"Well, sir, we played that game all the evening. I told of all the bad leases I'd tackled—and how I'd been thrown from a horse and laid up for six months. I brought out every set-back and bruise I'd ever had—all to see if the old man would weaken and feel sorry for me."
"Did he?"
"Not for a minute! And sometimes, as I looked at him, I was sorry I'd come home; but when I was with mother I was glad. She 'phoned to sis, who lived in Jackson, and sis came on the lope, and we had a nice family party. Sis touched on Nancy McRae.
"'You remember her?' she asked.
"'I seem to,' I says, kind of slow, as if I was dredgin' my mind to find something.
"'Well, she's on the farm, just the same as ever—takin' care of the old man. Her mother's dead.'
"I didn't push that matter any farther, but just planned to ride over the next morning and see how she looked.
"All that evening sis and I deviled the old man. Mother had told sis about my mine—and so she'd bring out every little while how uncertain the gold-seekin' business was and how if I'd stayed on the farm I could 'a' been well off—and she'd push me hard when I started in on one of my hard-luck stories. I had to own up that I had walked out to save money, and that I was travelin' on an excursion ticket 'cause it was cheap—and so on.
"The old man's mouth got straighter and straighter and his eyes colder—but I told mother not to say anything till next day, and she didn't, although he tossed and turned and grunted half the night. He really took it hard; but he finally agreed to harbor me and give me a chance—so mother told me next morning—which was Sunday. I had planned to get home Saturday night.
"Next morning after breakfast—and it was a breakfast—I strolled out to the barn and, the carriage-shed door being open, I pulled the old buggy out—'peared like it was the very same one, and I was a-dustin' the cushions and fussin' around when the old man came up.
"'What you doin' with that buggy?' he asks.
"'I jest thought I'd ride over and see Nance McRae,' I says, just as I did eleven years before.
"'I reckon you better think again,' he says, and rolls the buggy back into the shed, just the way he did before. 'If you want to see Nance McRae you can walk,' he says, and I could see he meant it.
"'All right,' I says, and out I stepped without so much as saying good-by, intendin' to go for good this time.
"I went across the road to Martin's and got a chance to 'phone into Jackson, and in about twenty minutes I was whirlin' over the road in a red-cushioned automobile that ran smooth as oil, and inside of half an hour I was rollin' through McRae's gate.
"Now, up to this time, I hadn't any notion of a program as to Nancy; I was all took up with gettin' ahead of dad. But when I found myself in front of old McRae, more down at the heel and raggeder in the seat than ever, I was a whole lot set back. What was I to say to him and to her? I didn't know. He was gappin' at me with the eyes of an owl, and so I opened up.
"'I see you have no lightnin'-rods?' I says. 'In this day and age of the world you can't afford to go without lightnin'-rods.'
"He wa'n't no fool, if he did wear rats in his hair, and he says:
"'I thought you was a cream-separator man. Are lightnin'-rods comin' into style again?'
"'My kind is,' I says.
"'Well, the trade must be lookin' up,' he says, walkin' round and round my machine and eyin' it. 'I'm thinkin' of havin' one of them wagons for haulin' milk to town. Won't you light out?'
"'Don't care if I do,' I says, and out I rolled, feelin' a little shaky.
"I was mighty anxious to see Nance by this time, but felt shy of askin' about her.
"'What is the latest kink in rods?' asked the old cuss.
"'These kind I sell,' I says, 'are the kind that catch and store the electricity in a tank down cellar. Durin' a thunder-storm you can save up enough to rock the baby and run the churn for a week or two.'
"'I want 'o know,' he says. 'Well, we 'ain't got a baby and no churn—but mebbe it would run a cream-separator?'
"'Sure it would.'
"All the time we was a-joshin' this way he was a-studyin' me—and finally he said:
"'You can't fool me, Ed. How are ye?'
"And we shook hands. I always liked the old cuss. He was a great reader—always talkin' about Napoleon—he'd been a great man if he'd ever got off the farm and into something that required just his kind o' brain-work.
"'Come in,' he says. 'Nance will want to see you.'
"The minute he said that I had a queer feelin' at the pit o' my stummick—I did, sure thing. 'It's a little early for a call,' I says, 'and I ain't in Sunday clothes.'
"'That don't matter,' he says; 'she'll be glad to see you any time.'
"You'd 'a' thought I'd been gone eleven weeks instead of eleven years.
"Nance wasn't a bit like her dad. She always looked shipshape, no matter what she was a-doin'. She was in the kitchen, busy as a gasoline-motor, when we busted through the door.
"'Nance!' the old man called out, 'here's Ed Hatch.'
"She didn't do any fancy stunts. She just straightened up and looked at me kind o' steady for a minute, and then came over to shake hands.
"'I'm glad to see you back, Ed,' she says."
The stress of this meeting was still over him, as I could see and hear, and I waited for him to go on.
"She hadn't changed as much as mother. She was older and sadder and kind o' subdued, and her hand felt calloused, but I'd 'a' known her anywhere. She was dressed in a blue calico dress, but she was sure handsome still, and I said to her:
"'You need a change of climate,' I says, 'and a different kind of boss. Colorado's where you ought to be,' I went on.
"For half an hour I kept banterin' her like that, and though she got pink now and then, she didn't seem to understand—or if she did she didn't let on. She stuck to her work whilst the old man and me watched her. Seein' her going about that kitchen that way got me locoed. I always liked to watch mother in the kitchen—and Nance was a genuine housekeeper, I always knew that.
"Finally I says:
"'I hain't got any buggy, Nance—the old man wouldn't let me have one last Sunday—I mean eleven years ago—that's what threw me off the track—but I've got a forty-horse-power car out here. Suppose you put on your best apron and take a ride with me.'
"She made some words as women will, but she got ready, and she did look handsomer than ever as she came out. She was excited, I could see that, but she was all there! No jugglin' or fussin'.
"'Climb in the front seat, dad,' I says. 'It's me and Nance to the private box. Turn on the juice,' I says to the driver.
"Well, sir, we burned up all the grease in the box lookin' up the old neighbors and the places we used to visit with horse and buggy—and every time I spoke to the old man I called him 'Dad'—and finally we fetched up at the biggest hotel in the town and had dinner together.
"Then I says: 'Dad, you better lay down and snooze. Nance and me are goin' out for a walk.'
"The town had swelled up some, but one or two of the old stores was there, and as we walked past the windows I says: 'Remember the time we stood here and wished we could buy things?'
"She kind o' laughed. 'I don't believe I do.'
"'Yes, you do,' I says. 'Well, we can look now to some account, for I've got nineteen thousand dollars in the bank and a payin' lease on a mine.'"
Up to this minute he had been fairly free to express his real feelings—hypnotized by my absorbed gaze—but now, like most Anglo-Saxons, he began to shy. He began to tell of a fourteen-dollar suit of clothes (bought at this store) which turned green in the hot sun.
"Oh, come now!" I insisted, "I want to know about Nancy. All this interests me deeply. Did she agree to come back with you?"
He looked a little bit embarrassed. "I asked her to—right there in front of that window. I said, 'I want you to let me buy you that white dress.'
"'Judas priest! I can't let you do that,' she says.
"'Why
not?' I said. 'We're goin' to be married, anyhow.'
"'Is that so?' she asked. 'I hadn't heard of it.'
"Oh, she was no babe, I tell you. We went back to the hotel and woke up the old man, and I ordered up the best machine in the shop—a big seven-seated, shiny one, half as long as a Pullman parlor-car, with a top and brass housin's and extra tires strapped on, and a place for a trunk—an outfit that made me look like a street-railway magnate. It set me back a whole lot, but I wanted to stagger dad—and I did. As we rolled up to the door he came out with eyes you could hang your hat on.
"'What's all this?' he asked.
"I hopped out.
"'Miss McRae,' I says, 'this is my father. Dad, this is Mister McRae. I think you've met before.'"
He chuckled again, that silent interior laugh, and I was certainly grinning in sympathy as he went on.
"'Just help me with this trunk,' I says. 'The horses bein' tired, I just thought I'd have a dray to bring up my duds.'
"Well, sir, I had him flat down. He couldn't raise a grunt. He stood like a post while I laid off my trunk; but mother and sis came out and were both very nice to Nance. Mother asked her to get out, and she did, and I took 'em all for a ride later—all but dad. Couldn't get him inside the machine. Nance stayed for supper, and just as we were goin' in dad said to me:
"'How much does that red machine cost you an hour?'
"'About two dollars.'
"'I reckon you better send it back to the shop,' he says. 'You can take Nance home in my buggy.'
"It was his surrender; but I didn't turn a hair.
"'I guess you're right,' I says. 'It is a little expensive to spark in—and a little too public, too.'"
The whistle of the engine announcing the station helped him out.
"Here's Victor, and my mine is up there on the north-west side. You can just see the chimney. I've got another year on it, and I'm goin' to raise dirt to beat hell durin' all the time there is left, and then I'm goin' to Denver."
"And Nance?"
"Oh, she's comin' out next week," he said, as he rose to take down his valise. "I've bought a place at the Springs."
"Good luck to you both," said I, as he swung from the train.
* * *
THE FOREST RANGER
—hardy son of the pioneers—representing the finer social order of the future, rides his lonely trail, guarding with single-hearted devotion the splendid heritage of us all.
* * *
IX
THE FOREST RANGER
I
One April day some years ago, when the rustling of cattle (a picturesque name for stealing) was still going on in one of our central mountain states, Abe Kitsong, a rancher on the Shellfish, meeting Hanscom, the forest ranger of that district, called out:
"Say, mister, do you know that some feller has taken a claim in our valley right bang up against your boundary line?"
"Yes," replied Hanscom. "I've an eye on him. He's started a cabin already."
"I didn't know that land was open or I'd 'a' took it myself. Who is the old chap, anyway?"
"I don't know where he comes from, but his name is Kauffman—Pennsylvania Dutch, I reckon."
"Watson will be hot when he runs agin' the fence that feller's puttin' up."
"Well, the man's in there and on the way to a clear title, so what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't plan for to do anything, but Watson will sure be sore," repeated Kitsong.
The ranger smiled and rode on. He was a native of the West, a plain-featured, deliberate young fellow of thirty who sat his horse with the easy grace which marks the trailer, while Abe Kitsong, tall, gaunt, long-bearded, and sour-faced, was a Southerner, a cattleman of bad reputation with the alfalfa farmers farther down the valley. He was a notable survivor of the "good old days of the range," and openly resented the "punkin rollers" who were rapidly fencing all the lower meadows. Watson was his brother-in-law, and together they had controlled the upper waters of the Shellfish, making a last stand in the secluded valley.
The claim in question lay in a lonely spot at the very head of a narrow cañon, and included a lovely little meadow close clasped by a corner of the dark robe of forest which was Hanscom's especial care, and which he guarded with single-hearted devotion. The new cabin stood back from the trail, and so for several weeks its owner went about his work in undisturbed tranquillity. Occasionally he drove to town for supplies, but it soon appeared that he was not seeking acquaintance with his neighbors, and in one way or another he contrived to defend himself from visitors.
He was a short man, gray-mustached and somber, but his supposed wife (who dressed in the rudest fashion and covered her head, face, and shoulders with an old-fashioned gingham sunbonnet) was reported by Watson, her nearest neighbor, to be much younger than her husband and comely. "I came on her the other day without that dinged bunnit," said he, "and she's not so bad-looking, but she's shy. Couldn't lay a hand on her."
In spite of this report, for a month or two the men of the region, always alert on the subject of women, manifested but a moderate interest in the stranger. They hadn't much confidence in Watson's judgment, anyhow, and besides, the woman carried herself so ungracefully and dressed so plainly that even the saloon-door loafers cast contemptuous glances upon her as she hurried by the post-office on her way to the grocery. In fact, they put the laugh on Watson, and he would have been buying the drinks for them all had not the postmaster come to his rescue.
THE WOMAN CARRIED HERSELF SO UNGRACEFULLY AND DRESSED SO PLAINLY THAT EVEN THE SALOON-DOOR LOAFERS CAST CONTEMPTUOUS GLANCES UPON HERToList
"Ed's right," said he. "She's younger than she looks, and has a right nice voice."
"Is it true that her letters come addressed in two different names?" queried one of the men.
"No. Her letters come addressed 'Miss Helen McLaren.' What that means I can't say. But the old man spoke of her as his daughter."
"I don't take much stock in that daughter's business," said one of the loafers. "There's a mouse in the meal somewhere."
Thereafter this drab and silent female, by her very wish to be left alone, became each day a more absorbing topic of conversation. She was not what she seemed—this was the verdict. As for Kauffman, he was considered a man who would bear watching, and when finally, being pressed to it, he volunteered the information that he was in the hills for his daughter's health, many sneered.
"Came away between two days, I'll bet," said Watson. "And as fer the woman, why should her mail come under another name from his? Does that look like she was his daughter?"
"She may be a stepdaughter," suggested the postmaster.
"More likely she's another man's wife," retorted Watson.
During the early autumn Kauffman published the fact that he had registered a brand, and from time to time those who happened to ride up the valley brought back a report that he owned a small but growing herd of cattle. Watson did not hesitate to say that he had never been able to find where the new-comer bought his stock—and in those days no man was quite free from the necessity of exhibiting a bill of sale.
However, the people of the town paid small attention to this slur, for Watson himself was not entirely above suspicion. He was considered a dangerous character. Once or twice he had been forced, at the mouth of a rifle, to surrender calves that had, as he explained, "got mixed" with his herd. In truth, he was nearly always in controversy with some one.
"Kauffman don't look to me like an 'enterprising roper,'" Hanscom reported to his supervisor. "And as for his wife, or daughter, or whatever she is, I've never seen anything out of the way about her. She attends strictly to her own affairs. Furthermore," he added, "Watson, as you know, is under 'wool-foot surveillance' right now by the Cattle Raisers' Syndicate, and I wouldn't take his word under oath."
The supervisor shared the ranger's view, and smiled at "the pot calling the kettle black." And so matters drifted along till in one way or another the Kitsongs had set the whole upper valle
y against the hermits and Watson (in his cups) repeatedly said: "That fellow has no business in there. That's my grass. He stole it from me."
His resentment grew with repetition of his fancied grievance, and at last he made threats. "He's an outlaw, that's what he is—and as for that woman, well, I'm going up there some fine day and snatch the bunnit off her and see what she really looks like!"
"Better go slow," urged one of his friends. "That chap looks to me like one of the old guard. He may have something to say about your doings with his daughter."
Watson only grinned. "He ain't in no position to object if she don't—and I guess I can manage her," he ended with drunken swagger.
Occasionally Hanscom met the woman on the trail or in the town, and always spoke in friendly greeting. The first time he spoke she lifted her head like a scared animal, but after that she responded with a low, "Howdy, sir?" and her voice (coming from the shadow of her ugly headgear) was unexpectedly clear and sweet. Although he was never able to see her face, something in her bearing and especially in her accent pleased and stirred him.
Without any special basis for it, he felt sorry for her and resolved to help her, and when one day he met her on the street and asked, in friendly fashion, "How are you to-day?" she looked up at him and replied, "Very well, thank you, sir," and he caught a glimpse of a lovely chin and a sad and sensitive mouth.
"She's had more than her share of trouble, that girl has," he thought as he passed on.
Thereafter a growing desire to see her eyes, to hear her voice, troubled him.
Kauffman stopped him on the road next day and said: "I am Bavarian, and in my country we respect the laws of the forest. I honor your office, and shall regard all your regulations. I have a few cattle which will naturally graze in the forest. I wish to take out a permit for them."
To this Hanscom cordially replied: "Sure thing. That's what I'm here for. And if you want any timber for your corrals just let me know and I'll fix you out."
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