CHAPTER XIX
AT MCWHORTER'S RANCH
Colin McWhorter was a man of long silences. A big framed, black-beardedgiant of a man, he commanded the respect of all who knew him, and thefriendship of few. His ranch, his sheep, his daughter were things thatconcerned him--the rest of the world was for others. Twice each year, onthe twentieth of June and the third of December, he locked himself inhis room and drank himself very drunk. At all other times he was verysober. No one, not even Janet, knew the significance of those dates. Allthe girl knew was that with deadly certainty when the day arrived herfather would be locked in his room, and that on the third day thereafterhe would unlock the door and come out of the room, shaken in nerve andbody, dispose of an armful of empty bottles, resume his daily routine,and never by word or look would he refer to the matter.
These semi-annual sprees had been among the girl's earliestrecollections. They had come as regularly and as certainly as thepassing of the seasons, and she had come to accept them as a matter ofcourse. Janet McWhorter stood in no fear of her father, yet never hadshe brought herself to venture one word of remonstrance, nor offer oneword of sympathy. His neighbours accepted the fact as they acceptedMcWhorter--with respect. If they wondered, they continued to wonder, forso far as anyone knew nobody had ever had the temerity to seek knowledgeat its fountain head.
McWhorter's habit of silence was not engendered by any feeling ofaloofness--cowpunchers, sheep-men, horse-thieves, or nesters--allwere welcome at his cabin, and while they talked, McWhorterlistened--listened and smoked his black pipe. With Janet he wasas sparing of words as with others. Father and daughter understoodeach other perfectly--loved each other with a strange undemonstrativelove that was as unfaltering as the enduring hills.
The moment McWhorter came upon the girl at the gate of the corral hesensed that something was wrong. She had greeted him as usual but as hewatched her walk to the cabin, he noted an unwonted weariness in hersteps, and a slight drooping of her square shoulders. Unsaddling hishorse, he turned him into the corral with the bay mare. He noted theabsence of the big roan. "Been tryin' to ride Blue, an' he got away fromher," he thought; "weel, she'll tell me aboot it, if so."
While Janet placed supper on the table her father washed noisily at thebench beside the door, then entered, and took his place at the table.The meal progressed in silence, and in silence McWhorter, as was hiscustom, helped the girl wash and dry the dishes and put them away ontheir shelves. This done, he filled his black pipe and seated himself inthe chair. In another chair drawn close beside the big lamp, Janetpretended to read a magazine, while at every muffled night sound, hereyes flew to the window.
"Wheer's Blue," asked McWhorter, as he knocked the ashes from his pipeand refilled it.
"I loaned him to a man who came here on foot."
"From the bad lands?"
"No. From the river. He's Mr. Colston's range foreman and he and--andsomebody else were crossing the river on Long Bill's ferry and the cablebroke, and the boat came ashore above here."
"An' the ither--did the ither come?"
"No. That's why he borrowed Blue--to hunt for the other."
"An' ye rode wi' 'um? I see the mare's be'n rode."
Janet nodded: "Yes, I rode with him as far as the bad lands, andthen--he sent me back."
McWhorter puffed for some minutes in silence: "Think you he will comehere the night?"
"Yes--unless something happens."
"An' that's what's worrin' ye--that something might happen him--oottheer? What wad ye think could happen?"
"Why--why--lots of things could happen," she glanced at her father,wondering at his unwonted loquacity.
The man caught the look: "Ye'll be thinkin' I'll be talkin' o'er much,"he said, "but ye've found out befoor this, when theer's words to be saidI can say 'em." The man's voice suddenly softened: "Come, lass, 'tisye're own happiness I'm thinkin' of--ye've na one else. Is he some brawyoung blade that rode that de'el of a Blue wi'oot half tryin'? An' didhe speak ye fair? An' is he gude to look on--a man to tak' the ee o' theweemin'? Is ut so?" The girl stood at the window peering out into thedarkness, and receiving no answer, McWhorter continued: "If that's theway of ut, tak' ye heed. I know the breed o' common cowpunchers--they'rea braw lot, an' they've takin' ways--but in theer hearts they'retriflin' gude-for-naughts, wi' na regard for God, mon, nor the de'el."
"He's not a common cowpuncher!" defended the girl hotly, she had turnedfrom the window and stood facing the stern faced Scotchman with flushedcheeks. Then the words of the hand-bill seemed to burn into her brain."He's--he's--if he were a common cowpuncher Mr. Colston would never havemade him foreman," she concluded lamely.
McWhorter nodded gravely: "Aye, lass--but, when all is said an' done,what Colston wants--what he hires an' pays for, is cowpunchin'--the worko' the head an' hands. Gin an mon does his work, Colston wadna gi' afiddle bow for what's i' the heart o' him. But, wi' a lass an' amon--'tis different. 'Tis then if the heart is clean, it little mattersthat he whirls his loop fair, or sits his leather like a plough-boy."
"What's this nonsense," cried the girl, angrily, "--this talk aboutchoosing a man? I never saw him till today! I hate men!"
McWhorter finished his pipe, returned it to his pocket and stepping intohis own room reappeared a moment later with a pair of heavy blanketswhich he laid on the table. "I'm goin' to bed, for I must be early tothe lambin' camp. I'm thinkin' the young mon will not return thenight--but if he does, here's blankets." He stood for a moment lookingdown at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the sterneyes allowed: "My little lass," he murmured, as though speaking tohimself, "I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter--an' I am glad. The angerwill pass--an' 'twill set ye thinkin'--that, an' what's here on thepaper." Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed itupon the blankets. "'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same asthe one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate--'twas seein'that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, lass--an' 'twad be sair hard tosee ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twadsteal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night."McWhorter turned abruptly, and passing into his own room, shut thedoor.
Standing beside the table, Janet watched the door close behind herfather. The anger was gone from her heart, as McWhorter had said itwould go, and in its place was a wild desire to throw herself into hisarms as she used to do long, long ago--to sob her heart out against hisbig breast, and to feel his big hand awkwardly stroking her hair, as hemuttered over and over again: "Theer, theer wee lassie, theer,theer"--soothing words--those, that had eased her baby hurts and herchildish heartaches--she remembered how she used to press her little earclose against his coarse shirt to hear the words rumble deep down in thegreat chest. He had been a good father to his motherless littlegirl--had Colin McWhorter.
The girl turned impulsively toward the closed door, hot tears brimmingher eyes. One step, and she stopped tense and listening. Yes, there itwas again--the sound of horse's hoofs. Dashing the tears from her eyesshe flung open the outer door and stood framed in the oblong of yellowlamplight. Whoever it was had not stopped at the corral, but was ridingon toward the cabin. A figure loomed suddenly out of the dark and theTexan drew up before the door.
"You here alone?" he inquired, stooping slightly to peer past her intothe cabin, "'cause if you are, I'll go on to the lambin' camp."
"No, Dad's here," she answered, "he's gone to bed."
The man dismounted. "Got any oats?" he asked, as he turned toward thecorral. "Blue's a good horse, an' I'd like him to have more'n just hay.I may ride him hard, tomorrow."
"Yes--wait." The girl turned back into the cabin and came out with alighted lantern. "I'll go with you. They're in the stable."
Side by side they walked to the corral, where she held the lantern whilethe Texan stripped off the saddle. "Got a halter? I ain't goin' to turnhim in with the others. They'd nose him out of his oats, or else worryhim so he couldn't eat comfortable."
"Blue's n
ever been in the stable--and he's never eaten oats. He don'tknow what they are."
"It's time he learnt, then," he smiled, "but, I don't reckon he'll kickup any fuss. A horse will do anything you want him to, once you get himmastered."
"Like women, aren't they?" the girl asked maliciously, as she handed himthe halter.
The Texan adjusted the halter, deftly slipped the bridle from beneathit, and glanced quizzically into her face: "Think so?" he countered,"reckon I never run across any that was mastered." At the door of thestable the horse paused, sniffed suspiciously, and pulled back on thehalter rope. "Just step away with the lantern so he can't see what'sahead of him, an' he'll come--won't you, Blue?"
"They wouldn't any of them come if they could see what's ahead, wouldthey?"
The Texan peered into the girl's face but it was deep in the shadows,"Maybe not," he agreed, "I expect it's a good thing for all of us thatwe can't see--what's ahead." The man abruptly transferred his attentionto the horse; gently slapping his neck and pulling playfully at histwitching ears. His voice dropped into a soothing monotone: "Come on,you old Blue, you. You old fraud, tryin' to make out like you're afraid.Come on--take a chance. There's oats, an' hay, an' beddin' a foot thickin there. An' a good stall to stand in instead of millin' around acorral all night." The rope slackened, and securing a firm grip on thehalter, the Texan edged slowly toward the door, the horse following withnervous, mincing steps, and nostrils aquiver. From her place beside thecorral, the girl watched in astonishment as man and horse passed fromsight. From the black interior of the stable the voice of the Texansounded its monotonous drone, and presently the man himself appeared andtaking the lantern returned to attend to the horse. Alone in thedarkness, Janet wondered. She knew the big blue roan, and she hadexpected a fight. A few minutes later the man reappeared, chuckling:"He's learnt what oats are," he said, "ate 'em out of my hand, first.Now he's goin' after 'em like he'd tear the bottom out of the feed box.I wonder if your Dad would sell Blue? I'll buy him, an' gentle him, an'then----"
"And then--what?" asked the girl after a moment of silence. She receivedno answer, and with a trace of impatience she repeated the question."What would you do then?"
"Why--then," answered the man, abstractedly, "I don't know. I was justthinkin' maybe it ain't such a good thing after all we can't see fartherahead."
"Did you find your friend?" Janet asked abruptly, as they walked towardthe house.
"No." In spite of herself, the dead tonelessness of the man's voicearoused her to sudden pity. She remembered the pain and the misery inhis eyes. Perhaps after all, he loved this woman--loved herhonestly--yet, how could he love honestly another man's wife? Her lipstightened, as she led the way into the house, and without a word, busiedherself at the stove.
Hat in hand, the Texan stood beside the table, and as his glance strayedfrom the girl, it fell upon a small square of paper upon a fold of ablanket. Mechanically he glanced at the printed lines, and at the firstword, snatched the paper from the table and held it to the light.
The girl turned at the sound: "Oh!" she cried, and stepped swiftlyforward as if to seize it from his hand. Her face was flaming red: "Dadleft it there--and then--you came--and I--I--forgot it."
The man read the last word and carefully returned the paper to thetable. "I didn't aim to read your papers," he apologized, "but Icouldn't help seein' my own name--an' hers--an' I thought I had theright--didn't I have the right?"
"Yes," answered the girl, "of course you had the right. OnlyI--we--didn't leave it there on purpose. It----"
"It don't make any difference how it come to be there," he said dully,and as he passed his hand heavily across his brow, she saw that hisfingers fumbled for a moment on the bandage. "The news got around rightquick. It was only last night."
"Long Bill Kearney stuck one on the corral post, and he left some at thelambing camp."
"Long Bill, eh?" The man repeated the name mechanically, with his eyeson the square of paper, while the girl pushed the blankets back andplaced dishes upon the table.
"You must eat, now," she reminded him, as she filled his plate andpoured a cup of steaming coffee.
The Texan drew up a chair and ate in silence. When he had finished herolled a cigarette: "One hundred dollars," he said, as though speakingto himself, "that's a right pickyune reward to offer for a full-grownman. Why, there's over a thousand for Cass Grimshaw."
"Cass Grimshaw is a horse-thief. Apparently, horses are held in higherregard than mere wives."
Tex disregarded the withering sarcasm. He answered, evenly, "Looks thatway. I suppose they figure a man could steal more of 'em."
"And now that Purdy has stolen her from you, will you continue thesearch, or look around for another. Surely, wives are cheap--anotherhundred dollars oughtn't to make any difference."
"No. Another hundred won't make any difference. Win Endicott was a foolto post that reward. It makes things look bad----"
"Look bad!" cried the girl, angrily. "Could it look any worse than itis?"
"No," agreed the Texan, "not with Purdy into it, it couldn't."
"Because, now--he'll probably claim the reward he and Long Bill--and youwill have had your trouble for your pains."
"Claim the reward!" exclaimed the Texan. To the girl's surprise heseemed to grasp at the thought as a drowning man would grasp at a straw.There was a new light in his eyes and the words seemed to hold a ray ofhope. "Do you suppose he would? Would he hold her safe for a thousanddollars? Prob'ly he'll try to get more!" The man talked rapidly in shortjerky sentences. "How'd Long Bill cross the river? Have those two gottogether? Does Purdy know about the reward?"
"Long Bill was riding----"
"Purdy's horse?"
"Not the one Purdy rode today--but, I think I've seen Purdy ride thathorse."
"But, why did they go on spreadin' these bills? Why didn't they keep itto themselves?" The girl shook her head, and after a few moments ofsilence, during which his fists opened and closed as if striving tograsp at the truth, the Texan spoke: "Maybe if they had the girl hidaway safe, they wanted folks to be on the lookout for me." He pushedback his chair abruptly and as he stood up the girl indicated theblankets, and the package of food.
"Here are blankets," she said, "and there is grub for tomorrow. There isa bunk in the loft----"
The Texan gathered the things into his arms: "Never mind the bunk," hesaid, "I'll sleep in the hay. I'll be wanting an early start. You'vehelped, girl," he said looking straight into her eyes, "you've guessedwrong--but you've helped--maybe more than you know. I reckon Win wasn'tsuch a fool with his reward after all," and before she could frame areply, the man had opened the door and disappeared into the night.