In a trice the ranch hands, infuriated by the memory of their narrow escape from the fire and by Mendez’s second attempt to kill with a knife—the hated weapon of all cowmen—had the rope around the Mexican’s neck and were leading him away on his horse.
Channing made no move to interfere. Hope looked on in horror as she realized what that grim-visaged procession meant. Then she ran to Channing as he turned toward the kitchen.
“What are they . . . what is he . . . aren’t you going to stop them?” gasped out Hope.
He looked around casually at the departing men. McDonald was approaching. He, too, was making no move to deter the men from their purpose.
“Give ’em a chance to take it out on somebody and you’ve got ’em,” was Channing’s laconic statement, addressed to Nathan Farman. “It’ll help their nerve.”
“But . . . they’re going . . . to hang him!” cried Hope, aghast.
“He tried to kill a number of men here last night . . . and again this morning,” said Channing coolly. “It’ll be setting a good example.”
“Uncle, will you allow this?” said Hope, appealing to Nathan Farman.
“I’ve just put Channing in charge of Rancho del Encanto,” said her uncle, avoiding her eyes. “Is that wound very bad, McDonald? Better come in an’ we’ll take a look at it an’ bandage it up.”
Hope stared after the procession disappearing in the trees behind the barn. She could visualize that form hanging from the limb of a tall cottonwood, swaying in the wind. She turned and found only Channing outside the door.
“You may not understand all this, but it’s necessary,” he said gravely.
“Oh! Get out of my sight!”
And she ran for the house.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hope hurried past her uncle, McDonald, and the housekeeper in the kitchen, and flung herself into a rocking chair in the living room. She could not get that mental picture of the hanging out of her mind. Nor did it seem right, for Mendez hadn’t actually killed anyone, although he had undoubtedly tried to do so. He was likely a spy of Mendicott’s as well as a tool of Brood’s. It might be that he deserved hanging. But Channing’s attitude in the matter had been too careless—or too vicious. Her whole conception of Channing had changed. The situation required sternness, a firm hand, authority, of course, but Channing had appeared too stern, too tyrannical. There seemed to be much of the brute in him, Hope thought, more than she had been led to expect. It did not occur to her at the time that Channing’s moves might have been with a view to impressing the men—to win them over first by intimidation, then by catering to them. She knew nothing of the handling of such men as worked on Rancho del Encanto—men who were not of the best stock of the general run of ranch hands. She could think only of the look of terror on the Mexican’s face, and the look in the eyes of his captors.
“It’s plain murder,” she said aloud. “What is the use of laws, of courts, judges so far as a country like this is concerned? They think they are above the law, while they are really below it. They are every bit as bad as Mendez . . . and the outlaws themselves.”
In her heart Hope knew strict measures were required in a time like this. It was all right to use them on the men to keep them there and prevent Mendicott to frighten them away, but the deliberate taking of a life was another matter. Hope did not even believe in capital punishment, and she had forgotten the day when she believed she could have killed Brood herself. She thought on these things for some time and was interrupted in their contemplation by Mrs. McCaffy.
“Somebody outside wants to see you!” the housekeeper called.
Hope rose with a puzzled expression and went out on the porch. She descended the steps and walked around the house, where she stopped suddenly as she saw a strange scene. The ranch hands were grouped around a figure on a horse—Mendez. He hadn’t been hanged!
She saw Channing beckoning to her and approached with a look of relieved inquiry.
“They . . . didn’t hang him?” she asked foolishly.
“No,” said Channing. “They decided they’d just as soon humor a lady.”
She saw the men grinning. Mendez’s face was pale and his black eyes were fixed upon her with a pleading expression.
She turned to Channing. “It wouldn’t have been right,” she said.
She realized that Channing had hurried after the men, had explained to them that she didn’t want this thing done on the ranch, had probably cajoled them into changing their minds while permitting them to think they were doing a chivalrous thing by her.
“Do you still think it would have been right?” she demanded.
“What do you want done with him?” Channing asked.
“Why . . . why let him go. Send him away as you were going to do in the first place.”
Channing turned to the men with a faint smile. “You hear? She wants this fellow sent away.”
The men took it good-naturedly. The one who was holding the rope about Mendez’s neck motioned to the Mexican to take it off. Mendez slipped it over his head with shaking hands.
“Beat it!” called one of the men.
Mendez spurred his horse and galloped swiftly away as the men hurled advice after him as to the direction he should take and the length of time he should stay.
“But he won’t go that way any great distance, and I reckon we’ll see him again,” Channing observed to the girl.
She knew what he meant. He suspected that the Mexican would take a roundabout way to the retreat of Mendicott. She hoped she would not be present if he were seen again by any of the Rancho del Encanto men.
Later when Hope chanced to be in the kitchen, Channing’s voice came to her from the living room.
“There are reasons why I want that option, Nate.”
“I can’t see why it’s necessary,” parried the rancher. “I’m taking enough stock in you to give you charge here. That’s doing a lot.”
“You’re doing it because you believe it’s the one way out,” said Channing. “Maybe it is. I want that option to make sure. When it’s signed, Mendicott’s got to do business with me, don’t you see?”
“An’ perhaps he will,” said Farman sourly.
“In one month’s time I’ll return your option, if you want it,” said Channing. “I give you my word on that. Will you make it out?”
There was a brief silence. “For how much?” the rancher said finally.
“Say a hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” replied Channing.
“Why, I don’t believe the place would sell for that,” said Farman in a tone of astonishment.
“Maybe not . . . if you put the price on it,” drawled out Channing. “But you aren’t selling it, you’re giving me an option. Do I get it?”
“Oh, I’ll write it out,” said Farman in resignation. “But, listen to me, Channing, if there’s any trick about this . . .”
“You can sure blame me,” Channing concluded for him.
The two women looked at each other in silence as the voices in the living room ceased. They could hear things on the table being moved, a drawer being opened and closed—sounds that indicated that Nathan Farman was writing out the option on Rancho del Encanto. For a few moments Hope experienced a feeling of panic. The price seemed high; $150,000 was a larger sum than she had ever thought the ranch with its stock could be worth. Perhaps Channing was purposely putting the price high because he intended to exercise the option. It was certain that if he so decreed, Nathan Farman would have to sell. And it gave Channing added power as far as the management of ranch affairs was concerned. Another startling thought occurred to her. Did Channing have that much money? It hardly seemed probable. Could he get it? If so, from whom? The answer was all too plain; there was but one other man interested in the ranch as a purchase, and that man was Mendicott. All this worried the girl. It was the supreme test of her confidence in Channing—a man of whom she knew little.
She heard her uncle speaking again. “For what length of time sha
ll I make this out?”
“Ninety days,” Channing replied cheerfully.
“But you said I could have it back if I wanted at the end of thirty days,” said Nathan Farman.
“You can,” Channing affirmed, “if you want it.”
His manner of saying this seemed to convey a double meaning. It was as if he knew that the rancher would not ask for the option at the end of the thirty days. It was even possible that he meant Farman wouldn’t dare ask for it. Hope felt another twinge of misgiving.
“What will I make the terms?” Farman asked after an interval.
“Cash,” answered Channing.
“Cash!” exclaimed the rancher. “I reckon that’s why you’re sort of hinting that I won’t ask for the option back in thirty days?”
Even Hope realized that $150,000 in cash was an alluring offer for Rancho del Encanto. It might tempt her uncle. Was it all a scheme to put an attractive price before Nathan Farman?
“You can think what you please,” said Channing coldly. “But you can put the terms down as cash.”
There was another interval of silence, then: “All right, there it is, all signed.”
“We’ll have to have it witnessed said Channing in a business-like tone. “Better call in Miss Farman and McDonald.”
Hope answered her uncle’s call and sat down at the table with the paper before her. She looked steadily at Channing, holding the pen poised for her signature. His face was inscrutable, like the face of a gambler or banker hearing a request for a loan. He looked at her frankly but there was a hint of the supercilious in his manner—a mocking challenge in his eyes. At last she signed.
McDonald came in at Mrs. McCaffy’s call and he, too, looked at Channing as he saw what it was he was asked to witness. But his look was curious and puzzled.
“Just sign as a witness,” Channing reminded him.
McDonald affixed his signature and rose awkwardly.
“I reckon that closes this business for the present,” said Channing, folding the paper and stowing it in a pocket. “There’s just one thing, Nate, I want you to remember. You’ve always sneered at the desert . . . hated it, I guess. But it’s the desert that’s going to do more for you than anything else.” His tone and look were prophetic. He gave the rancher no opportunity to comment on this, but turned to McDonald. “Have the men fix up their quarters in the loft of the big barn,” he ordered crisply. “Give ’em anything they want and treat ’em nice. We’ve got ’em in good humor and we want to keep ’em that way till somebody throws another scare into ’em.” He frowned deeply. For some moments he was lost in thought while the others studied him. “Send two men to keep an eye on the cattle on the mesa,” he continued. “Tomorrow we’ll make a hard ride to round up most of the cattle outside, and keep two or three men out after strays. When we got ’em all on the mesa, I’m going to move every last one of ’em off the ranch.”
Farman started to speak, but desisted when Channing looked at him sharply.
“Is that all?” asked McDonald quietly.
“That’s it, for now,” said Channing. “I’m coming right out there to keep an eye on things.”
McDonald left the room to carry out his orders.
Channing turned to Farman. “Is there . . . any spare artillery around here?”
Farman nodded and pointed to a lower drawer of a clothes press.
Hope went out into the kitchen. A few minutes later Channing went out to the yard.
The men went cheerfully about the work of arranging sleeping quarters in the barn. Nathan Farman decided that the meals would be served in the house. Channing continued to preside at the head of the table, and it was noticeable at dinner that all were on good terms. Channing appeared to have imbued the men with a goodly measure of his own confidence.
This confidence impressed Hope and her uncle. It served to convey the impression that Channing was sure Mendicott would make no new move for some time. They did not know, nor suspect, how soon this illusion was to be shattered.
In the afternoon the branding of calves was resumed on the mesa. Only Jim Crossley remained at the ranch house. He was sort of looking after odd jobs and keeping an eye on the last smoldering embers remaining from the fire. As the day wore on a sense of normality gradually returned to those on the ranch. Prospects of further trouble appeared more remote. Nathan Farman sat in his chair on the porch and dozed and smoked his pipe. He had, to all appearances, given himself up to the new order of things.
This condition obtained at supper, with the men laughing and joking. There was a more tense feeling as night approached, and those in the house were aware of it as well as the others. But the night passed very peacefully.
In the morning the men were at breakfast before the dawn. Channing gave crisp orders at the table, and they were well received. The men, with the exception of Crossley, who was again left at the ranch house, rode away with the first light in the east to gather the cattle ranging outside of the mesa. Channing and McDonald accompanied the men. As they rode away, Hope heard Channing singing. It gave her something of a thrill. Evidently he was satisfied with matters as they were. It was certain that he knew exactly what he was doing, why he was doing it, and how to do it.
“Danged good cowman,” was Nathan Farman’s comment when she mentioned the fact to him. “Don’t see why he ain’t been at it all these years. He’s had experience, an’ he knows how to handle men. I reckon he just fell for the free life. The desert got him, an’, when the desert gets ’em, they sometimes get a little queer in the head.”
“You’re not intimating that Channing is queer that way, are you?” asked Hope in astonishment.
“No,” answered her uncle, frowning, “I’m wondering if he isn’t too all-fired smart.”
Hope helped the housekeeper, although there was little that Mrs. McCaffy would let her do.
The men returned late. Nathan Farman grunted in approval as he looked through his field glasses and saw the cattle being driven onto the mesa. “They’ve got most of ’em,” he said in satisfaction. “I wonder where he figures on takin’ ’em? Anyway, he’s running things so comfortable that I’m going to keep still an’ let him go ahead.”
It was after dark when supper was served, and it was as good a meal as it was possible for Mrs. McCaffy to prepare. The men spoke loudly in its praise.
“I reckon we won’t wait to brand any more calves here,” said Channing after supper. “The weather’s fixing for a change, and I’m going to move the stock out of here before the change comes. We’re due for some rain, and rain’ll wash away tracks.”
Nathan Farman nodded assent. He did not bother to ask Channing where he intended to take the cattle.
Hope walked in the yard under the trees this night. It had been hot all day, but with evening a cool breeze filtered down through the stands of pine and fir. The stars were clusters of diamonds in the sky. As she walked along the hedge in front of the house, Channing approached.
“Good evening, Miss Farman,” he said politely.
“Good evening, Mister Channing. Everything . . . is quiet?”
She noted with surprise that he was wearing two guns this night. So that was why he had asked if there was any spare artillery in the house. It gave her something of a start—the sight of those two ominous-looking weapons on his thighs.
“Everything is quiet,” he said soberly. “Miss Farman, I’m going to trust you with something.”
Hope was stirred. Was he going to divulge more about himself? She answered in a low voice: “You can do that, Mister Channing.”
He drew an envelope from within his shirt and held it out to her. “There’s an envelope addressed to you, Miss Farman. If anything should happen to me . . . anything serious, I mean . . . you open that envelope yourself. There’s a communication inside.”
Hope took the envelope wonderingly. Before she could make a reply, he had swung on his heel and was walking away. She turned the envelope over and over in her hands, thinking hard. If
anything serious should happen to him. It was borne in upon her that Channing had assumed a risk—that he was in danger. It explained the two guns, perhaps. He had been serious enough, and he was trusting her to respect his wishes in this matter, trusting her above the others. Hope put the envelope carefully away, thrilled at the thought that it constituted a sort of bond of confidence between them. She heard him singing softly somewhere in the shadows as she went into the house.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The quiet of the night was destined to be short-lived. Channing had assumed charge of the cattle on the mesa in person, affording McDonald an opportunity to rest in the house. Half a dozen men were in the barn loft and others were with Channing. Jim Crossley was in the rear of the house, walking in the starlight. The house was dark, and everyone within was apparently asleep. It was Crossley who was first to hear horsemen coming from the foothill trail and its branches. The flying hoofs echoed dully in the night. He stood for a few moments, listening, then sounded the alarm by firing his gun in the air three times. Several men called to him from the barn loft and he shouted to them to come to the house. Then he ran for his horse that he had kept close by, saddled and ready for an emergency. He galloped around the house, leaped the hedge, and rode to notify Channing. Channing sent him back at once with orders for the men at the house to stay there.
Channing had already seen the night riders sweep out on the mesa from the cover of the trees at the edge of the foothills. He swore softly. It was plain he hadn’t expected such an early demonstration on the part of Mendicott. The move was, doubtless, in the nature of another warning that Mendicott was in no mood for delay in gaining his ends, that he didn’t intend to permit Channing to frustrate his plan to harass Nathan Farman into disposing of the ranch. With Channing leading them, the men riding herd on the stock on the mesa showed unexpected aggressiveness. They drew their weapons and followed Channing around the herd to the west side of the mesa in an effort to get between the herd and the approaching riders. But the herd was now up and milling about as the raiders rode in, evidently bent on stampeding the cattle from the mesa into the foothills or desert where it would take some time for another roundup. The raiders were shouting and firing their weapons, but they found it difficult to get the cattle started on the run in the darkness. They cut halfway through the herd, and then out the north side, converging at the north end of the mesa between the cattle and the house.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 17