Bruce of the Circle A

by Harold Titus

  CHAPTER XI

  THE STORY OF ABE

  True to her promise to Bruce, Nora had taken Ann in hand. She proposedthat they ride together the day after the man had suggested such akindness and the step was met most enthusiastically by the easternwoman, for it promised her relief from the anxiety provoked by merewaiting.

  "I know nothing about this, so you'll have to tell me everything, Nora,"she said as, in a new riding skirt, she settled herself in the saddleand felt her horse move under her.

  "I don't know much either," the girl replied, fussing with her blousefront. "I was learnt to ride by a fine teacher, but I was so busylearnin' 'bout him that I didn't pay much attention to what he said."

  She looked up shyly, yet her mouth was set in determination and sheforced herself to meet Ann Lytton's gaze, to will to be kind to her ...because Bruce had asked it. Her thinly veiled declaration of interest inBayard was not made without guile. It was a timid expression of herclaim to a free field. Perhaps, beneath all her sense of having failedin the big ambition of her life, was a hope. This eastern woman wasmarried. Nora knew Bruce, knew his close adherence to his own code ofmorals, and she believed that something possibly might come to pass,some circumstance might arise which would take Ann out of their livesbefore the control that Bayard had built about his natural impulsescould be broken down. That would leave her alone with the rancher, toworship him from a distance, to find a great solace in the fact thatthough he refused to be her lover no other woman was more intimately inhis life. That hope prompted her mild insinuation of a right ofpriority.

  Ann caught something of the subtle enmity which Nora could not whollycover by her outward kindness. She had heard Nora's and Bruce's namesassociated about the hotel, and when, on speaking of Bayard, she saw hercompanion become more shy, felt her unconscious hostility increaseperceptibly, she deduced the reason. With her conclusion came a feelingof resentment and with a decided shock Ann realized that she wasprompted to be somewhat jealous of this daughter of the west. Indignantat herself for what she believed was a mean weakness she resolved torefrain from talking of Bruce to Nora for the sake of the girl's peaceof mind, although she could not help wondering just how far the affairbetween the waitress and her own extraordinary lover had gone.

  Keeping off the subject was difficult, for the two were so far apart,their viewpoints so widely removed, that they had little or no matter onwhich to converse, aside from Yavapai and its people; and of thecommunity Bayard was the outstanding feature for them both.

  "How long have you been here, Nora?" Ann asked.

  "Three years; ever since Bruce got me my job."

  There you were!

  "Do you like it here?"

  "Well, folks have showed me a good time; Bruce especially."

  Again the talk was stalled.

  "Were you born out here?"

  "Yes; that's why I ain't got much education ... except what Bruce gaveme."

  Once more; everything on which they could converse went directly back toBayard and, finally, Ann abandoned the attempt to avoid the embarrassingsubject and plunged resolutely into it, hoping to dissipate theintangible barrier that was between them.

  "Tell me about Bruce," she said. "He brought you here, he educated you;he must have been very kind to you. He must be unusual,"--looking at theother girl to detect, if she could, any misgiving sign.

  Nora stared straight ahead.

  "He's been good to me," she said slowly. "He's good to everybody, as Iguess you know. The' ain't much to know about him. His name ain'tBayard; nobody knows what it is. He was picked up out of a railroadwreck a long time ago an' old Tim Bayard took him an' raised him. Theynever got track of his folks; th' wreck burnt.

  "Tim died four years ago an' Bruce's runnin' th' outfit. He's got a fineranch!"--voice rising in unconscious enthusiasm. "He ain't rich, buthe'll be well fixed some day. He don't care much about gettin' rich;says it takes too much time. He'd rather read an' fuss with horses an'things."

  "Isn't it unusual to find a man out here or anywhere who feels likethat? Are there more like him in this country, Nora?"

  "God, no!"--with a roughness that startled her companion. "None of 'emare like him. He was born different; you can tell that by lookin' athim. He ain't their kind, but they all like him, you bet! _He's_smarter'n they are. Feller from th' East, a perfesser, come out herewith th' consumption once when Tim was alive an' stayed there; he taughtBruce lots. My!"--with a sigh of mingled pride and hopelessness--"hesure knows a lot. Just as if he was raised an' educated in th' East,only with none of th' frills you folks get."

  Then she was silent and refused to respond readily to Ann's advances,but rode looking at her pony's ears, her lips in a straight line.

  That was the beginning. Each day the two women rode together, Norateaching Ann all she knew of horses and showing her, in her own way, themighty beauty of that country.

  After the first time, they said little about Bruce; with a betteracquaintance, more matters could be talked about and for that each wasthankful.

  Removed as they were from one another by birth and training, each ofthese two women, strangers until within a few days, found that a greatpart of her life was identical with that of the other. Yet, at the verypoint where they came closest to one another, divergence began again.Their common interest was their feeling for Bruce Bayard, and theirgreatest difference was the manner in which each reacted to the emotion.The waitress, more elemental, more direct and child-like, wanted the manwith an unequivocal desire. She would have gone through any ordeal,subjected herself to any ignominious circumstances, for his pleasure.But she did not want him as a possession, as something which belonged toher; she wanted him for a master, longed with every fiber of her sensorysystem to belong to him. She would have slaved for him, drudged for him,received any brutal outburst he might have turned on her, gratefully,just so long as she knew she was his.

  Ann Lytton, complicated in her manner of thought by the life she hadlived, hampered by conventions, by preconceived standards of conduct,would not let herself be whiffed about so wholly by emotion. It was asthough she braced backward and moved reluctantly before a high wind,urged to flight, resisting the tugging by all the strength of her limbs,yet losing control with every reluctant step. For her, also, BruceBayard was the most wonderful human being that she had ever experienced.His roughness, his little uncouth touches, did not jar on her highlysensitized appreciation of proprieties. With another individual of aweaker or less cleanly type, the slips in grammar, even, would have beenannoying; but his virility and his unsmirched manner of thought, hisrobust, clean body, overbalanced those shortcomings and, deep in herheart, she idolized him. And yet she would not go further, would notwillingly let that emotion come into the light where it could thrive andgrow with the days; she tried to repress it, keeping it from its naturalsources of nourishment and thereby its growth--for it would grow inspite of her--became a disrupting progress. One part of her, the real,natural, unhampered Ann, told her that for his embraces, for hiscompanionship, she would sell her chances of eternity; she had no desireto own him, no urge to subject herself to him; the status she wanted wasequal footing, a shoulder-to-shoulder relationship that would be ajoyous thing. And yet that other part, that Puritanical Ann, resisted,fought down this urge, told her that she must not, could not want Bayardbecause, at the Circle A ranch, waited another man who, in the eyes ofthe law, of other people, of her God, even, was the one who owned herloyalty and devotion even though he could not claim her love. Strangethe ways of women who will guard so zealously their bodies but who willstruggle against every natural, holy influence to give so recklessly, souselessly, so hopelessly, of their souls!

  Nora was the quicker to analyze her companion-rival. Her subjection toBayard's every whim was so complete that, when he told her to be kind tothis other woman, she obeyed with all the heart she could muster, inspite of what she read in his face and in Ann's blue eyes when thatlatter-day part of the eastern woman dreamed through them. She wen
tabout her task doggedly, methodically, forcing herself to nurse the bondbetween these two, thinking not of the future, of what it meant to herown relationships with the cattleman, of nothing but the fact thatBayard, the lover of her dreams, had willed it. The girl was a religiousfanatic; her religion was that of service to Bayard and she torturedherself in the name of that belief.

  And in that she was only reflecting the spirit of the man she loved.Back at the ranch, Bayard underwent the same ordeal of repressing hisnatural desires, only, in his case, he could not at all times controlhis revulsion for Lytton, while Nora kept her jealousy well in hand. Asat first, he centered his whole activity about bringing Lytton back tosome semblance of manhood. He nursed him, humored him as much as hecould, watched him constantly to see that the man did not slip away, goto Yavapai and there, in an hour, undo all that Bruce had accomplished.

  Lytton regained strength slowly. His nervous system, racked and torn byhis relentless dissipation, would not allow his body to mend rapidly. Hehad been on the verge of acute alcoholism; another day or two ofcontinued debauchery would have left him a bundle of uncontrollablenerves, and remedying the condition was no one day task. A fortnightpassed before Lytton was able to sit up through the entire day and, eventhen, a walk of a hundred yards would bring him back pale and panting.

  Meager as his daily improvement was, nevertheless it was progress, andthe rehabilitation of his strength meant only one thing for BruceBayard. It meant that Lytton, within a short time, must know of Ann'spresence, must go to her, and that, thereafter, Bayard would be excludedfrom the woman's presence, for he still felt that to see them togetherwould strip him of self-restraint, would make him a primitive man,battling blindly for the woman he desired.

  As the days passed and Bruce saw Lytton steadying, gaining physical andmental force, his composure, already disturbed, was badly shaken. Hetried to tell himself that what must be, must be; that brooding wouldhelp matters not at all, that he must keep up his courage and surrendergracefully for the sake of the woman he loved, keeping her peace of mindsacred. At other times, he went over the doctrine of unimpeachablemotive, of individual duty that the clergyman had expounded, but someinherent reluctance to adopt the new, some latent conservatism in himrebelled at thought of man's crossing man where a woman was at stake. Hedid not know, but he formed the third being who was held to a rigidcourse by conscience! Of the four entangled by this situation, NedLytton alone was without scruples, without a code of ethics.

  Between the two men was the same attitude that had prevailed from thefirst. Bayard kept Lytton in restraint by his physical and mentaldominance. He gave up attempting to persuade, attempting to appeal tothe spark of manhood left in his patient, after that day when Lyttonstole and drank the whiskey. He relied entirely on his superiority andfrankly kept his charge in subjection. When strength came back to thedebauched body, Bayard told himself, he could begin to plead, to arguefor his results; not before.

  For the greater portion of the time Lytton was morose, quarrelsome. Nowand again came flashes of a better nature, but invariably they werefollowed by spiteful, reasonless outbursts and remonstrances. To theseBayard listened with tolerance, accepting the other man's curses andinsults as he would the reasonless pet of a child, and each time thatNed showed a desire to act as a normal human being, to interest himselfin life or the things about him, the big rancher was on the alert togive information, to encourage thought that would take the sick man'smind from his own difficulties.

  One factor of the life at the ranch evidently worried Lytton, but of ithe did not speak. This was the manner with which Bayard kept one room,the room in which he slept, to himself. The door through which heentered never stood open, Lytton was never asked to cross the sill.Bayard never referred to it in conversation. A secret chamber, it was,rendered mysterious by the fact that its occupant took pains that itshould never be mentioned. Lytton instinctively respected this attitudeand never asked a question touching on it, though at times his annoyanceat being so completely excluded from a portion of the house was evident.

  Once Lytton, sitting in the shade of the ash tree, watched Bayard ridingin from the valley on his sorrel horse. The animal nickered as hismaster let him head for the well beside the house.

  "He likes to drink here," Bruce laughed, dropping off and wiping thedust from his face. "He thinks that because this well's beside thehouse, it's better than drinkin' out yonder in th' corral. Kind of astuck up old pup, ain't you, Abe?" slapping the horse's belly until helifted one hind foot high in a meaningless threat of destruction. "Putdown that foot you four-flusher!" setting his boot over the hoof andforcing it back to earth.

  He pulled off the saddle, dropped it, drew the bridle over the sleek,finely proportioned ears and let the big beast shake himself mightily,roll in the dooryard dust and drink again.

  "Where'd he come from?" Lytton asked, after staring at the splendidlines of the animal for several minutes.

  "Oh, Abe run hog-wild out on th' valley," Bayard answered, with alaugh, waving his hand out toward the expanse of country, now a finelilac tinted with green under the brilliant sunlight, purple anduncertain away out where the heat waves distorted the horizon. "He was ahell bender of a horse for a while....

  "You see, he come from some stock that wasn't intended to get out.Probably, an army stallion got away from some officer at WhippleBarracks and fell in with a range mare. That kind of a sire accounts forhis weight and that head and neck, an' his mammy must have been aleather-lunged, steel-legged little cuss--'cause he's that, too. He'sgot the lines of a fine bred horse, with the insides of a first classbronc."

  "He attracted attention when he was a two year old and some of th' boystried to get him, but couldn't. They kept after him until he was fourand then sort of give up. He was a good horse gone bad. He drove offgentle mares and caused all kind of trouble and would 'a been shot, ifhe hadn't been so well put up. He was no use at all that way; he was apeace disturber an' he was fast an' wise. That's a bad combination tobeat in a country like ours,"--with another gesture toward the valley.

  "But his fifth summer was th' dry year--no rain--creeks dryin' up--hellon horses; Tim and I went to get him.

  "There was just three waterin' places left on that range. One on LynchCreek, one under Bald Mountain, other way over by Sugar Block. We fencedthe first two in tight so nothin' but birds could get to 'em, built acorral around th' third, that was clean across th' valleythere,"--indicating as he talked-"an' left th' gate open."

  "Well, first day all th' horses on th' valley collected over other sideby those fenced holes, wonderin' what was up,"--he scratched his headand grinned at the memory, "an' Tim and I set out by Sugar Block in th'sun waitin'.... Lord, it was hot, an' there wasn't no shade to be had.That night, some of the old mares come trailin' across th' valleyleadin' their colts, whinnerin' when they smelled water. We was sleepin'nearby and could kind 'a' see 'em by th' starlight. They nosed aroundth' corral and finally went in and drunk. Next day, th' others washangin' in sight, suspicious, an' too thirsty to graze. All of 'em stoodhead toward th' water, lookin' an' lookin' hours at a time. 'Long towardnight in they come, one at a time, finally, with a rush; unbrandedmares, a few big young colts, all drove to it by thirst.

  "Old Abe, though, he stood up on th' far rim of a wash an' watched an'hollered an' trotted back an' forth. He wouldn't come; not much! We hada glass an' could see him switch his tail an' run back a little wayswith his ears flat down. Then, he'd stop an' turn his head an' stick uphis ears stiff as starch; then he'd turn 'round an' walk towards us,slow for a few steps. Never got within pistol shot, though. All next dayhe hung there alone, watchin' us, dryin' up to his bones under thatsun. Antelope come up, a dozen in a bunch, an' hung near him allafternoon. Next mornin' come th' sun an' there was Mr. Abe, standin'with his neck straight in th' air, ears peekin' at our camp to see if wewas there yet. Gosh, how hot it got that day!" He rose, drew a bucket ofwater from the well and lifting it in his big hands, drank deeply fromthe rim at the memory
.

  "I thought it was goin' to burn th' valley up.

  "'This'll bring him,' says Tim.

  "'Not him,' I says! 'He'll die first.'

  "'He's too damn good a sport to die,' Tim said. 'He'll quit when he'slicked.'

  "An' he did."

  The man walked to the sorrel, who stood still idly switching at flies.He threw his arm about the great head and the horse, swaying forward,pushed against his body with playful affection until Bayard was shovedfrom his footing.

  "You did, didn't you, Abe? He didn't wait for dark. It was still lightan' after waitin' all that time on us, you'd thought he'd stuck it outuntil we couldn't see so well. But it seemed as if Tim was right, as ifhe quit when he saw he was licked, like a good sport. He justdisappeared into that wash an' come up on th' near side an' walked slowtoward us, stoppin' now an' then, sidesteppin' like he was goin' to turnback, but always comin' on an' on. He made a big circle toward thecorral an', when he got close, 'bout fifty yards off, he started totrot an' he went through that gate on a high lope, comin' to stop plumbin th' middle of that hole, spatterin' water an' mud all over himselfan' half th' country.

  "'Twasn't much then. We made it to th' gate on our horses. He could seeus, but we knew after bein' dried out that long he'd just naturally haveto fill up. When I reached for th' gate, he made one move like he triedto get away but 'twas too late. We had him trapped. He was licked. Helooked us over an' then went to lay down in th' water."

  He stroked the long, fine neck slowly.

  "After that 'twas easy. I knew he was more or less man even if he washorse. We put th' first rope on him he'd ever felt next mornin'. Ofcourse, 'twas kind of a tournament for a while, but, finally we bothtied on an' started home with him between us. He played around some, butfinally let up; not licked, not discouraged, understand, but just as ifhe admitted we had one on him an' he was goin' to see our game throughfor curiosity.

  "We put him in th' round corral an' left him there for a straight month,foolin' with him every day, of course. Then I got up an' rode him.That's all there is to it.

  "He was my best friend th' minute I tied on to him; he is yet. We neverhad no trouble. I treat him square an' white. He's never tried to pitchwith me, never has quit runnin' until I told him to, an', for my part,I've never abused him or asked him to go th' limit."

  He walked out to the corral then, horse following at his heels like adog, nosing the big brown hand that swung against Bayard's thigh.

  "That's always been a lesson to me," Bruce said, on his return as heprepared to wash in the tin basin beside the wall. "Runnin' hog-wildnever got him nothin' but enemies, never did him no good. He found outthat it didn't pay, that men was too much for him, an' he's a lothappier, lot better off, lot more comfortable than he was when he washellin' round with no restraint on him. He knows that. I can tell.

  "So,"--as he lathered his hands with soap--"I've always figured thatwhen us men got runnin' too loose we was makin' mistakes, losin' a lot.It may seem a little hard on us to stop doin' what we've had a good timedoin' for a while, but, when you stop to consider all sides, I guessthere's about as much pleasure for us when we think of others as thereis when we're so selfish that we don't see nothin' but our own desires."

  Lytton stirred uneasily in his chair and tossed his chin scornfully.

  "Don't you ever get tired playing the hero?" he taunted. "That's whatyou are, you know. You're the hero; I'm the villain. You're the onewho's always saying the things heroes say in books. You're the one who'salways right, while I'm always wrong.

  "You know, Bayard, when a man gets to be so damn heroic it's time hewatched himself. I've never seen one yet whose foot didn't slip sooneror later. The higher you fly, understand, the harder you fall. You'repretty high; mighty superior to most of us. Look out!"

  The other regarded him a moment, cheeks flushing slowly under the taunt.

  "Lytton, if I was to ask a favor of you, would you consider it?"

  "Fire away! The devil alone knows what I could do for anybody."

  "Just this. Be careful of me, please. I might, sometime, sort of chokeyou or something!"

  He turned back to the wash basin at that and soused his face and head inthe cold water.

  A moment before he had looked through that red film which makes killersof gentle men. He had mastered himself at the cost of a mighty effort,but in the wake of his rage came a fresh loathing for that other man ...the man he was grooming, rehabilitating, only to blot out thepossibility of having a bit of Ann's life for himself. He was puttinghis best heart, his best mind, his best strength into that discouragingtask, hoping against hope that he might lift Lytton to a level where Annwould find something to attract and hold her, something to safeguard heragainst the true lover who might ride past on his fire-shod stallion.And it was bitter work.