Prairie Flowers

by Hendryx, James B

  "What's this nonsense," cried the girl, angrily, "—this talk about choosing a man? I never saw him till today! I hate men!"

  McWhorter finished his pipe, returned it to his pocket and stepping into his own room reappeared a moment later with a pair of heavy blankets which he laid on the table. "I'm goin' to bed, for I must be early to the lambin' camp. I'm thinkin' the young mon will not return the night—but if he does, here's blankets." He stood for a moment looking down at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the stern eyes allowed: "My little lass," he murmured, as though speaking to himself, "I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter—an' I am glad. The anger will pass—an' 'twill set ye thinkin'—that, an' what's here on the paper." Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed it upon the blankets. "'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same as the one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate—'twas seein' that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, lass—an' 'twad be sair hard to see ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twad steal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night." McWhorter turned abruptly, and passing into his own room, shut the door.

  Standing beside the table, Janet watched the door close behind her father. The anger was gone from her heart, as McWhorter had said it would go, and in its place was a wild desire to throw herself into his arms as she used to do long, long ago—to sob her heart out against his big breast, and to feel his big hand awkwardly stroking her hair, as he muttered over and over again: "Theer, theer wee lassie, theer, theer"—soothing words—those, that had eased her baby hurts and her childish heartaches—she remembered how she used to press her little ear close against his coarse shirt to hear the words rumble deep down in the great chest. He had been a good father to his motherless little girl—had Colin McWhorter.

  The girl turned impulsively toward the closed door, hot tears brimming her eyes. One step, and she stopped tense and listening. Yes, there it was again—the sound of horse's hoofs. Dashing the tears from her eyes she flung open the outer door and stood framed in the oblong of yellow lamplight. Whoever it was had not stopped at the corral, but was riding on toward the cabin. A figure loomed suddenly out of the dark and the Texan drew up before the door.

  "You here alone?" he inquired, stooping slightly to peer past her into the cabin, "'cause if you are, I'll go on to the lambin' camp."

  "No, Dad's here," she answered, "he's gone to bed."

  The man dismounted. "Got any oats?" he asked, as he turned toward the corral. "Blue's a good horse, an' I'd like him to have more'n just hay. I may ride him hard, tomorrow."

  "Yes—wait." The girl turned back into the cabin and came out with a lighted lantern. "I'll go with you. They're in the stable."

  Side by side they walked to the corral, where she held the lantern while the Texan stripped off the saddle. "Got a halter? I ain't goin' to turn him in with the others. They'd nose him out of his oats, or else worry him so he couldn't eat comfortable."

  "Blue's never been in the stable—and he's never eaten oats. He don't know what they are."

  "It's time he learnt, then," he smiled, "but, I don't reckon he'll kick up any fuss. A horse will do anything you want him to, once you get him mastered."

  "Like women, aren't they?" the girl asked maliciously, as she handed him the halter.

  The Texan adjusted the halter, deftly slipped the bridle from beneath it, and glanced quizzically into her face: "Think so?" he countered, "reckon I never run across any that was mastered." At the door of the stable the horse paused, sniffed suspiciously, and pulled back on the halter rope. "Just step away with the lantern so he can't see what's ahead of him, an' he'll come—won't you, Blue?"

  "They wouldn't any of them come if they could see what's ahead, would they?"

  The Texan peered into the girl's face but it was deep in the shadows, "Maybe not," he agreed, "I expect it's a good thing for all of us that we can't see—what's ahead." The man abruptly transferred his attention to the horse; gently slapping his neck and pulling playfully at his twitching ears. His voice dropped into a soothing monotone: "Come on, you old Blue, you. You old fraud, tryin' to make out like you're afraid. Come on—take a chance. There's oats, an' hay, an' beddin' a foot thick in there. An' a good stall to stand in instead of millin' around a corral all night." The rope slackened, and securing a firm grip on the halter, the Texan edged slowly toward the door, the horse following with nervous, mincing steps, and nostrils aquiver. From her place beside the corral, the girl watched in astonishment as man and horse passed from sight. From the black interior of the stable the voice of the Texan sounded its monotonous drone, and presently the man himself appeared and taking the lantern returned to attend to the horse. Alone in the darkness, Janet wondered. She knew the big blue roan, and she had expected a fight. A few minutes later the man reappeared, chuckling: "He's learnt what oats are," he said, "ate 'em out of my hand, first. Now he's goin' after 'em like he'd tear the bottom out of the feed box. I wonder if your Dad would sell Blue? I'll buy him, an' gentle him, an' then——"

  "And then—what?" asked the girl after a moment of silence. She received no answer, and with a trace of impatience she repeated the question. "What would you do then?"

  "Why—then," answered the man, abstractedly, "I don't know. I was just thinkin' maybe it ain't such a good thing after all we can't see farther ahead."

  "Did you find your friend?" Janet asked abruptly, as they walked toward the house.

  "No." In spite of herself, the dead tonelessness of the man's voice aroused her to sudden pity. She remembered the pain and the misery in his eyes. Perhaps after all, he loved this woman—loved her honestly—yet, how could he love honestly another man's wife? Her lips tightened, as she led the way into the house, and without a word, busied herself at the stove.

  Hat in hand, the Texan stood beside the table, and as his glance strayed from the girl, it fell upon a small square of paper upon a fold of a blanket. Mechanically he glanced at the printed lines, and at the first word, snatched the paper from the table and held it to the light.

  The girl turned at the sound: "Oh!" she cried, and stepped swiftly forward as if to seize it from his hand. Her face was flaming red: "Dad left it there—and then—you came—and I—I—forgot it."

  The man read the last word and carefully returned the paper to the table. "I didn't aim to read your papers," he apologized, "but I couldn't help seein' my own name—an' hers—an' I thought I had the right—didn't I have the right?"

  "Yes," answered the girl, "of course you had the right. Only I—we—didn't leave it there on purpose. It——"

  "It don't make any difference how it come to be there," he said dully, and as he passed his hand heavily across his brow, she saw that his fingers fumbled for a moment on the bandage. "The news got around right quick. It was only last night."

  "Long Bill Kearney stuck one on the corral post, and he left some at the lambing camp."

  "Long Bill, eh?" The man repeated the name mechanically, with his eyes on the square of paper, while the girl pushed the blankets back and placed dishes upon the table.

  "You must eat, now," she reminded him, as she filled his plate and poured a cup of steaming coffee.

  The Texan drew up a chair and ate in silence. When he had finished he rolled a cigarette: "One hundred dollars," he said, as though speaking to himself, "that's a right pickyune reward to offer for a full-grown man. Why, there's over a thousand for Cass Grimshaw."

  "Cass Grimshaw is a horse-thief. Apparently, horses are held in higher regard than mere wives."

  Tex disregarded the withering sarcasm. He answered, evenly, "Looks that way. I suppose they figure a man could steal more of 'em."

  "And now that Purdy has stolen her from you, will you continue the search, or look around for another. Surely, wives are cheap—another hundred dollars oughtn't to make any difference."

  "No. Another hundred won't make any difference. Win Endicott was a fool to post that reward. It makes things look
bad——"

  "Look bad!" cried the girl, angrily. "Could it look any worse than it is?"

  "No," agreed the Texan, "not with Purdy into it, it couldn't."

  "Because, now—he'll probably claim the reward he and Long Bill—and you will have had your trouble for your pains."

  "Claim the reward!" exclaimed the Texan. To the girl's surprise he seemed to grasp at the thought as a drowning man would grasp at a straw. There was a new light in his eyes and the words seemed to hold a ray of hope. "Do you suppose he would? Would he hold her safe for a thousand dollars? Prob'ly he'll try to get more!" The man talked rapidly in short jerky sentences. "How'd Long Bill cross the river? Have those two got together? Does Purdy know about the reward?"

  "Long Bill was riding——"

  "Purdy's horse?"

  "Not the one Purdy rode today—but, I think I've seen Purdy ride that horse."

  "But, why did they go on spreadin' these bills? Why didn't they keep it to themselves?" The girl shook her head, and after a few moments of silence, during which his fists opened and closed as if striving to grasp at the truth, the Texan spoke: "Maybe if they had the girl hid away safe, they wanted folks to be on the lookout for me." He pushed back his chair abruptly and as he stood up the girl indicated the blankets, and the package of food.

  "Here are blankets," she said, "and there is grub for tomorrow. There is a bunk in the loft——"

  The Texan gathered the things into his arms: "Never mind the bunk," he said, "I'll sleep in the hay. I'll be wanting an early start. You've helped, girl," he said looking straight into her eyes, "you've guessed wrong—but you've helped—maybe more than you know. I reckon Win wasn't such a fool with his reward after all," and before she could frame a reply, the man had opened the door and disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XX

  AT CINNABAR JOE'S

  Along toward the middle of the afternoon Cinnabar Joe laid down his hammer and smilingly accepted the sandwich his wife held out to him. "You sure don't figure on starvin' me none, Jennie," he grinned as he bit generously into the thick morsel.

  "Ranchin's some different from bartendin'—an' you're workin' awful hard, Joe." She surveyed the half-completed stable with critical eye: "Couple more weeks an' it'll be done!" she exclaimed in admiration, "I didn't know you was so handy. Look over to the house."

  Cinnabar looked: "Gee! Curtains in the window! Looks like a regular outfit, now."

  "Do you like 'em—honest? I didn't think you'd even notice they was hung." With the pride of new proprietorship, her eyes travelled over the tiny log cabin, the horse corral with its new peeled posts, and the stable which still lacked the roof: "We ain't be'n here quite two months, an' the best part is, we done it all ourselves. Why, Joe, I can't hardly believe we've really got an outfit of our own—with horses an' two hundred an' fifty head of cattle! It don't seem real. Seems like I'm bound to wake up an hear Hank roarin' to git up an' git breakfast. That's the way it ended so many times—my dream. I'm so sick of hotels I hope I'll never see another one all my life!"

  "You an' me both! It's the same with bartendin'. But you ain't a-goin' to wake up. This here's real!"

  "Oh, I hope we can make a go of it!" cried the girl, a momentary shadow upon her face, "I hope nothin' happens——"

  Her husband laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder: "They ain't nothin' goin' to happen," he reassured her, "we've got to make a go of it! What with all both of us has be'n able to save, an' with the bank stakin' us fer agin as much—they ain't no two ways about it—we've got to make good."

  "Who's that?" asked the girl, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering toward the mouth of a coulee that gave into Red Sand Creek from the direction of the bad lands. Cinnabar followed her gaze and both watched a horseman who, from the shelter of a cutbank seemed to be submitting the larger valley to a most careful scrutiny.

  "One of them horse-thieves, I guess," ventured, the girl, in a tone of disgust, "I wisht, Joe, you wouldn't have no truck with 'em."

  "I don't have no dealin's with 'em, except to keep my mouth shut an' haul their stuff out from town—same as all the other ranchers down in here does. A man wouldn't last long down here that didn't—they'd put him out of business. You don't need to fear I'll throw in with 'em. I guess if a man can tend bar for six years an' stay straight—straight enough so the bank ain't afraid to match his pile an' shove the money out through the window to him—there ain't much chance he won't stay straight ranchin'."

  "It ain't that, Joe!" the girl hastened to assure him, "I never would married you if I hadn't know'd you was square. I don't want nothin' to do with them crooks—I've got a feelin' that, somehow, they'll throw it into you."

  "About the only ones there is around here is Cass Grimshaw's gang an' outside of runnin' off horses, Cass Grimshaw's on the level—everyone knows that."

  "Well," replied the girl, doubtfully, "maybe they might be one horse-thief like that—but a whole gang—if they was that square they wouldn't be horse-thieves."

  "What Cass says goes——"

  "Look at comin', yonder!" interrupted Jennie, pointing to the lone rider, "if it ain't that low-down Jack Purdy, I'll jump in the crick!" At the mention of the name of Purdy, Cinnabar Joe started perceptibly. His wife noticed the movement, slight as it was—noted also, in one swift sidewise glance, that his face paled slightly under its new-found tan, and that a furtive—almost a hunted look had crept into his eyes. Did her husband fear this man, and if so—why? A sudden nameless fear gripped her heart. She stepped close to Cinnabar Joe's side as though in some unaccountable way he needed her protection, and together they waited for the approaching rider. The man's horse splashed noisily into the creek, lowered his head to drink, but the rider jerked viciously on the reins so that the cruel spade bit pinked the foam at the animal's lips. Spurring the horse up the bank, he stopped before them, grinning. "'Lo Cinnabar! 'Lo, Jennie! Heard you'd located on Red Sand, an' thought I'd run over an' look you up—bein' as we're neighbours."

  "Neighbours!" cried the girl, in undisguised disgust, "Lord! I know'd the bad lands was bad enough—but I didn't think they was that bad. I thought you was plumb out of the country or dead, long before this!"

  The man leered insolently: "Oh, you did, eh? Well, I ain't out of the country—an' I ain't dead—by a hell of a ways! I guess Cinnabar wouldn't sob none if I was dead. You don't seem tickled to death to see an' old pal."

  "Sure, you're welcome here, Jack. Anyone is. Anything I can do for you?"

  The man seemed to pay no attention to the words, and swinging from the saddle, threw an arm over the horn, and surveyed the outfit with a sneering grin: "Saved up enough to start you an outfit of yer own, eh? You ought to done pretty good tendin' bar for six years, with what you got paid, an' what you could knock down. Go to it! I'm for you. The better you do, the better I'll like it."

  "What I've saved, I've earnt," replied Cinnabar evenly.

  "Oh, sure—a man earns all he gits—no matter how he gits it. Even if it's shootin' up his old pals an' grabbin' off the reward."

  Cinnabar's face went a shade paler, but he made no reply and the other turned to Jennie. "You go to the house—me an' Cinnabar wants to make medicine."

  "You go to the devil!" flashed the girl. "Who do you think you are anyhow? Tryin' to order me around on my own ranch! If you've got anything to say, just you go ahead an' spit it out—don't mind me."

  "Kind of sassy, ain't you? If you was mine, I'd of took that out of you before this—or I'd of broke you in two."

  "If I was yourn!" cried the girl contemptuously, "if you was the last man in the world, I'd of et wolf poison before I'd be'n seen on the street with you. I've got your number. I didn't work in the hotel at Wolf River as long as I did, not to be onto your curves. You're a nasty dirty low-down skunk—an' that's the best can be said about you! Now, I guess you know how you stand around here. Shoot off what you got to say, an' then take your dirty hide off this ranc
h an' don't come back!"

  "I guess Cinnabar won't say that," sneered the man, white with rage, "you don't hear him orderin' me off the place, do you—an' you won't neither. What I've got on him'll hold you for a while. You're holdin' yer nose high—now. But, you wait—you'll pay fer them words you said when the time comes—an' you'll pay my way!"

  Jennie's face went suddenly white and Cinnabar Joe stepped forward, his eyes narrowed to slits: "Shut up!" he said, evenly, "or I'll kill you."

  Purdy glanced into the narrowed eyes of the ex-bartender, and his own glance fell. Cinnabar Joe was a man to be reckoned with. Purdy had seen that peculiar squint leap into the man's eyes once or twice before—and each time a man had died—swiftly, and neatly. The horse-thief laughed, uneasily: "I was only jokin'. What do I care what the women say? Come on over here a piece, an' I'll tell you what I want. You asked me if there was anything you could do."

  "Say it here," answered Cinnabar without taking his eyes from the man's face.

  Purdy shrugged: "All right. But first let me tell you somethin' fer yer own good. Don't kill me! I've got three pals not so far from here that's in on—well, you know what. I told 'em the whole story—an' if anything happens to me—up you go—see? An' if you try to double-cross me—up you go, too. You git that, do you? Well, here's what you got to do. It ain't much. I've got a boarder fer you. It's a woman. Keep her here fer a week, an' don't let anyone know she's here. Then I'll come an' git her. That's all!"

  "Who is she, an' what you goin' to do with her?"

  "That ain't none of yer damn business!" snapped Purdy, "an' mind you don't try to bushwhack me, an' don't let no one know she's here, or you'll spend the rest of your life in Deer Lodge—an' me an' Jennie'll run the outfit——"

  With a cry Jennie threw herself upon her husband who, unarmed, had launched himself at Purdy. "Joe! Joe! He'll kill you! He's got his guns!" she shrieked, and held on the tighter as Cinnabar struggled blindly to free himself. Purdy vaulted into his saddle and dashed across the creek. Upon the opposite side he jerked his horse to a stand, and with a wave of his hand, indicated the coulee down which he had come: "She's up there a piece on a cayuse tied to a tree. Go get her—she's had a hard ride."