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CARRINGTON LAUGHED JEERINGLY. (Page 268)]
THE RANCHMAN
BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
AUTHOR OF THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y, FIREBRAND TREVISON, THE RANGE BOSS, ETC.
FRONTISPIECE BY P. V. E. IVORY NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1919
Published September, 1919
_Copyrighted in Great Britain_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I Concerning Dawes 1 II Slick Duds 14 III The Serpent Trail 20 IV The Hold-Up 26 V The Unexpected 36 VI A Man Makes Plans 51 VII The Shadow of the Past 59 VIII Concerning "Squint" 66 IX A Man Lies 75 X The Frame-Up 86 XI "No Fun Fooling Her" 91 XII Lifting the Mask 106 XIII The Shadow of Trouble 113 XIV The Face of a Fighter 128 XV Gloom--and Plans 142 XVI A Man Becomes a Brute 153 XVII The Wrong Ankle 172 XVIII The Beast Again 186 XIX The Ambush 193 XX A Fight to a Finish 200 XXI A Man Faces Death 212 XXII Looking for Trouble 218 XXIII A World-Old Longing 225 XXIV A Death Warrant 232 XXV Keats Looks for "Squint" 238 XXVI Keats Finds "Squint" 245 XXVII Besieged 254 XXXIII The Fugitive 259 XXIX The Captive 264 XXX Parsons Has Human Instincts 270 XXXI A Rescue 277 XXXII Taylor Becomes Riled 284 XXXIII Retribution 290 XXXIV The Will of the Mob 304 XXXV Triumph at Last 315
THE RANCHMAN
CHAPTER I--CONCERNING DAWES
The air in the Pullman was hot and, despite the mechanical contrivancesbuilt into the coach to prevent such a contingency, the dust from theright-of-way persisted in filtering through crevices.
Even the electric fans futilely combated the heat; their droning humbespoke terrific revolutions which did not materially lessen thediscomfort of the occupants of the coach; and the dry, dead dust of thedesert, the glare of a white-hot sun, the continuing panorama of wasteland, rolling past the car windows, afforded not one cool vista toassuage the torture of travel.
For hours after leaving Kansas City, several of the passengers haddiligently gazed out of the windows. But when they had passed the vastgrass plains and had entered the desert, where their eyes met nothingbut endless stretches of feathery alkali dust, beds of dead lava, andclumps of cacti with thorny spire and spatula blade defiantly upthrustas though in mockery of all life--the passengers drew the shades andsettled down in their seats to endure the discomfort of it all.
A _blase_ tourist forward reclined in one seat and rested his legs onanother. From under the peak of a cap pulled well down over his eyes hesmiled cynically at his fellow-passengers, noting the variousmanifestations of their discomfort. The tourist was a transcontinentaltraveler of note and he had few expectations. It amused him to watchthose who had.
A girl of about twenty, seated midway in the coach to the left of thetourist, had been an intent watcher of the desert. With the covert eyeof the tourist upon her she stiffened, stared sharply out of the window,then drew back, shuddering, a queer pallor on her face.
"She's seen something unpleasant," mused the tourist. "A heap ofbleached bones--which would be the skeleton of a steer; or arattlesnake--or most anything. She's got nerves."
_One_ passenger in the car had no nerves--of that the tourist wasconvinced. The tourist had observed him closely, and the tourist was ajudge of men. The nerveless one was a young man who sat in a rear seatstaring intently out into the inferno of heat and sand, apparentlyabsorbed in his thoughts and unaware of any physical discomfort.
"Young--about twenty-seven or twenty-eight--maybe thirty," mused thetourist; "but an old-timer in this country. I wised up to him when hegot aboard at Kansas City. Been a miner in his time--or a cow-puncher.I'd hate to cross him."
Among the other passengers were two who attracted the attention of thetourist. They occupied the seat in front of the young man.
One of the two, who sat nearest the window, was not much older than theyoung man occupying the seat behind him. The tourist guessed his age tobe around thirty-five or thirty-six. He was big, almost massive, and hadlived well--as the slightly corpulent stomach revealed. Despite that,however, he was in good physical condition, for his cheeks glowed withgood healthy color under the blue-black sheen of his fresh-shaved beard;there was a snapping twinkle in his black eyes, which were penetratingand steady; and there was a quiet confidence in his manner which toldthat he knew and appreciated himself. He was handsome in a heavy,sensuous fashion, and his coal-black hair, close-cropped and wavy, gavehim an appearance of virility and importance that demanded a secondlook. The man seated beside him was undersized and ordinary-looking,with straight, iron-gray hair and a look of having taken orders all hislife. The tourist set his age at fifty-five.
The girl was of the type that the tourist admired. He had seen her kindin the far corners of the world, on the thronged streets of cosmopolitancities, in isolated sections of the world--the self-reliant, quietlyconfident American girl whose straight-in-the-eye glance always made aman feel impelled to respectfully remove his hat.
She was not beautiful, but she was undeniably good-looking. She wasalmost tall, and the ease and grace of her movements sufficed to conveyto the tourist some conception of the symmetrical lines of her figure.If her features had been more regular, the girl would have been plain;but there was a slight uptilt to her nose that hinted of piquancy,denied by the quiet, steady eyes.
A brown mass of hair, which she had twisted into bulging coils andglistening waves, made the tourist wonder over her taste in thatfeminine art.
"She knows what becomes her," he decided.
He knew the two men seated in front of the young man were traveling withher, for he had seen them together, with the older man patting hershoulder affectionately. But often she left them with their talk, whichdid not seem to interest her, while she withdrew to a distant seat toread or to gaze out of the window.
She had not seemed to notice either the man of colorless personality orthe young man who occupied the seat behind her friends. If she hadglanced at them at all it was with that impersonal interest one feels inthe average traveler one meets anywh
ere.
But long ago--which, to be strictly accurate, was when he had enteredthe coach at Kansas City--Quinton Taylor had been interested in her. Hewas content, though, to conceal that interest, and not once when shechanced to look toward him did she catch him looking at her.
Taylor knew he was no man to excite the interest of women, not even whenhe looked his best. And he knew that in his present raiment he did notlook his best. He was highly uncomfortable.
For one thing, the white, starched collar he wore irritated him, chokedhim, reddening his face and bulging his eyes. The starched shirt had apernicious habit of tightly sticking to him, the seams chafing his skin.
The ready-made suit he had bought at Kansas City was too small, and hecould feel his shoulders bulging through the arms of the coat, while thetrousers--at the hips and the knees--were stretched until he feared thecloth would not stand the strain.
The shoes were tight, and the derby hat--he glowered humorously at it inthe rack above his head and gazed longingly at the suitcase at his feet,into which he had crammed the clothing he had discarded and which he hadreplaced at the suggestion of his banker in Kansas City. Cowboy riggingwas not uncommon to Kansas City, the banker had told him, butstill--well, if a man was wealthy, and wished to make an impression, itmight be wise to make the change.
Not in years had Taylor worn civilized clothing, and he was fullydetermined that before reaching his home town he would resume theclothing to which he was accustomed--and throw the new duds out of awindow. He reddened over an imaginary picture of himself descending fromthe train in his newly acquired rigging to endure the humorous commentsof his friends. Old Ben Mullarky, for instance, would think he had goneloco--and would tell him so. Yes, the new clothes were doomed; someragged overland specimen of the genus "hobo" would probably find themor, if not, they would clutter up the right-of-way as the sad memento ofa mistake he had made during a fit of momentary weakness.
As a matter of fact the girl had noticed Taylor. A girl will notice men,unconsciously. Sitting at her window even now, she was thinking of him.
She was not aware that she had studied him, or that she had even glancedat him. But despite her lack of interest in him she had a picture of himin mind, and her thoughts dwelt upon him.
She, too, had been aware that Taylor's clothes did not fit him. She hadnoticed the bulging shoulders, the tight trousers, the shoes, squeakingwith newness, when once he had passed through the car to go out upon theplatform. She had noticed him screwing his neck around in the collar;she had seen him hunch his shoulders intolerantly; she had seen that thetrousers were too short; that he looked like an awkward farmer orhomesteader abroad on a pleasure trip, and decidedly uncomfortable inthe unaccustomed attire.
She had giggled to herself, then. For Taylor did make a ridiculousfigure. But later--when he had reentered the car and she had lookedfairly, though swiftly, at him as he advanced down the aisle--she hadseen something about him that had impressed her. And that was what shewas thinking about now. It was his face, she believed. It was red withself-consciousness and embarrassment, but she had seen and noted thestrength of it--the lean, muscular jaw, the square, projecting chin, thefirm, well-controlled mouth; the steady, steel-blue eyes, the broadforehead. It had seemed to her that he was humorously aware of theclothes, but that he was grimly determined to brazen the thing out.
Her mental picture now gave her the entire view of Taylor as he had cometoward her. And she could see him in a different environment, in cowboyregalia, on a horse, perfectly at ease. He made a heroic figure. So realwas the picture that she caught herself saying: "Clothes _do_ make theman!" And then she smiled at her enthusiasm and looked out of thewindow.
Taylor had been thinking of her with the natural curiosity of the manwho knows he has no chance and is not looking for one. But she hadimpressed him as resembling someone with whom he had been wellacquainted. For an hour he puzzled his brain in an endeavor to associatehers with some face of his recollection, but elusive memory resisted hisdemands on it with the result that he gave it up and leaned back asrestfully as he could with the consciousness of the physical torture hewas undergoing.
And then he heard the younger of the two men in front of him speak tothe other:
"We'll make things hum in Dawes, once we get hold of the reins."
"But there will be obstacles, Carrington."
"Sure! Obstacles! Of course. That will make the thing all the moreenjoyable."
There was a ring in Carrington's voice that struck a chord of suddenantagonism in Taylor, a note of cunning that acted upon Taylorinstantly, as though the man had twanged discord somewhere in hisnature.
Dawes was Taylor's home; he had extensive and varied interests there; hehad been largely responsible for Dawes's growth and development; he hadfought for the town and the interests of the town's citizens against theaggressions of the railroad company and a grasping land company that hadsucceeded in clouding the titles to every foot of land owned by Dawes'scitizens--his own included.
And he had heard rumors of outside interests that were trying to gain afoothold in Dawes. He had paid little attention to these rumors, for heknew that capital was always trying to drive wedges that would admit itto the golden opportunities afforded by new towns, and he had ascribedthe rumors to idle gossip, being aware that such things are talked of byirresponsibles.
But the words, "Get hold of the reins," had a sound of craft andplotting. And there was something in Carrington's manner and appearancethat suggested guile and smooth cunning. Seething with interest, Taylorclosed his eyes and leaned his head back upon the cushion behind him,simulating sleep.
He felt Carrington turn; he could feel the man's eyes on him, and heknew that Carrington was speculating over him.
He heard the other man whisper, though he could not catch the words.However, he heard Carrington's answer:
"Don't be uneasy--I'm not 'spilling' anything. _He_ wouldn't know thedifference if I did. A homesteader hitting town for the first time in ayear, probably. Did you notice him? Lord, what an outfit!"
He laughed discordantly, resuming in a whisper which carried to Taylor:
"As I was saying, we'll make things hum. The good folks in Dawes don'tknow it, but we've been framing them for quite a spell--been feedingthem Danforth. You don't know Danforth, eh? He's quite a hit with theserubes. Knows how to smear the soft stuff over them. He's what we call a'mixer' back in Chicago. Been in Dawes for about a year, working in thedark. Been going strong during the past few months. Running for mayornow--election is today. It'll be over by the time we get there. He'llwin, of course; he wired me it was a cinch. Cost a lot, though, but it'sworth it. We'll own Dawes before we get through!"
It was with an effort that Taylor kept his eyes closed. He heard nothingfurther, for the man's voice had dropped lower and Taylor could not hearit above the roar of the train.
Still, he had heard enough to convince him that Carrington had designson the future welfare of Dawes, and his muscles swelled until thetight-fitting coat was in dire danger of bursting.
Danforth he knew slightly. He had always disliked and distrusted theman. He remembered Danforth's public _debut_ to the people of Dawes. Ithad been on the occasion of Dawes's first anniversary and somepublic-spirited citizens had decided upon a celebration. They hadselected Danforth as the speaker of the day because of hiseloquence--for Danforth had seized every opportunity to publicly air hisvigorous voice, and Taylor had been compelled to acknowledge thatDanforth was a forceful and able speaker.
Thereafter, Danforth's voice often found the public ear. He was alawyer, and the sign he had erected over the front of the frame buildingadjoining the courthouse was as magnificent as Danforth was eloquent.
But though Taylor had distrusted Danforth, he had found noevidence--until now--that the lawyer intended to betray hisfellow-citizens. Before leaving Dawes the week before he had heard sometalk, linking Danforth's name with politics, but he had discredited thetalk. His own selection had been Neil Norton
, and he had asked hisfriends to consider Norton.
Taylor listened intently, with the hope of hearing more of theconversation being carried on between the two men in front of him. Buthe heard no more on the subject broached by Carrington. Later, however,his eyes still closed, still pretending to be asleep, he saw throughveiled eyelids the girl rise from her seat and come toward the two menin front of him.
For the first time he got a clear, full view of her face and a deep,disturbing emotion thrilled him. For now, looking fairly at her, he wasmore than ever convinced that he had seen her before, or that herresemblance to someone he had known was more startling than he hadthought.
Then he heard Carrington speak to her.
"Getting tired, Miss Harlan?" said Carrington. "Well, it will soon beended, now. One more night on the train--and then Dawes."
The older man laughed, and touched the girl's arm playfully. "You don'tmind it, do you, Marion?"
The older man said more, but Taylor did not hear him. For at his mentionof the girl's given name, so soon after Carrington's pronouncement of"Harlan," Taylor's eyes popped open, and he sat erect, staring straightat the girl.
Whether her gaze had been drawn by his, or whether her woman's curiosityhad moved her to look at him, Taylor never knew. But she met his widegaze fairly, and returned his stare with one equally wide. Only, he wascertain, there was a glint of mocking accusation in her eyes--to remindhim, he supposed, that she had caught him eavesdropping.
And then she smiled, looking at Carrington.
"One is recompensed for the inconveniences of travel by the interestingcharacters one chances to meet."
And she found opportunity, with Carrington looking full at her, to throwa swift, significant glance at Taylor.
Taylor flushed scarlet. Not, however, because of any embarrassment hefelt over her words, but because at that instant was borneoverwhelmingly upon him the knowledge that the girl, and the man,Carrington, who accompanied her--even the older man--were persons withwhom Fate had insisted that he play--or fight. They were to choose. Andthat they had chosen to fight was apparent by the girl's glance, and byCarrington's words, "We'll own Dawes before we get through."
Taylor got up and went to the smoking-room, where he sat for a longtime, staring out of the window, his eyes on the vast sea of sagebrushthat stretched before him, his mental vision fixed on an earlier day andupon a tragedy that was linked with the three persons in the coach--whoseemed desirous of antagonizing him.