Tresler broke in; he understood the trend of the other’s thoughts.
“Yes, Mosquito Bend,” he said sharply.
“Nigh to a mile on. Keep to the trail, an’ you’ll strike Blind Hell in a few minutes. Say——” He broke off, and looked up into Tresler’s face.
“Yes, I’m going there. You don’t happen to belong to—to Blind Hell?”
“Happen I do,” assured the washerman. “I do the chores around the ranch. Joe Nelson, once a stock raiser m’self. Kerrville, Texas. Now——” He broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the drying clothes.
“Well, I’m John Tresler, and I’m on my way to Mosquito Bend.”
“So you’re the ‘tenderfoot,’” observed the choreman, musingly. “You’re the feller from Noo England as Jake’s goin’ to lick into shape.”
“Going to teach, you mean.”
“I s’pose I do,” murmured the other gently, but without conviction. The twisted side of his face wrinkled hideously, while the other side smiled.
“You mentioned Blind Hell just now?” questioned Tresler, as the other relapsed into a quiet survey of him.
“Blind Hell, did I?” said Nelson, repeating the name, a manner which seemed to be a habit of his.
“Yes. What is it? What did you mean?”
Tresler’s questions were a little peremptory. He felt that the riding-breeches that had caused such notice in Forks were likely to bring him further ridicule.
“Oh, it’s jest a name. ’Tain’t of no consequence. Say,” the choreman broke out suddenly, “you don’t figger to git boostin’ steers in that rig?” He stretched out an abnormally long arm, and pointed a rough but wonderfully clean finger at the flowing corduroys Tresler had now become so sensitive about.
“Great Scott, man!” he let out testily. “Have you never seen riding-breeches before?—you, a ranchman.”
The tufted beard shot sideways again as the face screwed up and half of it smiled.
“I do allow I’ve seen such things before. Oncet,” he drawled slowly, with a slight Southern accent, but in a manner that betokened a speech acquired by association rather than the natural tongue. “He was a feller that came out to shoot big game up in the hills. I ain’t seen him sence, sure. Guess nobody did.” He looked away sadly. “We heerd tell of him. Guess he got fossicking after b’ar. The wind was blowin’ ter’ble. He’d climbed a mount’n. It was pretty high. Ther’ wa’n’t no shelter. A gust o’ that wind come an’—took him.”
Nelson had turned back to his tubs, and was again banging and rubbing.
“A mile down the trail, I think you said?” Tresler cried, springing hastily into the saddle.
“Sure.”
And for the first time Tresler’s horse felt the sharp prick of the spurs as he rode off.
Mosquito Bend Ranch stood in a wide clearing, with the house on a rising ground above it. It was lined at the back by a thick pinewood. For the rest the house faced out on to the prairie, and the verandahed front overlooked the barns, corrals, and outhouses. It stood apart, fully one hundred yards from the nearest outbuildings.
This was the first impression Tresler obtained on arrival. The second was that it was a magnificent ranch and the proprietor must be a wealthy man. The third was one of disappointment; everything was so quiet, so still. There was no rush or bustle. No horsemen riding around with cracking whips; no shouting, no atmosphere of wildness. And, worst of all, there were no droves of cattle tearing around. Just a few old milch cows near by, peacefully grazing their day away, and philosophically awaiting milking time. These, and a few dogs, a horse or two loose in the corrals, and a group of men idling outside a low, thatched building, comprised the life he first beheld as he rode into the clearing.
“And this is Blind Hell,” he said to himself as he came. “It belies its name. A more peaceful, beautiful picture, I’ve never clapped eyes on.”
And then his thoughts went back to Forks. That too had looked so innocent. After all, he remembered, it was the people who made or marred a place.
So he rode straight to a small, empty corral, and, off-saddling, turned his horse loose, and deposited his saddle and bridle in the shadow of the walls. Then he moved up toward the buildings where the men were grouped.
They eyed him steadily as he came, much as they might eye a strange animal, and he felt a little uncomfortable as he recollected his encounter first with Slum and more recently with Joe Nelson. He had grown sensitive about his appearance, and a spirit of defiance and retaliation awoke within him.
But for some reason the men paid little attention to him just then. One man was talking, and the rest were listening with rapt interest. They were cowpunchers, every one. Cowpunchers such as Tresler had heard of. Some were still wearing their fringed “chapps,” their waists belted with gun and ammunition; some were in plain overalls and thin cotton shirts. All, except one, were tanned a dark, ruddy hue, unshaven, unkempt, but tough-looking and hardy. The pale-faced exception was a thin, sick-looking fellow with deep hollows under his eyes, and lips as ashen as a corpse. He it was who was talking, and his recital demanded a great display of dramatic gesture.
Tresler came up and joined the group. “I never ast to git put up ther’,” he heard the sick man saying; “never ast, an’ didn’t want. It was her doin’s, an’ I tell you fellers right here she’s jest thet serrupy an’ good as don’t matter. I’d ’a’ rotted down here wi’ flies an’ the heat for all they’d ’a’ cared. That blind son of a —— ’ud ’a’ jest laffed ef I’d handed over, an’ Jake—say, we’ll level our score one day, sure. Next time Red Mask, or any other hoss thief, gits around, I’ll bear a hand drivin’ off the bunch. I ain’t scrappin’ no more fer the blind man. Look at me. Guess I ain’t no more use’n yon ‘tenderfoot.’” The speaker pointed scornfully at Tresler, and his audience turned and looked. “Guess I’ve lost quarts o’ blood, an’ have got a hole in my chest ye couldn’t plug with a corn-sack. An’ now, jest when I’m gittin’ to mend decent, he comes an’ boosts me right out to the bunkhouse ’cause he ketches me yarnin’ wi’ that bit of a gal o’ his. But, say, she just let out on him that neat as you fellers never heerd. Yes, sir, guess her tongue’s like velvet mostly, but when she turned on that blind hulk of a father of hers—wal, ther’, ef I was a cat an’ had nine lives to give fer her they jest wouldn’t be enough by a hund’ed.”
“Say, Arizona,” said one of the men quietly, “what was you yarnin’ ’bout? Guess you allus was sweet on Miss Dianny.”
Arizona turned on the speaker fiercely. “That’ll do fer you, Raw; mebbe you ain’t got savee, an’ don’t know a leddy when you sees one. I’m a cow-hand, an’ good as any man around here, an’ ef you’ve any doubts about it, why——”
“Don’t take no notice, Arizona,” put in a lank youth quickly. He was a tall, hungry-looking boy, in that condition of physical development when nature seems in some doubt as to her original purpose. “’E’s only laffin’ at you.”
“Guess Mister Raw Harris ken quit right here then, Teddy. I ain’t takin’ his slack noways.”
“Git on with the yarn, Arizona,” cried another. “Say, wot was you sayin’ to the gal?”
“Y’ see, Jacob,” the sick man went on, falling back into his drawling manner, “it wus this ways. Miss Dianny, she likes a feller to git yarnin’, an’, seein’ as I’ve been punchin’ most all through the States, she kind o’ notioned my yarns. Which I ’lows is reasonable. She’d fixed my chest up, an’ got me trussed neat an’ all, an’ set right down aside me fer a gas. You know her ways, kind o’ sad an’ saft. Wal, she up an’ tells me how she’d like gittin’ in to Whitewater next winter, an’ talked o’ dances an’ sech. Say, she wus jest whoopin’ wi’ the pleasure o’ the tho’t of it. Guess likely she’d be mighty pleased to git a-ways. Wal, I don’t jest know how it come, but I got yarnin’ of a barbecue as was held down Arizona way. I was tellin’ as how I wus ther’, an’ got winged nasty. It wa’n’t much. Y’ see I was t
ellin’ her as I wus runnin’ a bit of a hog ranch them times, an’, on o-casions, we used to give parties. The pertickler party I wus referrin’ to wus a pretty wholesome racket. The boys got good an’ drunk, an’ they got slingin’ the lead frekent ’fore daylight come around. Howsum, it wus the cause o’ the trouble as I wus gassin’ ’bout. Y’ see, Brown was one of them juicy fellers that chawed hunks o’ plug till you could nose Virginny ev’ry time you got wi’in gunshot of him. He was a cantankerous cuss was Brown, an’ a deal too free wi’ his tongue. Y’ see he’d a lady with him; leastways she wus the pot-wolloper from the saloon he favored, an’ he guessed as she wus most as han’some as a Bible ’lustration. Wal, ’bout the time the rotgut wus flowin’ good an’ frekent, they started in to pool fer the prettiest wench in the room, as is the custom down ther’. Brown, he wus dead set on his gal winnin’, I guess; an’ ‘Dyke Hole’ Bill, he’d got a pretty tidy filly wi’ him hisself, an’ didn’t reckon as no daisy from a bum saloon could gi’ her any sort o’ start. Wal, to cut it short, I guess the boys went dead out fer Bill’s gal. It wus voted as ther’ wa’n’t no gal around Spawn City as could dec’rate the country wi’ sech beauty. I guess things went kind o’ silent when Shaggy Steele read the ballot. The air o’ that place got uneasy. I located the door in one gulp. Y’ see Brown was allus kind o’ sudden. But the trouble come diff’rent. The thing jest dropped, an’ that party hummed fer a whiles. Brown’s gal up an’ let go. Sez she, ‘Here, guess I’m the dandy o’ this run, an’ I ain’t settin’ around while no old hen from Dyke Hole gits scoopin’ prizes. She’s goin’ to lick me till I can’t see, ef she’s yearnin’ fer that pool. Mebbe you boys won’t need more’n half an eye to locate the winner when I’m done.’ Wi’ that she peels her waist off’n her, an’ I do allow she wus a fine chunk. An’ the ‘Dyke Hole’ daisy, she wa’n’t no slouch; guess she wus jest bustin’ wi’ fight. But Brown sticks his taller-fat nose in an’ shoots his bazzoo an’——
“An’ that’s most as fer as I got when along comes that all-fired ‘dead-eyes’ an’ points warnin’ at me while he ogled me with them gummy red rims o’ his. An’, sez he, ‘You light right out o’ here sharp, Arizona; the place fer you scum’s down in the bunkhouse. An’ I’m not goin’ to have any skulkin’ up here, telling disreputable yarns to my gal.’ I wus jest beginnin’ to argyfy. ‘But,’ sez I. An’ he cut me short wi’ a curse. ’Out of here!’ he roared. ‘I give you ten minutes to git!’ Then she, Miss Dianny, bless her, she turned on him quick, an’ dressed him down han’some. Sez she, ‘Father, how can you be so unkind after what Arizona has done for you? Remember,’ sez she, ‘he saved you a hundred head of cattle, and fought Red Mask’s gang until help came and he fell from his horse.’ Oh, she was a dandy, and heaped it on like bankin’ a furnace. She cried lots an’ lots, but it didn’t signify. Out I wus to git, an’ out I got. An’ now I’ll gamble that swine Jake’ll try and set me to work. But I’ll level him—sure.”
One of the men, Lew Cawley, laughed silently, and then put in a remark. Lew was a large specimen of the fraternity, and history said that he was the son of an English cleric. But history says similar things of many ne’er-do-wells in the Northwest. He still used the accent of his forebears.
“Old blind-hunks knows something. With all respect, Arizona has winning ways; but,” he added, before the fiery Southerner could retort, “if I mistake not, here comes Jake to fulfil Arizona’s prophecy.”
Every one swung round as Lew nodded in the direction of the house. A huge man of about six feet five was striding rapidly down the slope. Tresler, who had been listening to the story on the outskirts of the group, eyed the newcomer with wonder. He came at a gait in which every movement displayed a vast, monumental strength. He had never seen such physique in his life. The foreman was still some distance off, and he could not see his face, only a great spread of black beard and whisker. So this was the much-cursed Jake Harnach, and, he thought without any particular pleasure, his future boss.
There was no further talk. Jake Harnach looked up and halted. Then he signaled, and a great shout came to the waiting group.
“Hi! hi! you there! You with the pants!”
A snigger went round the gathering, and Tresler knew that it was he who was being summoned. He turned away to hide his annoyance, but was given no chance of escape.
“Say, send that guy with the pants along!” roared the foreman. And Tresler was forced into unwilling compliance.
And thus the two men, chiefly responsible for the telling of this story of Mosquito Bend, met. The spirit of the meeting was antagonistic; a spirit which, in the days to come, was to develop into a merciless hatred. Nor was the reason far to seek, nor could it have been otherwise. Jake looked out upon the world through eyes that distorted everything to suit his own brutal nature, while Tresler’s simple manliness was the result of his youthful training as a public schoolboy.
The latter saw before him a man of perhaps thirty-five, a man of gigantic stature, with a face handsome in its form of features, but disfigured by the harsh depression of the black brows over a pair of hard, bold eyes. The lower half of his face was buried beneath a beard so dense and black as to utterly disguise the mould of his mouth and chin, thus leaving only the harsh tones of his voice as a clue to what lay hidden there.
His dress was unremarkable but typical—moleskin trousers, a thin cotton shirt, a gray tweed jacket, and a silk handkerchief about his neck. He carried nothing in the shape of weapons, not even the usual leather belt and sheath-knife. And in this he was apart from the method of his country, where the use of firearms was the practice in disputes.
On his part, Jake looked upon a well-built man five inches his inferior in stature, but a man of good proportions, with a pair of shoulders that suggested possibilities. But it was the steady look in the steel-blue eyes which told him most. There was a simple directness in them which told of a man unaccustomed to any browbeating; and, as he gazed into them, he made a mental note that this newcomer must be reduced to a proper humility at the earliest opportunity.
There was no pretense of courtesy between them. Neither offered to shake hands. Jake blurted out his greeting in a vicious tone.
“Say, didn’t you hear me callin’?” he asked sharply.
“I did.” And the New Englander looked quietly into the eyes before him, but without the least touch of bravado or of yielding.
“Then why in h—— didn’t you come?”
“I was not to know you were calling me.”
“Not to know?” retorted the other roughly. “I guess there aren’t two guys with pants like yours around the ranch. Now, see right here, young feller, you’ll just get a grip on the fact that I’m foreman of this layout, and, as far as the ‘hands’ are concerned, I’m boss. When I call, you come—and quick.”
The man towered over Tresler in a bristling attitude. His hands were aggressively thrust into his jacket pockets, and he emphasized his final words with a scowl. And it was his attitude that roused Tresler; the words were the words of an overweening bully, and might have been laughed at, but the attitude said more, and no man likes to be browbeaten. His anger leapt, and, though he held himself tightly, it found expression in the biting emphasis of his reply.
“When I’m one of the ‘hands,’ yes,” he said incisively.
Jake stared. Then a curious sort of smile flitted across his features.
“Hah!” he ejaculated.
And Tresler went on with cold indifference. “And, in the meantime, I may as well say that the primary object of my visit is to see Mr. Marbolt, not his foreman. That, I believe,” he added, pointing to the building on the hill, “is his house.”
Without waiting for a reply he stepped aside, and would have moved on. But Jake had swung round, and his hand fell heavily upon his shoulder.
“No, you don’t, my dandy cock!” he cried violently, his fingers painfully gripping the muscle under the Norfolk jacket.
Springing aside, and with one lit
he twist, in a flash Tresler had released himself, and stood confronting the giant with blazing eyes and tense drawn muscles.
“Lay a hand on me again, and there’ll be trouble,” he said sharply, and there was an oddly furious burr in his speech.
The foreman stood for a moment as words failed him. Then his fury broke loose.
“I told you jest now,” he cried, falling back into the twang of the country as his rage mastered him, “that I run this layout——”
“And I tell you,” broke in the equally angry Tresler, “that I’ve nothing to do with you or the ranch either until I have seen your master. And I’ll have you know that if there’s any bulldozing to be done, you can keep it until I am one of the ‘hands.’ You shan’t lack opportunity.”
The tone was as scathing as the violence of his anger would permit. He had not moved, except to thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket, while he measured the foreman with his eyes and watched his every movement.
He saw Harnach hunch himself as though to spring at him. He saw the great hands clench at his sides and his arms draw up convulsively. He saw the working face and the black eyes as they half closed and reduced themselves to mere slits beneath the overshadowing brows. Then the hoarse, rage-choked voice came.
“By G——! I’ll smash you, you——”
“I shouldn’t say it.” Tresler’s tone had suddenly changed to one of icy coldness. The flash of a white dress had caught his eye. “There’s a lady present,” he added abruptly. And at the same time he released his hold on the smooth butt of a heavy revolver he had been gripping in his pocket.
What might have happened but for the timely interruption it would be impossible to say. Jake’s arms dropped to his sides, and his attitude relaxed with a suddenness that was almost ludicrous. The white dress fluttered toward him, and Tresler turned and raised his prairie hat. He gave the foreman no heed whatever. The man might never have been there. He took a step forward.
The Night Riders Page 3