by B. M. Bower
“Warfield, by——!” Al blurted in his outraged astonishment. “Trailing me with a bunch, are yuh? I knew you’d double-cross your own father—but I never thought you had it in you to do it in the open. Damn yuh, what d’yuh want that you expect to get?”
Warfield stared at him, slack-jawed. He glanced furtively behind him at Swan, and found that guileless youth ready to poke him in the back with the muzzle of a gun. Lone, he observed, had another. He looked back at Al, whose eyes were ablaze with resentment. With an effort he smiled his disarming, senatorial smile, but Al’s next words froze it on his face.
“I think I know the play you’re making, but it won’t get you anything, Bill Warfield. You think I slipped up—and you told me not to let my foot slip; said you’d hate to lose me. Well, you’re the one that slipped, you damned, rotten coward. I was watching out for leaks. I stopped two, and this one——”
He glanced down at Lorraine, who sat beside the fire, a blanket tied tightly around her waist and her ankles, so that, while comfortably free, she could make no move to escape.
“I was fixing to stop her from telling all she knew,” he added harshly. “By tonight I’d have had her married to me, you damned fool. And here you’ve blocked everything for me, afraid I was falling down on my job!
“Now folks, lemme just tell you a few little things. I know my limit—you’ve got me dead to rights. I ain’t complaining about that; a man in my game expects to get his, some day. But I ain’t going to let the man go that paid me my wages and a bonus of five hundred dollars for every man I killed that he wanted outa the way.
“Hawkins knows that’s a fact. He’s foreman of the Sawtooth, and he knows the agreement. I’ve got to say for Hawkins that aside from stealing cattle off the nesters and helping make evidence against some that’s in jail, Hawkins never done any dirty work. He didn’t have to. They paid me for that end of the business.
“I killed Fred Thurman—this girl, here, saw me shoot him. And it was when I told Warfield I was afraid she might set folks talking that he began to get cold feet. Up to then everything was lovely, but Warfield began to crawfish a little. We figured—we figured, emphasize the we, folks,—that the Quirt would have to be put outa business. We knew if the girl told Brit and Frank, they’d maybe get the nerve to try and pin something on us. We’ve stole ’em blind for years, and they wouldn’t cry if we got hung. Besides, they was friendly with Fred.
“The girl and the Swede got in the way when I tried to bump Brit off. I’d have gone into the canyon and finished him with a rock, but they beat me to it. The girl herself I couldn’t get at very well and make it look accidental—and anyway, I never did kill a woman, and I’d hate it like hell. I figured if her dad got killed, she’d leave.
“And let me tell you, folks, Warfield raised hell with me because Brit Hunter wasn’t killed when he pitched over the grade. He held out on me for that job—so I’m collecting five hundred dollars’ worth of fun right now. He did say he’d pay me after Brit was dead, but it looks like he’s going to pull through, so I ain’t counting much on getting my money outa Warfield.
“Frank I got, and made a clean job of it. And yesterday morning the girl played into my hands. She rode over to the Sawtooth, and I got her at Thurman’s place, on her way home, and figured I’d marry her and take a chance on keeping her quiet afterwards. I’d have been down the Pass in another two hours and heading for the nearest county seat. She’d have married me, too. She knows I’d have killed her if she didn’t—which I would. I’ve been square with her—she’ll tell you that. I told her, when I took her, just what I was going to do with her. So that’s all straight. She’s been scared, I guess, but she ain’t gone hungry, and she ain’t suffered, except in her mind. I don’t fight women, and I’ll say right now, to her and to you, that I’ve got all the respect in the world for this little girl, and if I’d married her I’d have been as good to her as I know how, and as she’d let me be.
“Now I want to tell you folks a few more things about Bill Warfield. If you want to stop the damnest steal in the country, tie a can onto that irrigation scheme of his. He’s out to hold up the State for all he can get, and bleed the poor devils of farmers white, that buys land under that canal. It may look good, but it ain’t good—not by a damn sight.
“Yuh know what he’s figuring on doing? Get water in the canal, sell land under a contract that lets him out if the ditch breaks, or something so he can’t supply water at any time. And when them poor suckers gets their crops all in, and at the point where they’ve got to have water or lose out, something’ll happen to the supply. Folks, I know! I’m a reliable man, and I’ve rode with a rope around my neck for over five years, and Warfield offered me the same old five hundred every time I monkeyed with the water supply as ordered. He’d have done it slick; don’t worry none about that. The biggest band of thieves he could get together is that company. So if you folks have got any sense, you’ll bust it up right now.
“Bill Warfield, what I’ve got to say to you won’t take long. You thought you’d make a grand-stand play with the law, and at the same time put me outa the way. You figured I’d resist arrest, and you’d have a chance to shoot me down. I know your rotten mind better than you do. You wanted to bump me off, but you wanted to do it in a way that’d put you in right with the public. Killing me for kidnapping this girl would sound damn romantic in the newspapers, and it wouldn’t have a thing to do with Thurman or Frank Johnson, or any of the rest that I’ve sent over the trail for you.
“Right now you’re figuring how you’ll get around this bawling-out I’m giving you. There’s nobody to take down what I say, and I’m just a mean, ornery outlaw and killer, talking for spite. With your pull you expect to get this smoothed over and hushed up, and have me at a hanging bee, and everything all right for Bill! Well——”
His eyes left Warfield’s face and went beyond the staring group. His face darkened, a sneer twisted his lips.
“Who’re them others?” he cried harshly. “Was you afraid four wouldn’t be enough to take me?”
The four turned heads to look. Bill Warfield never looked back, for Al’s gun spoke, and Warfield sagged at the knees and the shoulders, and he slumped to the ground at the instant when Al’s gun spoke again.
“That’s for you, Lone Morgan,” Al cried, as he fired again. “She talked about you in her sleep last night. She called you Loney, and she wanted you to come and get her. I was going to kill you first chance I got. I coulda loved this little girl. I—could——”
He was down, bleeding and coughing and trying to talk. Swan had shot him, and two of the deputies who had been there through half of Al’s bitter talk. Lorraine, unable to get up and run, too sturdy of soul to faint, had rolled over and away from him, her lips held tightly together, her eyes wide with horror. Al crawled after her, his eyes pleading.
“Little Spitfire—I shot your Loney—but I’d have been good to you, girl. I watched yuh all night—and I couldn’t help loving yuh. I—couldn’t——” That was all. Within three feet of her, his face toward her and his eyes agonizing to meet hers, he died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANOTHER STORY BEGINS
This chapter is very much like a preface: it is not absolutely necessary, although many persons will read it and a few will be glad that it was written.
The story itself is ended. To go on would be to begin another story; to tell of the building up of the Quirt outfit, with Lone and Lone’s savings playing a very important part, and with Brit a semi-invalided, retired stockman who smoked his pipe and told the young couple what they should do and how they should do it.
Frank he mourned for and seldom mentioned. The Sawtooth, under the management of a greatly chastened young Bob Warfield, was slowly winning its way back to the respect of its neighbors.
For certain personal reasons there was no real neighborliness between the Quirt and the Sawtooth. There could not be, so long as Brit’s memory remained clear, and Bob was every d
ay reminded of the crimes his father had paid a man to commit. Moreover, Southerners are jealous of their women,—it is their especial prerogative. And Lone suspected that, given the opportunity, Bob Warfield would have fallen in love with Lorraine. Indeed, he suspected that any man in the country would have done that. Al Woodruff had, and he was noted for his indifference to women and his implacable hardness toward men.
But you are not to accuse Lone of being a jealous husband. He was not, and I am merely pointing out the fact that he might have been, had he been given any cause.
Oh, by the way, Swan “proved up” as soon as possible on his homestead and sold out to the Quirt. Lone managed to buy the Thurman ranch also, and the TJ up-and-down is on its feet again as a cattle ranch. Sorry and Jim will ride for the Quirt, I suppose, as long as they can crawl into a saddle, but there are younger men now to ride the Skyline Meadow range.
Some one asked about Yellowjacket, having, I suppose, a sneaking regard for his infirmities. He hasn’t been peeled yet—or he hadn’t, the last I heard of him. Lone and Lorraine told me they were trying to save him for the “Little Feller” to practise on when he is able to sit up without a cushion behind his back, and to hold something besides a rubber rattle. And—oh, do you know how Lone is teaching the Little Feller to sit up on the floor? He took a horse collar and scrubbed it until he nearly wore out the leather. Then he brought it to the cabin, put it on the floor and set the Little Feller inside it.
They sent me a snap-shot of the event, but it is not very good. The film was under-exposed, and nothing was to be seen of the Little Feller except a hazy spot which I judged was a hand, holding a black object I guessed was the ridgy, rubber rattle with the whistle gone out of the end,—down the Little Feller’s throat, they are afraid. And there was his smile, and a glimpse of his eyes.
Aren’t you envious as sin, and glad they’re so happy?
THE RANCH AT THE WOLVERINE (Part 1)
CHAPTER I
LET US START AT THE BEGINNING
Four trail-worn oxen, their necks bowed to the yoke of patient servitude, should really begin this story. But to follow the trail they made would take several chapters which you certainly would skip—unless you like to hear the tale of how the wilderness was tamed and can thrill at the stern history of those who did the taming while they fought to keep their stomachs fairly well filled with food and their hard-muscled bodies fit for the fray.
There was a woman, low-browed, uncombed, harsh of voice and speech and nature, who drove the four oxen forward over lava rock and rough prairie and the scanty sage. I might tell you a great deal about Marthy, who plodded stolidly across the desert and the low-lying hills along the Blackfoot; and of her weak-souled, shiftless husband whom she called Jase, when she did not call him worse.
They were the pioneers whose lurching wagon first forded the singing Wolverine stream just where it greens the tiny valley and then slips between huge lava-rock ledges to join the larger stream. Jase would have stopped there and called home the sheltered little green spot in the gray barrenness. But Marthy went on, up the farther hill and across the upland, another full day’s journey with the sweating oxen.
They camped that night on another little, singing stream, in another little valley, which was not so level or so green or so wholly pleasing to the eye. And that night two of the oxen, impelled by a surer instinct than their human owners, strayed away down a narrow, winding gorge and so discovered the Cove and feasted upon its rich grasses. It was Marthy who went after them and who recognized the little, hidden Eden as the place of her dreams—supposing she ever had dreams. So Marthy and Jase and the four oxen took possession, and with much labor and many hard years for the woman, and with the same number of years and as little labor as he could manage on the man’s part, they tamed the Cove and made it a beauty spot in that wild land. A beauty spot, though their lives held nothing but treadmill toil and harsh words and a mental horizon narrowed almost to the limits of the grim, gray, rock wall that surrounded them.
Another sturdy-souled couple came afterwards and saw the Wolverine and made for themselves a home upon its banks. And in the rough little log cabin was born the girl-child I want you to meet; a girl-child when she should have been a boy to meet her father’s need and great desire; a girl-child whose very name was a compromise between the parents. For they called her Billy for sake of the boy her father wanted, and Louise for the girl her mother had longed for to lighten that terrible loneliness which the far frontier brings to the women who brave its stern emptiness.
Do you like children? In other words, are you human? Then I want you to meet Billy Louise when she was ten and had lived all her life among the rocks and the sage and the stunted cedars and huge, gray hills of Idaho. Meet her with her pink sunbonnet hanging down the back of her neck and her big eyes taking in the squalidness of Marthy’s crude kitchen in the Cove, and her terrible directness of speech hitting squarely the things she saw that were different from her own immaculate home. Of course, if you don’t care for children, you may skip a chapter and meet her later when she was eighteen—but I really wish you would consent to know her at ten.
* * * *
“Mommie makes cookies with a raising in the middle. She gives me two sometimes when the Bill of me has been workin’ like the deuce with dad; one for Billy and one for Louise. When I’m twelve, Mommie’s goin’ to let the Louise of me make cookies all myself and put a raising on top. I’ll put two on top of one and bring it over for you, Marthy. And—” Billy Louise was terribly outspoken at times—“I’ll put four raisings on another one for Jase, ’cause he don’t have any nice times with you. Don’t you ever make cookies with raisings on ’em, Marthy? I’m hungry as a coyote—and I ain’t used to eating just bread and the kinda butter you have. Mom says you don’t work it enough. She says you are too scared of water, and the buttermilk ain’t all worked out, so that’s why it tastes so funny. Does Jase like that kind of butter, Marthy?”
“If your mother had to do the outside work as well as the inside, mebbe she wouldn’t work her butter so awful much, either. I dunno whether Jase likes it or not. He eats it,” Marthy stated grimly.
Billy Louise sighed. “Well, of course he’s awful lazy. Daddy says so. I guess I won’t put but one raising on Jase’s cookie when I’m twelve. Has Jase gone fishing again, Marthy?”
A gleam of satisfaction brightened Marthy’s hard, blue eyes. “No, he ain’t. He’s in the root suller. You want some bread and some nice, new honey, Billy Louise? I jest took it outa the hive this morning. When you go home, I’ll send some to your maw if you can carry it.”
“Sure! I can carry anything that’s good. If you put it on thick, so I can’t taste the bread, I’ll eat it. Say, you like me, don’t you, Marthy?”
“Yes,” said Marthy, turning her back on the slim, wide-eyed girl, “I like yuh, Billy Louise.”
“You sound like you wish you didn’t,” Billy Louise remarked. Even at ten Billy Louise was keenly sensitive to tones and glances and that intangible thing we call atmosphere. “Are you sorry you like me?”
“No-o, I ain’t sorry. A person’s got to like something that’s alive and human, or—” Marthy was clumsy with words, and she was always coming to the barrier between her powers of expression and the thoughts that were prisoned and dumb. “Here’s your bread ’n’ honey.”
“What makes you sound that way, Marthy? You sound like you had tears inside, and they couldn’t get out your eyes. Are you sad? Did you ever have a little girl, Marthy?”
“What makes you ask that?” Marthy sat heavily down upon a box beside the rough kitchen table and looked at Billy Louise queerly, as if she were half afraid of her.
“I dunno—but that’s the way mommie sounds when she says something about angel-brother. Did you ever—”
“Billy Louise, I’m going to tell you this oncet, and then I don’t want you to ast me any more questions, nor talk about it. You’re the queerest young one I ever seen, but you don’t hurt f
olks on purpose—I’ve learnt that much about yuh.” Marthy half rose from the box, and with her dingy, patched apron shooed an investigative hen out of the doorway. She knew that Billy Louise was regarding her fixedly over the huge, uneven slice of bread and honey, and she felt vaguely that a child’s grave, inquiring eyes may be the hardest of all eyes to meet.
“I never meant—”
“I know yuh never, Billy Louise. Now don’t tell your maw this. Long ago—long before your maw ever found you, or your paw ever found your ranch on the Wolverine, I had a little girl, ’bout like you. She was a purty child—her hair was like silk, and her eyes was blue, and—we was Mormons, and we lived down clost to Salt Lake. And I seen so much misery amongst the women-folks—you can’t understand that, but mebby you will when you grow up. Anyway, when little Minervy kep’ growin’ purtyer and sweeter, I couldn’t stand it to think of her growin’ up and bein’ a Mormon’s wife. I seen so many purty girls… So I made up my mind we’d move away off somewheres, where Minervy could grow up jest as sweet and purty as she was a mind to, and not have to suffer fer her sweetness and her purtyness. When you grow up, Billy Louise, you’ll know what I mean. So me and Jase packed up—we kinda had to do it on the sly, on account uh the bishops—and we struck out with a four-ox team.
“We kep’ a-goin’ and kep’ a-goin’, fer I was scared to settle too clost. I seen how they keep spreadin’ out all the time, and I wanted to git so fur away they wouldn’t ketch up. And we got into bad country, where there wasn’t no water skurcely. We swung too fur north, and got into the desert back there. And over next them three buttes little Minervy took sick. We tried to git outa the desert—we headed over this way. But before we got to Snake river she—died, and I had to leave ’er buried back there. We come on. I hated the church worse than ever, and I wanted to git clear away from ’em. Why, Billy Louise, we camped one night by the Wolverine, right about where your paw’s got his big corral! We didn’t stay there, because it was an Injun camping-ground then, and they wasn’t no use getting mixed up in no fuss, first thing. In them days the Injuns wasn’t so peaceable as they be now. So we come on here and settled in the Cove.