IN THE FAR REACHES
Charlie Bryant's horse was a good one, far better than a rancher of
his class might have been expected to ride. It was a big, compact
animal with the long sloping pasterns of a horse bred for speed. It
possessed those wonderful rounded ribs, which seemed to run right up
to quarters let down like those of a racehorse. It was a beautiful
creature, and as it chafed under the gentle, restraining hand of its
rider its full veins stood out like ropes, and its shoulders and
flanks were a-lather of sweat.
They were traveling over a broken country a few miles up the valley.
There was no road of any sort, only cattle tracks, which, amid the
wild tangle of bush, made progress difficult and slow.
The man's eyes were brooding, and his effeminate face was overcast as
he rode. The wild scene about him went for nothing, even to his artist
eyes. His thoughts were full to the brim with things that held them
concentrated to the exclusion of all else. And, for all he thought,
or saw, or felt, of his surroundings, he might have been footing the
superheated plains of a tropical desert.
He was thinking of a woman. She was never really out of his thoughts,
and his heart was torn with the hopelessness of the passion consuming
him. No overshadowing threat could give him the least disquiet, no
physical fear ever seemed to touch him. But every thought of the one
woman whose image was forever before him could sear and lacerate his
heart almost beyond endurance.
He had no blame for her at any time. He had no protest to offer that
her love, the love of a wife for a husband, was utterly beyond his
reach. How could it be otherwise? He knew himself so well for what he
was, he had so subtle an appreciation of all he must lack in the eyes
of a big spirited, human woman, that, to his troubled mind, the
situation as it was had almost become inevitable.
Now as he rode, he thought, too, of his newly arrived brother, and the
hatefulness of personal comparison made him almost cringe beneath
their flagellations. Bill, so big of heart and body, so lacking in the
many abilities which go to make up the man in men's eyes, but which
count for so little in a woman's, so strong in the buoyancy and
fearlessness that was his. He felt he could almost hate him for these
things. Bill had not one ugly thought or feeling in the whole of his
nature. Temptation? He barely understood the word, because he was so
naturally wholesome.
But more than these things it was the memory of that which, since his
earliest youth, had looked back at him out of the mirror, that robbed
Charlie Bryant of so much peace now. That, and the weakness which
seemed to fit the vision so well. Whereas Bill, this child of the same
parents, was all that might be, his own form and manner made him
shudder as he thought of them. Then there was that devil haunting him,
and from whom there seemed to be no escape.
How could he ever hope that Kate Seton would do more than lend her
strong, pitying affection for his support? How could she ever look to
him for support and guidance? His sense of proportion was far too
acute to permit so grievous an error.
In some perverse way his mentality was abnormally acute. He saw
with eyes which were inspired by a brain capable of vast achievement,
but which possessed none of that equipoise so necessary for a
well-balanced manhood. And it told him all that, and forced conviction
upon him. It told him so much of that which no man should believe
until it be thrust upon him overwhelmingly by the bitter experiences
of life. His whole brain was permeated by a pessimism forced upon him
by a morbid introspection, resulting from an undue appreciation of his
own physical and moral shortcomings.
Yet with it all he bore no resentment except against the perversity of
such a lot as his. And in this lay the germ of a self-pity, which is a
specter to be dreaded more than anything else in life. While deploring
the conditions under which he must live, robbed, as he believed he was
robbed, of the possibility of winning for himself all those things
which belong to the manhood really existing beneath his exterior of
denial, he yet felt he would rather have his bread divided than be
denied that trifling food which made it possible for him to go on
living.
Kate's tender pity, Kate's warmth of affection, an affection she might
even bestow upon some pet animal, was preferable to that she should
shut him entirely out of her life. It left him free to drink in the
dregs of happiness, although the nectar itself was denied him.
He could accept such conditions. Yes, he could almost be satisfied
with them, since he believed no others to be forthcoming. But, and a
dark fury of jealousy flooded his heart as he thought, he could not
witness another drinking the nectar while he was condemned to the
dregs. He felt that that way lay madness. That way was more than could
be endured. He could endure all else, whatever life had in store for
him, but the thought that he must stand by while Kate be given to
another was more than his fate, for all its perversity, could expect
of him.
From his veranda that morning, as on the morning before, Charlie had
seen Kate and Stanley Fyles walking together. More than that he had
heard from Kate herself of her admiration of the police officer. And,
in these things, so trifling perhaps, so commonplace, he had read the
forecast of a mind naturally dreading, and eaten up by suspicion. He
would have been ready to suspect his own brother, had not a merciful
providence made it plain to him that Bill possessed interest solely in
the laughing gray eyes of Kate's sister.
Now, as he rode along, he saw dull visions of a future in which Kate
no longer played a part. A demon of jealousy was driving him. He
longed impotently for the power to rob the man of the possibility of
winning that which was dearest to him. In the momentary madness which
his jealousy invoked he felt that the death of this man, his life
crushed out between his own lean hands, would be something approaching
a joy worth living for.
But such murderous thoughts were merely passing. They fled again
before the pessimism so long his habit. It would not help him one
iota. It would rob Kate of a happiness which he felt was her due,
which he desired for her; it would rob him of the last vestige of even
her pitying regard.
Then he laughed to himself, a laugh full of a hatefulness that somehow
did not seem to fit him. It was inspired by the thought of how easy it
would be to shoot the heart out of the man he deemed his rival. Others
had done such things, he told himself. Then, with a world of
bitterness, he added, far better men than himself.
But he knew that no such intention was really his. He knew that
beneath all his bitterness of feeling, and before all things, he
desired Kate's happiness and security. A strange magnanimity, in a
nature so morally weak, so lacking in all that the world regards as
the signs of true manhood, was his. Even his life, he felt, would be
small enough price to pay for the happiness and security of the only
woman who had ever held out the strong arm of support and affection
for him to lean upon, the only woman he had ever truly loved.
So a nightmare of thought teemed through his brain as he rode. Now he
would fall into a sweat of panic as fantastic specters of hideous
possibilities arose and confronted him, now only a world of grief
would overwhelm him. Again a passion of jealousy would drive him to
the verge of madness, only to be followed swiftly by that lurking
self-pity which robbed him of the wholesome human instincts inspired
by the spirit of battle in affairs of life. Then would come that
overwhelming depression, bred of the long sapping of his moral
strength, while through it all, a natural gentleness strove to soar
above the ashes of baser fires.
It was with a sigh of relief, as his horse finally cleared a close
growing bush, he emerged upon a small clearing. In the midst of this
stood a corral. But, for the moment, he passed this by, and rode
toward a log hut of ancient construction and design.
He drew the restive creature up and dismounted. Then he flung the
reins over one of the posts of the old corral. The place was beyond
the boundary of his homestead and belonged to a time when the valley
knew few inhabitants beyond half-breeds and Indians. He had discovered
it, and had turned it into the service of a storage for those things
which were required only rarely upon his ranch, and at the more remote
parts of it.
Inside the corral stood a wagon. It was an ordinary box wagon, but
nearby stood a hay-rack, which signified its uses. Then there was a
mower, and horse rake. There were other odds and ends, too, but it
appeared obvious that haying operations were carried on in this
direction, and this old corral so found its uses.
After glancing casually in the direction of these things Charlie
passed round to the door of the hut. And herein his purpose became
more obscure.
The place was heavily thatched and suggested long disuse. Its air was
less of dilapidation than desertion, and lichen and fungus played a
large part in such an aspect. The walls were low, and the heavy roof
was flat and sloping. As the man drew near a flight of birds streamed
from its eaves, screaming their resentment at such intrusion.
Charlie appeared not to notice them, so intent was he upon his
purpose. He walked hurriedly, and finally paused at the doorway. For a
moment he almost seemed in doubt. Then, with a thrust, he pushed the
door, the hinges of which creaked protestingly as it opened inwards.
Another fluttering of wings, another chorus of harsh screams, and a
further flight of birds poured from within and rushed headlong into
the brilliant sunshine.
The place was certainly very old. A dreadful mustiness pervaded the
atmosphere. The dirt, too, the heavy deposit of guano upon the floor,
made it almost revolting. There was no furniture of any sort, while
yet it conveyed the suggestion that, at some remote period, it had
been the habitation of man.
A rough boarding lined the walls of logs very nearly up to the sloping
roof. Rusty nails protruded here and there, suggesting hangers for
utensils. A circular aperture in the roof denoted the presence, at one
time, of a stove, possibly a cooking stove. And these things might
well have raised in the mind a picture of a lean, black-haired,
cadaverous man of low type, living a secret life amid the wilderness
of this valley, with crime, crime against the laws of both God and Man
as his object. Just such a man as is the notorious half-breed cattle
thief.
Stepping over to the far end of the room, where the light shone down
through the stovepipe hole in the roof, Charlie halted before the
rough boarding at the angle of the wall. Then he reached out and
caught the upper edge of the wooden lining, which, here, was much
lower than at any other point, and exerted some strength. Four of the
upright plankings slid upward together in a sort of rough panel, and
revealed a shallow cupboard hewn out of the old logs behind them.
Within this opening a number of garments were hanging. There were
several pairs of riding breeches, and an odd coat or two, besides
other articles of man's outer attire. Added to these were two
ammunition belts with holsters and revolvers.
Charlie stood gazing at the contents of the cupboard for some moments.
Then he examined them, pulling each article aside as though to assure
himself that nothing was missing. Each revolver, too, he withdrew from
its holster and examined closely. The chambers were fully loaded. And
having satisfied himself of these things he slid the boards back
into their place. As they dropped back his expression was one of
appreciation. No one could possibly have guessed, even from a narrow
examination, what lay behind those rough, time-worn boards. Their fit
was in perfect keeping with the rest of the wall lining.
He stood back and gave a final glance about him. Then he turned toward
the door.
As he did so the sound of a soft whinny reached him. It came from his
horse outside. A quick, startled light leaped into his dark eyes, and
the next moment his movements became almost electrical. He reached the
door on the run and looked out. His horse was standing with head held
high and ears pricked. The creature was gazing fixedly in the
direction from which it had approached the clearing.
Charlie needed nothing more. Something was approaching. Probably
another horse. If so there was equally the probability of a rider upon
its back.
He closed the door quickly and carefully behind him, and hurried
toward the corral. He threw down the poles that barred it, and made
his way to the side of the wagon. Then his movements became more
leisurely.
Opening the wagon box he drew out a jack and a tin of grease. Then,
still with an easy, leisurely air he jacked up one wheel and removed
an axle cap.
He was intent upon his work now--curiously intent. He removed the
wheel and smeared the inside of the hub with the filthy looking
grease. His horse beyond the fence gave another whinny, which ended in
a welcoming neigh. The man did not even look up. He replaced the wheel
and spun it round. Then he examined the felloes which had shrunk in
the summer heat. An answering neigh, and a final equine duet still
failed to draw his attention. Nor, until a voice beyond the fence
greeted him, did he look up.
"Getting ready for a journey?" said the voice casually.
Charlie looked round into the keen face of Stanley Fyles. He smiled
pleasantly.
"Not exactly a journey," he said. Then he glanced quickly at the
hay-rack standing on its side. "Say, doing anything?" he cried, and
his smile was not without derision.
"Nothing particular," replied the police officer, "unless you reckon
getting familiar with the geography of the valley particular."
Charlie nodded.
"I'd say that's particular for--a police officer." His rich voice was
at curious variance with his appearance. It was not unlike a terrier
with the bay of a bloodhound.
The phenomenon was not lost upon Fyles. He was studying this meager
specimen of a prairie "crook." He had never before met one quite like
him. He felt that here was a case of brain rather than physical
outlawry. It might be harder to deal with than the savage, illiterate
toughs he was used to.
"Yes," returned Fyles, "we need to learn things."
"Sure."
Charlie pointed at the hay-rack.
"Guess you don't feel like giving us a hand tipping that on to the
wagon? I'm going haying to-morrow."
"Sure," cried Fyles, with an easy smile, as he leaped out of the
saddle. He passed into the old corral and his quick eyes took in
every detail at a glance. They came to rest on the slight figure of
the man and noted his costume. Charlie Bryant was clad in loose riding
breeches, but was coatless. Nor did he display any firearms. "Two-man
job, isn't it?" he said lightly. "And you guessed to do it--single?"
Charlie's smile was blandly disarming.
"No. I hadn't thought to get it on to-day. The Kid'll be with me
to-morrow, or maybe my brother, Bill."
"Ah. Brother Bill could about eat that rack on his own," Fyles
declared, as the two men set about the task.
It was a far lighter affair than it looked, and, in less than five
minutes was resting perfectly balanced in its place on the wagon.
Fyles looked on while Charlie went round and bolted the rack securely
in its place.
"Your wagon?" the officer observed casually, while his sharp eyes took
in its last details.
Charlie nodded.
"Yes. Folks borrow it some. You see, I don't need it a heap, except at
hay time."
"No, I don't guess you need it a heap. Say, this is a queer place
tucked away up here. Old cattle station, I guess."
Fyles's remarks had no question in them. But he intended them to
elicit a response. Charlie appeared to have nothing to conceal.
"Well, of a sort, I'd say," he replied. "You see, this was King
Fisher's corral. There's others around the valley, though I don't know
just where. King Fisher reigned nearly twenty years ago. He lived in
the building the folks in Rocky Springs use as a Meeting House. He was
pretty tough. One of the worst badmen ever hit this part. Had a
signboard set up on the trail down from the prairie. He wrote it.
'This is King Fisher's trail, take any other old trail.' I believe
most folks used to take 'any other old trail.' There was one feller
didn't though. And that was the end of King Fisher's reign. These
secret corrals have always been used by toughs."
Fyles was smiling.
"Yes."
Charlie laughed and pointed at the hut beyond the corral.
"I'd awfully like to know some of the games that went on in there.
Birds and things nest in its roof now. I guess they didn't come within
a mile of it one time. They say King Fisher was mad--blood mad. If
that's so, I daresay this place could tell a few yarns."
Again came Fyles's monosyllabic agreement.
Charlie turned to his wagon and went on with his greasing. And while
he worked and listened to the other's talk, the memory of having seen
him with Kate gathered stormily in his mind. But he still smiled when
he looked up. He still replied in the light-hearted fashion in which
he had accepted the police officer's coming. He was perfectly aware of
the reason of the man's presence there. And, equally, he was
indifferent to it.
"Where are you haying now?" Fyles inquired presently.
Charlie answered without turning from his work.
"Half a mile down stream. Guess we all hay that way. There's no other
sloughs handy on the west side of the village."
"That's why the wagon's kept here?"
"Sure. Saves the horses. They'll come out here to-morrow, and stop
right here till we quit."
Charlie spun the last wheel round after replacing the cap.
"Where are you stopping with your men?" he demanded abruptly, as he
let the jack down.
"Just around," said Fyles evasively.
"I see. On the prowl." Charlie smiled up into the man's shrewd,
good-looking face. "You need to do some prowling around this valley if
you're going to clean things up. Yes, and I'd say you need a mighty
big broom."
"We've got the broom, and I guess we'll do the work," replied Fyles
nodding. "We generally do--in the end."
Charlie's eyes had become thoughtful.
"Yes," he agreed. "I s'pose you do. Guess I'll have to be moving."
He returned the grease and jack to the wagon box, and moved toward the
gate of the corral.
"Coming my way?" he asked casually.
"Not just now. I'm looking around--some."
Charlie laughed.
"Ah. I'd forgotten that broom."
"Most folks do," replied Fyles, "--until they fall over it."
Charlie had reached his horse's side. He unhooked the reins from the
fence, and flung them over its head. Then, with an agility quite
remarkable, he vaulted into the saddle.
"Well, I hope that broom won't come my way," he laughed. "I'd hate
falling around."
"I hope it won't," said Fyles, in the same light manner, as he
followed out of the corral. "That's a dandy plug of yours," he said
with admiration, as his appreciative eyes noted the chestnut's points.
"He surely is," returned Charlie. "He can go some, too. I'll give you
a run one day--if you fancy yours."
Fyles was hooking his reins over the post Charlie had vacated.
"Mine?" he said. "Peter's the quickest thing west of Winnipeg. He'll
sure give you a run when--the time comes."
Charlie laughed. The drift of the talk, its hidden meaning, amused
him.
"We'll have to make a time, eh?"
"Sure," said Fyles, looking him squarely in the eyes.
Charlie moved his horse away.
"Well, so long, for the present. Guess I'll remember that challenge.
Thanks for helping me with the rack. You're stopping?"
Fyles nodded.
"Yes--for awhile."
Charlie rode away with the air of a man with not a care in the world.
But he was thinking swiftly, and his thoughts were of that hidden
cupboard, and what it contained. Hope and fear struggled for paramount
place in his heart. Was the secret of that hiding place sufficiently
simple to defy Stanley Fyles, or was it not? Was he the man he
was reputed to be, or was he merely a clever man backed by a big
authority? In the end he abandoned the troublesome point. Time alone
would give him his answer.