The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Yuh mad yet?” asked Billy, because he wanted to keep her there.

  “Mad? Why?” She opened her eyes at him. “Not as much as you look,” she retorted then. “You look as cross as if—”

  “What’s the Pilgrim doing here?” Billy demanded suddenly and untactfully.

  “Who? Mr. Walland?” She went into the pantry and came back with a plate for him. “Why, nothing; he’s just visiting. It’s Sunday, you know.”

  “Oh—is it?” Billy bent over the basin, hiding his face from her. “I didn’t know; I’d kinda lost count uh the days.” Whereupon he made a great splashing in his corner and let her go without more words, feeling more than ever that he needed time to think. “Just visiting—’cause it’s Sunday, eh? The dickens it is!” Meditating deeply, he was very deliberate in combing his hair and settling his blue tie and shaking the dust out of his white silk neckerchief and retying it in a loose knot; so deliberate that Mama Joy was constrained to call out to him: “Your dinner is getting cold, Mr. Boyle,” before he went in and took his seat where Miss Bridger had placed him—and he doubted much her innocence in the matter—elbow to elbow with the Pilgrim.

  “How’s shipping coming on, Billy?” inquired the Pilgrim easily, passing to him the platter of roast beef. “Most through, ain’t yuh?”

  “The outfit’s on the way in,” answered Billy, accepting noncommittally the meat and the overture for peace. “They’ll be here in less than an hour.”

  If the Pilgrim wanted peace, he was thinking rapidly, what grounds had he for ignoring the truce? He himself had been the aggressor and he also had been the victor. According to the honor of fighting men, he should be generous. And when all was said and done—and the thought galled Billy more than he could understand—the offense of the Pilgrim had been extremely intangible; it had consisted almost wholly of looks and a tone or two, and he realized quite plainly that his own dislike of the Pilgrim had probably colored his judgment. Anyway, he had thrashed the Pilgrim and driven him away from camp and killed his dog. Wasn’t that enough? And if the Pilgrim chose to forget the unpleasant circumstances of their parting and be friends, what could he do but forget also? Especially since the girl did not appear to be holding any grudge for what had passed between them in the line-camp. Billy, buttering a biscuit with much care, wished he knew just what had happened that night before he opened the door, and wondered if he dared ask her.

  Under all his thoughts and through all he hated the Pilgrim, his bold blue eyes, his full, smiling lips and smooth cheeks, as he had never hated him before; and he hated himself because, being unable to account even to himself for his feelings toward the Pilgrim, he was obliged to hide his hate and be friends—or else act the fool. And above all the mental turmoil he was somehow talking and listening and laughing now and then, as if there were two of him and each one was occupied with his own affairs. “I wisht to thunder there was three uh me,” he thought fleetingly during a pause. “I’d set the third one uh me to figuring out just where the girl stands in this game, and what she’s thinking about right now. There’s a kinda twinkling in her eyes, now and then when she looks over here, that sure don’t line up with her innocent talk. I wisht I could mind-read her—

  “Yes, we didn’t get through none too soon. Looks a lot like we’re going to get our first slice uh winter. We’ve been playing big luck that we didn’t get it before now; and that last bunch uh beef was sure rollicky and hard to handle—we’d uh had a picnic with all the trimmings if a blizzard had caught us with them on our hands. As it is, we’re all dead on our feet. I expect to sleep about four days without stopping for meals, if you ask me.”

  One cannot wonder that Charming Billy heard thankfully the clatter of his outfit arriving, or that he left half his piece of pie uneaten and hurried off, on the plea that he must show them what to do—which would have caused a snicker among the men if they had overheard him. He did not mind Dill following him out, nor did he greatly mind the Pilgrim remaining in the house with Miss Bridger. The relief of being even temporarily free from the perplexities of the situation mastered all else and sent him whistling down the path to the stables.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Winter at the Double-Crank

  There are times when, although the months as they pass seem full, nothing that has occurred serves to mark a step forward or back in the destiny of man. After a year, those months of petty detail might be wiped out entirely without changing the general trend of events—and such a time was the winter that saw “Dill and Bill,” as one alliterative mind called them, in possession of the Double-Crank. The affairs of the ranch moved smoothly along toward a more systematic running than had been employed under Brown’s ownership. Dill settled more and more into the new life, so that he was so longer looked upon as a foreign element; he could discuss practical ranch business and be sure of his ground—and it was then that Billy realized more fully how shrewd a brain lay behind those mild, melancholy blue eyes, and how much a part of the man was that integrity which could not stoop to small meanness or deceit. It would have been satisfying merely to know that such a man lived, and if Billy had needed any one to point the way to square living he must certainly have been better for the companionship of Dill.

  As to Miss Bridger, he stood upon much the same footing with her as he had in the fall, except that he called her Flora, in the familiarity which comes of daily association; to his secret discomfort she had fulfilled her own prophecy and called him Billy Boy. Though he liked the familiarity, he emphatically did not like the mental attitude which permitted her to fall so easily into the habit of calling him that. Also, he was in two minds about the way she would come to the door of the living room and say: “Come, Billy Boy, and dry the dishes for me—that’s a good kid!”

  Billy had no objections to drying the dishes; of a truth, although that had been a duty which he shirked systematically in line-camps until everything in the cabin was in that state which compels action, he would have been willing to stand beside Flora Bridger at the sink and wipe dishes (and watch her bare, white arms, with the dimply elbows) from dark until dawn. What he did object to was the half-patronizing, wholly matter-of-fact tone of her, which seemed to preclude any possibility of sentiment so far as she was concerned. She always looked at him so frankly, with never a tinge of red in her cheeks to betray that consciousness of sex which goes ever—say what you like—with the love of a man and a maid.

  He did not want her to call him “Billy Boy” in just that tone; it made him feel small and ineffective and young—he who was eight or nine years older than she! It put him down, so that he could not bring himself to making actual love to her—and once or twice when he had tried it, she took it as a great joke.

  Still, it was good to have her there and to be friends. The absence of the Pilgrim, who had gone East quite suddenly soon after the round-up was over, and the generosity of the other fellows, who saw quite plainly how it was—with Billy, at least—and forbore making any advances on their own account, made the winter pass easily and left Charming Billy in the spring not content, perhaps, but hopeful.

  It was in the warm days of late April—the days which bring the birds and the tender, young grass, when the air is soft and all outdoors beckons one to come out and revel. On such a day Billy, stirred to an indefinable elation because the world as he saw it then was altogether good, crooned his pet song while he waited at the porch with Flora’s horse and his own. They were going to ride together because it was Sunday and because, if the weather held to its past and present mood of sweet serenity, he might feel impelled to start the wagons out before the week was done; so that this might be their last Sunday ride for nobody knew how long.

  “Let’s ride up the creek,” she suggested when she was in the saddle. “We haven’t been up that way this spring. There’s a trail, isn’t there?”

  “Sure, there’s a trail—but I don’t know what shape it’s in. I haven’t been over it myself for a month or so. We’ll try it, but yuh wo
n’t find much to see; it’s all level creek-bottom for miles and kinda monotonous to look at.”

  “Well, we’ll go, anyway,” she decided, and they turned their horses’ heads toward the west.

  They had gone perhaps five or six miles and were thinking of turning back, when Billy found cause to revise his statement that there was nothing to see. There had been nothing when he rode this way before, but now, when they turned to follow a bend in the creek and in the trail, they came upon a camp which looked more permanent than was usual in that country. A few men were lounging around in the sun, and there were scrapers of the wheeled variety, and wagons, and plows, and divers other implements of toil that were strange to the place. Also there was a long, reddish-yellow ridge branching out from the creek; Billy knew it for a ditch—but a ditch larger than he had seen for many a day. He did not say anything, even when Flora exclaimed over the surprise of finding a camp there, but headed straight for the camp.

  When they came within speaking distance, a man showed in the opening of one of the tents, looked at them a moment, and came forward.

  “Why, that’s Fred Walland!” cried Flora, and then caught herself suddenly. “I didn’t know he was back,” she added, in a tone much less eager.

  Billy gave her a quick look that might have told her much had she seen it. He did not much like the color which had flared into her cheeks at sight of the Pilgrim, and he liked still less the tone in which she spoke his name. It was not much, and he had the sense to push the little devil of jealousy out of sight behind him, but it had come and changed something in the heart of Billy.

  “Why, hello!” greeted the Pilgrim, and Billy remembered keenly that the Pilgrim had spoken in just that way when he had opened the door of the line-camp upon them, that night. “I was going to ride over to the ranch, after a while. How are yuh, anyhow?” He came and held up his hand to Flora, and she put her own into it. Billy, with eyebrows pinched close, thought that they sure took their own time about letting go again, and that the smile which she gave the Pilgrim was quite superfluous to the occasion.

  “Yuh seem to be some busy over here,” he remarked carelessly, turning his eyes to the new ditch.

  “Well, yes. Brown’s having a ditch put in here. We only started a few days ago; them da—them no-account Swedes he got to do the rough work are so slow, we’re liable to be at it all summer. How’s everybody at the ranch? How’s your mother, Miss Bridger? Has she got any mince pies baked?”

  “I don’t know—you might ride over with us and see,” she invited, smiling at him again. “We were just going to turn back—weren’t we, Billy Boy?”

  “Sure!” he testified, and for the first time found some comfort in being called Billy Boy; because, if looks went for anything, it certainly made the Pilgrim very uncomfortable. The spirits of Billy rose a little.

  “If you’ll wait till I saddle up, I’ll go along. I guess the Svenskies won’t run off with the camp before I get back,” said the Pilgrim, and so they stayed, and afterward rode back together quite amiably considering certain explosive elements in the party.

  Perhaps Billy’s mildness was due in a great measure to his preoccupation, which made him deaf at times to what the others were saying. He knew that they were quite impersonal in their talk, and so he drifted into certain other channels of thought.

  Was Brown going to start another cow-outfit, or was he merely going to try his hand at farming? Billy knew that—unless he had sold it—Brown owned a few hundred acres along the creek there; and as he rode over it now he observed the soil more closely than was his habit, and saw that, from a passing survey, it seemed fertile and free from either adobe or alkali. It must be that Brown was going to try ranching. Still, he had held out all his best stock, and Billy had not heard that he had sold it since. Now that he thought of it, he had not heard much about Brown since Dill bought the Double-Crank. Brown had been away, and, though he had known in a general way that the Pilgrim was still in his employ, he did not know in what capacity. In the absorption of his own affairs he had not given the matter any thought, though he had wondered at first what crazy impulse caused Brown to sell the Double-Crank. Even now he did not know, and when he thought of it the thing irritated him like a puzzle before it is solved.

  So greatly did the matter trouble him that immediately upon reaching the ranch he left Flora and the Pilgrim and hunted up Dill. He found him hunched like a half-open jackknife in a cane rocker, with his legs crossed and one long, lean foot dangling loosely before him; he was reading “The Essays of Elia,” and the melancholy of his face gave Billy the erroneous impression that the book was extremely sad, and caused him to dislike it without ever looking inside the dingy blue covers.

  “Say, Dilly, old Brown’s putting in a ditch big enough to carry the whole Missouri River. Did yuh know it?”

  Dill carefully creased down the corner of the page where he was reading, untangled his legs and pulled himself up a bit in the chair. “Why, no, I don’t think I have heard of it,” he admitted. “If I have it must have slipped my mind—which isn’t likely.” Dill was rather proud of his capacity for keeping a mental grasp on things.

  “Well, he’s got a bunch uh men camped up the creek and the Pilgrim to close-herd ’em—and I’m busy wondering what he’s going to do with that ditch. Brown don’t do things just to amuse himself; yuh can gamble he aims to make that ditch pack dollars into his jeans—and if yuh can tell me how, I’ll be a whole lot obliged.” Dill shook his head, and Billy went on. “Did yuh happen to find out, when yuh was bargaining for the Double-Crank, how much land Brown’s got held out?”

  “No-o—I can’t say I did. From certain remarks he made, I was under the impression that he owns quite a tract. I asked about getting all the land he had, and he said he preferred not to put a price on it, but that it would add considerably to the sum total. He said I would not need it, anyhow, as there is plenty of open range for the stock. He was holding it, he told me, for speculation and had never made any use of it in running his stock, except as they grazed upon it.”

  “Uh-huh. That don’t sound to me like any forty-acre field; does it to you?”

  “As I said,” responded Dill, “I arrived at the conclusion that he owns a good deal of land.”

  “And I’ll bet yuh the old skunk is going to start up a cow-outfit right under our noses—though why the dickens the Double-Crank wasn’t good enough for him gets me.”

  “If he does,” Dill observed calmly, “the man has a perfect right to do so, William. We must guard against that greed which would crowd out every one but ourselves—like pigs around a trough of sour milk! I will own, however—”

  “Say, Dilly! On the dead, are yuh religious?”

  “No, William, I am not, in the sense you mean. I hope, however, that I am honest. If Mr. Brown intends to raise cattle again I shall be glad to see him succeed.”

  Charming Billy sat down suddenly, as though his legs would no longer support him, and looked queerly at Dill. “Hell!” he said meditatively, and sought with his fingers for his smoking material.

  Dill showed symptoms of going back to “The Essays of Elia,” so that Billy was stirred to speech.

  “Now, looky here, Dilly. You’re all right, as far as yuh go—but this range is carrying just about all the stock it needs right at present. I don’t reckon yuh realize that all the good bottoms and big coulées are getting filled up with nesters; one here and one there, and every year a few more. It ain’t much, uh course, but every man that comes is cutting down the range just that much. And I know one thing: when Brown had this outfit himself he was mighty jealous uh the range, and he didn’t take none to the idea of anybody else shoving stock onto it more than naturally drifted on in the course uh the season. If he’s going to start another cow-outfit, I’ll bet yuh he’s going to gobble land—and that’s what we better do, and do it sudden.”

  “Since I have never had much personal experience in the ‘gobbling’ line, I’m afraid you’ll have to explain,�
�� said Dill dryly.

  “I mean leasing. We got to beat Brown to it. We got to start in and lease up all the land we can get our claws on. I ain’t none desirable uh trying to make yuh a millionaire, Dilly, whilst we’ve only got one lone section uh land and about twelve thousand head uh stock, and somebody else aiming to throw a big lot uh cattle onto our range. I kinda shy at any contract the size uh that one. I’ve got to start the wagons out, if this weather holds good, and I want to go with ’em—for a while, anyhow—and see how things stack up on the range. And what you’ve got to do is to go and lease every foot uh land you can. Eh? State land. All the land around here almost is State land—all that’s surveyed and that ain’t held by private owners. And State land can be leased for a term uh years.

  “The way they do it, yuh start in and go over the map all samee flea; yuh lease a section here and there and skip one and take the next, and so on, and then if yuh need to yuh throw a fence around the whole blame chunk—and there yuh are. No, it ain’t cheating, because if anybody don’t like it real bad, they can raise the long howl and make yuh revise your fencing; but in this neck uh the woods folks don’t howl over a little thing like that, because you could lift up your own voice over something they’ve done, and there’d be a fine, pretty chorus! So that’s what yuh can do if yuh want to—but anyway, yuh want to get right after that leasing. It’ll cost yuh something, but we’re just plumb obliged to protect ourselves. See?”

  At that point he heard Flora laugh, and got up hastily, remembering the presence of the Pilgrim on the ranch.

  “I see, and I will think it over and take what precautionary measures are necessary and possible.”

  Billy, not quite sure that he had sufficiently impressed Dill with the importance of the matter, turned at the door and looked in again, meaning to add an emphatic word or two; but when he saw that Dill was staring round-eyed at nothing at all, and that Lamb was lying sprawled wide open on the floor, his face relaxed from its anxious determination.