The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  An explanation could no longer be dodged or avoided. Houck had talked too much. Tolliver knew he must make a clean breast of it, and that his own daughter would sit in judgment on him. Yet he hung back. The years of furtive silence still held him.

  "He was a fellow lived in Brown's Park."

  "What had you to do with him? Why did Jake Houck tell me to ask you about him?"

  "Oh, I reckon--"

  "And about where you lived while I was with Aunt Molly at Rawlins?" she rushed on.

  The poor fellow moistened his dry lips. "I--I'll tell you the whole story, honey. Mebbe I'd ought to 'a' told you long ago. But someways--" He stopped, trying for a fresh start. "You'll despise yore old daddy. You sure will. Well, you got a right to. I been a mighty bad father to you, June. Tha's a fact."

  She waited, dread-filled eyes on his.

  "Prob'ly I'd better start at the beginnin', don't you reckon? I never did have any people to brag about. Father and mother died while I was a li'l' grasshopper. I was kinda farmed around, as you might say. Then I come West an' got to punchin' cows. Seems like, I got into a bad crowd. They was wild, an' they rustled more or less. In them days there was a good many sleepers an' mavericks on the range. I expect we used a running-iron right smart when we wasn't sure whose calf it was."

  He was trying to put the best face on the story. June could see that, and her heart hardened toward him. She ignored the hungry appeal for mercy in his eyes.

  "You mean you stole cattle. Is that it?" She was willing to hurt herself if she could give him pain. Had he not ruined her life?

  "Well, I--I--Yes, I reckon that's it. Our crowd picked up calves that belonged to the big outfits like the Diamond Slash. We drove 'em up to Brown's Park, an' later acrost the line to Wyoming or Utah."

  "Was Jake Houck one of your crowd?"

  Pete hesitated.

  She cut in, with a flare of childish ferocity. "I'm gonna know the truth. He's not protecting you any."

  "Yes. Jake was one of us. I met up with him right soon after I come to Colorado."

  "And Purdy?"

  "Tha's the name I was passin' under. I'd worked back in Missouri for a fellow of that name. They got to callin' me Pete Purdy, so I kinda let it go. My father's name was Tolliver, though. I took it--after the trouble."

  "What trouble?"

  "It come after I was married. I met yore maw at Rawlins. She was workin' at the railroad restaurant waitin' on table. For a coupla years we lived there, an' I wish to God we'd never left. But Jake persuaded 'Lindy I'd ought to take up land, so we moved back to the Park an' I preëmpted. Everything was all right at first. You was born, an' we was right happy. But Jake kep' a-pesterin' me to go in with him an' do some cattle runnin' on the quiet. There was money in it--pretty good money--an' yore maw was sick an' needed to go to Denver. Jake, he advanced the money, an' o' course I had to work in with him to pay it back. I was sorta driven to it, looks like."

  He stopped to mop a perspiring face with a bandanna. Tolliver was not enjoying himself.

  "You haven't told me yet what the trouble was," June said.

  "Well, this fellow Jas Stuart was a stock detective. He come down for the Cattlemen's Association to find out who was doing the rustlin' in Brown's Park. You see, the Park was a kind of a place where we holed up. There was timbered gulches in there where we could drift cattle in an' hide 'em. Then there was the Hole-in-the-Wall. I expect you've heard of that too."

  "Did this Stuart find out who was doing the rustlin'?"

  "He was right smart an' overbearin'. Too much so for his own good. Some of the boys served notice on him he was liable to get dry-gulched if he didn't take the trail back where he come from. But Jas was right obstinate an' he had sand in his craw. I'll say that for him. Well, one day he got word of a drive we was makin'. Him an' his deputies laid in wait for us. There was shooting an' my horse got killed. The others escaped, but they nailed me. In the rookus Stuart had got killed. They laid it on me. Mebbe I did it. I was shooting like the rest. Anyhow, I was convicted an' got twenty years in the pen."

  "Twenty years," June echoed.

  "Three--four years later there was a jail break. I got into the hills an' made my getaway. Travelin' by night, I reached Rawlins. From there I came down here with a freight outfit, an' I been here ever since."

  He stopped. His story was ended. June looked at the slouchy little man with the weak mouth and the skim-milk, lost-dog eyes. He was so palpably wretched, so plainly the victim rather than the builder of his own misfortunes, that her generous heart went out warmly to him.

  With a little rush she had him in her arms. They wept together, his head held tight against her immature bosom. It was the first time she had ever known him to break down, and she mothered him as women have from the beginning of time.

  "You poor Daddy. Don't I know how it was? That Jake Houck was to blame. He led you into it an' left you to bear the blame," she crooned.

  "It ain't me. It's you I'm thinkin' of, honey. I done ruined yore life, looks like. I shut you off from meeting decent folks like other girls do. You ain't had no show."

  "Don't you worry about me, Dad. I'll be all right. What we've got to think about is not to let it get out who you are. If it wasn't for that big bully up at the house--"

  She stopped, hopelessly unable to cope with the situation. Whenever she thought of Houck her mind came to an impasse. Every road of escape it traveled was blocked by his jeering face, with the jutting jaw set in implacable resolution.

  "It don't look like Jake would throw me down thataway," he bewailed. "I never done him a meanness. I kep' my mouth shut when they got me an' wouldn't tell who was in with me. Tha's one reason they soaked me with so long a sentence. They was after Jake. They kep' at me to turn state's evidence an' get a short term. But o' course I couldn't do that."

  "'Course not. An' now he turns on you like a coyote--after you stood by him." A surge of indignation boiled up in her. "He's the very worst man ever I knew--an' if he tries to do you any harm I'll--I'll settle with him."

  Her father shook his unkempt head. "No, honey. I been learnin' for twelve years that a man can't do wrong for to get out of a hole he's in. If Jake's mean enough to give me up, why, I reckon I'll have to stand the gaff."

  "No," denied June, a spark of flaming resolution in her shining eyes.

  CHAPTER VI

  "DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM!"

  Inside the big chuck tent of the construction camp the cook was busy forking steak to tin plates and ladling potatoes into deep dishes.

  "Git a move on you, Red Haid," he ordered.

  Bob Dillon distributed the food at intervals along the table which ran nearly the whole length of the canvas top. From an immense coffee pot he poured the clear brown liquid into tin cups set beside each plate. This done, he passed out into the sunshine and beat the triangle.

  From every tent men poured like seeds squirted from a squeezed lemon. They were all in a hurry and they jostled each other in their eagerness to get through the open flap. Straw boss, wood walkers, and ground men, they were all hungry. They ate swiftly and largely. The cook and his flunkey were kept busy.

  "More spuds!" called one.

  "Coming up!" Dillon flung back cheerfully.

  "Shoot along more biscuits!" a second ordered.

  "On the way!" Bob announced.

  The boss of the outfit came in leisurely after the rush. He brought a guest with him and they sat down at the end of the table.

  "Beans!" demanded a line man, his mouth full.

  "Headed for you!" promised the flunkey.

  The guest of the boss was a big rangy fellow in the early forties. Bob heard the boss call him "Jake," and later "Houck." As soon as the boy had a moment to spare he took a good look at the man. He did not like what he saw. Was it the cold, close-set eyes, the crook of the large nose, or the tight-lipped mouth gave the fellow that semblance to a rapacious wolf?

  As soon as Bob had cleaned up the dishes he set off up the creek to m
eet June. The boy was an orphan and had been brought up in a home with two hundred others. His life had been a friendless one, which may have been the reason that he felt a strong bond of sympathy for the lonely girl on Piceance. He would have liked to be an Aladdin with a wonder lamp by means of which he could magically transform her affairs to good fortune. Since this could not be, he gave her what he had--a warm fellow-feeling because of the troubles that worried her.

  He found June waiting at their usual place of meeting. Pete Tolliver's forty-four hung in a scabbard along the girl's thigh. Bob remembered that she had spoken of seeing a rattlesnake on the trail yesterday.

  "'Lo, boy," she called.

  "'Lo, June. I met yore friend."

  "What friend?"

  "Jake Houck. He was down at the camp for dinner to-day--came in with the boss."

  "He's no friend of mine," she said sulkily.

  "Don't blame you a bit. Mr. Houck looks like one hard citizen. I'd hate to cross him."

  "He's as tough as an old range bull. No matter what you say or do you can't faze him," she replied wearily.

  "You still hate him?"

  "More 'n ever. Most o' the time. He just laughs. He's bound an' determined to marry me whether or not. He will, too."

  Bob looked at her, surprised. It was the first time she had ever admitted as much. June's slim body was packed with a pantherish resilience. Her spirit bristled with courage. What had come over her?

  "He won't if you don't want him to."

  "Won't he?" June was lying on a warm flat rock. She had been digging up dirt at the edge of it with a bit of broken stick. Now she looked up at him with the scorn of an experience she felt to be infinitely more extensive than his. "A lot you know about it."

  "How can he? If you an' Mr. Tolliver don't want him to."

  "He just will."

  "But, June, that don't listen reasonable to me. He's got you buffaloed. If you make up yore mind not to have him--"

  "I didn't say I'd made up my mind not to have him. I said I hated him," she corrected.

  "Well, you wouldn't marry a fellow you hated," he argued.

  "How do you know so much about it, Bob Dillon?" she flared.

  "I use what brains I've got. Women don't do things like that. There wouldn't be any sense in it."

  "Well, I'll prob'ly do it. Then you'll know I haven't got a lick o' sense," she retorted sullenly.

  "You ce'tainly beat my time," he said, puzzled. "I've heard you say more mean things about him than everybody else put together, an' now you're talkin' about marryin' him. Why? What's yore reason?"

  She looked up. For a moment the morose eyes met his. They told nothing except a dogged intention not to tell anything.

  But the boy was no fool. He had thought a good deal about the lonely life she and her father led. Many men came into this country three jumps ahead of the law. It was not good form to ask where any one came from unless he volunteered information about antecedent conditions. Was it possible that Jake Houck had something on Tolliver, that he was using his knowledge to force June into a marriage with him? Otherwise there would be no necessity for her to marry him. As he had told her, it was a free land. But if Houck was coercing her because of her fears for Tolliver, it was possible this might be a factor in determining June to marry him.

  "Don't you do it, June. Don't you marry him. He didn't look good to me, Houck didn't," Dillon went on. He was a little excited, and his voice had lifted.

  A man who came at this moment round the bend of the creek was grinning unpleasantly. His eyes focused on Dillon.

  "So I don't look good to you. Tha's too bad. If you'll tell me what you don't like about me I'll make myself over," jeered Houck.

  Bob was struck dumb. The crooked smile and the stab of the eyes that went with it were menacing. He felt goose quills running up and down his spine. This man was one out of a thousand for physical prowess.

  "I didn't know you was near," the boy murmured.

  "I'll bet you didn't, but you'll know it now." Houck moved toward Dillon slowly.

  "Don't you, Jake Houck! Don't you touch him!" June shrilled.

  "I got to beat him up, June. It's comin' to him. D'you reckon I'll let the flunkey of a telephone camp interfere in my business? Why, he ain't half man-size."

  Bob backed away warily. This Colossus straddling toward him would thrash him within an inch of his life. The boy was white to the lips.

  "Stop! Right now!" June faced Houck resolutely, standing between him and his victim.

  The big fellow looked at the girl, a slim, fearless little figure with undaunted eyes flinging out a challenge. He laughed, delightedly, then brushed her aside with a sweep of his arm.

  Her eyes blazed. The smouldering passion that had been accumulating for weeks boiled up. She dragged out the six-shooter from its holster.

  "I won't have you touch him! I won't! If you do I'll--I'll--"

  Houck stopped in his stride, held fast by sheer amazement. The revolver pointed straight at him. It did not waver a hair's breadth. He knew how well she could shoot. Only the day before she had killed a circling hawk with a rifle. The bird had dropped like a plummet, dead before it struck the ground. Now, as his gaze took in the pantherish ferocity of her tense pose, he knew that she was keyed up for tragedy. She meant to defend the boy from him if it resulted in homicide.

  It did not occur to him to be afraid. He laughed aloud, half in admiration, half in derision.

  "I b'lieve you would, you spunky li'l wild cat," he told her in great good humor.

  "Run, Bob," called June to the boy.

  He stood, hesitating. His impulse was to turn and fly, but he could not quite make up his mind to leave her alone with Houck.

  The cowman swung toward the girl.

  "Keep back!" she ordered.

  Her spurt of defiance tickled him immensely. He went directly to her, his stride unfaltering.

  "Want to shoot up poor Jake, do you? An' you an' him all set for a honeymoon. Well, go to it, June. You can't miss now."

  He stood a yard or so from her, easy and undisturbed, laughing in genuine enjoyment. He liked the child's pluck. The situation, with its salty tang of danger, was wholly to his taste.

  But he had disarmed the edge of June's anger and apprehension. His amusement was too real. It carried the scene from tragedy to farce.

  June's outburst had not been entirely for the sake of Bob. Back of the immediate cause was the desire to break away from this man's dominance. She had rebelled in the hope of establishing her individual freedom. Now she knew this was vain. What was the use of opposing one who laughed at her heroics and ignored the peril of his position? There was not any way to beat him.

  She pushed the six-shooter back into its holster and cried out at him bitterly. "I think you're the devil or one of his fiends."

  "An' I think you're an angel--sometimes," he mocked.

  "I hate you!" she said, and two rows of strong little white teeth snapped tight.

  "Sho! Tha's just a notion you got. You like me fine, if you only knew it, girl."

  She was still shaken with the emotion through which she had passed. "You never were nearer death, Jake Houck, than right now a minute ago."

  His back to Dillon, the cowman gave a curt command. "Hit the trail, boy--sudden."

  Bob looked at June, whose sullen eyes were fighting those of her father's guest. She had forgotten he was there. Without a word Bob vanished.

  "So you love me well enough to shoot me, do you?" Houck jeered.

  "I wish I could!" she cried furiously.

  "But you can't. You had yore chance, an' you couldn't. What you need is a master, some one you'll have to honor an' obey, some one who'll look after you an' take the devil outa you. Meanin' me--Jake Houck. Understand?"

  "I won't! I won't!" she cried. "You come here an' bully me because--because of what you know about Father. If you were half a man--if you were white, you wouldn't try to use that against me like you do."

  "I'm
using it for you. Why, you li'l' spitfire, can't you see as Jake Houck's wife you get a chance to live? You'll have clothes an' shoes an' pretties like other folks instead o' them rags you wear now. I aim to be good to you, June."

  "You say that. Don't I know you? I'd 'most rather be dead than married to you. But you keep pesterin' me. I--I--" Her voice broke.

  "If you don' know what's best for you, I do. To-morrow I got to go to Meeker. I'll be back Thursday. We'll ride over to Bear Cat Friday an' be married. Tha's how we'll fix it."

  He did not take her in his arms or try to kiss her. The man was wise in his generation. Cheerfully, as a matter of course, he continued: