The Forfeit

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DUG MCFARLANE

  The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air.Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last ofits golden rays into the wide stoop. The mists were already gatheringupon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to besteadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.

  Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda.They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous lifethat was theirs. But then the day was closing, and one of them hadcome a long saddle journey. Whisky stood on a table at the elbow ofDug McFarlane. Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.

  Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle withattacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screenupon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township ofOrrville.

  Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was instrong contrast to his guest. The American-Scot was something of aproduct of the soil. He was of the type which forces its way up fromthe smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon acareer in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course.He was a man of one idea--cattle.

  He knew nothing beyond--cattle. Cattle was the sum and substance ofhis celibate life. He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hourswere devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else.But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, aroughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education andrefinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could onlyhope to count his in the distant years to come.

  Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was toarbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters. Andwhile they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutualinterest. The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, wastheir beginning and end. They discussed every prospect from theoverwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformationof grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. Their interest seemedendless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters fortheir talk to continue until sleep overtook them.

  But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of thename of Peters. Jeff was curious to hear about him.

  "Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded. "He's not down in the stockregister, and nobody seems to have found him except you."

  Dug's reply came with a great laugh. His very bright gray eyes werefull of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.

  "Peters? Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff.You've never seen him? You don't know him? No. Sure you wouldn't.Nor you wouldn't find him registered. Y'see, they don't register mixedfarm stock. Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. But he'sbright--oh, yep, he's bright, sure. He's a little feller. To git himright you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developedabnormal. He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on hispatch of land. You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin'things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can'tstand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymnso' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anythinglivin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."

  "Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.

  Dug grinned and shook his head.

  "No, siree," he cried. "It ain't a thing to do with it. But I guesswe'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around. Y'see, thisarbitration game needs to be played good. I'd hate to get ahead of thelittle cuss by settin' out my case in private. Nope. I hain't got athing agin that grasshopper. Not a thing, and I jest need to get thisthing straightened right, even if it goes agin me. That's why we fixedon appealin' to you rather than the law. Y'see, I could buy up adecision at law, which Peters knows, so we decided on the rightjudgment of a straight feller. Say, what in----!"

  Dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath. Jeff, too, was on hisfeet. There was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper. Astring of hoarse invective in a human voice. The hammering of horses'hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot. Dug brokeinto a great laugh as he thrust his head out.

  "Well, I be----!" he cried.

  Jeff joined in his laugh. An absurdly small man was clingingdesperately to the saddle of an absurdly large horse, which was rearingand plunging in a wild effort to shed its rider and bolt from theneighborhood of the overturned smudge-fire bucket.

  What a wealth of terror reigned. The gray-headed little man's facematched the hue of his hair. His short arms were grabbing franticallyat his horse's neck. His eyes were full of a piteous appeal, and hissavage-looking spurs were firmly grappling his steed's flanks. Thewretched horse was shaking in every limb. Its eyes were bulging, andthe fierce snorts of his gushing nostrils had the force of escapingsteam.

  Before any assistance could be offered by the onlookers the climax wasreached and passed. Elias Peters rolled slowly out of the saddle andreached the ground with a heavy flop. Then, while its recent burdengathered himself up, quite unhurt and smiling amiably in relief, thehorse contentedly mouched off toward a patch of inviting grass.

  "Guess I'm kind o' late, Mr. McFarlane," Elias apologized. "An' itseems I've bust up your fire-bucket some," he added ruefully. Thenwith cheery optimism: "It was hustling to get here. I didn't jest seeit. Still, I got around."

  "You sure have," grinned Dug. Then he indicated his companion. "Thisis Mr. Jeffrey Masters, President of the Western Union. If you'll comeright along in we ken get things fixed up. Meanwhiles I'll jest have a'hand' round-up your plug an' feed him hay."

  * * * * * *

  Another chair was brought from the house and Elias Peters was ensconcedtherein. He was a gray little man. Gray from head to foot, it seemed.His hair, his eyes, his skin, his whiskers, his shirt, his loose jacketover it, his trousers. Even the top-boots he wore, which, haddoubtless once been black. Everything about him was gray.

  Dug pressed whisky on him.

  "Take your time," he had said, in his easy, cordial fashion. "Ther'ain't no sort o' hurry. It's li'ble to shake a boy o' your yearsfoolin' around in the dust when you'd oughter be in the saddle."

  "That's just it, Mr. McFarlane," came the prompt, distressed complaint."What in the nature o' blamed things made me act that way?"

  "Jest the--nature o' things, I guess."

  The little man's eyes twinkled.

  "Guess you mean ther's folks who ain't in their right element in thesaddle, an'--I'm one of 'em." Then he turned on Jeff, whose wholeinterest had been quite absorbed in a personality which Dug haddescribed as being reminiscent of a "buck louse." "Say, Mr. Masters,guess you ain't never tried any stunt like raisin' kebbiges on a hogranch? No, sure you ain't. Ther's jest one feller runnin' loose onthis planet 'ud act that way, an' that's me. Guess I bin doin' it allmy life," he added, thoughtfully chewing a forefinger. "I was builtfor, an' raised in a fifth rate city, an' I got the ideas an' ambitionsof the President of a Republic. Ther' ain't a blamed thing I can't dobut I want to do. An' the worst of it is ther's a sort o' restlessspirit in me jest sets me so crazy to do it I can't resist makin' thejump. That's how I come to buy up a bum homestead up toward the hillshere, an' got the notion I could make a pile runnin' a mixed farm thatway. That's how I come to get outside a hoss when I'd be safer inside.That's how I come to--'break' a deal more prairie land than I couldever sow or harvest. That's how I bought machinery for a thousand acrefarm when I'd only got a half a mile. That's how I come to run a bunchof cows without settin' up fencin' around my crops. That's how I bo'tthe whole blamed lay-out without verifyin' the darned law feller'sstatement I'd got grazin' rights on Mr. McFarlane's grass--which is thething I came right here to yarn about when I got mixed up with thatunnatural hell, which I've learned since was only set up to amuse theski
tters. Kind o' makes me feel if I was to set fer my pictur' I'dsure come out a shipwreck at sea, or some other darn fool kind ofunpleasantness."

  Jeff was forced to echo the laugh which Dug indulged in withoutrestraint. It seemed cruel in face of the strange little man's seriousdistress. But its only effect upon him was to produce an inquiringglance of profound but unresentful astonishment.

  "Guess I must 'a' said something," he protested mildly. "Seems to me Imost generly do, with Mr. McFarlane around." Then he smiled in hiswintry fashion, which was quite powerless to add warmth to his curiousaspect of grayness. "Guess he must ha' been born laffin'--p'raps," headded thoughtfully. "It's a dandy thing bein' born laffin'. I don'treckon I ever got that luck. It's more likely my moma got lost in afog the day I was born. Can't account noways fer things otherwise."

  Dug pushed the whisky bottle at him as a set-off to his ownuncontrolled mirth, and in a few moments contrived to subdue hisparoxysms sufficiently to start the business in hand.

  "Now, Masters," he said, as soon as the diminutive Elias had ministeredadequately to his glass, "we've got a curious proposition to set beforeyou. It's jest one of them things which crops up in a country likethis, where a whole heap o' the laws happens along through custom. An'like all sech customs, ther's li'ble to be a tarnation lot of frictionlyin' around if we can't get a right settlement. Now, if we go to thecourts it's goin' to be a mighty big scrap, eatin' up a hell of a pileof dollars. An' if you're wise to the ways of the law fellers you kenjust about figger the verdict is goin' to come along to the feller withthe biggest wad. In this case I guess I'm the feller with the biggestwad. Now, ther's no sort o' bad blood between Peters an' me, 'cep' itis he will sing hymns outrageous on a Sunday. Still, I ain't goin' tolet that cut no ice. I'm out for a square decision between us by afeller that don't know the meanin' of graft. I don't care a cuss whogets it. But I ain't goin' to be bluffed by any fancy legal readingsof a position by city lawyers who don't know the north end of a steergoin' south from the cluckin' proposition of a blind hen motherin' alitter o' dormice. Peters here'll give you his case, seein' he'splaintiff, in an elegant flow of warm air, an' when he's through I'llsort of hand you a counterblast. An' when we finished you'll hand outyour dope on the subject, that is if we ain't talked you into a homefor incurable arbitrators. You'll get busy right away, Peters."

  The rancher's manner was irresistible in its breezy frankness andgenerosity. Jeff wondered at him. Any man of modern business methods,he felt, would have jumped at the advantage which his wealth would havegiven him in the law courts over so insignificant a person as EliasPeters. The whole situation inspired in him the feeling that he was inthe presence of a really big man. A man who deserved every fraction ofhis success.

  Nor was there any doubt as to the little gray man's feelings as he tooka drink of whisky, and fixed his small eyes upon the weather andyears-lined features of his adversary.

  "Guess you've made me feel 'bout as big as an under-fed skitter," hecomplained. "You make me sort o' feel I want to tell you to keep yourdarn grazin' rights till I ken hand you a bunch of bills such as I'dlike to pass on to an honest man. But I don't guess I'm goin' to doit. Y'see, I just can't afford it. If I can't graze my stock on yourgrass they got to starve, or I got to get out. An', seein' I doped allmy wad into this lay-out, it 'ud well-nigh mean ruin to act that way."

  Then he turned to Jeff, who was almost bewildered at the curiousattitude toward each other of these men.

  "Now, I ain't got a fancy yarn to hand you," he went on, fumbling inhis pockets. "I jest got my papers, here, as I got 'em from the lawfellers. You best take 'em, an' after we done get a look into 'em."He passed them across. "Now these are the fac's of how I bo't, why Ibo't, an' who I bo't from. The place is a haf section, an' they askedfive thousand odd dollars for it. It was a bum sort o' homestead, an'belonged to a widder woman who'd got her man shot up by some rustlersworkin' around this country. They went by the name of Whitstone, buttheir real name, by them papers, was Van Blooren----"

  "What name?" Jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man.

  "Van Blooren."

  "Go on."

  Jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper. He was nolonger regarding the man's unemotional gray features.

  "Wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clausein them papers. This widder woman owned a right to graze up to twohundred head o' stock on Mr. McFarlane's range. There was no mentiono' lease, nor nothin' to talk of payin' fer it. The right was in thedeed of sale, clear an' unquestioned. You'll see it right there inthem papers. Wal, I'm runnin' a hundred of stock, and the half sectionis under cultivation. Now, Mr. McFarlane comes on me with the newsthat this widder woman had no such rights to sell, an' that she and herman were only allowed to graze their stock on his grass to help themout. He's acted white over it so far, an' ain't taken no sort ofaction. He's jest let my fool cows an' their calves run around chewin'till their jaws is tired, which is a white way of seein' things. Allhe's handed me is that I ain't got no right, an' the thing standspending your decision. He says the whole proposition is jest business.He's got to safeguard the values of his property. Now, sir, I claimthem rights by right of that deed, an' if ther's any case it's betweenthat Van Blooren widder an' Mr. McFarlane. You got my papers,an'--wal, how d'you guess I stand?"

  The little man's eyes were anxious as he made his final appeal. But nosatisfaction was forthcoming at the moment. Jeff's head was bent overthe papers he had been handed. His eyes were hidden. He seemed whollyengrossed upon the various clauses in the deed. Finally he spokewithout looking up.

  "There's no deed granting grazing rights executed by Mr. McFarlanehere," he said.

  Before Peters could reply, Dug broke in.

  "Ther' never was one made," he said easily. "I don't guess you'll findit ther'--'less you use trick eyes. Here--say, Peters has given youhis story right. I ain't no kick comin' to a word of it. But thisthing has more sides to it than you'd fancy. Now, I don't just care acuss Peters' grazin' two hundred, or five hundred head of stock on mypastures. But if Peters bo't rights an' ken prove it, why, he's theright to sell 'em on to any feller who comes along, which kind o' turnsmy ranch into common land. Nothin' doin'. No, siree!"

  Jeff had abandoned his search of the papers. Nor was he regardingeither of the men. His eyes were directed through the lacing ofcreeper, his gaze concentrated upon the purple vista of the hills. Hisbrows were depressed with profound thought. Nor were the blue depthsof his eyes easy. Peters' whole attention was upon the rancher.

  "Now, see right here, Masters," Dug went on, after a deeply consideringpause. "I got a story to tell you I'd have liked to hold up, an' thereason I hate handin' it you is jest a sort o' fool sense of honor.Howsum, when folks git gay I can't see you're right to hold your hand.Now, them rights are sold by the law fellers of that widder woman, an',I guess, actin' under her instructions. Now, she knows she don't ownno rights to sell. Wal, I allow she's on the crook."

  "Crook?" Jeff's interrogation came swiftly, in a harsh voice utterlyunlike his own. Then his eyes came round to the face of the rancher.There was something deadly in the steadiness of their regard. "Thiswidow," he said. "Her name is Van Blooren. What is her first name,and the first name of her--husband?"

  Before Dug could reply Peters pointed at the deeds of sale.

  "Guess her full name's writ ther'," he said. "Elvine van Blooren.Sort of queer name, ain't it? It sort o' hit me that way when I firstsee it. Kind o' good name fer a--crook."

  Jeff's eyes dropped to the papers again as Dug gave the otherinformation required.

  "The man's name was Robert--Bob. Called hisself when he was here.Y'see, his paw was some swell guy who guessed his son had made somedarn fool marriage. An' I allow he was wise. Howbe, their names an'sech don't cut no ice."

  "No."

  Jeff's monosyllable brought Dug's gaze swiftly in his direction. Thenext
moment they were looking squarely into each other's eyes, and, asfar as Jeff was concerned, Peters was entirely forgotten.

  "Will you tell me all you know of--this woman?" Jeff said, after amoment. "I guess it'll be necessary--before we're through."

  "Sure. That's how I figgered." A momentary tension seemed to havebeen relaxed. Dug once more settled himself at his ease.

  "'Tain't a pretty yarn, when you come to think," he said, his browscontracting under his feelings. "Men are jest men, an' I guess youdon't generly expect more'n a stink from a skunk. But with women it'sdiff'rent. When a feller thinks of women, he thinks of his mother, orsweetheart, or his wife. An' when he thinks that way, why, I don'tguess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good.Howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a fellercryin' as laffin' most times. This thing come over that Lightfootgang. We got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped fullof lead out of hand they was hanged. Sort o' queer, too, the way wegot 'em. I'd set up a reward. Ten thousand dollars. It was right outo' my own bank roll. Wal, I set it up--the notice o' reward--onenight, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for. BobWhitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me. Ihadn't no use fer the feller up to then. He was weak-kneed. And, in away, had fallen fer Ju Penrose's rye. He'd come to me once before onthe subject o' these all-fired grazin' rights. Y'see, he'd been tryin'to git ahead raisin' wheat in a country where ther' was only a marketfer cattle an' rye whisky. Anyway, he cut most o' the wheat racket,an' guessed he'd travel the same road as other folks, an' asked me forpermission to graze. I was kind o' sorry about him, an' hisgood-lookin' wife--both city-raised folk--an' I did as he ast. I saidhe could graze up to two hundred head. Git a line on that. Themrights was verbal between him an' me to help him out. Ther' wa'an't nosort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition. Wal,when he come along in with his news I set him right through it, an' Iallow, before I quit him, I got the notion that fer all his addled waysthere was a heap to him I hadn't guessed. He started by sayin' he'dlocated the rustlers, got their camp set in the hills, an' could handover the whole blamed bunch right away quick. That was elegant. But Iast him how it come he'd on'y located 'em twelve hours after I'd set upa ten thousand dollar reward. Y'see, they'd been rustlin' around fi'years. Wal, to cut a long yarn, I got the whole thing out of him inquick time--he was like a kid in my hands. He hadn't located thatcamp, he wasn't goin' to touch a cent of them ten thousand. He calledit 'blood money,' an' cussed it good an' plenty with an elegant flow.It was his wife. Yes, siree, it was the woman driving the man. She'dlocated them rustlers by chance only the day before, while he wasaround Ju's place sousin' rye. When he got home an told her of thereward, she was nigh crazy to git her hands on the dollars. Seems tome ther' must have been a mighty scrap-up. I guess she told him of hisways, an' what he'd brought her to--in a way some women-folk can. Ididn't git it all clear. Y'see, he did his best to screen her.Anyways, she made him promise to fix things so she touched thosedollars. An' that's why he come to me. Ther's jest one thing stuck inmy head so I can't lose it. It was his last words to me about it. Hesays, says he, see here, Mr. McFarlane, I need one favor out o' you. Iwant to go with you on this racket, an' if ther's any mercy in the Godof Heaven, he'll let me get my dose when the shootin' starts.Effie--that's how he called his wife--wants them dollars, an' you'llsee she gets 'em. But for me I just couldn't ever live around a womanwho'd handled that blood money! He didn't use them words. They'remine. But it's 'bout how he put it. Wal, when the play was over he'dhad his wish. He was dropped plumb in his tracks. Then I handed hiswidder the dollars. She ain't around these parts now so it don'tmatter handin' you the story of it. Maybe she's married agin. She wassome picture woman. But anyway I'd say right here, the woman who couldtake the price of men's lives would be low enough to bluff a boy likePeters here out of his stock of dollars on a play like these rights.An' that's why I reckon this thing's been done on the crook."

  He reached round for his glass and took a deep drink in the silencethat followed his story. Then, as neither the man who was toarbitrate, nor Peters, attempted to break it, he went on:

  "Guess a reward's jest a reward, an' you can't kick at the feller whocomes along an' grabs a holt on it. But when a woman, young, agood-looker, an' eddicated, an' refined, gits grabbin', why, it makesyou see sulphur an' brimstone, an' horns an' hoofs when your thoughtsare full o' buzzin' white wings an' harps, an' halos an' things. Gitme? I guess stealin' dollars out o' a citizen's pocket-book wouldn'tbe a circumstance to a female of that nature. Say, I ain't got rid o'the stink of it yet, though it happened four years ago."

  The man's contempt and loathing were intense. He had offered thereward, paid it, he had led the Vigilantes in the hanging. But thesethings were simply part of the justice of man as he saw it, and rightlyadministered.

  The silent moments slipped by. Jeffrey Masters was sitting erect inhis chair. A marble coldness seemed to have settled itself upon hiskeen face. Peters was waiting for that decision he desired. DugMcFarlane, with more understanding, realized that something was wrong.He, too, remained silent, however.

  At last Jeff stirred. His gaze shifted. It turned half vaguely uponthe little man Peters. Then it seemed to drift unmeaningly toward therancher. A moment later it fell upon the papers he was so tightlygripping. It was then that realization seemed to come upon him. Hereached out and handed the deeds to their owner. A moment later he wason his feet, and had moved across to the front of the veranda, where hestood, slim, erect, and with his back turned upon the others.

  He cleared his throat and spoke in a steady voice.

  "I can only hand you a decision on the intention as apart from thelegal aspect of the case," he said judicially. "It's clear to me nosaleable rights were given. There was no transaction over them. Thewidow of this man had no rights to sell. If disinterested advice isacceptable I should urge this. It's in view, I guess, of McFarlane'sexpressed indifference to Peters' cattle grazing on his land. LetPeters acknowledge he has no rights. Then let McFarlane enter into anagreement that Peters can run his stock on his land, the right beingnon-transferable. I should put the whole thing in writing."

  "An' a darn good an' honest decision, too," cried Dug heartily.

  The shadow of a beatific smile passed over Peters' small features.

  "Bully!" he murmured. Then he added: "But I sort o' feel we bothoughter set the law on that--she devil."

  Jeff turned abruptly. His movement was almost electrical.

  "I shouldn't," he said sharply.

  Dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.

  "Why not?" There was a dash of resentment in Peters' tone.

  But Jeff was spared a reply. Dug anticipated him with an oath.

  "Gol darn you, because she's--a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth."Hell take it you ken have your rights. That's enough, I guess. I'llhave the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow. Meanwhile I'msick to death of the whole blamed thing. I quit right here."

  His intention was plain enough. He meant there should be nomisunderstanding it. And the little man, Peters, took his dismissalwithout demur.

  The moment Peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in acloud of dust, Dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest. Jeffalmost mechanically accepted it. He gulped down a stiff drink of neatspirit. Dug watched him.

  "Guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.

  Jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.

  Dug returned to his seat and gazed out at the yellow and purpleafterglow of sunset.

  "Say, maybe you'd feel like handin' me the reason you wouldn't set thelaw on to that--woman?" he went on presently.

  The question was by no means idle. It was inspired by the man'sgenuinely kindly nature. Somehow, he felt that he had been responsiblefor that which he had seen, still saw, in this man's eye
s.

  But he was wholly unprepared for the reply forthcoming. It camepromptly. Each word came distinctly, deliberately, in a voice ofbitter coldness. The tragedy of it left the rancher speechless.

  "Because I married Elvine van Blooren just over six weeks ago."