Andrew Bonning had tackled a man’s job—sawing wood. He had a notion to recommend to all college football coaches the unlimited possibilities in a bucksaw as an infallible test of an athlete’s stamina. The huge pile of driftwood that Andrew had snaked up from the river bottom showed little inroad for all his labors. It seemed to require hours to reduce one hardwood log to firewood.
As an occasional relief from this back-breaking labor, Andrew packed the sawn billets into his cabin. The long room was too big and the north wall did not keep out the wind. So he decided to stack wood solidly all the way across and up to the roof. This would serve a double purpose, first as a wind break, and secondly to furnish an ample supply of firewood for the winter season soon to come. Already he had learned to love a ruddy blaze in the open fireplace. What that would mean on bitter nights, when the gale howled along the eaves, he could well imagine. He must have a comfortable chair, a bright lamp, and plenty to read. He did not choose to spend all of his leisure hours in moodily staring into the embers.
Several times he had caught glimpses of Martha passing to and fro, on errands too obvious to deceive him, and the last time he had discreetly withdrawn into the cabin. When he went out again, he found her tugging at the bucksaw. She was wearing dungarees, top boots and a white blouse, and with her hair flying, she made a most distracting picture. He watched her, surprised to see that she was strong enough to pull the saw through the hardwood log. The extreme effort she had to put forth showed in the clench of her little brown hands, and the strain and bind of the slender figure. As she tired, the saw moved more slowly.
“Damn!” she ejaculated, giving up, quite out of breath.
“Vain oblations, Martha. You will never make a pioneer woman,” said Andrew.
“Who are you to talk?” she replied. “You’ve been at it for two whole days, yet I can’t see that you have accomplished very much.”
“Take a look inside.”
She did so, only to return and say: “Well, I guess you have worked. . . . Looks as if you meant to stay all winter.”
“All my life, Martha, if I am big enough to deserve it.”
She sat down upon a log and watched him for a while. There plainly was something on her mind.
“Andrew, what has got into Uncle Nick and Jim and Sue the last few days?”
He took care not to meet her questioning eyes and kept on sawing. “Well, it must be the contagion of my indomitable spirit. My nature not to give up. My unquenchable hope. My unabatable faith.”
“Honest injun, Andy? Are you really like that?” she asked, momentarily deceived.
“I wish to God I were.”
“But Uncle is really much better. He’s being almost cheerful. And as for Jim and Sue—they’re certainly up to something. I hear them whispering, laughing. Sue is packing a grip for Jim. He’s going some place. I asked him, but he put on an innocent air of surprise. What’s come over them?”
“Come to think of it, I have noticed a tendency to cheerfulness,” replied Andrew, resting an elbow on his saw.
“Tendency, my hat! They’re happy now, and they weren’t a week ago. . . . Andrew, this scarcely applies to you; I can see you are still feeling your customary grumpy self.”
“Me? Oh, sure. I can’t be any other way.”
“I could forgive Jim and Sue, but never you,” she said darkly.
“Forgive? What on earth for?”
“I don’t know. But if there was any tiny little hope for us—and you knew about it and kept it from me I—I’d hate you even more than I already do.”
“There is always hope for good people.”
“Good people don’t need hope. It’s bad people, like me—and you.”
Andrew shook his head and went on sawing. Martha would find out sooner or later. He sawed through the log. Martha picked up the blocks and carried it into the cabin. She remained a considerable while. Upon her return she said: “That’s really a lovely big room. If you fixed it up, it’d be simply darling.”
“I like it the way it is now.”
“But it’s so bare. You ought to clean it, stain the logs, hang curtains instead of bony old horns, put in some nice solid furniture and rugs. Oh, I could make it cosy and warm and bright.”
“I dare say you could—for some girl. But unfortunately for me there is no girl. I’ll make out somehow with my pet squirrels.”
“You might send for Connie,” she said mischievously, but as he ignored her remark she went on: “Are the squirrels really pets?”
“Yes. They run over my bed.”
“Excuse me! I’ll bet you have mice and snakes, too. Primitive stuff! You are a kind of a cave man, at that, aren’t you Andrew?”
“I believe I reacted to some such instinct once with you. . . . Once was enough.”
“Why?”
Andrew declined to answer. The girl was an enigma. Nevertheless, how much better this mood of hers than one of indifference or of hostility! He would not distrust her again, be she as infinitely various as the winds. He was beginning to have another and most disturbing suspicion, and it was that this mood of hers was a sincere one.
“Are you going to work all day?” she asked petulantly.
“Certainly I am.”
“But you don’t get paid for it. . . . I should think you’d want to loaf a little.”
“Work is my one salvation.”
“Oh! you confess then to being a sinner? . . . Gives me a kind of sisterly regard for you.”
“Martha, I never knew what work really was until I got out West. It’s great,” he said, and spread out his big, strong, brown hands for her to see.
“What kind of work did you do after leaving college?” she asked curiously.
“I tried office work.”
“I’ll bet you were no shining success.”
“Certainly I was a complete failure.”
“I worked in an office for almost two years, and went to the university besides,” she said casually.
“Indeed? Tell me about it.”
“You’d be interested only in the formals, and the boys who were chasing me for dates between times. And there were hardly enough kicks in that to intrigue you.”
“Kicks! I wonder where I heard that expression before?”
“This conversation is getting nowhere fast,” she said, getting up. “You just saw wood and say nothing—at least nothing intelligent.”
Andrew rested on his saw and ventured to look at her.
“Martha, why all this preamble?”
“Andrew, will you drive me into town?” she asked.
“Can’t you go with Jim and Sue?”
“Uncle is going with them. They’ll have the car full. Besides, I can’t stand Jim’s driving.”
“Take my car. I guess it’ll hold together for another trip.”
“You won’t drive me, even when I ask you as a favor?”
“But I have so much work to do. The ranch ought not be left completely alone. And—”
“Please, Andrew?”
“Well, all right, if you insist.”
“Thanks,” she cried eagerly. “The Earnshaw girls are giving a party tonight and I’d like to go. They’re nice. . . . Will you take me, Andrew?”
Taken quite by surprise, he dropped the bucksaw, and while stooping to recover it he asked: “Why do you ask me—when you’ve a dozen admirers who would jump at the chance?”
“They’ve overdone the jumping, Andy,” she returned, averting her eyes. “Same as I overdid—my fun. . . . I don’t see why you and I can’t be friends. Platonic friends, you know.”
“There is no such thing as Platonic friendship. . . . Besides you are forgetting that you hate me.”
“I—I don’t exactly hate you now, Andrew. Of course, I don’t love you—but—”
“Listen. Will you please stop harping on that? I know you don’t love me. You told me. And once was enough.”
“All right. All right. But, will you take me?” she pleaded, coming close to him.
“Very well, Martha, I’ll be glad to escort you if you really want me to. When do you wish to go into town?”
“Right away,” she said, glad-eyed and eager again. “Andrew, you’re really awfully nice. You’re so dependable. I was rather afraid to ask you. I wish you—you—that you could look on me as a—a sister. Then it’d be so—so nice to have a—a brother to ask favors of, without his wanting to marry me or something for my pains.”
“Well, Martha Ann, even though I can’t qualify as a brother, I can try to be agreeable.”
“Oh, Andy, I’m truly sorry I can’t love you the way you want me to,” she said, and her voice sounded sad. Then she stopped. “There I go again. I’m the limit! But it’s all the fault of you men. You never seem satisfied just to be friends. . . . I’ll rustle and get ready while you get out of those overalls. I’ve a new dress, a lovely blue. Bought the goods and made it myself. Out of the money you paid me back! . . . But I’ll have to shop a little today. You can pick me up at Glemms’ before supper. I don’t want to stay there. You can take me to that Mexican café where they have such delicious fried chicken. Then we’ll go to the movies—there’s a Western—and after that I can dress for the party. Is that all right?”
“I am entirely at your disposal,” he replied, with an exaggerated bow.
“Still you’re not smiling. Won’t you get even a little kick out of it, Andy?”
“I suppose I will. Another jealous kick under the slats.”
“Andrew Bonning, if you love me—as you swear you do—and if you are with me you ought to make an effort to be happy whatever I am, do, feel or say,” she announced regally, with her head held high.
“My back’s too stiff, or I’d get down and kiss your feet,” he retorted. “I’m sure you’re razzing me. . . . The funny thing, Martha, is that I shall be glad to be with you—whatever you are, do, feel or say.” She saw that he was quite in earnest.
“Funny?” she asked with a doubtful smile, and suddenly reached out and gently touched his arm. “I love it when you’re being funny.” Then she ran toward the house, calling: “Rustle now. Get out your old bus.”
As it turned out, if either Martha or Andrew had had expectations of anything romantic taking place on the ride into town, they were disappointed. For the rancher, at the last minute, elected to ride with them, which meant that what was to have been a twosome laden with all sorts of possibilities became a sedate threesome.
Not improbably this bore upon the young lady’s mind, for after a while she stopped babbling and fell pensive.
“Andrew, let me drive,” she begged after they had gone a short distance. And once seated at the wheel she sped up the ancient car until Mr. Bligh first cautioned and then importuned her to slow down. As for the vehicle’s owner, he did not care how fast she drove; if they skidded over the bank into the river or wrapped the machine around a tree, at least he would be with her. To such a sad pass had love reduced him!
“I’ll get out at the Glemms’,” said Martha Ann, as they entered town. The car drew up in front of the Glemms’ and she gathered up a large parcel, her bag and hat, and received her jacket from Andrew. As she stepped down, she gave him one of those quick nods of her head which were always so disconcerting. “You’ll come for me about five?” she asked as seriously as if it were of very great importance to her.
“Okay. Unless I get pinched by my friend Slade,” replied Andrew.
“If you have to punish another of my admirers, won’t you please wait till tomorrow?” taunted Martha Ann.
“Miss Dixon, if I have to lick someone, it will be the first person wearing pants that I see with you,” he retorted.
“Andrew, you and Martha seem to be speaking to each other, at least,” remarked Bligh, dryly.
“Yes. It’s encouraging. . . . Where shall I drop you, boss?”
“Wal, I want to see Jim before I look up anybody, especially McCall. . . . Jim has got me all haywire with his hints and hunches.”
“Me, too. Has he given you any facts?”
“No, except that he is goin’ to Arizona in the hopes of raisin’ money for me. I didn’t take him too seriously at first. But I can see that he’s got somethin’ up his sleeve.”
“I’ll say he has. Trust him, Mr. Bligh. And no matter what McCall has up his sleeve, you discount it. I want to be with you today when you meet him.”
They went up one side of the street and down the other, at length locating Fenner on the outskirts of town near the stockyards. He was talking to a Westerner named Stanley, whom Andrew knew by sight. Stanley was proprietor of a shady poolroom and rooming quarters for cowboys. He also ran a feed store and livery stable in connection with a large corral.
“Fenner, I can have the pick of them hosses hyar in ten days,” Stanley was saying, as Bonning followed Bligh out of the car.
“Jim, are you hoss-tradin’?” queried Bligh with a laugh. “Give me a minute. Then I’ll run along an’ you can—”
“Hell!” ejaculated Fenner, looking with sharp eyes beyond Bligh. “McCall! An’ it’s a safe bet he’s run you down.”
Andrew wheeled to see Sheriff Slade and a short wide-shouldered, large-headed man get out of a car. Andrew would not have recognized in the smug, coarse features the McCall he had spied upon that memorable night of his arrival in this town.
“Howdy, Bligh. Was on my way out to your ranch when someone said you had come in,” spoke up McCall sharply.
“How’d do,” returned the rancher curtly, and nodded to the sheriff. “Just as well, I was on my way to see you.”
“Good. We’ll settle this deal pronto,” said McCall, his light steely eyes glinting. “Come into Stan’s place here, where we can be alone.”
“Right here will do. An’ I’m not talkin’ any more business without a witness on my side. Fenner’s my foreman, an’ this is Andrew Bonnin’.”
“All right,” snarled McCall. “Are you goin’ to settle?”
“Not on the terms you stated.”
“There ain’t any other terms.”
“Then we’re stuck,” replied Bligh stubbornly, spreading his hands.
At this juncture Andrew heard a jingling, slow step behind him and felt a slap on the back. Texas Jack had evidently come out of the poolroom to join the group. The cowboy had been drinking, yet he appeared quite sober, but ugly. Face and hair flamed red.
“Howdy, all. I reckon I’ll jest have to butt in,” he drawled in his cool, slow way. But his usual geniality had given place to a reckless insolence. His piercing, blue eyes fell upon Slade and McCall with unmistakable intent.
“Hyar, puncher, watch yore step or I’ll run you in,” blusteringly interposed Slade.
“Sheriff, you cain’t arrest me for insistin’ on my money. Mac owes me plenty an’ I’m askin’ fer it now. Heah’s witnesses.”
Andrew could see in a flash that a startling revelation was about to ensue which could mean a change in the fortunes of everyone present. Texas had chosen an opportune moment for himself as well as for Bligh. Fenner’s nudge alerted Andrew. McCall eyed the cowboy with exasperation.
“I don’t owe you any money, Tex.”
“The hell you don’t!” shouted the cowboy, moving in a little. He was slow and easy. Slade regarded him uncertainly, but the little rancher manifestly had no doubts about his mastery of the situation.
“Bligh, never mind this drunken puncher. He’s looked on redeye till he’s red all over. Once more I tax you. Will you settle with me?”
“No. Do your damnedest, McCall,” replied Bligh, trembling with anger.
Andrew concluded that it was time to put in his oar, which he imagined might be something of a surprise to the greedy little bargain driver.
“McCall, would you settle for cash?” he interposed calmly.
“I reckon I would. But what’s the sense of talkin’ cash? Bligh hasn’t got two-bits, an’ you’re only a windy tenderfoot.”
Andrew stepped forward and slapped the rancher’s face so hard that his head jerked back and his hat fell off.
“Take it slow, McCall,” cut in Andrew swiftly. “Don’t call names and don’t jump to conclusions. I am Bligh’s partner.”
McCall stepped back, an angry tide of color flooding his face.
“Slade, arrest this feller,” he shouted.
“Don’t do anything so foolish,” cried Andrew in disgust. “Slade won’t arrest me, because I won’t stand for it again. He may be your paid henchman, but he’s not a complete fool.”
The sheriff, who had made a threatening gesture, suddenly checked it when he saw a lightning-swift movement on the part of Andrew. He might have guessed that, before he could get his gun half out, he would be knocked down by a fist whose devastating weight he already had witnessed.
Fenner eased himself into the foreground. “McCall, fer a Westerner, you strike me as shore dumb. You’re in a corner.”
“You calf-rustlin’ Texan!” exploded McCall furiously. “Have you gone an’ framed me?”
“Wal, not yet. But I ain’t so damned patient, either,” drawled the cowboy.
McCall stared at Texas for a moment and then turned to Bonning. “Bonnin’, I’ll settle with Bligh fer one thousand dollars,” he declared.
“You’re a highway robber!”
“How much will you pay?” fumed the cattleman.
“Not a plugged dime. What’s more, Mister McCall, you won’t burn another Double X brand on one single calf of ours.”
That seemed to be like waving a red flag in the face of a bull. Andrew had seen his advantage and meant to push it.
“Mister Easterner, the Double X outfit is mine. An’ thet insinuation comes from this thievin’ cowpuncher. To hide his own crooked tracks!”
“You’re a liar, McCall,” returned Bonning coldly. Several cowboys had collected in front of the poolroom during the altercation. A Mexican and a cattleman had lounged out of the feed store. All these spectators added strength to Bligh’s cause. “You know you’re a liar. But I can prove it.”
“Slade, stop this damned rantin’,” cried the irate cattleman.
“Stop it yoreself. It’s directed at you,” replied the sheriff testily.
“I won’t stay hyar an’ listen any longer. This Bonnin’ has framed somethin’ with his low-down redheaded puncher pard.”
McCall waved his arm in passionate finality, and lurched into a stride that would take him away from the scene.
“Mac, better stick it out,” warned Stanley.
Andrew leaped to grasp McCall’s coat and spin the cattleman around. “Not so fast, McCall. You started this, and you’ll see it through,” he declared firmly.
“Slade, do you hear this fresh tenderfoot threatenin’ me?” shouted McCall.
“Sure I’m threatening you. You stand your ground or you’ll measure your length on it, and damn pronto.”
Slade interposed a hand. “I’m advisin’ you to hold yore hosses, Mac,” he said hurriedly. “You’re on the track of business, not a fight. An’ I’m tellin’ you, if this slugger nails you one, you’ll think a mule had kicked you.”
“Lost your nerve, hey, sheriff?” queried McCall in furious scorn. “Bluffed by a redheaded cowpuncher! He’s the one you’re ’fraid of. But neither he nor his pard can bluff me. . . . Now, Bonnin’, I’m damn good an’ fed-up. I’ll take a thousand dollars or take over Bligh’s property.”
“You’ll take a stiff poke in your ugly snoot if you don’t cool off. Who the hell do you think you are? . . . McCall, you don’t represent this Wyoming community or the law. You can’t scare me. I’ve got plenty on you.”
“So you been hintin’! Wal, spit it out!”
“All right,” replied Andrew rapidly, as he glanced around. “Stanley, get this, and you fellows also. . . . McCall, one night late in May, you went on foot out of this town. You met a mounted cowboy on the road, and the two of you left the road to talk without being seen. But you were seen. You leaned against a big rock and the cowboy sat his horse close by you. Somebody saw you, and what’s more—heard you.”
“Aw, hell! What you givin’ me? Some cock an’ bull stuff?” ejaculated McCall, angrily. But it was noticeable that the red of his face had faded.
“Somebody heard every damned word you and that cowboy uttered,” continued Andrew. “And I’m that somebody. I had driven my car off the road behind a thicket. I saw you coming. There was something sneaky about the way you left the road. So I crouched down behind some bushes, not five good steps from you both and I listened. I heard every word of that plot. Now how’d you like to have me tell what you and the cowboy plotted to do in a courtroom?”
“Mistook your man, Bonnin’,” replied McCall hoarsely.
“I heard your name. McCall. I saw your face when the cowboy lighted his cigarette. I recognize you now.”
“Jest a frame-up to save Bligh,” the cattleman muttered. But he was looking down.
“No, it’s not a frame-up. And if you don’t want that story told in court, you lay off Bligh.”
“Bonnin’, I ain’t hankerin’ fer lawsuits or gossip no more’n you. I deny thet I was the man you seen. But such talk won’t do me no good. I’m willin’ to call the deal off.”
“Okay, it’s off. We’ll meet over at the hotel and draw up a little paper to that effect.”
“My word is good,” growled McCall. He had perceptibly weakened and grown restless toward the end of the interview.
Texas Jack flipped away his cigarette and elbowed Andrew aside to confront the cattleman.
“Mac, yore word ain’t wuth a damn!” he drawled. “I been layin’ back heah listenin’. An’ now I say thet’ll be aboot all the fixin’ you fellers will do. Yore deal with Bligh is off. But with me you can bet yore sweet life it’s on!”
The insolent, cool-voiced cowboy manifestly had the power to infuriate McCall.
“You’re responsible for this holdup,” he fumed.
“Ump-umm. I ain’t responsible fer nothin’ nor nobody but myself. Air you gonna fork over my dough?”
“What you aimin’ at—blackmail?”
“I ain’t above aimin’ at you, if you press me, Mac. Come across, you dirty crook!”
“You never rode fer me, Texas Jack. I don’t owe you anythin’. You been drinkin’. Your head’s muddled.”
“Mac, you overlook what kind of a man you’re up agin. I’m wise now. You’re a hawg, a two-bit greedy cattleman who hires grubline cowpunchers to do his dirty work. . . . What’re you gonna do aboot all thet Bligh stock we ironed yore Double X on?”
McCall jerked up as if a galvanized current had coursed up his frame.
“Puncher, I told you I’d have none of your rustlin’ deals,” he shouted stridently, his thick neck bulging purple. “If you put my brand on Bligh’s stock, you did it on your own hook, by Gawd!”
“An’ you deny you was the man Bonnin’ saw meet me thet night?” queried the Texan. “You deny he heahed you make me thet proposition? I was thet cowboy. I agreed to brand mavericks fer you. I took yore message to a cowboy who’d agree to kill Bligh’s cows an’ slap yore brand on his calves. . . . An’ we played yore dirty game. All fer nothin’?”
“You’re lyin’, Texas. You can’t palm your thievin’ off on me.”
“McCall, you’re wuss’n a thief.”
“I’ll blow your laig off—you lyin’ redheaded calf rustler,” roared McCall, his right hand going significantly to his hip.
The cowboy’s brown hand flashed down and out. Andrew saw the barrel of a gun stuck against McCall’s prominent abdomen.
“Don’t move!” His voice was cold.
But McCall did move. It might have been mere nervous contraction or a further action to draw. He quivered. His crooked arm straightened. Then came a muffled report. Texas leaped back to cover Slade.
“My—Gawd! He’s—bored me!” gasped McCall, his working visage distorting. As his big hands came around to clasp his abdomen, a gun clattered to the ground.
“Gentlemen, I call on you all,” said Texas swiftly, “you are witness that he tried to throw his gun on me.”
“Yes, we all seen thet, cowboy,” replied Jim Fenner.
McCall sagged with blood pouring out between his fat spread fingers. Stanley put an arm around him.
“Help me get him inside. Somebody run for a doctor.”
But Stanley had to support the wounded man alone. The other bystanders seemed waiting in horror-stricken immobility for Texas to shoot the sheriff. Certainly that individual seemed to express the same fear himself.
“Slade, thet’s exactly what you’ll get if you don’t lay off me, now an’ forever,” said Texas, his voice cold and hard. “You represent the law, an’ I’d respect thet if you wasn’t as low-down as McCall yoreself. You was in with him. Smoky gave you both away. An’ you’re a bootlegger besides. We can prove it. Figger on thet when you spill yore case agin me.”
He backed the sheriff up to the car that McCall had been driving.
“Get in an’ make tracks,” ordered Texas.
Slade half fell backwards into the car, and floundering over the wheel made haste to drive away.
Texas watched him out of sight. “Bligh, pick up thet gun, an’ turn it in as evidence,” he said, sheathing his own weapon.
“Good God, boy, you’ve played hob!” ejaculated Andrew, coming out of his trance.
“Wal, it was aboot time.”
Andrew and Fenner followed the cowboy to where he had his horse haltered. Texas mounted, and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were steady. The pallor of his face and the magnificent blue blaze of his eyes had not changed.
“You fellers will have better luck now,” he said. “Make shore you git them Double X calves back.”
“How many, Tex?” asked Jim huskily.
“Aboot a hundred, mebbe more, I reckon. All on this side of the river, anyway.” He gathered up his bridle and looked down upon Andrew with a ghost of his old smile. “Say so long to my lost sweetie fer me!”
Spurring his spirited bay he galloped out beyond the corrals, and headed for the open range.
“Same ole Texas breed,” muttered Fenner, as if to himself, wrenching his gaze from the fast disappearing horseman.
“Well,” exclaimed Andrew, fighting for a full breath, “how sudden it all was!”
They joined Bligh, and the other shocked spectators of the shooting, in the wide areaway of the feed store. McCall lay on the slanted planking. His pallid, clammy face and closed eyes, his low rattling gasps suggested a speedy, tragic end.
“About gone,” said Stanley, rising from his knees. “I reckoned he wouldn’t need no doctor.”
“What can be done?” queried Bligh.
“Nothin’ fer him.”
“Isn’t there someone to notify?”
“Slade was his only particular friend thet I know of,” responded Stanley. “He shore vamoosed quick. Damn close shave for him, I’d say.”
“Let’s go uptown an’ see what Slade’s figgerin’ on,” suggested Jim.
They proceeded to the hotel and made inquiries. No one there had heard of the shooting. Nor had it been reported anywhere around town. Finally they went to the sheriff’s office.
“Howdy men, has McCall cashed?” Slade queried as they stalked in.
“Reckon so by now. He was goin’ fast when we left,” replied Fenner.
“Bullheaded fool! I told him not to rile thet cowpuncher. He brought it all on himself.”
“Slade, we was witnesses, an’ we’d like to know what will be expected of us?”
“Nothin’ much thet I can see. Soon as McCall croaks I’ll phone the report in to the Caspar authorities.”
“Ahuh. An’ may we ask what yore report will be?”
Slade leaned back in his chair. “As I see it, McCall an’ Texas had some dealin’s. McCall evidently would not pay money owed. They clashed, an’ McCall went fer his gun first. But he was beat to it. Thet’s my report, gentlemen. I’ll advise against tryin’ to catch the cowboy. It couldn’t be done. An’ I don’t see any sense in repeatin’ the peculiar circumstances. Do you understand?”
“We shore do, an’ agree,” replied Fenner. “But here’s a stumper. What’re we gonna do about them Bligh calves thet Texas an’ Smoky Reed stole?”
“It’ll be roundup time in two weeks. By then this will be blowed over. I’ll probably have to settle up McCall’s affairs, as I had dealin’s with him. An’ I’ll see you get all the Double X stock on this side of the Sweetwater.”
Without more ado the three marched out of the sheriff’s office. Once around the corner, they halted to face each other.
“What do you know about that?” queried Andrew.
“You could knock me over with a feather,” added Bligh.
“Plain as print. Our law-abidin’ sheriff is scared stiff,” snorted Fenner.
“Jim, our luck has changed. Mr. Bligh, the worst is over,” said Andrew feelingly.
“It does seem so. We haven’t lost everythin’ an’ we can begin anew. . . . Jim, you won’t need to go off on that mysterious errand.”
“Wal, I’m started now, an’ I’ll jest keep agoin’,” replied Jim cheerfully. “See you both later today. I’ve gotta talk hosses.”
“I forget what I wanted to ask you,” said Bligh ponderingly, and then as the Arizonian limped away he added: “Never saw Fenner like this before.”
“Boss, as soon as I recover from the shock Texas gave us I’ll be feeling sort of flighty myself,” replied Andrew.
They separated, and Andrew went into a range supply store.
“I want to order a saddle,” he said to the proprietor. “It must be a Mexican saddle with silver trimmings, bridle and spurs to match.”
“They’ll have to come from El Paso. Cost you plenty.”
“How long will it take to get them here?”
“Inside of two weeks.”
“Okay. I’ll pay a deposit. Here are the specifications.”
Andrew went out of the store conscious of the strangest emotion—a melancholy gladness following hard on the terrible excitement he had just labored under. He was on his way back to the hotel when he ran into Martha Ann. She was carrying an armful of bundles. Above the armload her flushed face, piquant and sweet, beamed upon him.
“Hello. I’ve blown my last red cent. . . . Andrew, you’re pale! What’s happened?”
“Let me pack that truck for you,” he replied as he relieved her of most of the load. “Which way are we going?”
“Glemms’. . . . Why do you look so?” she returned very quietly.
“I’ve had a little shock. It’ll be bad for you, too, I fear. Brace yourself a little, Wyoming Mad.”
“Uncle!” she cried.
“No. He’s okay. It’s just—bad news.”
“You?”
“Well! If it were? I wouldn’t expect you to look like—”
“Andrew, tell me,” she insisted.
“Texas Jack shot McCall,” replied Andrew. “We met him over here, and during the argument Texas bobbed up from somewhere. To be brief, he took the argument out of our mouths. McCall owed him money. Texas wanted it. They fell into hot talk, believe me. Slade, the sheriff, was with McCall. Then I saw my chance and butted in. I told McCall what I had on him, and that we would not give him a dime. Apparently I scared him, bluffed him. He withdrew his claim on your uncle, and—”
“Oh, Andrew, how perfectly splendid of you!” interrupted Martha Ann. “But this shooting—tell me quick.”
“Well, Texas went after McCall again. This time it looked bad. Texas asked McCall what he was going to do about the Bligh calves he had put the Double X brand on. That precipitated hell. McCall accused Texas of putting up a rustling proposition to him, in fact, tried to lay the guilt on Texas when it was his own. Texas called him the thief. McCall, the idiot, tried to draw his gun. Then Texas bored him.”
“Is—McCall—dead?”
“By now he is, surely.”
“Oh, how dreadful! . . . Did Slade arrest Texas?”
“He did not. I thought for a few moments he’d get it, too. I was so paralyzed I couldn’t open my lips to beg Texas not to kill him. But that cowboy was cool and calm as Christmas. He told Slade the plain facts and that he’d get the same if he didn’t lay off. Then Texas ordered Slade uptown, and took to his horse and the range.”
“He got away?” queried Martha happily.
“I’ll say he did. But before he went he gave me a message—”
She turned to catch his arm. Her face was pale and her eyes dilated.
“Andy! You’re—implicated? . . . You will be held?” she whispered.
“No, my dear. Don’t rush at conclusions,” he quickly replied. “It was self-defense. McCall tried to draw. Texas shot him. That’s all there was to it. Slade has reasons of his own for not pressing the case. Your uncle is free. He’ll get his stock back. It has been a pretty strenuous day for us, but also very rewarding.”
“Oh, I—I can well understand. . . . Wait for me—please,” she replied, and taking her parcels from him, she hurried into the Glemms’ home.
While Andrew waited, he reviewed the girl’s reaction to the news. All he succeeded in settling was the absurdity of his own hope. Naturally she would be disturbed for Texas’ sake and for her uncle’s, but that did not necessarily imply any intimate concern for the cowboy—or for him. Presently Martha came out, still white, with eyes dark with emotion.
“Take me somewhere,” she pleaded.
“A ride? No, the movies would be better.”
“Yes.”
He observed that she clung to the sleeve of his coat and walked close to him, as they headed back to town. For the hundredth time that sense of her simple trust and her wistful youthfulness rushed over Andrew, rousing anew the longing to protect.
“Tell me, Martha. Do you care—very much—for Texas Jack?” he asked earnestly.
“Care? What do you mean?”
“Do you love him?”
“Andrew! Don’t be ridiculous. I liked Texas. Who wouldn’t like him?”
“Then why do you take this thing so hard?”
“He killed that McCall for our sakes. For mine!”
“Martha, you’re being ridiculous now. Please be reasonable. It was an old grudge.”
“You be reasonable, too! Texas was a rustler. I caught him in the act. That day, you remember? I promised I’d never betray him if he’d let that be the last time he stole. He gave me his word, and he kept it. I know. . . . One day not long ago I told him how McCall was hounding uncle, and was going to ruin us. . . . Andrew, what do you think that wild Texan said to me?”
“I’ve no idea, but I’ll bet it was something original,” replied Andrew.
“He took his cigarette out of his mouth and smiled at me, and in his lazy southern drawl he said: ‘Sweetie, look heah. I’m gonna pick a fight with McCall an’ shoot the gizzard oot of him!’ . . . Those were his exact words. I’ll never forget.”
“Well! What did you say to that, Martha?”
“I coaxed and scolded. But it was no use. Finally he said: ‘Listen, honey. You don’t savvy us western hombres yet. If you was in love with me, or if there was any hope you ever might be, I’d let McCall off an’ go straight. But you don’t, darlin’. An’ so it’s all day with thet graspin’ rustler!’ ”
“Ah! I see through it now,” cried Andrew. “Tex could have bluffed McCall. But he forced the issue. Lordy! The crazy loyal, sacrificing idiot! He never thought that his act would make you unhappy. . . . Martha, he sent you a message by me.”
“What?”
“ ‘Say so long to my sweetie for me!’ ”
“ ‘So long’? . . . Good-by forever! That’s what he meant. It hurts me a little, Andrew. . . . He was in love with me and I laughed at him.” She halted in the center of the sidewalk, to gaze up with tear-wet, tragic eyes at Andrew.
“Come on, dear. Don’t cry right here in the middle of the street. Be a good sport, Martha Ann, and try to be on the level, too. You never tried too hard to keep the men from loving you—now did you?”
“I never tried to make but one love me,” she answered resentfully, turning aside.
“Martha, all women are loved at least once in their lives by one man. Some women are loved by more than one, and some by many. That is your case, Martha. It is because you are beautiful and because you are lovely. You look at a poor sap once—and presto! He is lost. It is nothing you feel or really want.”
“Oh, so you have changed your mind about me?” she asked. “I’m not really a flirt, then?”
“I told you before that I had misjudged you.”
Inside the theater, after they had found seats in the dimly lighted place, Martha slipped her hand to Andrew’s sleeve, and down to touch his wrist with the lightest of fingers, and on and on, until she had her hand in his. It was a cold little hand, and it was trembling. Andrew simply held it and pressed it warmly. If in these childish moods, when she seemed to need father, brother or friend, he would do his best, silently, without making any more blunders. She sat through the whole picture without speaking. When they reached the street, once more the colored lights were blazing along the sidewalk.
“Andrew, I don’t want to go to that party tonight,” she said.
“I dare say it wouldn’t be much fun, considering.”
“Please take me to that Mexican café. After supper we’ll go home with Sue and Uncle.”
The October days came, Indian summer days, hazy, purple, melancholy. A hush lay over the land. Nature seemed quiescent, waiting. Wild ducks lingered on the river; the willow leaves fell yellow and sear, to carpet the ground.
It was Andrew’s favorite season. Often during his work he would pause to gaze down the gold-bordered river, out to the gray-bleached range, and on to the white-mantled peaks. And he would realize that the time and place suited him, that loneliness and solitude had claimed him for their own. His range-riding had, for the time being, been abandoned; and his work consisted of the various tasks around the ranch and his cabin that he could lay a hand to.
Andrew missed Jim. The old Arizonian rang true as steel; still in his kindly and persistent mania to throw Andrew and Martha into each other’s arms he had kept open a wound that would not heal. A few days after Jim had gone, the long-conceived plan of becoming a rancher and Bligh’s partner had begun to lose its zest. All that was left was the satisfaction that the old man had been saved, and therefore that Martha Ann would be happy, too.
That last trip to town had supplied the final revelation that had quieted all his doubts about Martha. He had been wrong about her; and the truth was devastating. Probably Martha Ann had not the slightest idea there had ever been a battle for her soul. But Andrew knew it; and he would have liked to communicate his infinite gladness to this girl’s mother. Martha had been deeply involved in her problem to get away, to be free from something like a deadening lichen on her heart, to discover the lure of new places, new faces, to yield to the unsatisfied longing for adventure, to seek and to find she knew not what. But Andrew understood it now, to his sorrow. Without a friend or protector this valiant young woman had set out alone on the highways, trusting in her belief in people, in life, in the future. Freed of her passionate intent to hurt as she had been hurt she had reverted to the gay, wistful, fun-loving, whimsical and curious girl that he in his cynicism and jealousy had failed to understand.
For days after Texas Jack’s coup, which had made him an outlaw and had saved Martha’s uncle, she was somber-eyed and unhappy, as if she might have been partly responsible for bloodshed and ruin, even though out of that good had come for her. But the spell passed. She was too young to be permanently affected by an act of violence that she had not witnessed. In a short time she was her happy self again. Life was good and she lived it to the full. She had found something she had risked so much to seek. She worked, she played, she sang, she was the life of the ranch. She rode often, but never far from home. She did not go to town, though she was sought and importuned by her friends there. On Sundays the place was overrun by the young people with whom she had become so popular. Her erstwhile severest critic, Andrew, however, could find nothing amiss with her deportment.
As for Andrew; during those pleasant Indian summer days, he found that his old cynicism was gone, and he thanked God for it. It had been love that had burned it to ashes, even though a love that appeared to be unrequited. Nevertheless his gratitude to her was infinite. In the East Andrew’s sister and sweetheart had been thorns in his flesh. He had wanted them to be different from their class. They were independent, imperious, demanding, making playthings of men and never to be wholly won. They were victims of the age. But Martha Ann represented another type of womanhood, one that Andrew had not believed existed. There might be—there must be—many, many girls like Martha. He was glad to have found this new American girl, even though, for his own happiness, he had found her too late. Andrew had loved his mother, his sister, many girls, all that was feminine. And though he had lost his one chance of perfect happiness, he had gained the knowledge that girls actually existed who, like Martha, could be free and unspoiled and altogether lovely.