CHAPTER VI
BANK NOTES AND A BLIND MAN
"He'd as soon set fire to the hay-barns as not," said Royce. "Betterwatch him, Steve."
And so Steve, stepping outside, watched Blenham, who had gone swiftlytoward the ranch-house and who now swung about sharply and stopped deadin his tracks.
"He's up to something, Bill," conceded Packard. And called quietly toBlenham: "Every step you take on this ranch, I'm right along with you,Blenham."
Whereupon Blenham, his hesitation over, turned abruptly and went downto the corral, saddled, and rode away.
On the heels of the irate foreman's wordless departure Steve Packardand Bill Royce went together to the old ranch-house, where, settledcomfortably in two big arm-chairs, they talked far into the night. Asharp glance about him as he lighted a lamp on the table showed Packarddust and disuse everywhere excepting the few untidy signs of Blenham'srecent occupancy.
An old saddle sprawled loosely upon the living-room floor, litteredabout with bits of leather and buckles; from a nail hung a rusty,long-rowelled Mexican spur; on the hearth-stone were many cigarettestumps and an occasional cigar-end. An open door showed a tumbled bed,the covers trailing to the floor.
"I'd give a year off my life for a good look at you, Steve," said Roycea trifle wistfully. "Let's see--thirty-five now, ain't you?"
"Right," answered Packard.
"An' big?" asked Royce. "Six foot or better?"
"A shade better. About an inch and a half."
"Not heavy, though? Kind of lean an' long, like Phil Packard beforeyou?"
Packard nodded; then, with Royce's sightless eyes upon him, he saidhastily:
"Right again, Bill; kind of lean and long. You'd know me."
"Sure, I would!" cried Royce eagerly. "A man don't change so all-firedmuch in a dozen years; don't I remember just how you looked when youcut loose to see the world! Ain't made your pile, have you, Steve?"
Packard laughed carelessly.
"I'm lord and master of a good horse, saddle, bridle, and seventy-oddbucks," he said lightly. "Not much of a pile, Bill."
"An' Number Ten Ranch," added Royce quickly.
"And Number Ten Ranch," Packard agreed. "If we can get away with it."
"Meaning what? How get away with it?"
"It's mortgaged to the hilt, it seems. I don't know for how much yet.The mortgage and a lot of accrued interest has to be paid off. Justhow big a job we've got to find out."
"Seen your grandfather yet?"
"No. I should have looked him up, I suppose, before I fired Blenham.But, being made of flesh and blood----"
"I know, I know." And Royce filled his lungs with a big sigh. "Bein'a Packard, you didn't wait all year to get where you was goin'. Butthere'll be plenty of red tape that can't be cut through; that'll haveto be all untangled an' untied. Unless your grandfather'll do theright thing by you an' call all ol' bets off an' give you a free handan' a fresh start?"
"All of which you rather doubt, eh, Bill?"
Royce nodded gloomily.
"I guess we've gone at things sort of back-end-to," he saidregretfully. "You'd ought to have seen him first, hadn't you? An'then you kicked his pet dawg in the slats when you canned Blenham. Theold man's right apt to be sore, Steve."
"I shouldn't be surprised," agreed Steve. "Who are the Temples, Bill?"
"Who tol' you about the Temples?" came the quick counter-question.
"Nobody. I stayed at their place last night."
Royce grunted.
"Didn't take you all year to find her, did it?" he offered bluntly.
"Who?" asked Packard in futile innocence.
"Terry Temple. The finest girl this side the pearly gates an' thepretties'. What kind of a man have you growned to be with the women,Steve?"
"No ladies' man, if that's what's worrying you, old pardner. I don'tknow a dozen girls in the world. I just asked to know about thesepeople because they're right next-door to us and because they'renewcomers since my time."
Again Royce grunted, choosing his own explanation of Packard'sinterest. But, answering the question put to him, he replied briefly:
"That little Terry-girl can have anything I got; her mother was someclass, too, they tell me. I dope it up she just died of shame when shecome to know what sort she'd picked for a runnin' mate. An' as forhim, he's a twisty-minded jelly-fish. He's absolutely no good. An',if I ain't mistaken some considerable, you'll come to know him realwell before long. Watch him, Steve."
"Well," said Packard as Royce broke off, sensing that this was not allto be said of Temple; "let's have it. What else about him?"
But Royce shook his head slowly, while his big, thick fingers filledhis pipe.
"We ain't got all night to jus' squat here an' gossip about ourneighbors," he said presently. "There's other things to be said beforethings can be done. First rattle, an' to get goin', I'm much obligedfor that little bluff you threw Blenham's way about me being yourforeman. What you need an' what you got to have is a man with botheyes wide open. Oh, I know, Steve," as Packard started to speak."You'd offer me the job if both my legs an' arms was gone, too. But itdon't go."
"I'm going to need a man right away," argued Steve. "I'll have to do alot of running around, I suppose, looking up the law, arranging forbelated payments, and so forth. I don't want to leave the ranchwithout a head. You know the men, you know the outfit."
But Royce, though his lips twitched, was firm.
"I don't know the men any too well either," he said. "They're all yourgrandfather's hirin'. But they're all live an' they all know the game.I won't swear as to how far you can trust any one of 'em; but you'llhave to find that out for yourself as we go on."
"Name one of them for me," was Packard's quiet way of accepting his oldforeman's ultimatum. "I'll put him on at least temporarily."
"There's Yellow Barbee," suggested Royce. "Somethin' of a kid, maybekind of wild an' harum-scarum, maybe not worth much. But he ain't aBlenham man an' he did me a good turn."
Already Packard was on his feet, going to the door.
"Barbee!" he shouted. "Oh, Barbee!"
The bunk-house door opened, emitting its stream of light.
"Call me?" came Barbee's cool young voice, impudent now as always.
"Yes, come here a minute, will you?"
Barbee came, his wide hat far back upon his tight little curls, hisswagger pronounced, his sweet blue eyes shining softly--his lipsbattered and bruised and already swelling.
"Come in and shut the door," said Packard.
Barbee entered and stepped across the room to lounge with his elbow onthe chimney-piece, looking curiously from Packard to Royce.
"I'm here to run this outfit myself, Barbee," Packard told him whilereturning the youth's regard steadily. "But I need a foreman to keepthings going when I'm obliged to be away. I gave the job to Royce. Hewon't have it. He suggests you."
Barbee opened his eyes a trifle wider. Also the quick flush running upinto his brown cheeks made him look more boyish than ever, giving himalmost a cherubic air. But for all that he managed to appear tolerablyunmoved, quite as though this were not the first time he had beenoffered such a position.
"How much is in it?" was what Barbee said, with vast indifference.
Steve hesitated. Then he frowned. And finally he laughed.
"You've got me there," he admitted frankly. "All the money I've got inthe world to-night is right here." He spilled the contents of hispocket upon a table. "There's about seventy-five bucks. Unless I canturn a trick somewhere before pay-day all you boys will have to takeyour pro rata out of that."
Bill Royce shifted nervously in his chair, opened his mouth, thenclosed it wordlessly. Barbee shrugged elaborately.
"I'll take a chance," he said. "It would be worth it if I lost; jus'to put one across on Blenham."
"All right," and still Packard eyed young Barbee keenly, wondering justhow much ability lay hidden under that so
mewhat unsatisfactoryexterior. "You can go back to the boys now and tell them that you'reboss when I'm not on hand. Before they go to work in the morning youshow up here again and we'll talk a lot of things over."
Barbee ducked his head in token of acquiescence and perhaps to hide theglitter in his eyes, and walked on his heels to the door. Packard'svoice arrested him there.
"Just one thing, Barbee: I don't want any trouble started. Not withBlenham or with any of old man Packard's men. I know how you feel, butif you work for me you'll have to let me be the one who starts things.Understand?"
The new foreman paused irresolutely. Then, without turning so thatPackard might see his face, and with no spoken reply, he ducked hishead again and went out, slamming the door after him.
"I ain't sure he's the right man for the job, Steve," began Royce atrifle anxiously. "An' I ain't sure whether he's square or crooked.But I don't know the rest of the men any better an'----"
"I'll watch him, Bill. And, as I've said already, I'm here to do mostof the foreman act myself. We'll give Barbee his chance."
He came back to the table from whose top there winked up at him the fewgold and silver coins which spelled his working capital, and stoodlooking at them quizzically.
"I got a yarn to spin, Stevie," came thoughtfully from Royce with agreat puff of smoke. "You better listen in on it now--while we'realone."
Packard returned to his chair, made his own smoke, and said quietly:
"Go to it, Bill. I'm listening."
"Barbee's gone, ain't he? An' the door shut?"
"Yes."
"Then pull up close so's I won't have to talk loud an' I'll get it outof my system: Before your father died he wasn't makin' much money, notas much as he was spendin'. He'd tied into some minin'-stock game thathe didn't savvy any too well, an' for a long time all I'd been clearin'here he'd been droppin' outside.
"An' the deeper he got in the hole the wilder he played the game: therewas times when I didn't believe he cared a tinker's damn what happened.Whenever he needed any cash all he had to do was soak another plasteron the ranch, borrow again from his father. An' ol' Number Ten isplastered thick now, Steve; right square up to the hilt.
"Well, when Phil Packard died he did it like he'd done everything else,like he had lived, makin' a man think he was in a hurry to get a jobover an' done with. Ridin' horseback one week an' the nex' weeksendin' for me in there." He jerked his head toward a remote room ofthe big house. "An' he talked to me then about you."
Packard waited for him to go on, offering no comment. Royce, hunchedover in his chair, straightened up a little, shook himself, andcontinued:
"He had drawed some money out'n the bank, all he had left. I dunnowhat for, but anyways he had it under his pillow alongside his ol'Colt. An' he give it to me, sayin' he was caught sudden an' unexpectedby his death, an' for me to take care of it an' see that you got itwhen you come back. It was in greenbacks, a little roll no bigger'nyour thumb, an' when I counted 'em I near dropped dead. Ten littleslips of paper, Steve, an' each good for one thousan' bucks! Tenthousan' dollars did Phil Packard slip me that night not a half-hourbefore he went over. For you. An' I got 'em for you, Steve; I got 'emsafe for you."
His big shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh; he ran a toil-hardenedhand across his forehead. Packard opened his lips as though to speak,but was silent as Royce continued:
"I took the money, Steve, an' went outside for a smoke, an' my handswas shakin' like I was cold! Ten thousan' bucks in my tail pocket! Itwas a dark night an' I didn't lose nineteen secon's hidin' the wad in agood safe place. Which," slowly, "was the las' time I ever saw it!"
"I thought you said----"
"I got it safe? I have. But I ain't ever seen anything since thatnight, Steve. The night your dad died, the night I hid the money, wasthe night I went blind."
"You haven't told me about that yet, Bill," said Packard gently.
"No; but I'm goin' to now. It's part of the yarn I got to spinto-night. Like I said I took the wad--your father had slipped it backin a flat sort of pocketbook--an' went outside. It was night alreadyan' dark. Ten thousan' bucks for me to keep safe for you!"
Again he ran his hand across his forehead.
"I knew where there was a rock in the corner foundation of the housethat I could work loose; where if I put the greenbacks they wouldn'tspoil if it rained or even if the house burned down. I stuck 'em inthere, got the rock back like it was before, made sure nobody saw me,an' went off by myself for a smoke.
"'Cause why did I take that chance? I didn't take no chances at all, Itell you, Steve! How did I know, your father gettin' delirious at thefinish which came downright quick, but he'd give the game away? An' onthe ranch then there was men that would do mos' anything for tenthousan', give 'em the show.
"Your gran'father had come over an' he had brought Blenham with him an'his mechanic, Guy Little; an' there was a couple of new men in theoutfit I'd picked up myself that I knew was tough gents.
"No! I didn't take no chances, seein' the money was yours an' not mineto fool with. I stuck it in the wall an' I sneaked off an' for threehours I squatted there in the dark with my gun in my hand, waitin' an'watchin'. Which was playing as safe as a man could, wasn't it, Steve?"
Packard got up and came to Royce's side, putting his hand gently on theforeman's shoulder.
"It strikes me you've done rather a good deal for me, Bill," he saidquite simply.
"Maybe," said Royce thoughtfully. "But no more'n one pardner ought todo for another; no more'n you'd do for me, Stevie. Don't I know you?Give you the chance you'd do as much for me; eh, boy? Well, here's therest of the story: Your dad was dead: ol' Hell-Fire was blowin' hisnose so you'd hear it a mile an' I was feelin' weak an' sick-like,knowin' all of a sudden that Phil Packard had been damn' good to me an'wantin' to tell him so now it was too late. Late an' dark as it was Iwent down to the bunk-house, tol' the boys to stick aroun' for ordersin the mornin', saddled my horse and beat it for a quiet place where Icould think. I never wanted to think so much in my life, Steve.Remember the ol' cabin by the big timber over on the east side?"
"The old McKittrick place? Yes."
"Well, I went there to make a fire in the ol' fireplace an' sit an'think things over. But I got to tell you about a feller name of JohnnyMills. You didn't know him; he's workin' for the Brocky Lane outfitnow. Well, Johnny was as good a cow-man as you want, but you alwayshad to watch him that he didn't slip off to go quail-huntin'. With ashot-gun he was the best wing-shot I ever heard a man tell about.
"He used to sneak for the McKittrick cabin where he kep' an ol'muzzle-loadin' shot-gun, an' shot quail aroun' them springs up therewhen he'd ought to be workin'. Then he'd come in an' brag, tellin' howhe'd never missed a shot. The boys, jus' to tease Johnny, had gone tothe cabin that very day an' drawed his shot out, jus' leavin' thepowder alone so Johnny would think he'd missed when he pulled thetrigger an' no birdies dropped.
"See what I'm drivin' at? I tied my horse an' started along the littletrail through the wild-holly bushes to the cabin. Somebody was waitin'for me an' give me both barrels square in the face. That's when an'how my lights went out, Steve."
It came as a shock, and Packard paled; Royce had been so long makinghis explanations and then put the actual catastrophe so baldly that fora moment his hearer sat speechless. Presently--
"Know who did it, Bill?" he asked.
"If I knew--for sure--I'd go get him! But I don't know; not for sure."His big hands clenched until they fairly trembled with their owntenseness. "It's tough to go blind, Steve!"
His hands relaxed; he sat still, staring into that black nothingnesswhich always engulfed him. When he spoke again it was drearily,hopelessly, like a man communing with his own sorrow, oblivious of alistener:
"Yes, it's fair hell to be blind. If there's anything worse I'd liketo know what it might be. To be walkin' along in the dark, always inthe dark--to stumble an' fall an' hear a man
laugh--to pitch head firs'over a box that had been slipped quiet in your way----"
"Blenham did that sort of thing?" demanded Packard sharply.
It would have done Bill Royce good to see the look in his eyes then.Royce nodded.
"Blenham did whatever he could think of," he muttered colorlessly."An' he could think of a good many things. Just the same--maybe someday----"
"And yet you stayed on, Bill?" when Royce's voice stopped.
"I'd promised your dad I'd be here--with the coin--when you come back.He knew an' I knew you might blow in an' blow out an' never get wordunless I was right here all the time. An' ol' man Packard, after I wasblind I went to him an' he promised I could stick as long as I justobeyed orders. Which, I've done, no matter what they was.
"But the end's come now; ain't it, Steve, ol' pardner? But to get thistale tol' an' the money in your hands: I didn't know who'd tried to dofor me, but I guessed it must have been some one who'd found outsomehow about the ten thousan' an' thought I had it on me. When I cometo at the cabin an' firs' thing tried to get a chaw of tobacco I foun'my pockets all turned wrong side out. It might have been Johnny Millshimself; he didn't know about the gun bein' fooled with; it might havebeen Blenham; it might have been Guy Little; it might have beensomebody else. But I've thought all along an' I pray God I was rightan' that some day I'll know, that it was Blenham."
He rose suddenly.
"Come ahead, Steve," he said, his voice matter of fact as of old."It's up to you to ride herd on your own simoleons now."
"You've left it in the same place? In the rock foundation-wall?"
"Yes. I couldn't find a safer place."
"And you haven't been back to it all these months?"
"Not until las' Saturday night. It was jus' six months then. Ifiggered it out I'd make sure once every six months. I went in themiddle of the night an' made sure nobody followed me, Steve. Comeahead."
Packard slipped his arm through Royce's and they went side by side.The night was filled with stars; there was no moon. The wall, as theycame around the corner of the house, shone palely here and there wherea white surface glinted vaguely through the shadows.
"Nobody aroun', is there, Steve?" whispered Royce.
"Nobody," Packard assured him. "Where is it, Bill?"
Royce's hands, groping with the wall, rested at last upon a knob ofstone near the base of the foundation. He tugged; the stone, rudelysquared, came away, leaving a gaping hole. Royce thrust his hand in,searched briefly, and in a moment brought out a flat wallet clutchedtightly.
"Yours, Steve!" he said then, a quick, palpitating note of pure joy inhis cry. "Blind as I was, I put it over for you! Here's ten thousan',Steve. An' the chance to get ol' Number Ten back."
Packard was taking the wallet proffered him. Suddenly Royce jerked itback.
"Let me make sure again," he said hastily. "Let me be dead sure I'vemade good."
He fumbled with the wallet, opened the flap, drew out the contents, aneat pack of folded bank-notes. He counted slowly.
"Ten of 'em," he announced triumphantly as he gave the wallet over toits proper owner.
Packard took them and they went back to the house. The rays of thelamp met them; through the open door, back to the living-room, theywalked side by side. The table between them, they sat down. Packardput the wallet down, spread out the ten bank-notes.
"Bill," he said, and there was a queer note in his voice, "Bill, you'vegone through hell for me. Don't I know it? And you say I'd do as muchfor you? Are you sure of it, Bill?"
Royce laughed and rubbed his hands together.
"Dead sure, Stevie," he said.
Packard's eyes dropped to the table. Before him were the ten crispbank-notes. Each was for one dollar. Ten dollars in all. Hisheritage, saved to him by Bill Royce.
"Bill, old man," he said slowly, "you've taught me how to play thegame. Pray God I can be as white with a pardner as you have been."
And, crumpling the notes with a sudden gesture, he thrust them into hispocket.