"As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case of self-defence,
anyway." Bill pointed to the two revolvers still clutched in the dead
man's stiffening hands.
"I don't stand for this," thundered Bud. "Clear the room."
He had been rather a friend of Big Bill's--most of them were in
Maverick--so he had listened to him longer than he would have to any of
the other men, but now he was through with his arguments, he must assert
his authority.
"Clear the room; this prisoner goes with me."
There was a movement from the crowd. Bill looked appealingly at Jim.
Why would not the boss speak? Just as the crowds had reached the doors
Jim said to Bud, who was advancing to formally arrest him:
"Wait a minute. Take the trouble to examine my gun."
Bud lifted Jim's gun and looked at it closely. "Well?" he asked.
"You see it hasn't been discharged."
Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was completely loaded. He
paused a moment irresolute. Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said:
"You've had time to reload it."
The men were eagerly watching the scene between the two men.
"Smell it," Jim said, quietly. "I haven't had time to clean it."
"Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card.
Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and
fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it
had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it.
It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was
beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim.
"Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim's men. "Would you's all
oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?"
The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and
almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud's face.
"Here's my smoke," said one.
Bud drew back. "One at a time--one at a time," he gasped--"if you
please."
Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to
Bud's nose.
"Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a
word.
"Und mine," said Andy.
Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words, "Here's mine, and not
a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion.
All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How's that?" as he jerked the
revolver into Bud's face.
In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud--evidence that so far all
were free to go.
"Why didn't you's all say so before?" he growled, annoyed at the turn
affairs had taken. Then he saw the expression on their faces, laughter
and glee as they crowded around Jim; when they looked at him, tolerant
amusement. The smelling of the smoke-machines they regarded as a fine
new move on their part.
"Damn it," Bud thundered. "You've been astringin' me while the guilty
man's escaped; but I'll git him--I'll git him yet."
Jim saved! It was all that the boys wanted. With a whoop-la, they tore
after Bud. Down the platform they fled, all in excitement with the new
sensation of the moment--the hunt with Bud for the guilty man.
Near the table lay a gray glove. Jim stooped and picked it up, and put
it quietly to his lips. Bill, who had lingered near the door, suddenly
turned and came back to Jim and put his arm about him.
"You just escaped lynchin', Jim." And Jim knew that Bill spoke the
truth.
He held the glove folded close in his hand as he answered, "Yes, I'm
almost sorry."
Bill's face became grave. What did the boss mean? Was the game too hard
for him? Was he afraid he would lose on the ranch deal? He patted him
tenderly, almost like a mother humoring a wayward child, without saying
a word. Jim sank into a chair. Bill understood--the boss would like to
be alone, so he sauntered up to the back and joined Nick. In his heart
there was but one thought: Jim should see how well they would all serve
him. He swore a mighty oath that he would see the others did so, too.
Left alone, Jim sat staring straight ahead of him. Suddenly he realized
that the body of Cash Hawkins was still lying there. He shuddered at
the cruel forgetfulness of the men. He leaned forward and spoke his
thoughts aloud:
"Who killed Cash Hawkins?"
He felt a sudden touch on his hand; he turned; there, kneeling at his
feet, was Nat-u-ritch, who had entered unobserved and crept beside him.
As he looked at her she drew herself up nearer to him, and, leaning her
chin on her hand, said:
"Me kill um."
Jim's only answer was to place his hand over her face while he hurriedly
looked about the saloon. No one could have heard her. He drew her to
her feet and motioned her to go, saying that he would follow shortly.
That night Jim learned the truth, and his friendship with Nat-u-ritch
began.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
After this Jim often met Nat-u-ritch. On his trail across the country
he would see her on her little pony galloping after him. Sometimes she
would join him and silently accompany him on his search for the cattle
that had strayed beyond the range.
Nat-u-ritch's life with her father, Tabywana, was passed in days of
uneventful placidness. Since the death of Cash Hawkins the Chief had
given her no cause for anxiety. Concerning the murder, neither she nor
her father spoke. Tabywana admired Jim Carston; he seemed to realize
instinctively what Jim had saved him from that day at the saloon, and
his unspoken devotion, sincere and steadfast, often caused him to serve
Jim without any one's knowledge.
Sometimes when Nat-u-ritch returned from a long day's ride her father
would scrutinize her, and as he read in her the call of her nature for
the Englishman, a curious smile would light up his face in sympathy with
her. He saw the unmoved impassiveness that she showed to all the young
bucks that sought her, and without protest let her go her way, and her
trail always led towards Carston's ranch.
Winter came with its treacherous winds, and Carston's ranch was more
desolate. Of Nat-u-ritch's unspoken devotion to him there was no doubt
in Jim's mind, and the temptation to take her proffered companionship
into his lonely life rose strong within him. After Cash Hawkins's death,
Jim, had he cared for the life, might have been a leader in the Long
Horn saloon, but a bar-room hero was not the role that he wished to
play. His own men--Grouchy, Andy, and Shorty--openly expressed their
disappointment to Big Bill at the boss's indifference to the position he
might exert as a power in Maverick, and even Big Bill only vaguely
understood Jim's unappreciative attitude. He often watched Jim smoking
his pipe and peering into the heart of the embers that glowed on the
hearth, and as he saw the careworn face Bill's great heart ached with
sympathy for him. But Jim, as he realized the difficulties of the fight
in which he was involved, only clinched his fists the tighter and
accomplished the work of three men in his day's toil.
At these times the physical drain on him was so great that there was no
opportunity left in which to realize the biting ache of his loneliness.
So one bleak day succeeded another, with the slim, mute figure of the
Indian girl ever crossing his path.
The early spring brought with it a sudden melting of the snow-capped
hills and the ice-covered pools. The cattle grew more troublesome. They
seemed harder to control, or else the boys were more indifferent to
their disappearance. Big Bill had gone away on a deal for new cattle,
so Jim's energies were redoubled.
One day as he rode across the plains searching for a lost herd that had
wandered towards Jackson's Hole, the longing that the awakening spring
had brought with it grew more insistent. Life surely held for him
possibilities greater than this, he told himself. He resolved, on
Bill's return, to arrange with him to sell the place. He could not
conquer the craving for the old haunts of civilization that took
possession of him. He closed his eyes to shut out the endless stretch
of prairie. Lost in his dream to escape from his lonely life and to
take part again in the affairs of men of his own class, he failed to
notice the small pony that followed him carrying Nat-u-ritch.
On he went, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice how close
he was to Jackson's Hole. Big Bill long ago had warned him of the
treacherous ridge that lay near the gulley, but Jim had forgotten Bill's
words. Unconscious of the danger ahead, he galloped towards the edge of
the broken precipice. In the distance he espied the marks of a herd of
cattle that had passed around to the other side of the ridge. Jim urged
his horse forward and started to jump the small, deceptive span that
covered the hole. A sharp cry came from Nat-u-ritch, who had quickly
gained ground on him as she saw his intention. But Jim, unheeding, gave
a sharp command to his horse and urged him over. There was a sudden
breaking of ground; then a whirling, dazed moment through which flashed
an eternity of thought, and Nat-u-ritch stood alone, clinging to her
pony as she peered over into the dark pool of broken ice around which
stretched chasms of impenetrable blackness.
Two weeks later Jim opened his eyes to consciousness in Nat-u-ritch's
wickyup. No man of those summoned by Nat-u-ritch to help had dared
venture into the dreaded abyss, so Jim had been abandoned as dead. But
the depth of her love gave the Indian girl the strength to accomplish
his rescue. Jealous of her treasure, she dragged the unconscious body
to her own village, which was nearer than Jim's ranch.
Then followed an illness from the long exposure in the gulley. Big Bill
returned, only to find the ranch without its master, while Jim lay in
the squaw's wickyup, with the Indian girl fighting to save his life, her
love and loyalty making her his abject slave.
Weeks followed, and one day Big Bill and the boys brought the boss home.
Then came a relapse, and again Nat-u-ritch's devotion and courage gave
him back his life. This time Bill watched a double fight: the fight on
the part of the woman to save the man so that she might win him for
herself, and on Jim's part an effort to resist the mute surrender of the
woman.
Without the boss's supervision the ranch had deteriorated, and Jim's
affairs had become so involved that he recovered only to find that all
thought of abandoning the place was now impossible. His dream of escape
was now a hope of the past. And so life began afresh for him on the
plains.
Jim stood outside of the window of an adobe hut. From within he could
hear the low moans of a woman and now and then the wail of a child. He
was alone, save for the missionary who had married him a few months
before to Nat-u-ritch, and who was now inside helping the sick woman.
Big Bill had gone to fetch an old squaw who had promised to come to the
ranch. As Jim leaned against the post of the porch he was stirred by a
multitude of emotions. The wails from within grew louder and more
fretful. As he watched the heavens, ablaze with a thousand eyes, he
wondered why the old woman had failed to come in time. He hardly
realized what the past hour had meant to him. A child had been given to
him! Something of the wonder of the eternal mystery was numbing his
spirit. The sick woman's moans grew fainter, only the cry of the babe
persistently reached him.
At last the missionary came to him: Nat-u-ritch was asleep; he would go,
he explained, and hurry along the Indian woman who was coming with Big
Bill to the ranch. The cry of the child seemed to become more pitiful.
Jim tiptoed to the door of the inner room. On the cot lay Nat-u-ritch.
He softly crossed to the small bundle of life rolled in the blanket and
lifted it in his arms. The warm, appealing little body lay limp against
him. He began swaying to and fro until the cry grew fainter. Soon the
babe slept; but Jim still stood rocking his son in his strong arms.
*CHAPTER XIX*
One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of
Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill.
The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they
held the ranchmen--absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often
further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he
fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help
him through the wearing time.
Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low
spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the
alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire
place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling
scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of
asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week.
The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither
gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue
lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped
the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and
buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and
camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady
bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a
solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to
civilization.
Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to
the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay
before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or
wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends
of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little
lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.
Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye.
Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in
despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the
snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of
the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded
over the entire ranch.
As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.
"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big
fellow.
"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head.
"This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can
beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."
While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant
thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages
had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall
by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far
there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.
For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision
about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the
child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close
to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear
the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on
knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's hands when the child
grew tired of holding the quirt.
Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican saddle and lariat.
On his diminutive face was stamped an aggressive pugnacity. He was
followed by Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece of
wood. As Bill surveyed them he knew that they had been talking things
over and had arrived at some conclusion. They had been good workers in
their time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that they were not
bad, but that life had tried them severely with its failures and
disappointments. He waited for them to speak. There was a moment's
silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the bench, said:
"Say, Bill, I s'pose you know the boys is gettin' nervous 'bout their
money, don't you?"
Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work as he answered,
"To-morrow's pay-day." He would not anticipate them in their rebellion;
he would make it hard for them to declare themselves.
"That's what," Shorty went on.
"Well, it's time to get nervous day after to-morrow." And still Bill
braided the leather.
"They're goin' to make trouble if they don't git it." Shorty acted as
spokesman. Grouchy and Andy only nodded their heads in approval of
their leader's words.
Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his arms. "Are they?" he
said. "Well, I reckon Jim Carston and me can handle that bunch." He
spoke as though the others were not present.
"Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted, as he flung the saddle
against the walls of the cabin.
"Und say, Bill--und say--to-morrow's pay-day." Andy's voice trembled as
he spoke. He was a gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not
a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.
Hal began to listen and to look from one to the other. Bill noticed the
child's look of inquiry and set him on the ground.
"Son, you run in and help your mother with the milking." He slapped his
hands together as though a great joy were in store for the child, who
laughed with glee as he hurried across to the stable.
The men waited for Bill to say something, but he only stood twisting a
straw about in his mouth and pulling his hat-brim.
Again Andy's courage rose and he walked close to Bill. "To-morrow's
pay-day, Bill--eh?"
"Is it? Do tell! Ain't you a discoverer! Say, Andy, you're neglectin'
the north pole a little."
This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well, I want mine," and he
viciously dug his knife into the hitching-post.
Bill looked from one to the other. Surely they would be reasonable; he
would try them.
"Boys, it's seven years since the boss bought this ranch, and he's had
an up-hill fight. Every one's done him. He bought when cattle was
higher than they've ever been since, and you know what last winter did
for us; but he 'ain't ever hollered, and the top wages he paid you at
the start he's been a-payin' you ever since."
"Oh, what's the use!" Shorty interrupted. "The money is owed us. The
only question is, do we git it?"