Only gentle Andy was silent. He could hear little Hal laughing as he
played in the cow-shed.
Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled around on the men and in
a sudden blaze said:
"Well, you know Carston and you know me. If you're lookin' for trouble,
we won't see you go away disappointed." He squared his shoulders as he
spoke. "Oh, shucks!" He looked at the boys again. "It's no use," he
began, more good-naturedly. "It's the business that's no good. Nothin'
in it. The packers has got us skinned to death. They pay us what they
like for cattle, and charge the public what they like for beef. Hell!"
he grunted, as he turned on his heel. "I'm goin' into the ministry."
This time Grouchy's "Well, I want mine" was extremely faint.
Before the others could speak again Bill quickly called, "Here's the
boss now," and signalled the men to be silent.
They were touched by Jim's haggard face. They had not seen the boss for
several days; he had been busy with accounts, Bill had told them. They
began shuffling their feet as though about to leave. Each one thought
perhaps it would be as well to wait until the next day. Shorty
signalled them to come on, but Jim stopped them.
"Boys, I hear you're getting anxious about your pay. I don't blame you.
My affairs are in a bad way, but I don't expect any one to share my bad
luck. You've earned your money. I'll see that you get it."
As Jim spoke he drew from his pocket several small boxes and from his
belt an old wallet. "I have some useless old trinkets here that have
been knocking around in my trunk for years. If you will take them to
town, where people wear such things, you will get enough for them to
wipe out my account and something to boot for long service and
good-will." Andy's sniffles were the only answer that followed. Jim
turned to him, "Andy--"
But Andy refused the package. "Und say, boss. Und say, I ain't kickin'.
Und say, I can trust you."
Jim only tossed the box into his hands. "Shorty," he said, as he
slapped the wallet across the little fellow's shoulder.
"Oh, I'd rather not," Shorty shamefacedly answered. "Gee, but this is
tough work," he muttered to himself.
Jim smiled. "You must take it, please. The man who refuses throws
suspicion on the value of my junk. You won't do that, I'm sure." And
the wallet slid into Shorty's hand.
"Grouchy, you can have my repeating rifle," he added. "And now,
good-night. I'll see you to-morrow for the last time."
So this was to be the end of their association with the boss. Would he
try to shoulder the work of the place without them? A second's
reflection told them that this would be impossible. It was to be really
the end of Carston's ranch. The three men stood staring at Jim. Bill,
at the back of the hut, as he heard the words, sank down on a rough
bench. This was what had come of the days of silence on Jim's part; in
each man's heart there was an unspeakable emotion at the dissolution of
their companionship.
Suddenly down the road they heard the clatter of horses. Then the
whoop-la of a crowd of men, and a stentorian voice called:
"Hello, any one to home at Carston's ranch?"
Shorty and Andy hurried to meet the new-comers. It was Bud Hardy, the
Sheriff, with a posse of men. In they rushed, swarming all over the
place, and carrying with them the smell of alkali and the heat of the
plains. Dripping with perspiration, stained and worn with their travel,
they seemed like part of the desert, so covered were they with a heavy
caking of dust. One felt the parched fever of their thirst as they
stood asking hospitality of the ranch. Jim advanced to meet them.
"Hello, folks," Bud called, as the men of the ranch welcomed his men.
Then he came towards Jim, who shook hands with him.
"Why, how are you, Sheriff?"
Since the day at Maverick, when the Sheriff had tried to arrest him, Jim
had often seen Bud. He was never sure of the honesty of the man's
intentions, ne and Big Bill had often discussed Bud's unfitness for the
power he held in the place, but he gave no sign of this in his greeting.
Bud's great frame towered above the others. He seemed more effusive and
excited than the occasion warranted, and Big Bill's brows rose
questioningly as he saw the demonstrative way in which he greeted Jim.
"Howdy, Mr. Carston--howdy? Knowin' the hospitality of this here
outfit, we most killed ourselves to git here, to say nothin' of the
horses. We left them leanin' up against the corral, the worst done up
cayuses." Then directly in appeal to Jim, he said, "We simply got to
stay here to-night, Mr. Carston."
With a cordial gesture of invitation, Jim said, "You and the boys are
welcome, Sheriff, and what we lack in grub and accommodations we'll hope
to make up to you in good-will."
As Jim spoke, Bud quickly glanced in triumph at Clarke, a prominent
worker in his posse. The pale face of Clarke gave back a glance of
comprehension as he lowered his white-lashed eyelids over his bulging
eyes. All this was observed by Bill, who sauntered towards the Sheriff
as Bud answered Jim.
"What's good enough for you all is good enough for us, you bet," and he
wrung Jim's hand again. "Why, hello!" he finished, as he saw Bill and
turned to greet him.
"Any news?" Bill laconically asked, as he studied Bud and his men.
"Nothin' of any consequence," said Bud. "We just had a little fracas
down at the agency. Total result, one Injin killed."
A shout of approval rose from the boys, but Clarke broke in with another
guffaw. "And the joke of it is, Bud killed the wrong man."
"But nothin' to it. All in a day's work," Bud laughingly explained.
"You look tired, Sheriff," Jim said. "The boys will take you to their
quarters. Shorty, you and the others make the Sheriff and his people
feel at home."
There was a murmur of approval. "Come on," said Shorty, and the men
started for their quarters. Shorty, who loved bossing an affair almost
better than teasing, swept them all on before him. Then he linked his
arm through Bud's.
"Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string you never roped the
man who killed Cash Hawkins at Maverick."
Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud, gave an involuntary
look of surprise at the Sheriff, but the flash of anger on Bud's
blowsed, crimson face quickly cowed him.
"Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and years ago, Shorty," and
with his arm about him he followed the men towards their quarters.
Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut and stables, but
only for a moment, for he quickly realized that Bill was intently
watching him.
Jim turned to go to the house--then paused. He could see Bill against
the hitching-post tearing a straw into wisps that fluttered and fell
lifeless to the ground. There was not enough breeze to carry even a
strand away. He must speak to Bill, but how could he express anything
of the desolation he felt at this parting of their ways.
"Bill," he began, in a low voice--and Bill, who divined the words that
were about to follow, made no answer; he only held tighter to the post.
He could hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes. He made no
effort to move; he felt he could not.
"Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you must get out and look
for another job." Jim clinched his hands tight as he added, "I'll be
sorry to lose you, old man."
"I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept his eyes lowered to
the ground. Then, almost in a growl, he questioned, "And what are you
going to do, boss?"
The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as Jim said, in a
level, flat tone, "Sell out--move on--begin all over again--somewhere."
Then with the indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added,
more hopefully, "There must be a place for me somewhere." Mastering
himself, he added, as he took Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer
to pay you, Bill."
And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on Jim's part why he
loved the boss, answered, "You better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both
of his.
"Not now," Jim said, with the old hope again rising to encourage him,
that later he might be able to help Bill. "In my life I've had one
friend and only one." He laid his hands on Bill's shoulders and looked
straight in his eyes.
But Bill could not stand the strain of it any longer. "You make me
tired," he gulped, and Jim smiled.
"Why did you pay those cayotes three or four times what you owe 'em?"
Bill scolded, gruffly, but kindly. "It's wicked, Jim. You're a
sentimental fool."
As though bestowing a final benediction, Jim answered, "And you're
another--God bless you," and then dropped on to the log and seemed to
forget Bill and all about him.
Bill stood a moment, then tiptoed away while Jim sat watching the
afternoon shadows beginning to creep up towards the hut.
*CHAPTER XX*
Towards noon the next day, Bud sought Jim to ask further hospitality.
The horses were still in bad condition, he explained, and he would
esteem it an invaluable service if he would allow them to remain another
night on the ranch. Jim readily acquiesced. Now that he had taken the
final step to sever himself from the ranch, there were many details to
be personally directed and settled. Bill and he were often in
conference, and the sale could be accomplished within a few days. While
Bill worked, he watched Bud and Clarke. Of his suspicion that they were
trying to take some unfair advantage, he did not speak. Only his
ferret-like glances constantly followed them. And his instinctive
distrust was further aroused by a visit from Tabywana.
As he and Jim sat before the house, with a list that Jim was explaining
to Bill, Baco, the half-breed who worked about the place, suddenly
called in greeting to Tabywana. With his bonnet of gorgeous feathers
trailing down his back, his body draped in a blanket, and in his hand
the peace-pipe, the Chief entered. "How!" he answered, as he passed
Baco. Both Bill and Jim arose.
"Why, hello Chief! Where'd you blow in from?" Bill called.