Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  When she went back to the kitchen, Jim Crossley came to the rear door. “What’d those fellers want?” he asked Hope.

  The girl quickly explained and Crossley shook his head doubtfully.

  “Just like a game of checkers,” he observed. “Farman’s made the last move an’ now it’s up to the other feller. Thing is, who’s got the kings.”

  “Jim Crossley, get out of here!” stormed the housekeeper. “You talk like the advance agent for a famine or drought or something. If you can’t think of something cheerful to say, you stay away from this kitchen!”

  Crossley retreated, but Hope turned to Mrs. McCaffy with a serious look. “Jim’s right,” she said. “And it wouldn’t surprise me any if that man Mendicott came down here.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” exclaimed the housekeeper. “Somebody’d pot him. Why, even that skeeter of a Crossley might do it.”

  Hope shook her head. “He isn’t afraid of anyone or anything,” she said convincingly. “I could tell that without hearing it from anybody else.”

  At suppertime Nathan Farman gave explicit orders to McDonald. “Bring the men in to the bunkhouse,” he instructed. “Bring ’em all in. You can work out on circle as far as you can in the daytime an’ leave the stock that’s on the desert an’ in the hills till after. I want the men in here an’ I want ’em armed an’ ready in case anything should happen.”

  “They’re pretty nervous,” said McDonald, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “What do you mean by that?” Farman asked sharply.

  “Seems like they’ve got more an’ more uneasy lately,” said the foreman.

  “You mean you couldn’t depend on them if there was trouble?” the rancher demanded.

  “I couldn’t be absolutely sure,” replied McDonald, looking at him squarely.

  Nathan Farman frowned heavily. “Well,” he said at length, “I don’t look for any raid on the ranch exactly. I believe Mendicott’s too clever for that. He’ll find a better way to drive me out of the country if he’s set on doing it. But I want the men in anyway. Do what you can with ’em to spunk ’em up.”

  The night and the next day passed quietly. Things moved smoothly on the ranch and McDonald reported good progress in rounding up the cattle. Hope gained some small measure of her confidence and went about cheerfully, helping the housekeeper.

  Next evening Nathan Farman insisted that he be moved out on the porch. It was a glorious evening, with the mountains and mesa bathed in a soft light after the sunset. Hope and Mrs. McCaffy were looking at the flowers. The men were squatting about the bunkhouse, talking idly. It was a peaceful ranch scene, soothing in its quietude, when the still air suddenly resounded to the clatter of hoofs on the foothill trail.

  Hope saw some of the men start up, but they sat down again as a rider came into view around the barn. The horseman rode slowly toward the bunkhouse, holding the reins in his left hand and keeping his right at his side. His keen glance darted everywhere, and, as he passed the little group before the bunkhouse, he turned slightly so he could keep an eye on them as he rode on toward the porch. Hope hadn’t needed a second glance to distinguish that lithe figure in the saddle. The riding costume, the polished boots, the lean, pockmarked face under the big black hat were all too familiar to her. Mendicott had come to Rancho del Encanto!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mendicott rode leisurely to the steps, glanced casually at Nathan Farman, who was sitting in his rocking chair on the porch, checked his horse, and looked off over the mesa for several moments before he dismounted.

  Hope hurried to the end of the porch and climbed upon it. She walked slowly to a place beside her uncle’s chair, her eyes riveted upon the outlaw. Nathan Farman leaned forward, staring. His fingers picked at the quilt over his knees, then closed tightly against his palms. He spoke to Hope. “Go inside.”

  Hope hesitated. “Why can’t I stay, Uncle?” she whispered.

  “Go inside!” he ordered sharply.

  She entered the living room, but stood just within the door where she could see out on the porch. Mrs. McCaffy came tiptoeing in from the rear of the house where she had entered. The two women did not speak, but watched the drama being enacted outside.

  Mendicott tossed the reins over his horse’s head and stood for a space, looking the animal over. It was a magnificent horse, a black gelding with a coat of satin, long-flowing mane and tail, the slim, strong, tapering legs of a racer—full of life, holding its head high, moving it impatiently. The saddle, too, was black, embellished with dull silver ornamentations. But it was in good taste. The outlaw’s gaze roved constantly to either end of the porch as he mounted the steps. There was still light, although the shades of the twilight were rapidly shrouding the mesa, and he caught sight of Hope, standing in the doorway. He looked at her steadily for a brief interval, holding her eyes as if a spell had been cast over her. Then he nodded, and his teeth flashed in a quick smile. The smile was gone when he turned to Nathan Farman.

  He surveyed the rancher at length, coolly and deliberately, as if studying him, reading his mind and classifying him in his own way. There was something sinister in the very presence of the outlaw, in his cool confidence and evident contempt, that struck the persons with whom he came in contact with a chill. His graceful movements, the aristocratic cocking of his head, his subtle swagger—implied rather than executed—his ease of manner, and his personal appearance all stamped him as different from the general run of unsavory characters who defied constituted authority and elevated him, in a way, while at the same time conveying the impression that he was exceedingly more dangerous than if he had been unshaven, adorned with many weapons, and violent of speech and vicious in manner. His quiet mien was disturbing and fascinating. His pockmarked face was neither repulsive nor brutal, the small, black mustache set him off well, and his hands were exquisitely shaped and well cared for. It was in the eyes that his brutal, ferocious, inexorable nature and instincts made themselves known. Cruel eyes they were, without a hint of sympathy or human kindness, hard, cold, unmerciful, unrelenting, and sanguinary—but never transmitting a hint of what was going on in the man’s mind.

  “I received your message,” said Mendicott to Farman in modulated tones of voice that were in keeping with his manner.

  Farman nodded. The rancher was visibly nervous and striving to appear calm. “Will you sit down?” he asked.

  “Not out here,” said Mendicott pointedly, with a look toward the door.

  Farman understood. The outlaw had no wish to remain on the porch where he made an excellent target. Farman was not so stupid as not to realize that nothing could be gained by an attack on the man at this time. It was highly improbable that Mendicott had come to the ranch alone. Doubtless there were many of his followers secreted among the trees about the mesa. Farman called to Mrs. McCaffy and she and Hope carried his chair into the house, assisted by Mendicott himself. Mrs. McCaffy brought a lighted lamp and put it on the table in the living room. Farman and Mendicott sat opposite each other at the table. The outlaw had so placed himself that he could see both the front door and the door into the dining room and the stairway. Hope and the housekeeper retired to the dining room, where they stood in the shadows looking into the living room.

  “You changed your mind about selling the ranch when you learned your niece was . . . was out?” asked Mendicott.

  “Yes,” replied the rancher firmly. “I’d have sold quick enough to get her out of your reach. But there are some matters, such as taking stock of the cattle an’ other property, that I have to look into before I can talk sale or price.”

  Mendicott crossed his legs and drew out tobacco and papers. “I suppose there’s something in that,” he said, rolling a cigarette. “When will you finish and be able to state a price?”

  “That I can’t tell . . . at present,” Farman evaded. “It’ll take a little time. The stock’s pretty well scattered, an' . . .”

  “But you intend to sell, do
you not?” interrupted Mendicott in a crisp tone that cracked on his listeners’ ears like the snap of a whiplash.

  Farman looked unsteadily into the outlaw’s small black eyes bent upon him. “I am . . . considering it,” he answered.

  “You are considering it seriously?” asked Mendicott.

  “Yes, but let me ask you a question,” said the rancher. “How does it come that after all the years I have put in here, you suddenly decide you want this place? Rancho del Encanto represents my life’s work. You wish to take it away from me on short notice . . . no notice at all, so to speak. Why do you want it?”

  “That’s a fair question,” said Mendicott, holding the other’s troubled gaze. “I guess you know that I’ve looked on this country in here as my territory for some years. Yours is the only ranch in here, and we want a ranch. Therefore we haven’t any choice in the matter except to get this one. You can find many a ranch as good as this that’ll do for your stock business just as well as this, but we can’t find one so well situated for our . . . purposes. That’s why we’re set on getting this property. I take it you’ve got sense enough to see that?”

  Nathan Farman realized to his sorrow that there was considerable in what the outlaw had said. Rancho del Encanto was ideally situated for Mendicott’s purpose—as Farman understood that purpose. And it was the only ranch in that part of the country. Were it not for sentimental reasons, Farman would have been willing to part with his property under the circumstances.

  “Now, there’s another thing, Farman,” said Mendicott in a sharper tone. “We’re not asking you to shave your price. We’re not trying to get something for nothing. We just ask that you put a price within reason, take your money, and leave. Of course we don’t expect you to come back.”

  There was an unmistakable threat in the outlaw’s last sentence. It was not lost on the rancher.

  “I understand what you’re getting at,” said Farman. “If I sell, it’ll have to be . . . for keeps, you might say. But I’ll tell you as man to man that I don’t know what this place is worth. I’ve got to round up my cattle an’ take an inventory all around. If I sell the place, I want to sell it with everything that’s on it, except some of the furniture and a few of the horses.”

  “You can find that out in a week or two,” said Mendicott with a frown. “Otherwise, we’ll make you an offer. I can tell you offhand pretty well what the place is worth as it stands, with all stock and everything else.”

  “You want it at your own price?” flared Farman.

  “No,” snapped out Mendicott, “but we don’t propose to be all summer finding out what you want for it. We’re ready to buy.”

  “It’s an outrage!” stormed the rancher. “What would the authorities say about such a high-handed piece of business as the kidnapping of my niece?” He was forgetting the menace of the outlaw in his own indignation.

  Hope, looking from the shadows of the dark dining room, saw Mendicott’s eyes narrow. The outlaw snapped a thumb and finger. “I don’t care that for what they think! I’m treating you pretty well, at that, Farman. I’m putting this up to you in a business way because you have been here such a long time. I'm . . .” He bit off his speech in a hiss as the sound of a man coming up the steps to the porch reached them. His right hand dropped below the table as the footfalls came from the porch. Then Hope felt an exultant surge of feeling as she saw Channing in the front doorway.

  Channing hardly seemed to notice Farman; he looked steadily at Mendicott. The outlaw leader’s eyes glittered as he waited for the newcomer to speak.

  “Nice evening,” said Channing as he advanced across the threshold. “Were you saying you had a business proposition here?”

  The question was addressed to Mendicott, and the outlaw’s face darkened until the pockmarks were white spots that gave him a fiendish appearance. It also took Nathan Farman by surprise, and the rancher stared at the visitor with a puzzled frown on his face. Hope sensed that Channing was now out in the open on their side and definitely against Mendicott. The situation appeared fraught with grave possibilities.

  “Why do you come in here and ask such a question?” demanded Mendicott in a snarl. His vicious mood, precipitated by Channing’s arrival, seemed to be getting the better of his customary calmness.

  “Because I’m interested,” said Channing. “If it has to do with the sale of this ranch, I’m quite a bit interested.” He looked quickly at Farman, and his eyes were full of meaning.

  The rancher wet his lips and remained silent, watching the drama between the two other men. It was now apparent to him and the two women who were watching, also, that Channing was one man for whom Mendicott entertained a certain respect, but it was apparent, too, that the outlaw leader was exceedingly angry.

  “If you’re so interested, maybe you can find out when this man is going to be ready to sell,” said Mendicott with a sneer. “I came down here because he sent word he’d changed his mind. I got your message that you’d be here, but I only half believed it.”

  “Well,” said Channing with a queer smile, “I’m here. And it’ll be some little time, I reckon, before Farman’s ready to say he’ll sell and for what.”

  Mendicott rose quickly and turned toward the rancher. “Is that so?” he asked in a hoarse voice, his eyes blazing.

  Farman saw Channing nod to him ever so slightly. He was puzzled by Channing’s attitude, bewildered by his sudden entrance into the negotiations. But it was evident from Mendicott’s manner that this wasn’t a trick.

  “I guess that’s the way of it,” he heard himself reply.

  Mendicott whirled on Channing. But Channing made no move to back down by word or gesture. He returned Mendicott’s gaze squarely. “You got your answer,” he said grimly. “I’m half thinking of getting an option on this ranch myself, Mendicott. Brood overplayed his hand and isn’t able to look after things. That leaves the way open for another buyer. I might take it into my mind to be that buyer.”

  For several moments the spectators held their breath. The outlaw leader seemed on the point of drawing his weapon. Channing, too, was alert, his hand poised above his gun, his gaze locked with Mendicott’s. And then Mendicott’s manner underwent a swift change. He actually smiled at Channing, turned, and smiled at Farman.

  “This could be called a pretty frame-up,” he said slowly, as if choosing his words with great care. “Maybe it is, but I can’t see where it’s going to get any of us. Of course, if you’re taking an option on my behalf, that’s different.” He looked at Channing as he concluded.

  “I hadn’t looked at it in that way,” said Channing.

  “And that leaves me but one way to think . . . and act!” said Mendicott in a voice that was thick with rage. “You’re playing with something that makes fire seem tame. I’m advising you both to do a lot of thinking . . . soon.”

  He strode to the door, turned for a single look that included both Channing and Farman, and slipped out into the night.

  Channing leaped to the table and blew out the light in the lamp. A few moments later the echoes of a horse’s hoofs came to them in the darkened room. After a short interval Channing again lighted the lamp. He stood looking at Nathan Farman grimly.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing all this, exactly,” he said in a low, tense voice. “Maybe I’m just a plumb blamed fool. But I put the business to that fellow straight between the eyes. I reckon you better leave the matter to me by giving me that option.”

  “How do I know you’re not workin’ for Mendicott, after all?” cried Farman.

  “You’ve got to let your common sense answer that, I reckon,” said Channing.

  Nathan Farman passed a hand over his eyes. “You better stay here tonight.” he said, “an’ we can talk things over tomorrow. It’s too deep for me tonight. I . . .”

  He raised a hand weakly and Hope and Mrs. McCaffy hurried into the room. Channing nodded to them and to the rancher and went out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

 
When Nathan Farman had been made comfortable in bed, with both Hope and Mrs. McCaffy fluttering about him, making him as easy as possible, Hope sat down at the bedside and talked to him in a soothing voice. The excitement had nearly proved too much for him after his wound and the weakening days he had spent on his back. Hope realized more than ever this night that her uncle was an old man, and that his life had been a life replete with hardship and worry and much responsibility. It was all too apparent that he was not fit to cope with Mendicott, that the outlaw would go to any length to achieve his ends, that it didn’t tend to ease her uncle’s mind one way or the other to be possessed of this knowledge. But she was glad that Channing had returned.

  “I knew he’d come back,” she told her uncle. “He has been somewhere nearby expecting this visit from Mendicott. It’ll help you to sleep, Uncle, to know that I have every faith in Mister Channing because all his actions from the time I first met him have been in our interests.”

  Then, while Nathan Farman listened with his eyes closed, holding one of her hands in his, she told him of the meeting between Channing and Brood in the outlaws’ rendezvous, and of Brood’s evident astonishment and obedience to Channing’s command to go back into his cabin. She told him, too, something of what Lillian Bell had said to her in the mining camp. She stressed what Lillian had said about the two of them, Channing and Mendicott, having an equal number of friends, and of Mendicott’s having more respect for Channing than any other man in that part of the country. “Tonight’s events have proved it,” she concluded in triumph. “Anyone could plainly see that Mendicott was furiously angry. Why, once he was on the verge of drawing his weapon. And it made him all the more angry to see that Mister Channing wasn’t afraid of him. You said it would take a brave man to face Mendicott,” Hope pointed out to Nathan Farman. “And you’ve seen him faced tonight. We’ve got to turn in some direction, Uncle, we’ve got to trust someone. Something . . . oh, I don’t know what . . . tells me we should trust Channing.”