CHAPTER VI
Sheila McCrae and Beaver Boy and Casey Dunne and Shiner drifted throughthe golden afternoon just ahead of a dust cloud of their own making.Sheila rode astride, in the manner of a country where side saddles arealmost unknown. Her stiff-brimmed pony hat was pushed back because ofthe heat. Sometimes she rode with it in her hand, careless of the dustwhich powdered her masses of dark, neatly coiled hair. The actionrevealed her keen, cleanly cut features, so strongly resembling herbrother's. But the resemblance was softened by femininity; for youngMcCrae's visage was masculine and hawklike, and under excitementfierce, even predatory; while his sister's, apart from sex, was morerefined, more thoughtful, with a grave sweetness underlying thefirmness.
The two were unusually silent as the horses kicked off mile after mile.Sheila roused herself first, and looked at her companion. Because hishat was pulled low she could see but little of his face save the mouthand chin; but the former was compressed and the latter thrust out at adecidedly aggressive angle.
"A penny for them, Casey!"
"Take 'em free," he returned. "I was wondering whether we had anychance to beat this game, and I can't see it. The bank roll against usis too big. It will get our little pile in the end, just as sure asfate."
"Well, you can't help that, can you?" she commented sharply. "What doyou want to do--lie down and quit? You wouldn't do that. Brace up!"
"That's the talk," he acknowledged. "That's what I need now and then.Perhaps I get a pessimistic view when I'm trying for an impartial one."
"What do you think of this Farwell person?"
"Farwell represents the railway in more ways than one. He takes what hewants--if he's strong enough. He's some bully--and so is the railway.But he isn't a bluff--and neither is the railway. He's hadexperience--plenty of it--and, on a guess, I should say that he is sentdown here to take care of any trouble that may start. He is hostilealready. You can see it."
"Yes." And after a moment's silence she asked: "What is going to start,Casey?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Of course you know. Dad won't say a word, and Sandy makes wise remarksabout girls who try to butt into men's affairs. I'm left out, and it'sthe first time _that_ has ever happened to me. Nice, isn't it?"
"No, it's confoundedly annoying. All the same, Sheila, they're quiteright."
"But why? I'm no silly kid--no chattering, gossipy young lady. I haveas much interest in the ranch as Sandy. I know as much about it and thework of it as he does, and I do my share of it. Even Mr. Dunne hasoccasionally honoured me by asking for my opinion. And now I'm left outlike a child. It isn't fair."
"From that angle it looks rather raw," he acknowledged. "Still, it'sbetter that you shouldn't know. In that case you can't be forced togive evidence against your own people and your friends."
She glanced at him, a little startled. "What rot, Casey!"
"Not a bit of it. Anything we can do must be against the law. Suspicionwill be directed at us from the outset. You must see that."
"Yes, I see it," she assented thoughtfully. "Very well, I'll be good tothe extent of not asking questions. But you can't expect me to be deafand blind."
"Of course not," he assented and began to talk of the ranch work. Shelistened, making occasional shrewd comments, offering suggestions whichshowed that she understood such matters thoroughly.
"Why shouldn't we ride around by Chakchak?" she asked. "I haven't seenit for a month, and there's plenty of day left. And then I can go on toTalapus by myself."
"Trying to shake me?"
"No. But why should you trail along with me? I've ridden all over thecountry alone. I do it every day."
"Hush, Sheila! Let me tell you a secret. I ride with you because I liketo."
"Oh, blarney! That's what it is to have a mick ancestry. I suppose I'llhave to own up that if I didn't like you to ride with me I wouldn't letyou do it."
Casey grinned. Their mutual liking was genuine and so farunsentimental. They were of the same breed--the breed of thepioneer--and their hearts held the same seldom-voiced but deeply rootedlove for the same things; the great, sun-washed spaces winnowed by theclean winds, the rosy dawns, violet dusks and nights when the earthscents hung heavy, almost palpable, clinging to the nostrils, theliving things of fur and feather bright of eye and wary of habit. Butmost of all unconsciously they loved and cherished the feeling of room,of space in which to live and breathe and turn freely.
"The present time being inopportune, and Shiner's temper too uncertainfor a further avowal of my sentiments," he said, "I suggest that weturn off here and hit a few high spots for Chakchak. Stir up thatslothful cayuse of yours. Maybe there's a lope left in him somewhere.See if you can comb it out with a quirt."
"I like your nerve!" she exclaimed. "Beaver Boy can run the heart outof that old buzzard-head of yours and come in dry-haired. Come on, ortake my dust!"
The hoofbeats drummed dull thunder from the brown earth, and the dustcloud behind drew out and lengthened with the speed of their going.Side by side they swept through the silent land, breasting small rises,swooping down slopes, breathing their horses whenever they came toheavier ascents.
Sometimes as they rode knee touched knee. It gave Casey Dunne a strangebut comfortable feeling of comradeship. He looked at the woman besidehim, appreciating her firm, easy seat in the stock saddle, hermanagement of Beaver Boy, now eager to prove his prowess against thebuckskin's. He noted the rich colour lying beneath the tan of thesmooth cheeks, the rounded brown throat, the poise of the lithe, pliantbody and the watchful tension of the strong arms and shoulders as thebig bay fought hard for his head and a brief freedom to use his fullstrength and speed in one mad heartbreaking burst. But most of all henoted and was attracted by the level, direct, fearless stare beneaththe slightly drawn brows into the distances.
A brown girl in a brown land! It came to Casey Dunne, who wasimaginative within the strict seclusion of his inner self, that shetypified their land, the West, in youth, in fearlessness, inpotentialities yet lying fallow, unawakened, in fruitfulness to come.What of the vagrant touch of the woman, the gold of the day, the clean,dry air and the glory of motion, the chord of romance within himvibrated and began to sing.
It invested her momentarily with a new quality, a new personality. Shewas no longer the Sheila McCrae he had known so well. She was theSpirit of the Land, a part of it--she was Sheila of the West; and herheritage was plain and mountain, gleaming lake and rushing river, itsmiles numbered by thousands, its acres by millions--a land for a newnation.
How many Sheilas, he wondered--young, strong, clean of blood, straightof limb--had ridden since the beginning of time into the new lands, andborne their part in peopling them. Fifty years before, her prototypeshad ridden beside the line of crawling, creaking prairie schoonersacross the great plains toward the setting sun; little more than fiftyyears before that they had ridden down through the notches of the blueAlleghenies into the promised land of Kain-tuck-ee, the Dark and BloodyGround, beside buckskin-clad, deckard-armed frontiersmen. Perhaps,centuries before that, her ancestresses had ridden with burly,skin-clad warriors out of the great forests of northern Europe down tothe pleasant weaker south. But surely she was the peer of any ofthem--this woman riding knee to knee with him, the sloping sun in herclear, brown eyes, and the warm, sweet winds kissing her cheeks!
And so Casey Dunne dreamed as he rode--dreamed as he had not dreamedwaking since the days when, a little boy, he had lain on warm sandsbeside a blue inland sea on summer's afternoons and watched the patchedsails of the stone hookers, and the wheeling, gray lake gulls, andheard the water hiss and ripple to the long, white beaches. And, as hedreamed, a part of boyhood's joy in mere life awoke in him again.
Chakchak Ranch came into view. Its cultivated area smaller than that ofTalapus, it was nevertheless as scrupulously cared for. The one mighthave served as model for the other. Here, also, were the straight linesof the ditches, the squares of grain fields beginning to show green,the young orchards, th
e sleek, contented stock, the corrals, andoutbuildings.
But, as became the residence of a bachelor, the ranch-house itself wasless pretentious. It was a small bungalow, with wide verandas whichincreased its apparent size. There Casey lived with Tom McHale, hisright-hand man and foreman. The hired men, varying in numberconstantly, occupied other quarters.
Casey would have helped Sheila to alight, but she swung down,stretching her limbs frankly after the hard ride.
"That's _going_," she said. "Beaver Boy was a brute to hold; he wantedto race Shiner. He nearly got away from me once. My wrists are actuallylame." She drew off her long buckskin gauntlets, flexing her wristscautiously, straightening her fingers, prolonging the luxury ofrelaxing the cramped sinews.
"Let us now eat, drink, and be merry," said Casey, "forto-morrow--well, never mind that. But what would you like? Coffee, tea,claret lemonade? Tell me what you want."
"Too hot for tea. I'd like a dust eraser--a cold drink about a yardlong."
"Hey, you, Feng!" Casey cried, to a white-aproned, grinning Chinaman,"you catch two ice drink quick--_hiyu_ ice, you savvy! Catch claretwine, catch cracker, catch cake. Missy _hiyu_ dry, _hiyu_ hungry. Get ahustle on you, now!"
Feng, understanding perfectly the curious mixture of pidgin andChinook, vanished soft-footed. They entered the living room of thebungalow.
"Stretch out and be comfy while he's rustling it," said Casey,indicating a couch. He himself fell into a huge wicker chair, flung hishat carelessly at the table, and reached for a cigar box.
Sheila dropped on the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her armsabove her head, her hands clasped, every muscle of her relaxing. Thecomparative coolness, the quiet, the soft cushions were good after aday in the saddle. Down there on the Coldstream the strict proprietiesdid not trouble them. If any one had suggested to Sheila McCrae thatshe was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, shewould have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have beenunsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirabilityof a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all,the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advancedcivilization.
But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening."You're awfully untidy, Casey!" she said.
Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of theroom was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, andtobacco. Odd tools--a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl--mingledwith them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinderswung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can.In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set ofantlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pairof muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.
"Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?" she demanded.
"Why, you see," he explained, "they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry.I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact." Herose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through theopen door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila wasnot placated.
"That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and nowit's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you knowthat that makes work?"
"For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for--only he doesn't do it."
But she shook her head, brushing the excuse aside as trifling,unsatisfactory. "It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey."
"Poor thing!"
"When you get one, I mean."
"Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same toyou, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the wayit is."
"Muss it up! I like that!" she responded. "Why, of all the old _junk_!Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust." Sheextended her fingers in proof. "That dirty rag! And a gun andcartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed ofyourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn'tleave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving themloaded, almost."
"That's Tom's gun. Sail into him."
"You shouldn't allow it."
"Allow it! I never touch another man's gun. Nobody comes in here butFeng, and he doesn't matter. What's a Chink more or less?"
"But it's the _principle_. And what's this--down here? Why, Casey,it's--it's a _hen!_"
It was a hen. In a space between two piles of newspapers, flanked by acigar box, squatted a white fowl, very intent upon her own affairs.
"Shoo!" said Sheila. But the bird merely cocked a bright eye at her,and uttered a little warning, throaty sound. Casey laughed.
"That's Fluffy, and she's a lady friend of mine. Poor old Fluff, poorold girl! Don't scare her, Sheila. Can't you see she's busy?"
"Casey Dunne, do you mean to tell me that you allow a hen to lay inyour sitting room, on your _table?_"
"Of course--when she's a nice little chicken like Fluffy. Why not? Shedoesn't do any harm."
"I never heard of such a thing. The place for hens is in the chickenrun. Casey, you're simply _awful!_ Your wife--oh, heavens, what a lifeshe'll have!"
"Nobody could help liking Fluff," he replied. "She's really goodcompany. I wish I could talk her talk. She has a fine line ofconversation if I could only savvy it."
Sheila sat down with a hopeless gesture. Fond of all living things asshe was, she could not understand the tolerance that allowed a hen therun of the house. To her a hen was a hen, nothing more. She could nameand pet a horse or a dog or any quadruped. But a hen! She could notunderstand.
But Feng entered with the two "ice drink"--a tray containing longglasses, tinkling ice, claret, lemons, cake, and biscuits. He set thetray upon the table. As he did so his hand came in contact with Fluffy.With a rasping cry of indignation she pecked him.
"Hyah!" cried Feng, startled, and reached for her impulsively.
Fluffy bounded from her nest, and fled shrieking for the door. Herfluttering wings brushed the contents of the tray. The long glasses andbottle capsized, rolled to the floor, and smashed, the crash of glassmingling with her clamour.
"What foh?" yelled Feng, in a fury. "Jim Kli, dam chickum spoiley iceydlink. _Hiyu_ no good--all same son of a gun! S'pose me catch him, linghim neck!" And he darted after the hen, on vengeance bent.
But Casey caught him by the collar. "Never mind, Feng. That chicken allsame my _tillikum_, you savvy. _Hiyu_ good chicken; lay _hiyu_ egg. Youcatch more ice drink!"
And when the angry Celestial had gone he lay back in his chair, andlaughed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly,then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression,in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gaspedfor breath.
"Oh--oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such alaugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too.It's coming to her. That Chink--how mad he was! But what a mess! Andclaret stains so. Your rug----"
She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could,and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the verandasteps.
This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with theflat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a butpartially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazeleyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of hisnourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.
"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there washostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there Chink? He's cussin'scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"
"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff.Result, one bottle of claret and two glasses gone to glory."
"Also one Chink on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in theinsurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She'ssurely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than ifthe Orienta
l was a coon. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."
"He always does when he gets a grouch. I wish I could get a white man."
"A white man that _can_ cook hates to stay sober long enough to build abannock," said McHale. "Chink grub has one flavour, but it comesreg'lar, there's that about it."
Feng entered with fresh supplies, and they drank luxuriously, tinklingthe ice in the glasses, prolonging the satisfaction of thirst. McHalewent about his business. Sheila picked up her hat and gloves, declaringthat she must be going. Casey insisted on accompanying her. He shiftedhis saddle to Dolly, a pet little gray mare; not because Shiner wastired, but because there was a hard ride in store for him on themorrow.
They rode into Talapus in time for supper. Afterward Casey and McCraediscussed the coming of Farwell, and its significance.
"I pumped Corney Quilty a little," said Casey. "This Farwell is aslap-up man, and they'd never waste him on this little job without somegood reason. I'm told he's bad medicine. Unpleasant devil, he seems. Iwonder if they've got wise at all? If they have it will be mightyinteresting for us."
"I'll chance it," said McCrae. "Anyway, we'll all be in it."
"That's a comforting thought," said Dunne. As he rode home that nighthe went over the ranchers one by one; and he was quite sure that eachwas trustworthy.