CHAPTER XI
A TOUCH OF LOCAL COLOR
A few months before her first meeting with Ferguson, Mary Radford hadcome West with the avowed purpose of "absorbing enough local color fora Western novel." Friends in the East had encouraged her; an uncle(her only remaining relative, beside her brother) had assisted her. Soshe had come.
The uncle (under whose care she had been since the death of her mother,ten years before) had sent her to a medical college, determined to makeher a finished physician. But Destiny had stepped in. Quite byaccident Miss Radford had discovered that she could write, and theuncle's hope that she might one day grace the medical profession hadgone glimmering--completely buried under a mass of experimentalmanuscript.
He professed to have still a ray of hope until after several of themagazines had accepted Mary's work. Then hope died and was succeededby silent acquiescence and patient resignation. Having a knowledge ofhuman nature far beyond that possessed by the average person, the unclehad realized that if Mary's inclination led to literature it was worsethan useless to attempt to interest her in any other profession.Therefore, when she had announced her intention of going West he hadinterposed no objection; on the contrary had urged her to the venture.What might have been his attitude had not Ben Radford been already inthe West is problematical. Very seldom do we decide a thing until itconfronts us.
Mary Radford had been surprised at the West. From Ben's cabin in theflat she had made her first communion with this new world that she hadworshipped at first sight. It was as though she had stepped out of anold world into one that was just experiencing the dawn of creation'sfirst morning. At least so it had seemed to her on the morning she hadfirst stepped outside her brother's cabin to view her first sunrise.
She had breathed the sweet, moisture-laden breezes that had seemed toalmost steal over the flat where she had stood watching the shadowsyield to the coming sun. The somber hills had become slowly outlined;the snow caps of the distant mountain peaks glinted with the brilliantshafts that struck them and reflected into the dark recesses below.Nature was king here and showed its power in a mysterious, thoughconvincing manner.
In the evening there would come a change. Through rifts in themountains descended the sun, spreading an effulgent expanse of yellowlight--like burnished gold. In the shadows were reflected numerouscolors, all quietly blended, making contrasts of perfect harmony.There were the sinuous buttes that bordered the opposite shore of theriver--solemn sentinels guarding the beauty and purity of this virginland. Near her were sloping hills, dotted with thorny cactus and otherprickly plants, and now rose a bald rock spire with its suggestion ofgrim lonesomeness. In the southern and eastern distances were theplains, silent, vast, unending. It seemed she had come to dwell in aland deserted by some cyclopean race. Its magnificent, unchangingbeauty had enthralled her.
She had not lacked company. She found that the Two Diamond puncherswere eager to gain her friendship. Marvelous excuses were invented fortheir appearance at the cabin in the flat. She thought that Ben'sfriendship was valued above that of all other persons in thesurrounding country.
But she found the punchers gentlemen. Though their conversation wasunique and their idioms picturesque, they compared favorably with themen she had known in the East. Did they lack the subtleties, they madeup for this by their unfailing deference. And they were never rude;their very bashfulness prevented that.
Through them she came to know much of many things. They contrived toacquaint her with the secretive peculiarities of the prairie dog,and--when she would listen with more than ordinary attention--theywould loose their wonderful imaginations in the hope of continuing theconversation. Then it was that the subject under discussion wouldreceive exhaustive, and altogether unnecessary, elucidation. Thehabits of the prairie-dog were not alone betrayed to the ears of theyoung lady. The sage-fowl's inherent weaknesses were paraded beforeher; the hoot of the owl was imitated with ludicrous solemnity; otherfowl were described with wonderful attention to detail; and theinevitable rattlesnake was pointed out to her as a serpent whose chiefoccupation in life was that of posing in the shadow of the sage-brushas a target for the revolver of the cowpuncher.
The quaintness of the cowboy speech, his incomparable bashfulness,amused her, while she was strangely affected by his earnestness. Sheattended to the chickens and immediately her visitors became interestedin them and fell to discussing them as though they had done nothing alltheir days but build hen-houses and runways. But she had them onbotany. The flower beds were deep, unfathomable mysteries to them, andthey stood afar while she cultivated the more difficult plants andencouraged the hardier to increased beauty.
But she had not been content to view this land of mystery from herbrother's cabin. The dignity of nature had cast its thrall upon her.She was impressed with the sublimity of the climate, the wonderfulsunshine, the crystal light of the days and the quiet peace and beautyof the nights. The lure of the plains had taken her upon long rides,and the cottonwood, filling a goodly portion of the flat, was the sceneof many of her explorations.
The pony with which her brother had provided her was--Ben Radforddeclared--a shining example of sterling horse-honesty. She did notknow that Ben knew horses quite as well as he knew men or she would nothave allowed him to see the skeptical glance she had thrown over thedrowsy-eyed beast that he saddled for her. But she was overjoyed atfinding the pony all that her brother had said of it. The littleanimal was tireless, and often, after a trip over the plains, or to DryBottom to mail a letter, she would return by a roundabout trail.
Meanwhile the novel still remained unwritten. Perhaps she had not yet"absorbed" the "local color"; perhaps inspiration was tardy. At allevents she had not written a word. But she was beginning to realizethe possibilities; deep in her soul something was moving that wouldpresently flow from her pen.
It would not be commonplace--that she knew. Real people would moveamong the pages of her book; real deeds would be done. And as the dayspassed she decided. She would write herself into her book; there wouldbe the first real character. The story would revolve about her andanother character--a male one--upon whom she had not decided--until theappearance of Ferguson. After he had come she was no longerundecided--she would make him the hero of her story.
The villain she had already met--in Leviatt. Something about this manwas repellant. She already had a description of him in the note bookthat she always carried. Had Leviatt read the things she had writtenof him he would have discontinued his visits to the cabin.
Several of the Two Diamond punchers, also, were noted as being possiblesecondary characters. She had found them very amusing. But the herowould be the one character to whom she would devote the concentratedeffort of her mind. She would make him live in the pages; a real,forceful magnetic human being that the reader would instantly admire.She would bare his soul to the reader; she would reveal his mentalprocesses--not involved, but leading straight and true to----
But would she? Had she not so far discovered a certain craftiness inthe character of the Two Diamond stray-man that would indicate subtletyof thought?
This knowledge had been growing gradually upon her since their secondmeeting, and it had become an obstacle that promised difficulties. Ofcourse she could make Ferguson talk and act as she pleased--in thebook. But if she wanted a real character she would have to portray himas he was. To do this would require study. Serious study of anycharacter would inspire faithful delineation.
She gave much thought to him now, keeping this purpose in view. Shequestioned Ben concerning him, but was unable to gain satisfyinginformation. He had been hired by Stafford, her brother told her,holding the position of stray-man.
"I've seen him once, down the other side of the cottonwood," the youngman had said. "He ain't saying much to anyone. Seems to be a quietsort--and deep. Pretty good sort though."
She was pleased over Ben's brief estimate of the stray-man. Itvindicated her judgment. Besid
es, it showed that her brother was notaverse to friendship with him.
Leviatt she saw with her brother often, and occasionally he came to thecabin. His attitude toward her was one of frank admiration, but he hadreceived no encouragement. How could he know that he was going to bethe villain in her book--soon to be written?
Shall we take a peep into that mysterious note book? Yes, for later weshall see much of it.
"Dave Leviatt," she had written in one place. "Age thirty-five. Tall,slender; walks with a slight stoop. One rather gets the impressionthat the stoop is a reflection of the man's nature, which seemsvindictive and suggests a low cunning. His eyes are small, deep set,and glitter when he talks. But they are steady, and cold--almostmerciless. One's thoughts go instantly to the tiger. I shall try tocreate that impression in the reader's mind."
In another place she had jotted this down: "I shouldn't want anyonekilled in my book, but if I find this to be necessary Leviatt must dothe murder. But I think it would be better to have him employ someother person to do it for him; that would give him just the characterthat would fit him best. I want to make him seem too cowardly--no, notcowardly, because I don't think he is a coward: but too cunning--totake chances of being caught."
Evidently she had been questioning Ben, for in another place she hadwritten:
"Ferguson. I must remember this--all cowboys do not carry two guns.Ben does, because he says he is ambidextrous, shooting equally wellwith either hand. But he does not tie the bottoms of his holstersdown, like Ferguson; he says some men do this, but usually they are menwho are exceptionally rapid in getting their revolvers out and thattying down the bottoms of the holsters facilitates removing theweapons. They are accounted to be dangerous men.
"Ben says when a man is quick to shoot out here he is called a gun-man,and that if he carries two revolvers he is a two-gun man. Ben laughsat me when I speak of a 'revolver'; they are known merely as 'guns' outhere. I must remember this. Ben says that though he likes Fergusonquite well, he is rather suspicious of him. He seems to be unable tounderstand why Stafford should employ a two-gun man to look up straycows."
Below this appeared a brief reference to Ferguson.
"He is not a bit conceited--rather bashful, I should say. Butembarrassment in him is attractive. No hero should be conceited.There is a wide difference between impertinence and frankness.Ferguson seems to speak frankly, but with a subtle shade. I think thisis a very agreeable trait for a hero in a novel."
There followed more interesting scraps concerning Leviatt, which wouldhave caused the range boss many bad moments. And there wereinteresting bits of description--jotted down when she became impressedwith a particularly odd view of the country. But there were no morereferences to Ferguson. He--being the hero of her novel--must bestudied thoroughly.