CHAPTER XII
ONE COMES TO SERVE
An hour after midday there came riding over the hills Tim Sullivan anda stranger. They stopped at the ruins of the sheep-wagon, where Timdismounted and nosed around, then came on down the draw, whereMackenzie was ranging the sheep.
Tim was greatly exercised over the loss of the wagon. He pitched intoMackenzie about it as soon as he came within speaking distance.
"How did you do it--kick over the lantern?" he inquired, his facecloudy with ill-held wrath.
Mackenzie explained, gruffly and in few words, how the wagon wasfired, sparing his own perilous adventure and the part that Joan hadborne in it. This slowed Tim down, and set him craning his neck overthe country to see if any further threat of violence impended on thehorizon.
"Them Hall boys ought to be men enough not to do me a trick like thatafter the way I've give in to them on this side of the range," hesaid. Then to Mackenzie, sharply: "It wouldn't 'a' happened if youhadn't took Hector's guns away from him that time. A sheepman's got noright to be fightin' around on the range. If he wants to brawl andscrap, let him do it when he goes to town, the way the cowboys usedto."
"Maybe you're right; I'm beginning to think you are," Mackenziereturned.
"Right? Of course I'm right. A sheepman's got to set his head tobusiness, and watchin' the corners to prevent losses like this thateats up the profit, and not go around with his sleeves rolled up andhis jaw slewed, lookin' for a fight. And if he starts one he's got tohave the backbone and the gizzard to hold up his end of it, and notlet 'em put a thing like this over on him. Why wasn't you in the wagonlast night watchin' it?"
"Because I've been expecting them to burn it."
"Sure you've been expectin' 'em to burn you out, and you hid in thebrush with your tail between your legs like a kicked pup and let 'emset my new wagon afire. How did you git your face bunged up thatway?"
"I fell down," Mackenzie said, with a sarcasm meant only for himself,feeling that he had described his handling of the past situation in aword.
"Runnin' off, I reckon. Well, I tell you, John, it won't do, that kindof business won't do. Them Hall boys are mighty rough fellers, toorough for a boy like you that's been runnin' with school children allhis life. You got some kind of a lucky hitch on Hector when youstripped that belt and guns off of him--I don't know how you done it;it's a miracle he didn't nail you down with lead--but that kind ofluck won't play into a man's hands one time in a thousand. You neverought 'a' started anything with them fellers unless you had the weightin your hind-quarters to keep it goin'."
"You're right," said Mackenzie, swallowing the rebuke like a bitterpill.
"Right? You make me tired standin' there and takin' it like a sickcat! If you was half the man I took you to be when you struck thisrange you'd resent a callin' down like I'm givin' you. But you don'tresent it, you take it, like you sneaked and let them fellers burnthat wagon and them supplies of mine. If you was expectin' 'em to turnthat kind of a trick you ought 'a' been right there in that wagon,watchin' it--there's where you had a right to be."
"I suppose there's where I'd been if I had your nerve, Sullivan,"Mackenzie said, his slow anger taking place of the humiliation thathad bent him down all morning like a shameful load. "Everybody on thisrange knows you're a fighting man--you've fought the wind gettin' awayfrom this side of the range every time you saw smoke, you've got areputation for standing out for your rights like a man with a gizzardin him as big as a sack of bran! Sure, I know all about the way you'vebacked out of here and let Carlson and the Halls bluff you out of theland you pay rent on, right along. If I had your nerve----"
* * * * *
Tim's face flamed as if he had risen from turning batter-cakes over afire. He made a smoothing, adjusting, pacificating gesture with hishands, looking with something between deep concern and shame over hisshoulder at the man who accompanied him, and who sat off a few feet inhis saddle, a grin over his face.
"Now, John, I don't mean for you to take it that I'm throwin' any slurover your courage for the way things has turned out--I don't want youto take it that way at all, lad," said Tim.
"I'm not a fighting man"--Mackenzie was getting hotter as he wenton--"everybody in here knows that by now, I guess. You guessed wrong,Sullivan, when you took me for one and put me over here to hold thisrange for you that this crowd's been backing you off of a littlefarther each spring. You're the brave spirit that's needed here--ifsomebody could tie you and hold you to face the men that have robbedyou of the best range you've got. I put down my hand; I get out of theway for you when it comes to the grit to put up a fight."
"Oh, don't take it to heart what I've been sayin', lad. A man's hotunder the collar when he sees a dirty trick like that turned on him,but it passes off like sweat, John. Let it go, boy, let it pass."
"You sent me in here expecting me to fight, and when I don't alwayscome out on top you rib me like the devil's own for it. You expectedme to fight to hold this grass, but you didn't expect me to loseanything at all. Well, I'll hold the range for you, Sullivan; youdon't need to lose any sleep over that. But if I'm willing to risk myskin to do it, by thunder, you ought to be game enough to stand theloss of a wagon without a holler that can be heard to Four Corners!"
"You're doin' fine holdin' my range that I pay solid money to UncleSam for, you're doin' elegant fine, lad. I was hasty, my tongue gotout from under the bit, boy. Let it pass; don't you go holdin' itagainst an old feller like me that's got the worry of forty-oddthousand sheep on his mind day and night."
"It's easy enough to say, but it don't let you out. You've got no callto come here and wade into me without knowing anything about thecircumstances."
"Right you are, John, sound and right. I was hasty, I was too hot.You've done fine here, you're the first man that's ever stood up tothem fellers and held 'em off my grass. You've done things up like aman, John. I give it to you--like a man."
"Thanks," said Mackenzie, in dry scorn.
"I ain't got no kick to make over the loss of my wagon--it's been manya day since I had one burnt up on me that way. Pass it up, pass upanything I've said about it, John. That's the lad."
So John passed it up, and unbent to meet the young man who rode withTim, whom the sheepman presented as Earl Reid, from Omaha, son ofMalcolm Reid, an old range partner and friend. The young man had comeout to learn the sheep business; Tim had brought him over forMackenzie to break in. Dad Frazer was coming along with three thousandsheep, due to arrive in about a week. When he got there, theapprentice would split his time between them.
Mackenzie received the apprentice as cordially as he could, but it wasnot as ardent a welcome as the young man may have expected, owing tothe gloom of resentment into which Sullivan's outbreak had thrown thisunlucky herder on the frontier of the range.
Reid was rather a sophisticated looking youth of twenty-two ortwenty-three, city broke, city marked. There was a poolroom pallorabout this thin face, a poolroom stoop to his thin shoulders, thatMackenzie did not like. But he was frank and ingenuous in hismanner, with a ready smile that redeemed his homely face, and a pairof blue eyes that seemed young in their innocence compared to theworld-knowledge that his face betrayed.
"Take the horses down there to the crick and water 'em," Tim directedhis new herder, "and then you'll ride back with me as far as Joan'scamp and fetch over some grub to hold you two fellers till the wagoncomes. Joan, she'll know what to give you, and I guess you can findyour way back here?"
"Surest thing you know," said Earl, with easy confidence, riding offto water the horses.
"That kid's no stranger to the range," Mackenzie said, more to himselfthan to Tim, as he watched him ride off.
"No, he used to be around with the cowboys on Malcolm's ranch when hewas in the cattle business. He can handle a horse as good as you orme. Malcolm was the man that set me up in the sheep business; Istarted in with him like you're startin' with me, more than thirtyyears ago. He was th
e first sheepman on this range, and he had tofight to hold his own, I'm here to say!"
"You'd better send the kid over into peaceful territory," Mackenziesuggested, crabbedly.
"No, the old man wants him to get a taste of what he went through tomake his start--he was tickled to the toes when he heard the way themHall boys are rarin' up and you standin' 'em off of this range ofmine. 'Send him over there with that man,' he says; 'that's the kindof a man I want him to break in under.' The old feller was tickledclean to his toes."
"Is he over at the ranch?"
"No, he went back home last night. Come down to start the kid right,and talk it over with me. It was all a surprise to me, I didn't know athing about it, but I couldn't turn Malcolm down." Tim winked, lookedcunning, nodded in a knowing way. "Kid's been cuttin' up throwin' awaytoo much money; gettin' into scrapes like a boy in town will, youknow. Wild oats and a big crop of 'em. The old man's staked him outwith me for three years, and he ain't to draw one cent of pay, or haveone cent to spend, in that time. If he breaks over, it's all offbetween them two. And the kid's sole heir to nearly half a million."
Mackenzie turned to look again at the boy, who was coming back withthe horses.
"Do you think he'll stick?" he asked.
"Yes, he promised the old man he would, and if he's anything likeMalcolm, he'll eat fire before he'll break his word. Malcolm and me wecome to terms in ten words. The kid's to work three years for mewithout pay; then I'll marry him to my Joan."
Mackenzie felt his blood come up hot, and sink down again, cold; felthis heart kick in one resentful surge, then fall away to weakness asif its cords had been cut. Tim laughed, looking down the draw towardthe sheep.
"It's something like that Jacob and Laban deal you spoke about theother day," said he. "Curious how things come around that way, ain'tit? There I went ridin' off, rakin' up my brains to remember thatstory, and laughed when it come to me all of a sudden. Jacob skinnedthem willow sticks, and skinned the old man, too. But I don't guessEarl would turn a trick like that on me, even if he could."
"How about Joan? Does she agree to the terms?" Mackenzie could notforbear the question, even though his throat was dry, his lips cold,his voice husky at the first word.
"She'll jump at it," Tim declared, warmly. "She wants to go away fromhere and see the world, and this will be her chance. I don't object toher leavin', either, as long as it don't cost me anything. You goahead and stuff her, John; stuff her as full of learnin' as she'llhold. It'll be cheaper for me than sendin' her off to school andfittin' her up to be a rich man's wife, and you can do her just asmuch good--more, from what she tells me. You go right ahead and stuffher, John."
"Huh!" said John.
"Earl, he'll look after your sheep while you're teachin' Joan herbooks. Stuff her, but don't founder her, John. If any man can fit herup to prance in high society, I'd bet my last dollar you can. You're akind of a gentleman yourself, John."
"Thanks," said John, grinning a dry grin.
"Yes," reminiscently, with great satisfaction, "Malcolm made theproposition to me, hit me with it so sudden it nearly took my breath.'Marry him to your Joan when you make a man of him,' he says. I saidmaybe he wouldn't want to hitch up with a sheepman's daughter that wasbrought up on the range. 'If he don't he can go to work and make hisown way--I'll not leave him a dam' cent!' says Malcolm. We shook handson it; he said he'd put it in his will. And that's cinched so it can'tslip."
When Tim mounted to leave he looked round the range again with adrawing of trouble in his face, as if he searched the peacefullandscape for the shadow of wings.
"I ain't got another sheep-wagon to give you right now, John; I guessyou'll have to make out with a tent till winter," he said.
"I'd rather have it," Mackenzie replied.
Tim leaned over, hand to one side of his mouth, speaking in low voice,yet not whispering:
"And remember what I said about that matter, John. Stuff, but don'tfounder."
"Stuff," said John, but with an inflection that gave the word adifferent meaning, quite.