“You little old devil!” he at last burst out; “you stay there, and back you go to the ranch. I’ll shake the liquor out of you before we get home.”
Tresler sprang into his saddle, and, turning his mare’s head homeward, led the buckskin and its drunken freight at a rattling pace. And Joe kept silence for a while. He felt it was best so. But, in the end, he was the first to speak, and when he did so there was a quiet dryness in his tone that pointed all he said.
“Say, Tresler, I’m kind o’ sorry you wus put to all that figgerin’ an’ argyment,” he said, shaking up his old pony to bring him alongside the speedy mare. “Y’ see ye never ast me ’bout that letter. Kind o’ jumped me fer a fool-head at oncet. Which is most gener’ly the nature o’ boys o’ your years. Conclusions is mostly hasty, but I ’lows they’re reas’nable in their places—which is last. An’ I sez it wi’out offense, ther’ ain’t a blazin’ thing born in this world that don’t reckon to con-clude fer itself ’fore it’s rightly begun. Everything needs teachin’, from a ‘tenderfoot’ to a New York babby.”
Joe’s homily banished the last shadow of Tresler’s ill-humor. The little man had had the best of him in his quiet, half-drunken manner; a manner which, though rough, was still irresistible.
“That’s all right, Joe. I’m no match for you,” he said with a laugh. “But, setting jokes on one side, I think you’re in for trouble with Jake. I saw it in his eye before I started out.”
“I don’t think. Guess I’m plumb sure,” Joe replied quietly.
“Then why on earth did you do it?”
Joe humped his back with a movement expressive of unconcern.
“It don’t matter why. Jake’s nigh killed me ha’f a dozen times. One o’ these days he’ll fix me sure. He’ll lace hell out o’ me to-morrow, I’m guessin’, an’ when it’s done it won’t alter nothin’ anyways. I’ve jest two things in this world, I notion, an’—one of ’em’s drink. ’Tain’t no use in sayin’ it ain’t, ’cos I guess my legs is most unnateral truthful ’bout drink. Say, I don’t worrit no folk when I’m drunk; guess I don’t interfere wi’ no one’s consarns when I’m drunk; I’m jest kind o’ happy when I’m drunk. Which bein’ so, makes it no one’s bizness but my own. I do it ’cos I gits a heap o’ pleasure out o’ it. I know I ain’t worth hell room. But I got my notions, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter budge fer no one.” Joe’s slantwise mouth was set obstinately; his little eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight, and his whole attitude was one of a man combating an argument which his soul is set against.
As Tresler had no idea of arguing the question and remained silent, the choreman went on in a modified tone of morbid self-sympathy sympathy—
“When the time comes around I’ll hand over my checks wi’out no fuss nor botheration; guess I’ll cash in wi’ as much grit as George Washington. I don’t calc’late as life is wuth worritin’ over anyways. We don’t ast to be born, an’, comin’ into the world wi’out no by-your-leave, I don’t figger as folks has a right to say we’ve got to take a hand in any bluff we don’t notion.”
“Perhaps you’ve a certain amount of right on your side.” Tresler felt that this hopeless pessimism was rather the result of drink than natural to him. “But you said you had two things that you considered worth living for?”
“That’s so. I ain’t goin’ back on what I said. It’s jest that other what set me yarnin’. Say, guess you’re mostly a pretty decent feller, Tresler, though I ’lows you has failin’s. You’re kind o’ young. Now I guess you ain’t never pumped lead into the other feller, which the same he’s doin’ satisfact’ry by you? You kind o’ like most fellers?”
Tresler nodded.
“Jest so. But I’ve noticed you don’t fancy folks as gits gay wi’ you. You kind o’ make things uneasy. Wal, that’s a fault you’ll git over. Mebbe, later on, when a feller gits rilin’ you you’ll work your gun, instead of trying to thump savee into his head. Heads is mighty cur’us out west here. They’re so chock full o’ savee, ther’ ain’t no use in thumpin’ more into ’em. Et’s a heap easier to let it out. But that’s on the side. I most gener’ly see things, an’ kind o’ notice fellers, an’ that’s how I sized you up. Y’ see I’ve done a heap o’ settin’ around M’skeeter Bend fer nigh on ten years, mostly watchin’. Now, mebbe, y’ ain’t never sot no plant, an’ bedded it gentle wi’ sifted mould, an’ watered it careful, an’ sot right ther’ on a box, an’ watched it grow in a spot wher’ ther’ wa’n’t no bizness fer anythin’ but weeds?”
Tresler shook his head, wonderingly.
“No; guess not,” Joe went on. “Say,” he added, turning and looking earnestly into his companion’s face, “I’m settin’ on that box right now. Yes, sir, I’ve watched that plant grow. I’ve picked the stones out so the young shoots could git through nice an’ easy-like. I’ve watered it. I’ve washened the leaves when the blights come along. I’ve sticked it against the winds. I’ve done most everythin’ I could, usin’ soap-suds and soot waters, an’ all them tasty liquids to coax it on. I’ve sot ther’ a-smilin’ to see the lovesome buds come along an’ open out, an’ make the air sweet wi’ perfumes an’ color an’ things. I’ve sot right ther’ an’ tho’t an’ tho’t a heap o’ tho’ts around that flower, an’ felt all crinkly up the back wi’ pleasure. An’ I ain’t never wanted ter leave that box. No, sir, an’ the days wus bright, an’ nothin’ seemed amiss wi’ life nor nothin’. But I tell you it ain’t no good. No, sir, ’tain’t no good, ’cos I ain’t got the guts to git up an’ dig hard. I’ve reached out an’ pulled a weed or two, but them weeds had got a holt on that bed ’fore I sot the seedlin’, an’ they’ve growed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. ’Tain’t no use watchin’ when weeds is growin’. It wants a feller as can dig; an’ I guess I ain’t that feller. Say, ther’s mighty hard diggin’ to be done right now, an’ the feller as does it has got to do it standin’ right up to the job. Savee? I’m sayin’ right now to you, Tresler, them weeds is chokin’ the life out o’ her. She’s mazed up wi’ ’em. Ther’ ain’t no escape. None. Her life’s bound to be hell anyways.”
“Her? Whom?” Tresler asked the question, but he knew that Joe was referring to Diane; Diane’s welfare was his other interest in life.
The little man turned with a start “Eh? Miss Dianny—o’ course.”
“And the weeds?”
“Jake—an’ her father.”
And the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely on toward home. It was Tresler who broke the silence at last.
“And this is the reason you’ve stayed so long on the ranch?” he asked.
“Mebbe. I don’t reckon as I could ’a’ done much,” Joe answered hopelessly. “What could a drunken choreman do anyways? Leastways the pore kid hadn’t got no mother, an’ I guess ther’ wa’n’t a blazin’ soul around as she could yarn her troubles to. When she got fixed, I guess ther’ wa’n’t no one to put her right. And when things was hatchin’, ther’ wa’n’t no one to give her warnin’ but me. ‘What is the trouble?’ you ast,” the little man went on gloomily. “Trouble? Wal, I’d smile. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ but trouble around M’skeeter Bend, sure. Trouble for her—trouble all round. Her trouble’s her father, an’ Jake. Jake’s set on marryin’ her. Jake,” in a tone of withering scorn, “who’s only fit to mate wi’ a bitch wolf. An’ her father—say, he hates her. Hates her like a neche hates a rattler. An’ fer why? Gawd only knows; I ain’t never found out. Say, that gal is his slave, sure. Ef she raises her voice, she gits it. Not, I guess, as Jake handles me, but wi’ the sneakin’ way of a devil. Say, the things he does makes me most ready to cry like a kid. An’ all the time he threatens her wi’ Jake fer a husband. An’ she don’t never complain. Not she; no sir. You don’t know the blind hulks, Tresler; but ther’, it ain’t no use in gassin’. He don’t never mean her fer Jake, an’ I guess she knows it. But she’s plumb scared, anyways.”
Tresler contemplated the speaker earnestly in the moonlight. He marvel
ed at the quaint outward form of the chivalrous spirit within. He was trying to reconcile the antagonistic natures of which this strange little bundle of humanity was made up. For ten years Joe had put up with the bullying and physical brutality of Jake Harnach, so that, in however small a way, he might help to make easy the rough life-path of a lonely girl. And his motives were all unselfish. A latent chivalry held him which no depths of drunkenness could drown. He leant over and held out his hand.
“Joe,” he said, “I want to shake hands with you and call you my friend.”
The choreman held back for a moment in some confusion. Then, as though moved by sudden impulse, he gripped the hand so cordially offered.
“But I ain’t done yet,” he said a moment later. He had no wish to advertise his own good deeds. He was pleading for another. Some one who could not plead for herself. His tone had assumed a roughness hardly in keeping with the gentle, reflective manner in which he had talked of his “flower.” “Tresler,” he went on, “y’re good stuff, but y’ ain’t good ’nough to dust that gal’s boots, no—not by a sight. Meanin’ no offense. But she needs the help o’ some one as’ll dig at them weeds standin’. See? Which means you. I can’t tell you all I know, I can’t tell you all I’ve seed. One o’ them things—I guess on’y one—is that Jake’s goin’ to best blind hulks an’ force him into givin’ him his daughter in marriage, and Gawd help that pore gal. But I swar to Gawd ef I’m pollutin’ this airth on the day as sees Jake worritin’ Miss Dianny, I’ll perf’rate him till y’ can’t tell his dog-gone carkis from a parlor cinder-sifter.”
“Tell me how I can help, and count me in to the limit,” said Tresler, catching, in his eagerness, something of the other’s manner of expression.
It was evident by the way the choreman’s face lit up at his friend’s words that he had hoped for such support, but feared that he should not get it. Joe Nelson was distinctly worldly wise, but with a heart of gold deep down beneath his wisdom. He had made no mistake in this man whose sympathies he had succeeded in enlisting. He fully understood that he was dealing with just a plain, honest man, otherwise he would have kept silence.
“Wal, I guess ther’ ain’t a deal to tell.” The little man looked straight ahead toward the dark streak which marked the drop from the prairie land to the bed of the Mosquito River. “Still, it’s li’ble to come along right smart.”
The man’s suggestion puzzled Tresler, but he waited. His own mind was clear as to what he personally intended, but it seemed to him that Joe was troubled with other thoughts besides the main object of his discourse. And it was these very side issues that he was keen to learn. However, whatever Joe thought, whatever confusion or perplexity he might have been in, he suddenly returned to his main theme with great warmth of feeling.
“But when it comes, Tresler, you’ll stand by? You’ll plug hard fer her, jest as ef it was you he was tryin’ to do up? You’ll stop him? Say, you’ll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an’ set your own brand on her quick, eh? That’s what I’m askin’.”
“I see. Marry her, eh?”
“An’ why not?” asked Joe quickly. “She’s a heap too good fer you. Ther’ ain’t a feller breathin’ amounts to a row o’ beans aside o’ her. But it’s the on’y way to save her from Jake. You’ll do it. Yes, sure, you’ll do it. I ken see it in your face.”
The little fellow was leaning over, peering up into Tresler’s face with anxious, almost fierce eyes. His emotion was intense, and at that moment a refusal would have driven him to despair.
“You are too swift for me, Joe,” Tresler said quietly. But his tone seemed to satisfy his companion, for the latter sat back in his saddle with a sigh of relief. “It takes the consent of two people to make a marriage. However,” he went on, with deep earnestness, “I’ll promise you this, Miss Marbolt shall never marry Jake unless it is her own wish to do so. And, furthermore, she shall never lack a friend, ready to act on her behalf, while I am in the country.”
“You’ve said it.”
And the finality of Joe’s tone brought silence.
In spite of the punishment he knew to be awaiting him, Joe was utterly happy. It was as though a weight, which had been oppressing him for years, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He would cheerfully have ridden on to any terror ever conceived by the ruthless Jake. Diane’s welfare—Diane’s happiness; it was the key-note of his life. He had watched. He knew. Tresler was willing enough to marry her, and she—he chuckled joyfully to himself.
“Jake ain’t a dorg’s chance—a yaller dorg’s chance. When the ‘tenderfoot’ gits good an’ goin’ he’ll choke the life out o’ Master Jake. Gee!”
And Tresler, too, was busy with his thoughts. Joe’s suggestion had brought him face to face with hard fact, and, moreover, in a measure, he had pledged himself. Now he realized, after having listened to the little man’s story, how much he had fallen in love with Diane. Joe, he knew, loved her as a father might love his child, or a gardener his flowers; but his was the old, old story that brought him a delight such as he felt no one else had ever experienced. Yes, he knew now he loved Diane with all the strength of his powerful nature; and he knew, too, that there could be little doubt but that he had fallen a victim to the beautiful dark, sad face he had seen peering up at him from beneath the straw sun-hat, at the moment of their first meeting. Would he marry Diane? Ay—a thousand times ay—if she would have him. But there it was that he had more doubts than Joe. Would she marry him? he asked himself, and a chill damped the ardor of his thoughts.
And so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover; so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. So he became absorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the serious issues which he felt, that, for his very love’s sake, he should have probed deeply. So he rode on impervious to the keen, studious, sidelong glances wise old, drunken old Joe favored him with; impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman had fanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to time and distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered, called his attention to their arrival at the ranch.
“Say, boy,” he observed, “that’s the barn yonder. ’Fore we git ther’ ther’s jest one thing more. Jake’s goin’ to play his hand by force. Savee? Mebbe we’ve a notion o’ that force—Miss Dianny an’ me——”
“Yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, Joe. Developments must be our cue. We can do nothing but wait and be ready. There’s the sheriff——”
“Eh? Sheriff?” Joe swung round, and was peering up into Tresler’s face.
“Ah, I forgot.” Tresler’s expression was very thoughtful. They had arrived at the barn, and were dismounting. “I was following out my own train of thought. I agree with you, Joe, Red Mask and his doings are at the bottom of this business.” His voice had dropped now to a low whisper lest any one should chance to be around.
Without a word Joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him, fixed him up for the night. Tresler did the same for his mare. Then they came out together. At the door Joe paused.
“Say,” he remarked simply, “I jest didn’t know you wus that smart.”
“Don’t credit me with smartness. It’s—poor little girl.”
“Ah!” Joe’s face twisted into his apish grin. “Say, you’ll stick to what you said?”
“Every word of it.”
“Good; the rest’s doin’ itself, sure.”
And they went their several ways; Joe to the kitchen of the house, and Tresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse.
* * *
CHAPTER IX
TRESLER INVOLVES HIMSELF FURTHER;
THE LADY JEZEBEL IN A FREAKISH MOOD
Enthusiasm is the mainspring of a cowboy’s life. Without enthusiasm a cowboy inevitably falls to the inglorious level of a “hired man”; a nice distinction in the social conditions of frontier life. The cowboy is sometimes a good man—not meaning a man of religion—and
often a bad man. He is rarely indifferent. There are no half measures with him. His pride is in his craft. He will lavish the tenderness of a mother for her child upon his horse; he will play poker till he has had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing his last cent pass into somebody else’s pocket; he will drink on the most generous scale, and is ever ready to quarrel. Even in this last he believes in thoroughness. But he has many good points which often outweigh his baser instincts. They can be left to the imagination; for it is best to know the worst of him at the outset to get a proper, and not a glorified estimate of his true character. The object of this story is to give a veracious, and not a highly gilded picture of the hardy prairie man of days gone by.
Before all things the cowboy is a horseman. His pride in this almost amounts to a craze. His fastidiousness in horse-flesh, in his accoutrements, his boots, his chapps, his jaunty silk handkerchief about his neck, even to the gauntlets he so often wears upon his hands, is an education in dandyism. He is a thorough dandy in his outfit. And the greater the dandy, the more surely is he a capable horseman. He is not a horse-breaker by trade, but he loves “broncho-busting” as a boy loves his recreation. It comes to him as a relief from the tedium of branding, feeding, rounding up, cutting out, mending fences, and all the utility work of the ranch. Every unbroken colt is like a ticket in a lottery; it may be easy, or it may be a tartar. And the tartar is the prize that every cowpuncher wants to draw so that he may demonstrate his horsemanship.
Broncho-busting was the order of the next day at Mosquito Bend, and all hands were agog, and an element of general cheeriness pervaded the bunkhouse whilst breakfast was in preparation. Marbolt had obtained a contract to supply the troops with a large band of remounts, and the terms demanded that each animal must be saddle-broken.
Tresler, with the rest, was up betimes. He, too, was going to take his part in the horse-breaking. While breakfast was in the course of preparation he went out to overhaul his saddle. There must be no doubtful straps in his gear. Each saddle would have a heavy part to play, and his own, being one he had bought second-hand from one of his comrades, needed looking to.
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