her visits to Hagar Catherson.

  Of late Ruth had noticed a change in the girl’s manner. She seemed to have lost the vivacity that had swept upon her with the coming of her new clothes; she had grown quiet and thoughtful, and had moods of intense abstraction. Ruth rode to the cabin one morning, to find her sitting on the edge of the porch, hugging Nig tightly and whispering to him. Her eyes were moist when Ruth rode up to the porch and looked down at her, but they filled with delight when they rested upon her visitor.

  She did not get up, though, and still held Nig, despite the dog’s attempts to release himself.

  “Have you been crying, Hagar?” Ruth inquired as she dismounted and sat on the edge of the porch close to the girl.

  Hagar smiled wanly and rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of her free hand, meanwhile looking sidelong at Ruth.

  “Why, I reckon not,” she answered hesitatingly, “that is, not cryin’ regular. But I was just tellin’ Nig, here, that he’s the only sure enough friend I’ve got—that can be depended on not to fool anybody.”

  “Why, Hagar!” Ruth was astonished and perhaps a little hurt by this pessimistic view. “What an odd idea for you to have! Who has fooled you, Hagar?”

  “Nobody,” said the girl almost sullenly. She dug her bare toe into the deep sand at the edge of the porch and looked down at the miniature hill she was making, her lips set queerly. Ruth had already noticed that she was dressed almost as she had been at their first meeting—a slipover apron that Ruth had given her being the only new garment. It was the lonesomeness, of course, Ruth reflected, and perhaps a vision of the dreary future, prospectless, hopeless, to be filled with the monotony of the past. Her arm stole out and was placed on Hagar’s shoulder.

  “I haven’t fooled you, Hagar,” she said; “have I?”

  “No, ma’am.” Her lips quivered. She glanced furtively at Ruth, and a half frightened, half dreading look came into her eyes. “Nobody’s fooled me,” she added with a nervous laugh. “I was just feelin’ sorta dumpish, I reckon.”

  “You mustn’t brood, you know,” consoled Ruth. “It ruins character.”

  “What’s character?”

  “Why—why,” hesitated Ruth, “the thing that makes you yourself—apart from every other person; your reputation; the good that is in you—the good you feel.”

  “I ain’t got any,” said the girl, morosely, grimly.

  “Why, Hagar, you have! Everybody has—either good or bad.”

  “Mine’s bad, I reckon—if I’ve got any.” She suddenly buried her face on Ruth’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Perplexed, astonished, almost dismayed, Ruth held her off and tried to look at her face. But the girl only buried it deeper and continued to cry.

  “Why, Hagar; whatever is the matter?”

  There wa
s no answer, and after holding her for a time, Ruth succeeded in getting a look at her face. It was tear-stained, but dogged in expression, and had Ruth been experienced in reading the human emotions, she could have seen the guilt in the girl’s eyes, lurking far back. She also might have seen the determination in them—a determination not to tell her secret. And a sorrow, also, was there—aroused through the thought that she had deceived Ruth, and could not tell her.

  Hagar realized now that she had permitted her emotions to carry her too far, that she had aroused Ruth’s curiosity. Ruth must never know! She made an effort and sat up, laughing grimly through her tears, shaking her hair back from her eyes, brushing it away fiercely.

  “Dad says there’s times when I’m half loco,” she said. “I reckon he’s right.” She recovered her composure rapidly, and in a few minutes there were no traces of tears or of mental distress. But Ruth was puzzled, and after she left the cabin she tried in vain to provide an explanation for the girl’s strange conduct.

  On her next visit to the cabin, Ruth was astonished when Hagar asked her bluntly:

  “Ain’t there no punishment for men who deceive girls?”

  “Very little, Hagar, I fear—unless it is God’s punishment.”

  “Shucks!” The girl’s eyes flashed vindictively. “There ought to be. Durn ’em, anyway!”

  “Hagar, what has brought such a subject into your mind?” said Ruth wonderingly.

  The girl reddened, but met Ruth’s eyes determinedly. “I’ve got a book in here, that dad got with some other traps from ol’ man Cullen’s girls, back in Red Rock—they thought we was poorly, an’ they helped us that-a-way. It’s ‘Millie’s Lovers,’ an’ it tells how a man deceived a girl, an’ run away an’ left her—the sneakin’ coyote!”

  “Girls shouldn’t read such books, Hagar.”

  “Yes, they ought to. But it ought to tell in ’em how to get even with the men who do things like that!” She frowned as she looked at Ruth. “What would you think of a man that done that in real life?”

  “I should think that he wouldn’t be much of a man,” said Ruth.

  As before, Ruth departed from this visit, puzzled and wondering.

  On another morning, a few days following Ruth’s discovery of the shooting of Kelso, she found Hagar standing on the porch. The dog had apprised Hagar of the coming of her visitor. Hagar’s first words were:

  “Did you hear? Rex Randerson killed Kelso.”

  “I heard about it some days ago,” said Ruth. “It’s horrible!”

  “What do you reckon is horrible about it?” questioned Hagar, with a queer look at her friend.

  “Why,” returned Ruth, surprised; “the deed itself! The very thought of one human being taking the life of another!”

  “There’s worse things than killin’ a man that’s tryin’ to make you shuffle off,” declared Hagar evenly. “Rex Randerson wouldn’t kill nobody unless they made him do it. An’ accordin’ to what dad says, Kelso pulled first. Rex ain’t lettin’ nobody perforate him, you bet!”

  “He is too ready with his pistol.”

  The girl caught the repugnance in Ruth’s voice. “I thought you kind of liked Randerson,” she said.

  Ruth blushed. “What made you think that?” she demanded.

  “I’ve heard that you’ve gone ridin’ with him a lot. I just reckoned it.”

  “You are mistaken, Hagar. I do not like Randerson at all. He is my range boss—that is all. A murderer could never be a friend to me.”

  A shadow came over Hagar’s face. “Rex Randerson has got a clean heart,” she said slowly. She stood looking at Ruth, disappointment plain in her eyes. The disappointment was quickly succeeded by suspicion; she caught her breath, and the hands that were under her apron gripped each other hard.

  “I reckon you’ll take up with Masten again,” she said, trying to control her voice.

  Ruth looked intently at her, but she did not notice the girl’s emotion through her interest in her words.

  “What do you mean by ‘again’?”

  “I heard that you’d broke your engagement.”

  “Who told you that?” Ruth’s voice was sharp, for she thought Randerson perhaps had been talking.

  Hagar blushed crimson and resorted to a lie. “My dad told me. He said he’d heard it.”

  “Well, it isn’t true,” Ruth told her firmly; “I have never broken with Mr. Masten. And we are to be married soon.”

  She turned, for she was slightly indignant at this evidence that the people in the country near her had been meddling with her affairs, and she did not see the ashen pallor that quickly spread over Hagar’s face. Had Ruth been looking she must have suspected the girl’s secret. But it took her some time to mount her pony, and then looking back she waved her hand at Hagar, who was smiling, though with pale and drawn face.

  Hagar stood rigid on the porch until she could no longer see Ruth. Then she sank to the edge of the porch, gathered the dog Nig into her arms, and buried her face in his unkempt shoulder. Rocking back and forth in a paroxysm of impotent passion, she spoke to the dog:

  “I can’t kill him now, Nig, he’s goin’ to marry her! Oh Nig, Nig, what am I goin’ to do now?” And then she looked up scornfully, her eyes flashing. “She won’t let Rex be a friend of hers, because he’s killed two men that God had ought to have killed a long while ago! But she’ll marry Masten—who ain’t fit to be Rex’s dog. She won’t, Nig! Why—?”

  She got up and started for the door. But nearing it, she sank upon the threshold, crying and moaning, while Nig, perplexed at this conduct on the part of his mistress, stood off a little and barked loudly at her.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XX

  THE BUBBLE—DREAMS

  Loping his pony through the golden haze of the afternoon, Randerson came over the plains toward the Flying W ranchhouse, tingling with anticipation. The still small voice to which he had listened in the days before Ruth’s coming had not lied to him; Fate, or whatever power ruled the destinies of lovers, had made her for him. Man’s interference might delay the time of possession, his thoughts were of Masten for a brief instant, and his lips straightened, but in the end there could be no other outcome.

  But though he was as certain of her as he was that the sun would continue to rule the days, he kept his confidence from betraying his thoughts, and when at last he rode slowly down along the corral fence, past the bunkhouse and the other buildings, to the edge of the porch, sitting quietly in the saddle and looking down at Ruth, who was sitting in a rocker, sewing, his face was grave and his manner that of unconscious reverence.

  Ruth had been on the porch for more than an hour. And as on the day when he had come riding in in obedience to her orders to teach her the mysteries of the six-shooter, she watched him today—with anticipation, but with anticipation of a different sort, in which was mingled a little regret, but burdened largely with an eagerness to show him, unmistakably, that he was not the sort of man that she could look upon seriously. And so when she saw him ride up to the porch and bring his pony to a halt, she laid her sewing in her lap, folded her hands over it, and watched him with outward calmness, though with a vague sorrow gripping her. For in spite of what he had done, she still felt the man’s strong personality, his virility—the compelling lure of him. She experienced a quick, involuntary tightening of the muscles when she heard his voice—for it intensified the regret in her—low, drawling, gentle:

  “I have come in to report to you, ma’am.”

  “Very well,” she said calmly. She leaned back in her chair, looking at him, feeling a quick pulse of pity for him, for as she sat there and waited, saying nothing further, she saw a faint red steal into his cheeks. She knew that he had expected an invitation to join her on the porch; he was entitled to that courtesy because of her treatment of him on the occasion of his previous visit; and that when the invitation did not come he could not but feel deeply the embarrassment of the situation.

  The faint glow died out
of his face, and the lines of his lips grew a trifle more firm. This reception was not the one he had anticipated, but then there were moods into which people fell. She was subject to moods, too, for he remembered the night she had hurt her ankle—how she had “roasted” him. And his face grew long with an inward mirth. She would ask him to get off his horse, presently, and then he was going to tell her of his feelings on that night.

  But she did not invite him to alight. On the contrary, she maintained a silence that was nearly severe. He divined that this mood was to continue and instead of getting off his pony he swung crossways in the saddle.

  “We’ve got the cattle all out of the hills an’ the timber, an’ we’re workin’ down the crick toward here,” he told her. “There ain’t nothin’ unusual happened, except”—and here he paused for a brief instant—“that I had to shoot a man. It was Watt Kelso, from over Lazette way. I hired him two weeks before.”

  “I heard of it,” she returned steadily, her voice expressionless.

  “I hated like poison to do it. But I had no choice. He brought it on himself.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she said flatly. She looked at him now with the first flash of emotion that she had allowed him to see. “If killing people is your trade, and you choose to persist in it, I don’t see how we are to stop you.”

  He looked sharply at her, but his voice was low and even. “I don’t shoot folks for the fun of it, ma’am.”

  “No?”—with scornful disbelief. “Well, I presume it doesn’t make much difference. Dead people wouldn’t appreciate the joke, anyway.”

  His face was serious now, for he could see that she was deeply disturbed over the shooting.

  “I reckon you wouldn’t believe me, no matter how hard I talked,” he said. “You’d have your own opinion. It sure does look bad for me—havin’ to plug two guys in one season. An’ I don’t blame you for feelin’ like you do about it. But I’ve got this to say,” he went on earnestly. “Kelso come to the outfit, lookin’ for trouble. I’d had a run-in with him a few years ago. An’ I shot him—in the arm. I thought it was all over. But along comes Kelso, with his mustache shaved off so’s I wouldn’t know him—which I did. He asked me for a job, an’ I give it to him—hopin’. But hopes—”