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THE LAND OF FROZEN SUNS
A Novel
BY
BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR
Author of "Raw Gold," Etc.
Copyright 1909, BYSTREET & SMITH.
Copyright, 1910, BYG. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.
The Land of Frozen Suns.
Made in U. S. A.
Contents
- CHAPTER I--THE GENESIS OF TROUBLE - CHAPTER II--BY WAY OF THE "NEW MOON" - CHAPTER III--WHICH SHOWS THAT THE WORM DOES NOT ALWAYS TURN - CHAPTER IV--A FORTHRIGHT FIGHTING-MAN - CHAPTER V--THE RELATIVE MERITS OF THE FRYING-PAN AND THE FIRE - CHAPTER VI--SLOWFOOT GEORGE - CHAPTER VII--THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL - CHAPTER VIII--BY WAYS THAT WERE DARK - CHAPTER IX--MR. MONTELL - CHAPTER X--"THERE'S MONEY IN IT" - CHAPTER XI--A TRICK OF THE "TRADE." - CHAPTER XII--THE FIRST MOVE - CHAPTER XIII--A FORETASTE OF STRONG MEASURES - CHAPTER XIV--INTEREST ON A DEBT - CHAPTER XV--STRANGERS TWAIN - CHAPTER XVI--CLAWS UNSHEATHED - CHAPTER XVII--NINE POINTS OF THE LAW - CHAPTER XVIII--THE LONG ARM OF THE COMPANY - CHAPTER XIX--THE STRENGTH OF MEN--AND THEIR WEAKNESS
CHAPTER I--THE GENESIS OF TROUBLE
Who was it, I wonder, made that sagacious remark about the road to hellbeing paved with good intentions? He might have added an amendment tothe effect that there's always a plentiful supply of material for thatmuch travelled highway. We all contribute, more or less. I know I havedone so. And so did my people before me. My father's intentions weregood, but he didn't live long enough to carry them out. If he hadn'tfallen a victim to an inborn streak of recklessness, a habit of takingchances,--well, I can't say just how things would have panned out. I'mnot fatalist enough to believe that we crawl or run or soar through ourallotted span of years according to some prearranged scheme which we arepowerless to modify. Oh, no! It's highly probable, however, that if myfather and mother had lived I should have gone into some commercialpursuit or taken up one of the professions. Either way, I should likelyhave pegged along in an uneventful sort of way to the end of thechapter--lots of men do. Not that I would have taken with enthusiasm tochasing the nimble dollar for the pure love of catching it, but becauseI was slated for something of the sort, and as the twig is bent so isthe tree inclined; a man can't sit down and twiddle his thumbs andrefuse to perform any useful act, because there is no glory in it. Theheroic age has gone a-glimmering down the corridors of time.
As it happened, my feet were set in other paths by force ofcircumstances. Only for that the sage-brush country, the very placewhere I was born might have remained a terra incognita. I should alwayshave felt, though, that I'd missed something, for I was ushered intothis vale of tears at the Summer ranch on the Red River of the South.Sumner _here_ hadn't developed into a cow monarch those days, but he wason the way. My earliest impressions were all of log and 'dobe buildings,_of long-horned cattle_, of wild, shaggy-maned horses, and of wilder menwho rode the one and drove the other in masterly fashion. For landscapethere was rolling prairie, and more rolling prairie beyond; and here andthere the eternal brown of it was broken by gray sage-grown flats andstretches of greasewood--as if Nature had made a feeble effort to breakthe monotony. I knew only this until I was big enough to tease for apony. I cannot remember seeing a town when I was small. The world to mewas a place of great plains, very still, and hot, and dry, a huddle ofcabins, and corrals, and a little way to the south Red River slinkingover its quicksands--except in time of storm; then it raged.
So that when my father bundled mother and myself off to a place calledSt. Louis, where great squadrons of houses stood in geometricalarrangement over a vast area, I had already begun to look upon thingswith the eyes of cattleland. I recollect that when we were settled in aroomy, old-fashioned house I cried because my mother would not let me goout to the corral and play.
"There are no corrals in a city, dear," she explained--and I cried theharder. I could conceive of no joy in a place where I could not go outto the corrals and have some brown-faced cowpuncher hoist me up on agentle horse and let me hold the reins while the pony moved sedatelyabout.
Left to himself, I think my father would have made a cowman of me, butmother had known the range when it was a place to try the nerves ofstrong men, and she hated it. I didn't know till I was nearly grown thatshe had made dad promise when I was born that if the cattle made moneyfor us, I should never know the plains. She came of an old Southernfamily, and her life had been a sheltered one till she met and marriedJack Sumner. And she would have had me walk in pleasant places, as themen of her family had done--doctors, lawyers, planters, and such. Thelife was too hard, too much of an elemental struggle, she said--and Iwas to be saved some of the knocks that my dad had taken in thestruggling years. Poor mother mine--her son was the son of his father,I'm afraid. But Sumner _pere_ made good on his promise when the Sumnerherds fattened his bank account sufficiently; and I gyrated throughschool, with college and a yet-to-be-determined career looming on thehorizon.
So my childish memories of the great open, that lies naked to thesun-glare and the chilling breath of the _northers_ year on year, grewfainter and more like something of which I had dreamed. Dad would comehome occasionally, stay a day or two, perhaps a week, sometimes even amonth; but my mother never went west of the Mississippi--nor did I. Ioften plagued them to let me go to the ranch during vacation, but theyevidently considered it best to keep me away from the round-ups andhorse-breaking and such, till I was old enough to see that there wasanother side to the life besides the sunshiny, carefree one that makesan irresistible appeal to a youngster.
And then, just a week after my twentieth birthday, my dad, slow-voiced,easy-going old Jack Sumner rode his horse into the smiling Red anddrowned under the eyes of twenty men.
I was sitting on our front steps grouching about the heat when themessenger brushed by me with the telegram in his hand. Mother signed forit, and he ran down the steps whistling, and went about his business.There was no sound within. I had no hint of trouble, till a maidscreamed. Then, I rushed in. Mother was drooping over the arm of aMorris chair, and the bit of yellow paper lay on the rug where it hadfluttered from her hand. I carried her to a couch, and called a doctor.But he could do nothing. Her heart was weak, he said, and might havestopped any time; the shock had merely hastened her end.
I'm going to pass lightly over the week that followed. I was just a kid,remember, and I took it pretty hard. It was my first speakingacquaintance with death. A few of my mother's people came, and when itwas over with I went to Virginia with an uncle, a kindly, absent-minded,middle-aged bachelor. But I couldn't settle down. For a week or ten daysI fidgeted about the sleepy Southern village, and then I bade my unclean abrupt good-bye and started for St. Louis. Little as I knew ofbusiness and legal matters I was aware that now the Sumner herds andranches were mine, and I had a hankering to know where I stood. Exceptthat there was a ranch and cattle in Texas I knew nothing of my father'sbusiness. It didn't even occur to me, at first, that I was a minor andconsequently devoid of power to transact any business of importance. Iknew that certain property was rightfully mine, and that was all.
Once in St. Louis, however, I began to get the proper focus on mymaterial interests. It occurred to me that Sumner _pere_ had done moreor less business with a certain bank, a private concern engineered bytwo ultra-conservative citizens named Bolton and Kerr. I hunted them up,thinking that they would likely be able to tell me just what I needed toknow. And it happened that by luck I came in the nick of time. A clerktook in my card, and returned immediately for me. I found the seniormember, wrapping the bit of pasteboard around his forefinger when I wasushered in. We shook hands, and he motioned to
a chair. I asked forinformation, and I got it, straight from the shoulder. Bolton was veryeconomical in the use of words.
"Yes, I knew your father well. There is a sum of money to his account inthe bank. He died intestate," he told me bluntly. "In view of acommunication I have just received, you will have little to do with anyproperty until you are of age. The estate is now in the hands of anadministrator--appointed by a Texas court. The court will probably orderthat you be allowed a certain monthly sum until your majority."
"I see," said I thoughtfully; I hadn't considered that phase of it,although in a hazy way I knew something of the regular procedure. "Willour place here be managed by this administrator?"
"Very likely," Bolton returned. "He has served us with a court order forthe estate funds now in our hands. But you are legally entitled to theuse and occupancy of the family residence until such time as the estateis appraised and the inventory returned. After that the administratorhas discretionary power; he can make any disposition of the property,meanwhile making provision for your support."
"It seems to me," I hazarded, "that some relative should have beenappointed."
"Exactly," Bolton nodded. "They made no move, though. And this Texasperson acted at once: I dare say it's all right. However, you're aminor. Better have some responsible person appointed your guardian. Thenif there's any mismanagement, you can take court action to have itremedied. Frankly, I don't like the look of this haste to administer.May be all right; may be all wrong."
"See here," I burst out impulsively, for I had taken a sudden liking tothis short-spoken individual who talked to me with one foot on a deskand a half-smoked cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, "what's thematter with you becoming my guardian? None of my people seem to havethought of it. I'm sure we'd get along all right. It would be a merematter of form, anyway."
He smiled. My naive way of saddling myself upon him, along with a lot ofpossible responsibilities was doubtless amusing to a hard-headedfinancier like Bolton. I saw nothing out of the way in such anarrangement at the time. It struck me as a splendid idea, in fact. Buthe made allowance for my juvenile point of view. Shifting his cigar tothe other corner of his mouth he surveyed me critically for a fewseconds, crinkling his black brows thoughtfully.
"I'll do it," he finally assented. "The position ought to be a sinecure.Run in to-morrow morning at ten-thirty, and we'll step around to thecourthouse and have the thing legally executed. You're staying at theold place, I suppose?"
"I'm going to," I replied. "I haven't been at the house; I came straighthere from the train."
"Well, run along, son," he said good-naturedly. "I'd take you home to myfamily, only I don't happen to possess one. I live at the club--theArion--mostly."
"Oh, by the way," he called to me as I neared the door. "How are you offfor funds?"
"To tell the truth," I owned, rather shamefacedly, "I'm getting inpretty low water. I think I've some change at home, but I'm not sure.Dad never gave me a regular allowance; he'd just send me a check now andthen, and let it go at that. I'm afraid I'm a pretty good spender."
"You'll have to reform, young man," he warned, mock-seriously."Here"--he dug a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket-book--"that'll keepyou going for a while. I'll keep you in pocket money till thisadministrator allows you a monthly sum for maintenance. Don't forget thetime, now. Ten-thirty, sharp. Ta ta." And he hustled me out of theoffice in the midst of my thanks. I was thankful, too, for I'd put itmildly when I told him that I was getting near the rocks. I was on them.I'd paid my last cent for a meal on the train that morning. And while Idid feel tolerably sure of finding some loose silver in the pockets ofmy clothing at home, I knew it would not amount to more than four orfive dollars. Oh, I was an improvident youth, all right. The necessityfor being careful with money never struck me as being a matter ofimportance; I'd never had to do stunts in economy, that was the trouble.
From the bank I went straight home. We hadn't kept a very pretentiousestablishment, even though Sumner _pere_ had gone on increasing his pileall through the years since we'd moved to the city. A cook and ahouse-maid, a colored coachman and a gardener--the four of them had beenwith us for years, and old Adam was waiting by the steps for me when Icame up the walk, his shiny black face beaming welcome. I had to go tothe stable and look over the horses, and tell Adam that everything wasfine, before the old duffer would rest.
In the house everything was as I'd left it. All that evening I mopedaround the big, low-ceiled living-room. There was little comfort in theplace; it was too lonely. The hours dragged by on leaden feet. Icouldn't get over expecting to see mother come trailing quietly down thewide stairway, or dad walk in the front door packing a battered old gripand greeting me with his slow smile. I know it was silly, but thefeeling drove me out of the house and down town, where there was a crushof humans, and the glitter of street lights and the noise of traffic.There I met a chum or two, and subsequent proceedings tore a jagged holein Bolton's fifty dollar bill before I landed home in the little hours.Even then I couldn't sleep in that still, old house.
The long night came to an end, as nights have a habit of doing, andbreakfast time brought with it the postman. The mail was mostly papersand other uninteresting junk, but one missive, postmarked Amarillo,Texas, and addressed to myself I opened eagerly. It was from theadministrator, as I had surmised.
Most of the communication was taken up with an explanation of how hecame to jump into the breach so quickly. He had been, it seemed, a closefriend of my father's. He knew that Jack Sumner had a son who was notyet of age, and who, even if he were, knew little or nothing aboutstock. Things needed looking after, he said; my father's sudden deathhad left the business without a responsible head, and the ranch foremanand the range boss were bucking each other. Things were going to thedevil generally, so he felt called upon to step into the breach, seeingthat none of the Sumner family showed up to protect their interests. Iwouldn't be under any obligation to him, he frankly explained, for asadministrator he would be paid for what he was doing. He also statedthat if I felt that my affairs would be more capably managed in thehands of someone whom I knew better he would cheerfully turn overcontrol of the estate without any tiresome litigation. And he concludedhis letter with an urgent invitation to come down to headquarters andsee the wheels go round for myself. He signed himself in a big heavyhand, Jake Howey, and the signature gave me an impression of a bluff,hard-riding cowman--picturesque and thoroughly Western. If I had beenborn a girl I expect my disposition would have been termed romantic.Anyway, Mr. Jake Howey's letter made a hit with me.
When I went to keep my appointment with Bolton later in the forenoon Itook the letter with me. He glanced over it, and tucked it back in theenvelope.
"I don't much believe in long distance judgment of men," he declared,"but I'd be willing to take a chance on this Texas person. I should sayyou can expect a square deal from him--if this missive represents histrue personality."
"That's the way it struck me, too," I confessed. "I think I'd like to godown there for a while."
"Yes? What about school?" he put in.
"Well, I suppose it's necessary for me to go through college," Iadmitted. "Dad intended me to. I was to begin this coming schoolyear--September, isn't it? But that's nearly three months away. I wouldlike to see that Red River ranch. I was born there, you know."
"You'll have to cut your eye-teeth in the business sometime," he mused."You'll be less likely to get into mischief there than you will in town.Yes, I daresay you might as well take the trip. But no funking schoolthis fall, mind. I've known youngsters to go to the cattle country andstick there. Your father did."
"I won't," I promised, "even if I want to stay, I'll be ready to dig inwhen September comes."
"You'd better." He laughed at my earnestness. "Or I'll be down thereafter you. When do you propose to start?"
"As soon as I can." Having paved the way to go, I wanted, boy-fashion,to be on the way at once.
"Any idea how to get there?" he que
ried; as if he had his doubts aboutthe development of my bump of location.
But I had him there.
"Oh, yes. Dad used to take the train through Little Rock to Fort Worth,and on up into the Panhandle from there. Sometimes he took a steamerfrom here to Memphis. I think I'd like the river trip best."
"All right," he decided. "You shall go, my boy, just as soon as you canget ready. Now we'll see about this guardianship matter."
We saw about it in such wise that two days later I was the happypossessor of a ticket to Amarillo and a well-lined pocket-book. I haddinner with Bolton, and bade him good-bye quite cheerfully, for I felt agood deal as Columbus must have done when he turned the prow of hiscaravel away from Spanish shores. After leaving Bolton I went home aftera grip I'd forgotten. The river boat on which I'd taken passage was dueto leave at midnight.
And that midnight departure was what started one Bob Sumner up theTrouble Trail. It isn't known by that name; it doesn't show on any mapthat ever I saw; but the man who doesn't have to travel it some time inhis career--well, he's in luck. Or perhaps one should reason by thereverse process. I daresay it all depends on the point of view.