YES, there was a letter from Stella Rain. Roderick took it eagerly from
the hands of the clerk at the general delivery window. A good number of
people were already crowding into the post office from the fair grounds.
But he was too hungry for news to wait for quieter surroundings. So
he turned to a vacant corner in the waiting room and ripped open the
envelope. The letter was as follows:
“Roderick:—
“I am sure that what I am about to tell you will be for your good as
well as my own. It seems so long ago since we were betrothed. At that
time you were only a boy and I freely confess I liked you very, very
much. I had known you during your four years in college and you were
always just splendid. But Roderick, a real love affair has come into
my life—something different from all other experiences, and when you
receive this letter I shall be Mrs. Vance Albertrum Carter.
“Mr. Carter, financially, is able to give me a splendid home. He is a
fine fellow and I know you would like him. Let me be to you the same as
to the other boys of old Knox—your friend, the ‘college widow.’
“Very sincerely,
“Stella Rain.”
Not a muscle of his face quivered as he read the letter, but at
its close he dropped both hands to his side in an attitude of utter
dejection. The blow had fallen so unexpectedly; he felt crushed and
grieved, and at the same time humiliated. But in an instant he had
recovered his outward composure. He thrust the letter into his pocket,
and shouldered his way through the throng at the doorway. He had left
Badger in a stall at the fair grounds. Thither he bent his steps, taking
a side street to avoid the crowd streaming into the town. The grandstand
and surrounding buildings were already deserted. He quickly adjusted
saddle and bridle, and threw himself on the pony’s back.
“‘She knows I would like him,’”he muttered, as he gained
the race track, the scene of his recent triumphs, its turf torn and
dented with the hoofs of struggling steers and horses, thronged but an
hour before with a wildly excited multitude but now silent and void.
“‘Like him’.” he reiterated bitterly. “Yes—like hell.”
And with the words he set his steed at the farther rail. Badger skimmed
over it like a deer and Roderick galloped on across country, making for
the hills.
That night he did not return to the bunk house.
It was high noon next day when he showed up at the ranch. He went
straight to Mr. Shields’ office, gave in his resignation, and took his
pay check. No explanations were required—Mr. Shields had known for a
considerable time that Roderick was leaving. He thanked him cordially
for his past services, congratulated him on his championship honors at
the frontier celebration, and bade him come to the ranch home at any
time as a welcome guest. Roderick excused himself from saying good-by
for the present to the ladies; he was going to stay for a while in
Encampment with his friend Grant Jones, and would ride out for an
evening visit before very long. Then he packed his belongings at the
bunk house, left word with one of the helpers for trunk and valise to
be carted into town, and rode away. Badger was Roderick’s own personal
property; he had purchased the pony some months before from Mr. Shields,
and as he leaped on its back after closing the last boundary gate he
patted the animal’s neck fondly and proudly. Badger alone was well
worth many months of hard and oftentimes distasteful work, a horse at
all events could be faithful, he and his good little pony would never
part—such was the burden of his thoughts as he left the Shields ranch
and the cowboy life behind him.
Grant Jones was in Encampment, and jumped up from his writing table when
Roderick threw open the door of the shack and walked in.
“Hello, old man, this is indeed a welcome visit. Where in the wide
world have you been?”
He turned Roderick around so the light would fall upon his face as he
extended his hand in warmest welcome, and noticed he was haggard and
pale.
“Oh,” said Roderick, “I have been up in the hills fighting it out
alone, sleeping under the stars and thinking matters over.”
“What does this all mean, anyway, old man? I don’t understand
you,” said Grant with much solicitude.
“Well, guess you better forget it then,” said Roderick half
abruptly. “But I owe you an apology for going away so unceremoniously
from the frontier gathering. I know we had arranged to dine together
last night But I just cleared out—that’s all. Please do not ask me
any questions, Grant, as to why and wherefore. If in the future I should
take you into my confidence that will be time enough.”
“All right, old man,” said Grant, “here is my hand. And know now
and for all time it don’t make a derned bit of difference what has
happened, I am on your side to the finish, whether it is a desperate
case of petty larceny or only plain murder.”
Grant laughed and tried to rouse his friend into hilarity.
“It is neither,” replied Roderick laconically. “All the same
I’ve got some news for you. I have quit my job.”
“At the Shields ranch?” cried Grant in astonishment. “Surely
there’s been no trouble there?”
“Oh, no, we are all the best of friends. I am just tired of
cow-punching, and have other plans in view. Besides, remember the letter
we got pushed under the door here on the occasion of my last visit.
Perhaps I may be a bit skeered about having my hide shot full of holes,
eh, old man?” Roderick was now laughing.
But Grant looked grave. He eyed his comrade tentatively.
“Stuff and nonsense. The lunatic who wrote that letter was barking
up the wrong tree. He mistook you for the other fellow. You were never
seriously smitten in that quarter, now were you, Rod, old man?”
“Certainly not. Barbara Shields is a fine girl, but I never even
dreamed of making love to her. I didn’t come to Wyoming to chase after
a millionaire’s daughter,” he added bitterly.
“Oh, that’s Barbara’s misfortune not her fault,” laughed Grant.
“But I was afraid you had fallen in love with her, just as I fell head
over heels in love with Dorothy—for her own sake, dear boy, and not
for anything that may ever come to her from her father.”
“You were afraid, do you say?” quizzed Roderick. “Have you
Mormonistic tendencies then? Do you grudge a twin to the man you always
call your best friend?”
“Oh, you know there’s no thought like that in my mind,” protested
Grant. “But you came on to the field too late. You see Ben Bragdon was
already almost half engaged.”
“So that’s the other fellow, is it?” laughed Roderick. “Oh, now
I begin to understand. Then things have come to a crisis between Barbara
and Bragdon.”
“Well, this is in strict confidence, Rod. But it is true. That’s why
I was a bit nervous just now on your account—I kind of felt I had to
break bad news.”
“Oh, don’t you worry on my account. Understand once and for all that
I’m not a marrying man.”
“Well, we’ll see about that later on,” replied Grant, smiling.
“But I should have been real glad had you been the man to win Barbara
Shields. How jolly happy we would have been, all four together.”
“Things are best just as they are,” said Roderick sternly. “I
wouldn’t exchange Badger, my horse out there, for any woman in the
world. Which reminds me, Grant, that I’ve come here to stay with you
for a while. Guess I can put Badger in the barn.”
“Sure—you are always welcome; I don’t have to say that. But
remember that Barbara-Bragdon matter is a dead secret. Dorothy just
whispered it to me in strictest confidence. Hard lines that, for the
editor of such an enterprising newspaper as the Dillon Doublejack. But
the engagement is not to be announced until the Republican nomination
for state senator is put through. You know, of course, that Ben Bragdon
has consented to run against Carlisle and the smelter interests.”
“I’m glad to hear it And now we have an additional reason to put our
shoulders to the wheel. We’ve got to send Ben Bragdon to Cheyenne for
Barbara’s sake. Count me in politics from this day on, old man. You
see I am out of a job. This will be something worth while—to help
down that blood-sucker Grady, and at the same time secure Bragdon’s
election.”
“Ben Bragdon is the best man for Wyoming.”
“I know it. Put me on his committee right away.”
“You’ll be a tower of strength,” exclaimed Grant enthusiastically.
“The champion broncho-buster of the world—just think of that.”
Roderick laughed loud and long. This special qualification for political
work mightily amused him.
“Oh, don’t laugh,” Grant remonstrated, in all seriousness. “You
are a man of note now in the community, make no mistake. You can swing
the vote of every cow-puncher in the land. You are their hero—their
local Teddy Roosevelt.”
Again Roderick was convulsed.
“And by the way,” continued Grant, “I never had the chance to
congratulate you on that magnificent piece of work on Gin Fizz. It was
the greatest ever.”
“Oh, we’ll let all that slide.”
“No, siree. Wait till you read my column description of the immortal
combat in the Doublejack.” He turned to his writing desk, and picked
up a kodak print. “Here’s your photograph—snapped by Gail Holden
on the morning of the event, riding your favorite pony Badger. Oh,
I’ve got all the details; the half-tone has already been made. The
Encampment Herald boys have been chasing around all day for a picture,
but I’m glad you were in hiding. The Doublejack will scoop them proper
this time.”
But Roderick was no longer listening. The name of Gail Holden had sent
his thoughts far away.
“How’s Scotty Meisch?” he asked—rather inconsequentially as the
enthusiastic editor thought.
“Oh, Scotty Meisch? He’s all right. Slight concussion of the
brain—will be out of the hospital in about two weeks. But Miss Holden,
as it turned out, did the lad a mighty good turn in rushing him to the
hospital He was unconscious when they got there. She knew more than
Doc Burke—or saw more; or else the Doc could not deny himself the
excitement of seeing you tackle Gin Fizz. But there’s no selfishness
in Grail Holden’s make-up—not one little streak.”
In a flash Roderick Warfield saw everything under a new light, and a
great glow of happiness stole into his heart. It was not indifference
for him that had made Gail Holden miss the outlaw contest. What a fool
he had been to get such a notion into his head.
“Guess I’ll go and feed Badger,” he said, as he turned away
abruptly and left the room.
“When you come back I’ve a lot more to talk about,” shouted Grant,
resuming his seat and making a grab for his lead-pencil.
But it was several hours before Roderick returned. He had baited the
pony, watched him feed, and just drowsed away the afternoon among the
fragrant bales of hay—drowsing without sleeping, chewing a straw and
thinking all the time.
At last he strolled in upon the still busy scribe. Grant threw down his
pencil.
“Thought you had slipped away again to the hills and the starlight
and all that sort of thing. I’m as hungry as a hunter. Let’s go down
town and eat.”
“I’m with you,” assented Roderick. “But after dinner I want to
see Major Buell Hampton. Is he likely to be at home?”
“It was about Buell Hampton I was going to speak to you. Oh, you
don’t know the news.” Grant was hopping around in great excitement,
changing his jacket, whisking the new coat vigorously. “But there, I
am pledged again to secrecy—Good God, what a life for a newspaper man
to lead, bottled up all the time!”
“Then when am I to be enlightened?”
“He sent for me this morning and I spent an hour with him. He
also wanted you, but you were not to be found. He wants to see you
immediately. Tonight will be the very time, for he said he would be at
home.”
“That’s all right, Grant. But, say, old fellow, I want half an hour
first with the Major—all alone.”
“Mystery after mystery,” fairly shouted the distracted editor.
“Can’t you give me at least this last news item for publication?
I’m losing scoops all the time.”
“I’m afraid you must go scoopless once again,” grinned Roderick.
“But after dinner you can do a little news-hunting on your own account
around the saloons, then join me later on at the Major’s. That suit
you?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ve got to submit,” replied Grant, as he drew on
his now well-brushed coat. “But all through dinner, I’ll have you
guessing, old man. You cannot imagine the story Buell Hampton’s
going to tell you. Oh, you needn’t question me. I’m
ironclad—bomb-proof—as silent as a clam.”
Roderick laughed at the mixed metaphors, and arm in arm the friends
started for their favorite restaurant.