THE SKY LINE.
Before their late breakfast was over at the Cross-Triangle Ranch, Helen
Manning came across the valley meadows to help with the work of the
household. Jimmy brought her, but when she saw that she was really
needed, and that Mrs. Baldwin would be glad of her help, she told Jimmy
that she would stay for the day. Someone from the Cross-Triangle, the
Dean said, would take her home when she was ready to go.
The afternoon was nearly gone when Curly returned from the lower end of
the valley with a woman who would relieve Mrs. Baldwin of the housework,
and, as her presence was no longer needed, Helen told the Dean that she
would return to the Reid home.
"I'll just tell Patches to take you over in the buckboard," said the
Dean. "It was mighty kind of you to give us a hand to-day; it's been a
big help to Stella and Kitty."
"Please don't bother about the buckboard, Mr. Baldwin. I would enjoy the
walk so much. But I would be glad if Mr. Patches could go with me--I
would really feel safer, you know," she smiled.
Mrs. Baldwin was sleeping and Kitty was watching beside Phil, so the
Dean himself went as far as the wash with Helen and Patches, as the two
set out for their walk across the meadows. When Helen had said good-by
to the Dean, with a promise to come again on the morrow, and he had
turned back toward the house, she said to her companion, "Oh, Larry, I
am so glad for this opportunity; I wanted to see you alone, and I
couldn't think how it was to be managed. I have something to tell you,
Larry, something that I _must_ tell you, and you must promise to be very
patient with me."
"You know what happened this morning, do you?" he asked gravely, for he
thought from her words that she had, perhaps, chanced to hear of some
further action to be taken by the suspicious cattlemen.
"It was terrible--terrible, Larry. Why didn't you tell them who you are?
Why did you let them--" she could not finish.
He laughed shortly. "It would have been such a sinful waste of words.
Can't you imagine me trying to make those men believe such a fairy
story--under such circumstances?"
For a little they walked in silence; then he asked, "Is it about Jim
Reid's suspicion that you wanted to see me, Helen?"
"No, Larry, it isn't. It's about Kitty," she answered.
"Oh!"
"Kitty told me all about it, to-day," Helen continued. "The poor child
is almost beside herself."
The man did not speak. Helen looked up at him almost as a mother might
have done.
"Do you love her so very much, Larry? Tell me truly, do you?"
Patches could not--dared not--look at her.
"Tell me, Larry," she insisted gently. "I must know. Do you love Kitty
as a man ought to love his wife?"
The man answered in a voice that was low and shaking with emotion. "Why
should you ask me such a question? You know the answer. What right have
you to force me to tell you that which you already know--that I love
you--another man's wife?"
Helen's face went white. In her anxiety for Kitty she, had not foreseen
this situation in which, by her question, she had placed herself.
"Larry!" she said sharply.
"Well," he retorted passionately, "you insisted that I tell you the
truth."
"I insisted that you tell me the truth about Kitty," she returned.
"Well, you have it," he answered quickly.
"Oh, Larry," she cried, "how could you--how could you ask a woman you do
not love to be your wife? How could you do it, Larry? And just when I
was so proud of you; so glad for you that you had found yourself; that
you were such a splendid man!"
"Kitty and I are the best of friends," he answered in a dull, spiritless
tone, "the best of companions. In the past year I have grown very fond
of her--we have much in common. I can give her the life she desires--the
life she is fitted for. I will make her happy; I will be true to her; I
will be to her everything that a man should be to his wife."
"No, Larry," she said gently, touched by the hopelessness in his voice,
for he had spoken as though he already knew that his attempt to justify
his engagement to Kitty was vain. "No, Larry, you cannot be to Kitty
everything that a man should be to his wife. You cannot, without love,
be a husband to her."
Again they walked in silence for a little way. Then Helen asked: "And
are you sure, Larry, that Kitty cares for you--as a woman ought to care,
I mean?"
"I could not have asked her to be my wife if I had not thought so," he
answered, with more spirit.
"Of course," returned his companion gently, "and Kitty could not have
answered, 'yes,' if she had not believed that you loved her."
"Do you mean that you think Kitty does not care for me, Helen?"
"I _know_ that she loves Phil Acton, Larry. I saw it in her face when we
first learned that he was hurt. And to-day the poor girl confessed it.
She loved him all the time, Larry--has loved him ever since they were
boy and girl together. She has tried to deny her heart--she has tried to
put other things above her love, but she knows now that she cannot. It
is fortunate for you both that she realized her love for Mr. Acton
before she had spoiled not only her own life but yours as well."
"But, how could she promise to be my wife when she loved Phil?" he
demanded.
"But, how could you ask her when you--" Helen retorted quickly, without
thinking of herself. Then she continued bravely, putting herself aside
in her effort to make him understand. "You tempted her, Larry. You did
not mean it so, perhaps, but you did. You tempted her with your
wealth--with all that you could give her of material luxuries and ease
and refinement. You tempted her to substitute those things for love. I
know, Larry--I know, because you see, dear man, I was once tempted,
too."
He made a gesture of protest, but she went on, "You did not know, but I
can tell you now that nothing but the memory of my dear father's
teaching saved me from a terrible mistake. You are a man now, Larry. You
are more to me than any man in the world, save one; and more than any
man in the world, save that one, I respect and admire you for the
manhood you have gained. But oh, Larry, Larry, don't you see? _'When a
man's a man'_ there is one thing above all others that he cannot do. He
cannot take advantage of a woman's weakness; he cannot tempt her beyond
her strength; he must be strong both for himself and her; he must save
her always from herself."
The man lifted his head and looked away toward Granite Mountain. As once
before this woman had aroused him to assert his manhood's strength, she
called now to all that was finest and truest in the depth of his being.
"You are always right, Helen," he said, almost reverently.
"No, Larry," she answered quickly, "but you know that I am right in
this."
"I will free Kitty from her promise at once," he said, as though to end
the matter.
Helen answered quickly. "But that is exactly what you must not do."
The man was bewildered. "Why, I thought--what in the world do you mean?"
She laughed happily as she said, "Stupid Larry, don't you understand?
You must make Kitty send you about your business. You must save her
self-respect. Can't you see how ashamed and humiliated she would be if
she imagined for a moment that you did not love her? Think what she
would suffer if she knew that you had merely tried to buy her with your
wealth and the things you possess!"
She disregarded his protest.
"That's exactly what your proposal meant, Larry. A girl like Kitty, if
she knew the truth of what she had done, might even fancy herself
unworthy to accept her happiness now that it has come. You must make her
dismiss you, and all that you could give her. You must make her proud
and happy to give herself to the man she loves."
"But--what can I do?" he asked in desperation.
"I don't know, Larry. But you must manage somehow--for Kitty's sake you
_must_."
"If only the Dean had not interrupted the proceedings this morning, how
it would have simplified everything!" he mused, and she saw that as
always he was laughing at himself.
"Don't, Larry; please don't," she cried earnestly.
He looked at her curiously. "Would you have me lie to her,
Helen--deliberately lie?"
She answered quietly. "I don't think that I would raise that question,
if I were you, Larry--considering all the circumstances."
On his way back to the Cross-Triangle, Patches walked as a man who,
having determined upon a difficult and distasteful task, is of a mind to
undertake it without delay.
After supper that evening he managed to speak to Kitty when no one was
near.
"I must see you alone for a few minutes to-night," he whispered
hurriedly. "As soon as possible. I will be under the trees near the bank
of the wash. Come to me as soon as it is dark, and you can slip away."
The young woman wondered at his manner. He was so hurried, and appeared
so nervous and unlike himself.
"But, Patches, I--"
"You must!" he interrupted with a quick look toward the Dean, who was
approaching them. "I have something to tell you--something that I must
tell you to-night."
He turned to speak to the Dean, and Kitty presently left them. An hour
later, when the night had come, she found him waiting as he had said.
"Listen, Kitty!" he began abruptly, and she thought from his manner and
the tone of his voice that he was in a state of nervous fear. "I must
go; I dare not stay here another day; I am going to-night."
"Why, Patches," she said, forcing herself to speak quietly in order to
calm him. "What is the matter?"
"Matter?" he returned hurriedly. "You know what they tried to do to me
this morning."
Kitty was shocked. It was true that she did not--could not--care for
this man as she loved Phil, but she had thought him her dearest friend,
and she respected and admired him. It was not good to find him now like
this--shaken and afraid. She could not understand. For the moment her
own trouble was put aside by her honest concern for him.
"But, Patches," she said earnestly, "that is all past now; it cannot
happen again."
"You do not know," he returned, "or you would not feel so sure. Phil
might--" He checked himself as if he feared to finish the sentence.
Kitty thought now that there must be more cause for his manner than she
had guessed.
"But you are not a cattle thief," she protested. "You have only to
explain who you are; no one would for a moment believe that Lawrence
Knight could be guilty of stealing; it's ridiculous on the face of it!"
"You do not understand," he returned desperately. "There is more in this
than stealing."
Kitty started. "You don't mean, Patches--you can't mean--Phil--" she
gasped.
"Yes, I mean Phil," he whispered. "I--we were quarreling--I was angry.
My God! girl, don't you see why I must go? I dare not stay. Listen,
Kitty! It will be all right. Once I am out of this country and living
under my own name I will be safe. Later you can come to me. You will
come, won't you, dear? You know how I want you; this need make no change
in our plans. If you love me you--"
She stopped him with a low cry. "And you--it was you who did that?"
"But I tell you we were quarreling, Kitty," he protested weakly.
"And you think that I could go to you now?" She was trembling with
indignation. "Oh, you are so mistaken. It seems that I was mistaken,
too. I never dreamed that you--nothing--nothing, that you could ever do
would make me forget what you have told me. You are right to go."
"You mean that you will not come to me?" he faltered.
"Could you really think that I would?" she retorted.
"But, Kitty, you will let me go? You will not betray me? You will give
me a chance?"
"It is the only thing that I can do," she answered coldly. "I should die
of shame, if it were ever known that I had thought of being more to you
than I have been; but you must go to-night."
And with this she left him, fairly running toward the house.
Alone in the darkness, Honorable Patches smiled mockingly to himself.
When morning came there was great excitement at the Cross-Triangle
Ranch. Patches was missing. And more, the best horse in the Dean's
outfit--the big bay with the blazed face, had also disappeared.
Quickly the news spread throughout the valley, and to the distant
ranches. And many were the wise heads that nodded understandingly; and
many were the "I told you so's." The man who had appeared among them so
mysteriously, and who, for a year, had been a never-failing topic of
conversation, had finally established his character beyond all question.
But the cattlemen felt with reason, because of the Dean's vigorous
defense of the man when they would have administered justice, that the
matter was now in his hands. They offered their services, and much
advice; they quietly joked about the price of horses; but the Dean
laughed at their jokes, listened to their advice, and said that he
thought the sheriff of Yavapai County could be trusted to handle the
case.
To Helen only Kitty told of her last interview with Patches. And Helen,
shocked and surprised at the thoroughness with which the man had brought
about Kitty's freedom and peace of mind, bade the girl forget and be
happy.
When the crisis was passed, and Phil was out of danger, Kitty returned
to her home, but every day she and Helen drove across the meadows to see
how the patient was progressing. Then one day Helen said good-by to her
Williamson Valley friends, and went with Stanford to the home he had
prepared for her. And after that Kitty spent still more of her time at
the house across the wash from the old Acton homestead.
It was during those weeks of Phil's recovery, while he was slowly
regaining his full measure of health and strength, that Kitty learned to
know the cowboy in a way that she had never permitted herself to know
him before. Little by little, as they sat together under the walnut
trees, or walked slowly about the place, the young woman came to
understand the mind of the man. As Phil shyly at first, then more
freely, opened the doors of his inner self and talked to her as he had
talked to Patches of the books he had read; of his observations and
thoughts of nature, and of the great world movements and activities that
by magazines and books and papers were brought to his hand, she learned
to her surprise that even as he lived amid the scenes that called for
the highest type of physical strength and courage, he lived an
intellectual life that was as marked for its strength and manly vigor.
But while they came thus daily into more intimate and closer
companionship they spoke to no one of their love. Kitty, knowing how her
father would look upon her engagement to the cowboy, put off the
announcement from time to time, not wishing their happy companionship to
be marred during those days of Phil's recovery.
When he was strong enough to ride again, Kitty would come with Midnight,
and together they would roam about the ranch and the country near by. So
it happened that Sunday afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Reid, with the three
boys, were making a neighborly call on the Baldwins, and Phil and Kitty
were riding in the vicinity of the spot where Kitty had first met
Patches.
They were seated in the shade of a cedar on the ridge not far from the
drift fence gate, when Phil saw three horsemen approaching from the
further side of the fence. By the time the horsemen had reached the
gate, Phil knew them to be Yavapai Joe, Nick Cambert and Honorable
Patches. Kitty, too, had, by this time, recognized the riders, and with
an exclamation started to rise to her feet.
But Phil said quietly, "Wait, Kitty; there's something about that outfit
that looks mighty queer to me."
The men were riding in single file, with Yavapai Joe in the lead and
Patches last, and their positions were not changed when they halted
while Joe, without dismounting, unlatched the gate. They came through
the opening, still in the same order, and as they halted again, while
Patches closed the gate, Phil saw what it was that caused them to move
with such apparent lack of freedom in their relative positions, and why
Nick Cambert's attitude in the saddle was so stiff and unnatural. Nick's
hands were secured behind his back, and his feet were tied under the
horse from stirrup to stirrup, while his horse was controlled by a lead
rope, one end of which was made fast to Yavapai Joe's saddle horn.
Patches caught sight of the two under the tree as he came through the
gate, but he gave no sign that he had noticed them. As the little
procession moved slowly nearer, Phil and Kitty looked at each other
without a word, but as they turned again to watch the approaching
horsemen, Kitty impulsively grasped Phil's arm. And sitting so, in such
unconscious intimacy, they must have made a pleasing picture; at least
the man who rode behind Nick Cambert seemed to think so, for he was
trying to smile.
When the riders were almost within speaking distance of the pair under
the tree, they stopped; and the watchers saw Joe turn his face toward
Patches for a moment, then look in their direction. Nick Cambert did not
raise his head. Patches came on toward them alone.
As they saw that it was the man's purpose to speak to them, Phil and
Kitty rose and stood waiting, Kitty with her hand still on her
companion's arm. And now, as they were given a closer and less
obstructed view of the man who had been their friend, Kitty and Phil
again exchanged wondering glances. This was not the Honorable Patches
whom they had known so intimately. The man's clothing was soiled with
dirt, and old from rough usage, with here and there a ragged tear. His
tall form drooped with weariness, and his unshaven face, dark and deeply
tanned, and grimed with sweat and dirt, was thin and drawn and old, and
his tired eyes, deep set in their dark hollows, were bloodshot as though
from sleepless nights. His dry lips parted in a painful smile, as he
dismounted stiffly and limped courteously forward to greet them.
"I know that I am scarcely presentable," he said in a voice that was as
worn and old as his face, "but I could not resist the temptation to say
'Howdy'. Perhaps I should introduce myself though," he added, as if to
save them from embarrassment. "My name is Lawrence Knight; I am a deputy
sheriff of this county." A slight movement as he spoke threw back his
unbuttoned jumper, and they saw the badge of his office. "In my official
capacity I am taking a prisoner to Prescott."
Phil recovered first, and caught the officer's hand in a grip that told
more than words.
Kitty nearly betrayed her secret when she gasped, "But you--you said
that you--"
With his ready skill he saved her, "That my name was Patches? I know it
was wrong to deceive you as I did, and I regret that it was necessary
for me to lie so deliberately, but the situation seemed to demand it.
And I hoped that when you understood you would forgive the part I was
forced to play for the good of everyone interested."
Kitty understood the meaning in his words that was unknown to Phil, and
her eyes expressed the gratitude that she could not speak.
"By the way," Patches continued, "I am not mistaken in offering my
congratulations and best wishes, am I?"
They laughed happily.
"We have made no announcement yet," Phil answered, "but you seem to know
everything."
"I feel like saying from the bottom of my heart 'God bless you, my
children.' You make me feel strangely old," he returned, with a touch of
his old wistfulness. Then he added in his droll way, "Perhaps, though,
it's from living in the open and sleeping in my clothes so long. Talk
about horses, I'd give my kingdom for a bath, a shave and a clean shirt.
I had begun to think that our old friend Nick never would brand another
calf; that he had reformed, just to get even with me, you know. By the
way, Phil, you will be interested to know that Nick is the man who is
really responsible for your happiness."
"How?" demanded Phil.
"Why, it was Nick who fired the shot that brought Kitty to her senses.
My partner there, Yavapai Joe, saw him do it. If you people would like
to thank my prisoner, I will permit it."
When they had decided that they would deny themselves that pleasure,
Patches said, "I don't blame you; he's a surly, ill-tempered beast,
anyway. Which reminds me that I must be about my official business, and
land him in Prescott to-night. I am going to stop at the ranch and ask
the Dean for the team and buckboard, though," he added, as he climbed
painfully into the saddle. "Adios! my children. Don't stay out too
late."
Hand in hand they watched him rejoin his companions and ride away behind
the two Tailholt Mountain men.
The Dean and Mrs. Baldwin, with their friends from the neighboring
ranch, were enjoying their Sunday afternoon together as old friends
will, when the three Reid boys and Little Billy came running from the
corral where they had been holding an amateur bronco riding contest with
a calf for the wild and wicked outlaw. As they ran toward the group
under the walnut trees, the lads disturbed the peaceful conversation of
their elders with wild shouts of "Patches has come back! Patches has
come back! Nick Cambert is with him--so's Yavapai Joe!"
Jim Reid sprang to his feet. But the Dean calmly kept his seat, and
glancing up at his big friend with twinkling eyes, said to the boys,
with pretended gruffness, "Aw, what's the matter with you kids? Don't
you know that horse thief Patches wouldn't dare show himself in
Williamson Valley again? You're havin' bad dreams--that's what's the
matter with you. Or else you're tryin' to scare us."
"Honest, it's Patches, Uncle Will," cried Littly Billy.
"We seen him comin' from over beyond the corral," said Jimmy.
"I saw him first," shouted Conny. "I was up in the grand stand--I mean
on the fence."
"Me, too," chirped Jack.
Jim Reid stood looking toward the corral. "The boys are right, Will," he
said in a low tone. "There they come now."
As the three horsemen rode into the yard, and the watchers noted the
peculiarity of their companionship, Jim Reid muttered something under
his breath. But the Dean, as he rose leisurely to his feet, was smiling
broadly.
The little procession halted when the horses evidenced their dislike of
the automobile, and Patches came stiffly forward on foot. Lifting his
battered hat courteously to the company, he said to the Dean, "I have
returned your horse, sir. I'm very much obliged to you. I think you will
find him in fairly good condition."
Jim Reid repeated whatever it was that he had muttered to himself.
The Dean chuckled. "Jim," he said to the big cattleman, "I want to
introduce my friend, Mr. Lawrence Knight, one of Sheriff Gordon's
deputies. It looks like he had been busy over in the Tailholt Mountain
neighborhood."
The two men shook hands silently. Mrs. Reid greeted the officer
cordially, while Mrs. Baldwin, to the Dean's great delight, demonstrated
her welcome in the good old-fashioned mother way.
"Will Baldwin, I could shake you," she cried, as Patches stood, a little
confused by her impulsive greeting. "Here you knew all the time; and you
kept pesterin' me by trying to make me believe that you thought he had
run away because he was a thief!"
It was, perhaps, the proudest moment of the Dean's life when he admitted
that Patches had confided in him that morning when they were so late to
breakfast. And how he had understood that the man's disappearance and
the pretense of stealing a horse had been only a blind. The good Dean
never dreamed that there was so much more in Honorable Patches' strategy
than he knew!
"Mr. Baldwin," said Patches presently, "could you let me have the team
and buckboard? I want to get my prisoners to Prescott to-night, and"--he
laughed shortly--"well, I certainly would appreciate those cushions."
"Sure, son, you can have the whole Cross-Triangle outfit, if you want
it," answered the Dean. "But hold on a minute." He turned with twinkling
eyes to his neighbor. "Here's Jim with a perfectly good automobile that
don't seem to be busy."
The big man responded cordially. "Why, of course; I'll be glad to take
you in."
"Thank you," returned Patches. "I'll be ready in a minute."
"But you're goin' to have something to eat first," cried Mrs. Baldwin.
"I'll bet you're half starved; you sure look it."
Patches shook his head. "Don't tempt me, mother; I can't stop now."
"But you'll come back home to-night, won't you?" she asked anxiously.
"I would like to," he said. "And may I bring a friend?"
"Your friends are our friends, son," she answered.
"Of course he's comin' back," said the Dean. "Where else would he go,
I'd like to know?"
They watched him as he went to his prisoner, and as, unlocking the
handcuff that held Nick's right wrist, he re-locked it on his own left
arm, thus linking his prisoner securely to himself. Then he spoke to
Joe, and the young man, dismounting, unfastened the rope that bound
Nick's feet. When Nick was on the ground the three came toward the
machine.
"I am afraid I must ask you to let someone take care of the horses,"
called Patches to the Dean.
"I'll look after them," the Dean returned. "Don't forget now that you're
comin' back to-night; Jim will bring you."
Jim Reid, as the three men reached the automobile, said to Patches,
"Will you take both of your prisoners in the back seat with you, or
shall I take one of them in front with me?"
Patches looked the big man straight in the eyes, and they heard him
answer with significant emphasis, as he placed his free hand on Yavapai
Joe's shoulder, "I have only one prisoner, Mr. Reid. This man is my
friend. He will take whatever seat he prefers."
Yavapai Joe climbed into the rear seat with the officer and his
prisoner.
It was after dark when Mr. Reid returned to the ranch with Patches and
Joe.
"You will find your room all ready, son," said Mrs. Baldwin, "and
there's plenty of hot water in the bathroom tank for you both. Joe can
take the extra bed in Curly's room. You show him. I'll have your supper
as soon as you are ready."
Patches almost fell asleep at the table. As soon as they had finished he
went to his bed, where he remained, as Phil reported at intervals during
the next forenoon, "dead to the world," until dinner time. In the
afternoon they gathered under the walnut trees--the Cross-Triangle
household and the friends from the neighboring ranch--and Patches told
them his story; how, when he had left the ranch that night, he had
ridden straight to his old friend Stanford Manning; and how Stanford had
gone with him to the sheriff, where, through Manning's influence,
together with the letter which Patches had brought from the Dean, he had
been made an officer of the law. As he told them briefly of his days and
nights alone, they needed no minute details to understand what it had
meant to him.
"It wasn't the work of catching Nick in a way to ensure his conviction
that I minded," he said, "but the trouble was, that while I was watching
Nick day and night, and dodging him all the time, I was afraid some
enthusiastic cow-puncher would run on to me and treat himself to a shot
just for luck. Not that I would have minded that so much, either, after
the first week," he added in his droll way, "but considering all the
circumstances it would have been rather a poor sort of finish."
"And what about Yavapai Joe?" asked Phil.
Patches smiled. "Where is Joe? What's he been doing all day?"
The Dean answered. "He's just been moseyin' around. I tried to get him
to talk, but all he would say was that he'd rather let Mr. Knight tell
it."
"Billy," said Patches, "will you find Yavapai Joe, and tell him that I
would like to see him here?"
When Little Billy, with the assistance of Jimmy and Conny and Jack, had
gone proudly on his mission, Patches said to the others, "Technically,
of course, Joe is my prisoner until after the trial, but please don't
let him feel it. He will be the principal witness for the state."
When Yavapai Joe appeared, embarrassed and ashamed in their presence,
Patches said, as courteously as he would have introduced an equal, "Joe,
I want my friends to know your real name. There is no better place in
the world than right here to start that job of man-making that we have
talked about. You remember that I told you how I started here."
Yavapai Joe lifted his head and stood straighter by his tall friend's
side, and there was a new note in his voice as he answered, "Whatever
you say goes, Mr. Knight."
Patches smiled. "Friends, this is Mr. Joseph Parkhill, the only son of
the distinguished Professor Parkhill, whom you all know so well."
If Patches had planned to enjoy the surprise his words caused, he could
not have been disappointed.
Presently, when Joe had slipped away again, Patches told them how,
because of his interest in the young man, and because of the lad's
strange knowledge of Professor Parkhill, he had written east for the
distinguished scholar's history.
"The professor himself was not really so much to blame," said Patches.
"It seems that he was born to an intellectual life. The poor fellow
never had a chance. Even as a child he was exhibited as a prodigy--a
shining example of the possibilities of the race, you know. His father,
who was also a professor of some sort, died when he was a baby. His
mother, unfortunately, possessed an income sufficient to make it
unnecessary that Everard Charles should ever do a day's real work. At
the age of twenty, he was graduated from college; at the age of
twenty-one he was married to--or perhaps it would be more accurate to
say--he was married _by_--his landlady's daughter. Quite likely the
woman was ambitious to break into that higher life to which the
professor aspired, and caught her cultured opportunity in an unguarded
moment. The details are not clear. But when their only child, Joe, was
six years old, the mother ran away with a carpenter who had been at work
on the house for some six weeks. A maiden aunt of some fifty years, who
was a worshiper of the professor's cult, came to keep his house and to
train Joe in the way that good boys should go.
"But the lad proved rather too great a burden, and when he was thirteen
they sent him to a school out here in the West, ostensibly for the
benefit of the climate. The boy, it was said, being of abnormal
mentality, needed to pursue his studies under the most favorable
physical conditions. The professor, unhampered by his offspring,
continued to climb his aesthetic ladder to intellectual and cultured
glory. The boy in due time escaped from the school, and was educated by
the man Dryden and Nick Cambert."
"And what will become of him now?" asked the Dean.
Patches smiled. "Why, the lad is twenty-one now, and we have agreed that
it is about time that he began to make a man of himself--I can help him
a little, perhaps--I have been trying occasionally the past year. But
you see the conditions have not been altogether favorable to the
experiment. It should be easy from now on."
During the time that intervened before the trial of the Tailholt
Mountain man, Phil and Patches re-established that intimate friendship
of those first months of their work together. Then came the evening when
Phil went across the meadow to ask Jim Reid for his daughter.
The big cattleman looked at his young neighbor with frowning
disapproval.
"It won't do, Phil," he said at last. "I'm Kitty's father, and it's up
to me to look out for her interests. You know how I've educated her for
something better than this life. She may think now that she is willin'
to throw it all away, but I know better. The time would come when she
would be miserable. It's got to be somethin' more than a common
cow-puncher for Kitty, Phil, and that's the truth."
The cowboy did not argue. "Do I understand that your only objection is
based upon the business in which I am engaged?" he asked coolly.
Jim laughed. "The _business_ in which you are engaged? Why, boy, you
sound like a first national bank. If you had any business of your
own--if you was the owner of an outfit, an' could give Kitty
the--well--the things her education has taught her to need, it would be
different. I know you're a fine man, all right, but you're only a poor
cow-puncher just the same. I'm speakin' for your own good, Phil, as well
as for Kitty's," he added, with an effort at kindliness.
"Then, if I had a good business, it would be different?"
"Yes, son, it would sure make all the difference in the world."
"Thank you," said the cowboy quietly, as he handed Mr. Reid a very legal
looking envelope. "I happen to be half owner of this ranch and outfit.
With my own property, it makes a fairly good start for a man of my age.
My partner, Mr. Lawrence Knight, leaves the active management wholly in
my hands; and he has abundant capital to increase our holdings and
enlarge our operations just as fast as we can handle the business."
The big man looked from the papers to the lad, then back to the papers.
Then a broad smile lighted his heavy face, as he said, "I give it
up--you win. You young fellers are too swift for me. I've been wantin'
to retire anyway." He raised his voice and called, "Kitty--oh, Kitty!"
The girl appeared in the doorway.
"Come and get him," said Reid. "I guess he's yours."
Helen Manning was sitting on the front porch of that little cottage on
the mountain side where she and Stanford began their years of
home-building. A half mile below she could see the mining buildings that
were grouped about the shaft in picturesque disorder. Above, the
tree-clad ridge rose against the sky. It was too far from the great
world of cities, some would have said, but Helen did not find it so.
With her books and her music, and the great out-of-doors; and with the
companionship of her mate and the dreams they dreamed together, her
woman heart was never lonely.
She lowered the book she was reading, and looked through the open window
to the clock in the living-room. A little while, and she would go down
the hill to Stanford, for they loved to walk home together. Then, before
lifting the printed page again, she looked over the wide view of rugged
mountain sides and towering peaks that every day held for her some new
beauty. She had resumed her reading when the sound of horses' feet
attracted her attention.
Patches and Yavapai Joe were riding up the hill.
They stopped at the gate, and while Joe held Stranger's bridle rein,
Patches came to Helen as she stood on the porch waiting to receive him.
"Surely you will stay for the night," she urged when they had exchanged
greetings, and had talked for a little while.
"No," he answered quietly. "I just came this way to say good-by; I
stopped for a few minutes with Stan at the office. He said I would find
you here."
"But where are you going?" she asked.
Smiling he waved his hand toward the mountain ridge above. "Just over
the sky line, Helen."
"But, Larry, you will come again? You won't let us lose you altogether?"
"Perhaps--some day," he said.
"And who is that with you?"
"Just a friend who cares to go with me. Stan will tell you."
"Oh, Larry, Larry! What a man you are!" she cried proudly, as he stood
before her holding out his hand.
"If you think so, Helen, I am glad," he answered, and turned away.
So she watched him go. Sitting there at home, she watched him ride up
the winding road. Now he was in full view on some rocky shoulder of the
mountain--now some turn carried him behind a rocky point--again she
glimpsed him through the trees--again he was lost to her in the shadows.
At last, for a moment, he stood out boldly against the wide-arched
sky--and then he had passed from sight--over the sky line, as he had
said.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's When A Man's A Man, by Harold Bell Wright