THE UNREGENERATE
Later in the afternoon the two brothers found themselves seated on the
veranda talking together, as only devoted relationship will permit
after years of separation.
They had just returned from a brief inspection of the little ranch for
Bill's edification. The big man's enthusiasm had demanded immediate
satisfaction. His headlong nature impelled him to the earliest
possible digestion of the life he was about to enter. So he had
insisted on a tour of inspection.
The inspection was of necessity brief. There was so little to be seen
in the way of an outward display of the prosperity his elder brother
claimed. In consequence, as it proceeded, the newcomer's spirits fell.
His radiant dreams of a rancher's life tumbled about his big
unfortunate head, and, for the moment, left him staggered.
His first visit was to the barn, where Kid Blaney, his brother's
ranchman, was rubbing down two well saddle-marked cow-ponies, after
his morning out on the fences. It was a crazy sort of a shanty, built
of sod walls with a still more crazy door frame, and a thatched roof
more than a foot thick. It was half a dug-out on the hillside, and
suggested as much care as a hog pen. The floor was a mire of
accumulations of manure and rotted bedding, and the low roof gave the
place a hovelish suggestion such as Bill could never have imagined in
the breezy life of a rancher, as he understood it.
There were one or two other buildings of a similar nature. One was
used for a few unhealthy looking fowls; another, by the smell and
noise that emanated therefrom, housed a number of pigs. Then there was
a small grain storehouse. These were the buildings which comprised the
ranch. They were just dotted about in the neighborhood of the house,
at points most convenient for their primitive construction.
The corrals, further down the slope, offered more hope. There were
three of them, all well enough built and roomy. There was one with a
branding "pinch," outside which stood a small hand forge and a number
of branding irons. At the sight of these things Bill's spirit
improved.
When questioned as to pastures and grazing, Charlie led him along a
cattle track, through the bush up the slope, to the prairie level
above. Here there were three big pastures running into a hundred acres
or more, all well fenced, and the wire in perfect order. Bill's
improving spirits received a further fillip. The grazing, Charlie told
him, lay behind these limits upon the open plains, over which the
newcomer had spent so much time riding.
"You see, Bill," he said, half apologetically, "I'm only a very small
rancher. The land I own is this on which the house stands, and these
pastures, and another pasture or two further up the valley. For
grazing, I simply rent rights from the Government. It answers well
enough, and I only have to keep one regular boy in consequence. Spring
and fall I hire extra hands for round-up. It pays me better that way."
Bill nodded with increasing understanding. His original dreams had
received a bad jolt, but he was beginning a readjustment of focus.
Besides, his simple mind was already formulating fresh plans, and he
began to talk of them with that whole-hearted enthusiasm which seemed
to be the foundation of his nature.
"Sure," he said cordially. "And--and you've done a big heap, Charlie.
Say, how much did dad start you out with? Five thousand dollars? Yes,
I remember, five thousand, and our mother gave you another two
thousand five hundred. It was all she had. She'd saved it up in years.
It wasn't much to turn bare land into a money-making proposition,
specially when you'd had no experience. But we're going to alter all
that. We're going to own our grazing, if it can be bought. Yes, sir,
we're going to own a lot more, and I've got nearly one hundred
thousand dollars to do it with. We're going to turn these barns into
barns, and we're going to run horses as well as cattle. We're going to
grow wheat, too. That's the coming game. All the boys say so down
East--that is, the real bright boys. We're just going to get busy, you
and me, Charlie. We're going to have a deed of partnership drawn up
all square and legal, and I'm going to blow my stuff in it against
what you've got already, and what you know. That's what I'm here for."
By the aid of his big voice and aggressive bulk Bill strove to conceal
his obvious desire to benefit his brother under an exterior of strong
business methods. And he felt the result to be all he could desire. He
told himself that a man of Charlie's unbusiness-like nature was quite
easy to impress. When it came to a proper understanding of business he
was much his brother's superior.
Charlie, however, was in no way deceived, but such was his regard for
this simple-minded creature that his protest was of the mildest.
"Of course we could do a great deal with your money, Bill, but--but
it's all you've got, and----"
His protest was hastily thrust aside.
"See here, Charlie, boy, that's right up to me," Bill cried, with a
buoyant laugh. "I'm out here to ranch. That's what I've come for,
that's what I've worn my skin to the bone for on the most outrageously
uncomfortable saddle I've ever thrown a leg over. That's why I took
the trouble to keep on chasing up this place when my brain got plumb
addled at the sight of so much grass. That's why I didn't go back to
find the feller--and shoot him--for advising me to get off at Moosemin
instead of hitting back on my tracks for the right place to change
trains. You see, maybe I haven't all the horse sense in some things
you have, but I've got my back teeth into the idea of this ranching
racket, and my dollars are going to talk all they know. I tell you,
when my mind's made up, I can't be budged an inch. It's no use your
trying. I know you, Charlie. You're scared to death I'll lose my
money--well, I'm ready to lose it, if things go that way. Meanwhile,
I've a commercial proposition. I'm out to make good, and I'm looking
for you to help me."
Charlie looked into the earnest, good-natured face with eyes that read
deep down into the open heart beneath. A great regret lay behind them,
a regret which made him hate and despise himself in a way he had never
felt before. He was thinking whither his own follies had driven him;
he was thinking of his own utter failure as a man, a strong,
big-principled man. He was wondering, too, what this kindly soul would
think and feel when he realized how little he was changed from the
contemptible creature his father had turned out of doors, and when he
finally learned of the horrors of degradation his life really
concealed.
He had no alternative but to acquiesce before the strong determination
of his brother, and though his words were cordial, his fears, his
qualms of conscience underlying them, were none the less.
So they came back to the house, and finally foregathered on two
uncomfortable, rawhide-seated, home-made chairs, while Bill enlarged
upon his plans. It was not until these were completely exhausted that
their talk drifted to more personal matters. Then it was that Charlie
himself opened up the way, with a bitter reference to the reasons
that saved him from completely going under when their father shipped
him out to this forlorn spot to regenerate.
He talked earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. His delicate hands
were tightly clasped, as his eyes gazed out across the valley at a
spot where Kate Seton's house stood beyond the river.
Bill sat listening. He wanted Charlie to talk. He wanted to learn all
those little things, sometimes even very big things, which can only be
read between the lines when the tongue runs on unguardedly. He knew
his brother's many weaknesses, and it was his ardent desire to
discover those signs of betterment and strengthening he fondly hoped
had taken place in the passing of years.
He lolled back with the luxury of an utterly saddle-weary man. His
heavy bent pipe hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His big
blue eyes were steady and earnest.
"Yes," Charlie went on, after a moment's thought, "I'm glad, mighty
glad, I came here when I did." He gave a short mirthless laugh. "I
doubt if my satisfaction is inspired by any moral scruple," he added
hastily, as the other nodded. "Say, can you understand how I feel when
I say I believe all moral scruple has somehow decayed, rotted, died in
me? I don't mean that I don't want to be decent. I do; but that's
because decency appeals to me from some sort of artistic feelings
which have survived the wreck I made of life years ago. No, moral
scruples were killed stone dead when I was chasing through Europe
hunting Art, searching for it with eyes too young to gaze upon
anything more beautiful than a harsh life of strict discipline.
"Now I have to follow inclinations that have somehow got the better of
all the best qualities in me. That's how I'm fixed now. And, queer as
it may seem, that's been my salvation--if you can call it salvation.
When I first came here I was ready to drift any old way. I did drift
into every muck-hole that appealed to me. I didn't care. As I said,
moral scruples were dead in me. Then this same self-indulgence did me
a good turn. The only good turn it's ever done me."
The eyes gazing across the valley grew very soft.
"Say, Bill," he began again, after a brief, reflective pause, "I came
here, and--and found a woman. The greatest, the best woman God ever
created. She was strong, big-spirited, beautiful. She'd come out here
to earn a living with her sister. She'd left the East for no better
reason than her big spirit of independence, and a desire to live
beyond the narrow confines of convention. Say, I think I went crazy
about that woman."
The man was smiling very softly. All Bill's senses were alert. His
slow brain was groping for the subtle comprehension which he felt was
needed for a full understanding.
"That woman came near to saving me--from myself," Charlie went on,
with a tenderness he was unaware of. "And it was through that very
weakness of self-indulgence. I love her that bad it's bigger than
anything else in my life. Say, I'd rather have her good opinion,
and--and liking--than anything in life. It's more to me than any of
those desires that have always claimed me. But there are times when
even her influence isn't quite big enough. There are times when even
she can't hold me up. There are things back of my head I can't
beat--even through her--at times. That's why I say she's come near
saving me. Not quite--but near.
"Bill, guess you can't understand. Guess no one can. I fight, fight,
fight. She fights, too. She fights without knowing it, too, because
always in my mind is a picture of her handsome face, and eyes of
disapproval. That picture wins most times--but not always. Wait till
you see Kate, Bill, then you'll understand. I just love her to
death--and that's all there is to it. She only likes me. She'll never
feel for me same as I do for her. How can she?--I'm--but I guess you
know what I am. Everybody who knows me knows that I'm a hopeless
drunkard."
The man's final admission came without any self-pity or bitterness. It
is doubtful if there was any shame in him at the acknowledgment. Bill
marveled. He could not understand. He tried to picture himself making
such an admission, and to estimate his feelings at it. Shame,
unutterable shame, was all he could think of, and his good-natured
face flushed with shame for his brother, who had somehow so squandered
all his better feelings.
Charlie saw the flush, and the tenderness died out of his eyes. He
shook his head.
"Don't feel that way about it," he cried bitterly. "I'm not worth it.
Besides, I can't stand it from--you. Only--from Kate. I know what
you're thinking. You're bound to think that way. You were born with a
man's body--a big, strong man's body. I was born weak and puny. I was
born all wrong. I don't say it in excuse. I merely state a fact. Look
at me beside you, both children of the same parents. I'm like a woman,
I can't even grow the hair of a man on my face. My mother reveled in
what she regarded as the artistic beauty of my features, my hands"--he
held out his thin hands with their long tapering fingers--"and my love
for all those softer things of life that should only be found in
female nature. She gloried in those things and fostered them. She did
her best, all unknowingly, bless her, to kill the last vestige of
manhood in me. And all the time it was crying out, crying out
bitterly. It was growing stronger and stronger, as my physique
remained undeveloped. Finally it became too great to withstand. Then,
when it turned loose, I was without power to check it. My moral
strength was not equal to the tide, and all my passions swayed me
whithersoever they chose. Again I say this is no excuse; it is merely
fact as I see it. I was powerless to resist temptation. The woman who
once looses her hold on her moral nature can never recover herself.
That is nature--her nature--and, by the curse of fate, it is also
mine."
For the moment Bill had no answer. He sat with his eyes averted. All
his affection for his erring brother was uppermost, all his sympathy
and pity. But he dared not display them. All that Charlie had said was
true. His whole appearance was effeminate. He was a man without the
physical support belonging to his sex. As he said, he was left
powerless by nature and upbringing to fight a man's battle on the
plains of moral integrity. His fall had been drink, with its
accompanying vices, and Bill realized now, after five years' absence,
how hopeless his brother's reformation had become. If his love for
this woman could not save him, then surely nothing on earth could. For
Bill, in his simple fashion, believed that such an appeal was above
all in its claims upon any real man.
He groped for something to say, for something that might show Charlie
that his affection remained utterly unaltered, but he had no great
cleverness, and the right thing refused to come to his aid. As the
silence lengthened between them his groping thoughts took their own
course, which led him to the name, "Kate," which the other had used.
He remembered he had heard it that day once before.
"Kate?" he inquired lamely. "Kate--who?"
"Kate Seton."
In an instant Bill's whole attitude underwent a change. He sat up,
and, removing his pipe, dashed the charred ashes from its bowl.
"Why, that's the sister of--Helen Seton."
Charlie nodded, his eyes lighting with a sharp question.
"Sure. But--you don't know--Helen?"
Bill's face beamed.
"Met her on the trail," he cried triumphantly. "No end of a pretty
girl. Gray eyes and fair hair. Might have been walking on Broadway,
New York--from her style. Fyles told me about her."
"Fyles?"
Charlie's eyes suddenly darkened with resentment. He rose abruptly
from his chair, and began to pace the veranda. Then he halted, and
looked coldly down into his brother's eyes.
"What did he say?" he demanded shortly.
Bill's eyes answered him with question for question.
"Just told me who Helen was. Said she had a sister--Kate. Said they
were farmers--of a sort. Said they'd been here five years. Why?"
Charlie ignored the question.
"That's all?" he demanded.
"Sure." Bill nodded.
Then the hardness died out of Charlie's eyes to be replaced once more
by his usual gentle smile.
"I'm glad. You see, I don't want him--around Kate. Say----" he
hesitated. Then he moved toward the door of the house. "Guess I'll get
supper. I forgot, you must be starving."
* * * * *
Kate Seton had spent the whole morning at home. The work of her little
farm had claimed her. She had been out with her two disreputable boys
around the grain, now rapidly turning from its fresh green to that
delicate tint of yellow so welcome to the farmer. It was a
comparatively anxious time, for the cattle grazing at large upon the
prairie loved the sweet flavor of the growing grain, and had no
scruples at breaking their way through the carelessly constructed
barbed wire fencing, and wrecking all that came within their reach.
The fences needed "top railing," and Kate could not trust the work to
her two men without supervision. So she spent the morning in their
company.
After the mid-day meal, as soon as Helen had left the house on a
journey to Billy Unguin's drapery store, she sat herself down at a
small bureau in their kitchen-parlor and drew a couple of books,
suspiciously like account books, from one of its locked drawers, and
settled herself for an hour's work upon them.
The room, though not large, was comfortable. It was full of odd,
feminine knick-knacks contrived by Helen's busy hands. The walls were
dotted with a number of unframed water colors, also the work of the
younger of the two women. There were three comfortable rockers, so
dear to the heart of the women of the country. Besides these, there
was a biggish dining table, and, in one corner of the room, beside a
china and store cupboard, a square iron cook stove stood out, on which
a tin kettle of water was pleasantly simmering.
It was a homely room which had been gradually furnished into its
present atmosphere of comfort by two pairs of busy hands, and both
Kate and Helen loved it far more, in consequence, than if it had borne
the hall-mark of lavish expenditure.
But Kate, as she sat before her bureau, had no thought of these things
just now. She was anxious to complete her work before Helen returned.
It was always impossible to deal with figures while her sister was in
the room. And her figures now needed careful attention.
She opened her books, and soon her busy pen was at work. From a pocket
in her underskirt she drew a number of papers, and these she carefully
sorted out.
Having arranged them to her satisfaction the task of entering figures
in her book was resumed. Finally she performed the operation of many
sums, the accurate working out of which took considerable time and
pains. Then, from the same pocket, she drew a bundle of notes which
she carefully counted and checked by the figures in the books.
This work completed she sat back idly in her chair with a thoughtful,
ironical smile in her dark eyes, and the holder of her pen poised in
the grip of her even white teeth.
She was thinking pleasantly, with a half humorous vein running through
her thought. She was dreaming, day-dreaming, of many things dear to
her woman's heart. Now and again her look changed. Now a quick flash
leaped into her slumberous eyes, only to die out almost immediately,
hidden under that softer gleam which had so much humor in it. At
another time a grave look replaced all other expression; then, again,
a quick frown would occasionally mar the fair, smooth brow. But always
the dominating note of humorous thoughtfulness would return, as if
this were her chief characteristic.
Her day-dreaming did not last long, however. It was abruptly
dispelled, as such moods generally are. The sound of hurrying feet
brought a quick look that was one almost of anxiety into her usually
confident eyes. With one comprehensive movement she scrambled her
books and papers together and heaped them into the still open drawer.
Then she gathered up the money, and flung it in after the other
things.
As the door burst open and Helen ran into the room, her eyes bright
with excitement, and her breathing hurried and short from her run,
Kate was in the act of locking the drawer.
Helen halted as she came abreast of the table, and her dancing eyes
challenged her sister.
"At your Bluebeard's chamber again, Kate?" she cried, in mock
reproval. Then she raised a warning finger. "One of these days--mind,
one of these days, I surely will have a duplicate key made and get a
peek into that drawer, which you never open in my presence. I believe
you're carrying on an intrigue with some man. Maybe it's full of
letters from--Dirty O'Brien."
Kate straightened herself up laughing.
"Dirty O'Brien? Well, he's all sorts of a sport anyway, and I like
'sports,'" she said lightly.
Helen took up the challenge.
"'Sports'? Why, yes, there are plenty of 'sports'--of a kind--in this
place. I'll have to see if I can find one who can make skeleton keys.
I'd surely say that sort of 'sport' should be going round the village
all right, all right."
She nodded her threat at her sister, who was in no way disconcerted.
She only laughed.
"What's brought you back on the run?" she inquired.
"Why, what d'you s'pose?"
Kate shrugged, still smiling.
"I'd say the only thing that could fix you that way was a--man."
"Right. Right in once. A man, Kate, not a mouse," Helen declared,
"although I allow they're both motive forces calculated to set me
running. The only thing is, one attracts, and the other repels. This
is distinctly a matter of attraction."
"Who's the man?" demanded the practical Kate, with a look of real
interest in her handsome eyes.
"Why, Big Brother Bill, of course, the man I promised you all I'd
marry."
Helen suddenly dashed at her sister and caught her by the arm in
pretended excitement.
"I've seen him, Kate, seen him!" she cried. "And--and he raised his
hat to me. He's big--ever so big, and he's got the loveliest, most
foolish blue eyes I've ever seen. That's how I knew him. Say, and when
I saw him with Inspector Fyles, I remembered what Charlie said about
him having no sense, and I had to laugh, and I think he thought I was
grinning at him, and that's why he raised his hat to me. It seemed so
comical--looked just as if he was being brought in charge of a
policeman for fear he'd lose himself, and would never find himself
again. He's surely a real live man, and I've fallen in love with him
right away, and, if you don't find something to send me up to see
Charlie about right away, I'll--I'll go crazy--or--or faint, or do
something equally foolish."
Kate's amusement culminated in a peal of laughter. She knew Helen so
well, and was so used to her wild outbursts of enthusiasm, which
generally lasted for five minutes, finally dying out in some whimsical
admission of her own irresponsibility.
She promptly entered into the spirit of the thing.
"Let's see," she cried, gazing thoughtfully about the room, while
Helen still clung to her arm. "An excuse--an excuse."
"No, no," cried the impetuous Helen. "Not an excuse. I never make any
excuse for wanting to be in a man's company. Besides----"
"Hush, child," retorted Kate. "How can I think with you chattering?
I've got to find you an excuse for going across to Charlie's place.
Now what shall it be? I know," she cried, suddenly darting across the
room, followed by the clinging Helen. "I've got it."
"Got what?" cried the other, with difficulty retaining her hold.
"Why, the excuse, of course," cried Kate, grabbing up two books from a
chair under the window. "Here, I promised to send these to Charlie
days ago. That's it," she went on. "Take these, and," she added
mischievously, "I'll write a note telling him to be sure and introduce
you to Big Brother Bill, as you're dying to--to make love to him!"
"Don't you dare, Kate Seton, don't you ever dare," cried Helen
threateningly. "I'll shoot you clean up to death with one of your own
big guns if you do. I never heard such a thing, never. How dare you
say I want to make love to him? I--I don't think I even want to see
him now--I'm sure I don't. Still, I'll take the books up if
you--really want Charlie to have them. You see, I sure don't mind what
I do to--to help you out."
Kate's eyes opened wide. Then, in a moment, she stood convulsed.
"Well, of all the sauce," she cried. "Helen, you're a perfect--imp.
Now for your pains you shan't take those books till after supper."
Helen's merry eyes sobered, and her face fell.
"Kate--I----"
"No," returned the other, with pretended severity. "It's no use
apologizing. It's too late. After supper."
Helen promptly left her side, and, with a laugh, ran to the wall where
a pair of revolvers were hanging suspended from an ammunition belt.
She seized one of the weapons by the butt, and was about to withdraw
it from its holster. But, in a flash, Kate was at her side.
"Don't Helen!" she cried, in real alarm. "Let go of that gun. They're
both loaded."
Helen withdrew her hand in a panic, her pretty face blanching.
"My, Kate!" she cried horrified. "They're--loaded?"
The other nodded.
"Whatever do you keep them loaded for? I--I never knew. You--you
wouldn't dare to--use them?"
Kate's dark eyes were smiling, but the smile was forced.
"Wouldn't I?" she said, with a curious set to her firm lips. Then she
added in a lighter tone: "They're all that stand between us and--the
ruffians of Rocky Springs."
For a moment Helen looked into her sister's eyes as though searching
for something she had lost.
"I--I thought you'd changed, Kate," she said at last, almost
apologetically. "I thought you'd forgotten all--that. I--thought you'd
become a sort of 'hired girl' in this village. Guess I'll have to wait
until after supper--seeing you want me to."