THE HANGING BEE
Dug McFarlane was a picturesque creature. He was big in height and
girth. He was also big in mind. And, which was much more important to
the people of the Orrville ranching world, big in purse. He was
grizzled and gray, and his eyes beamed out of a setting which was
surely made for such beaming; a setting which possessed no sharp angles
or disfiguring hollows, but only the healthy tissue of a well-nourished
and wholesome-living man in middle life.
As he sat his horse, beside his station foreman, gazing out at the
broken line of foothills which marked the approach to the barrier of
mountains cutting against the blue, he seemed to display in his bearing
something of that dominating personality which few successful men are
entirely without. All about them lay the heavy-railed corrals of a
distant out-station. Just behind stood the rough shanty, which was the
bunkhouse for the cowhands employed in this region. The doctor was
still within, tending the grievously injured man who had been so badly
wounded in the previous night's raid by the rustlers.
For the time Dug's beaming eyes were shadowed with a concern that was
half angry and wholly depressed. They searched the rolling grass-land
until the distance was swallowed up by the barrier of hills. He was
seeking one reassuring glimpse of the black, hornless herd whose
pastures these were. But only disappointment met him on every side.
The beautiful, sleek, Aberdeen-Angus herd, which was his joy and pride,
had vanished. They had gone, he knew. They had gone the same way
that, during the last five years, hundreds of head of his stock had
gone. It was the last straw.
"Say, Lew Hank," he said, in a voice of something approaching an
emotion he possessed no other means of displaying, "it's beat me bad.
It's beat me so bad I don't seem able to think right. We'd a hundred
head running on this station. As fine a bunch as ever were bred from
the old country's strain. I just feel that mad I could set right in to
break things."
Then, after a long pause during which the station foreman waited silent:
"And only last night, while these guys was raising the mischief right
here, I was setting around doping out big talk, and raising a mighty
big wad for the round-up of the whole darnation gang. Can you beat it?
I'm sore. Sore as hell. Say, tell it me again. I don't seem to have
it clear."
He passed one great muscular hand across his moist forehead, and the
gesture was rather one of helplessness.
Lew Hank regarded him with measuring eyes. He knew him so well. In
the ten years and more he had worked for him he had studied his every
mood. This phase in the great cattleman's character was something new,
something rather startling. Dug's way was usually volcanic. It was
hot and fierce for a while, generally to hollowed by a hearty laugh,
rather like the passing of a summer storm. But this, in Lew's opinion,
was a display of weakness. A sign he neither liked nor respected. The
truth was Dug McFarlane had been hit in a direction of which his
subordinate had no understanding. That herd of Aberdeen-Angus cattle
had been his plaything. His hobby. He had been devoted to it in a way
that would have been absurd to any one but a cattleman. Hank decided
this unaccustomed weakness must be nipped in the bud.
"Say, boss, it ain't no use in squealin'," he grumbled, in the hard
tones of a man who yields to no feelings of sympathy. His
weather-stained face was set and ugly in its expression. "Wher's the
use in it anyway?" he demanded. "Get a look around. There's miles of
territory, an' all of it runs into them blamed hills. I got three boys
with me. They're right boys, too. I don't guess there's a thing you
or me could tell 'em 'bout their work. Not a thing. Day and night one
of 'em's on grazin' guard. Them beasties ain't never left to trail off
into the hills. Wal, I guess that's all we ken do--sure. Say, you
can't hold up a gang of ten an' more toughs with a single gun in the
dead, o' night, 'specially with a hole in your guts same as young
Syme's had bored into his. I ain't ast once, nor twice, to hev them
beasties run into the corrals o' nights, and fed hay, same as in
winter. I've ast it fifty times. It's bin up to you, boss. So I say
it's no use in squealin'."
Hank spat over his horse's shoulder, and his thin lips closed with a
snap. He was a lean forceful prairieman who possessed, as he would
himself have said, no parlor tricks. Dug McFarlane, for all his
wealth, for all he had been elected president of the Western Union
Cattle Breeders' Association three years in succession, was no more to
him than any other employer who paid wages for work loyally performed.
Dug regarded his foreman with close attention. He ignored the man's
rough manner. But, nevertheless, it was not without effect.
"And the other boys?"
"Was dead asleep in the bunkhouse--same as me. What 'ud you have?
They ain't sheep dogs."
Dug took no umbrage.
"And they're out on the trail--right now?"
"Sure. Same as we should be, 'stead o' wastin' hot air around here.
Say, I guess you're feelin' sore. But I don't guess your feelin's is a
circumstance to mine, boss. You ain't bin beat to your face by this
lousy gang. I have. An' say, I'm yearnin'--jest gaspin'--to wipe out
the score. I don't sort o' care a bit for your loss. That ain't my
funeral. But they've beat me plumb out--same as if I was some sucker
who ain't never roped an' branded a three-year-old steer since I was
pupped. Are you comin' along? They struck out northwest. We got
that, an' the boys is follerin' hard on their trail. It'll be better'n
squealin' around here."
There could be no doubt about the man's feelings. They were displayed
in every word he spoke. In every glance of his fierce eyes. Dug
approved him. His manners were nothing. Lew was probably the most
capable cattleman in his service.
He was about to follow his foreman who had swung his horse about to set
off northward, when he abruptly flung out an arm, pointing.
"That one of your boys--coming in? Maybe----"
Lew screwed up his eyes in the sunlight. His rep came in a moment.
"Maybe--nuthin'. That ain't one of my boys." Then, after a brief,
considering pause, in which he narrowly examined the distant horseman's
outfit: "Sort o' rec'nize him, too. Likely he's that bum guy with the
dandy wife way up on Butte Creek. Whitstone, ain't it? Feller with
swell folks way down east, an' who guesses the on'y sort o' farmin'
worth a cuss is done in Ju Penrose's saloon. That's him sure," he
added, as the man drew nearer. Then he went on musingly. "I guess
he's got a lot to dope out. Say, them guys must have passed near by
his shanty."
Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk. He was on a mission that
inspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing.
And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.
He glanced swiftly from one to the other as he confronted the burly
rancher and his station foreman. The latter he did not know, nor was
he interested in him. The man he had come to see was Dug McFarlane,
who claimed from him, as he did from every man in the district,
something in the nature of respect.
"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones.
"My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazing
rights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember.
You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morning
because--I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see you
privately. It's--important. You've been robbed last night, and--it's
about them. The gang, I mean."
His pony was still blowing. Bob had ridden hard. He had first ridden
into Orrville, and then followed the rancher out here. He was leaning
over in the saddle lounging upon the horn of it. His eyes were gazing
curiously, speculatively at the figure of the man who ruled the local
cattle industry. He was calculating in his own way what might be the
effect of the news he had to impart. What estimate this big man--and
Bob knew him to be a big man--would have of him when he had told his
news and claimed the--blood money? With each moment he shrank smaller
and smaller in his own estimation.
Dug regarded him steadily.
"You've got news of them?"
Bob nodded, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Lew Hank.
"I've seen 'em. But--it's more than that."
The rancher turned quickly upon his foreman.
"Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's making
with young Syme. I need a talk with Whitstone."
It was not without obvious and resentful reluctance that Lew Hank
withdrew. Even his hardihood, however, was unequal to resisting so
direct an order from his chief.
The two men watched him out of earshot. Then Dug, with almost
precipitate haste, turned back to his visitor.
"Now, sir, I'm ready to hear anything you need to tell me."
But Bob was thinking of Ju Penrose as he had thought of him many times
since he had listened and yielded to Effie's appeal. Every man has his
price. Bob knew now that he, like the rest, had his price. That price
a woman had set for him. Ju was right--hatefully right. Well, he
would now refuse to be robbed of one cent of it.
He looked up sharply as the other made his demand.
"You're offering ten thousand dollars reward for the| capture of the
Lightfoot gang, Mr. McFarlane?"
"That's so."
The rancher's regard had deepened. There was a curious light shining
in his blue eyes. It was half speculative, half suggestive of growing
excitement. It was wholly full of a burning interest.
"Say, I'd just like to know how I stand." Bob laughed that short hard
laugh which bears no trace of mirth. "You see, I can put you wise. I
can lead you right on to their camp so you can get 'em--while they're
sleeping, or any other old way. Oh, yes, I'm ready to play my part
right up to the limit. It don't matter a thing. I'm not just here to
tell you about things. I'm here to lead you to that camp, and take a
hand in the hanging when you get busy. You see, I'm a whole hogger.
But I want to know how things stand about that ten thousand dollar
reward. Do I get it? If I get shot up does my wife get it? And when
it's paid, do you shout about it? Does the gang down Orrville way need
to know who it was they forgot to hand the name of Judas to when he was
christened? I don't care a cuss on my own account. It's----"
But Dug McFarlane broke in upon the bitter raillery. He had no thought
for the man or his feelings, just for one moment it seemed to him that
some sort of miracle had happened. And his every thought and feeling
was absorbed in it. Here, after five years of vain effort, here, after
five years of depredations which had almost threatened the cattle
industry in the district with complete crippling, here was a man who
could lead them to the raiders' hiding-place, could show them how the
hanging they all so cordially desired could be brought about. It was
stupendous. It was--yes, it was miraculous.
His first impulse had been to give way to the excitement which stirred
him, but he restrained himself.
"Ten thousand dollars will be paid by me to the man, or his nominee,
privately, if his information leads to the hanging of this gang. Say,
boy, we ain't goin' to split hairs or play any low games on this lay
out. I'm a rich man, an' ten thousand dollars ain't a circumstance so
we break up this gang. If we only get one of 'em or part of 'em, the
man who shows me their hiding-place, and leads me to it, that man--or
his wife--gets my ten thousand dollars. You can have it in writing.
But my word goes any old time. Now you can get busy and hand me the
proposition."
The steady eyes, the emphatic tones of this big, straight-dealing
rancher silenced the last doubt in Bob's lesser mind. He was out to do
this dirty work with all his might in the interest of the woman who had
inspired it. But he had scarcely been prepared for such simple methods
as this man displayed. He had felt that it was for him to barter, to
scheme, to secure the dollars Effie coveted. A deep sigh escaped him.
It may have been relief. It may have been of regret that he must stand
before so straight-dealing a personality claiming his thirty pieces of
silver.
He passed one hand across his perspiring brow and thrust his prairie
hat farther back upon his head. He would have preferred, however, to
have drawn it down over his eyes to escape the searching gaze from the
honest depths of the other's. Suddenly, with a gesture of impatience,
he began to talk rapidly.
"It's no use, Mr. McFarlane, I hate this rotten work," he cried out.
"I--I hate it so bad I could just rather bite my tongue out than tell
you the things I've got to. It's rotten. I don't know---- Say, you
don't know me, and I don't guess you care a curse anyway. But I was
brought up in a city and taught to believe things were a deal better
than I've lately come to think they are. Psha! These fellers have got
to be hanged when and where we get them. But it hurts me bad to think
that I've got to take dollars for handing you their lives. Oh, that
don't tell you a thing either. You'd say I don't need to take 'em.
But I do. I got to take those dollars, if they blister my hands and
burn the bones inside 'em. I've got to have 'em, and I'd like to burn
'em, every blazing one. But I've got to have 'em. Say, I'll be paid
on the nail when the job's done? If I get shot up the money'll be paid
to my wife? Will you give me your word, sir? Your word of honor?"
"My word of honor."
"Say, then come right back with me to my shanty no, best not. We'll
ride back to Orrville, and I'll hand you all I know as we go. I can
quit you before we reach the township. Then you can hustle the crowd
together and I'll be waiting ready at my shack to play my part--the
dirty rotten Judas racket."
"Judas betrayed his--Master and Friend. Are these people your friends?
Is Lightfoot your master?"
"Heavens! What d'you take me for--a rustler?"
"Then quit your crazy talk of Judas. Your duty's plumb clear. Your
duty's to hand these folks, these bandits, into our hands. The money's
a matter of--choice. I'll just hand my man a word or two, and we'll
get back Orrville way."
* * * * * *
It was past midnight when Bob took up a position squatting on the sill
of his own doorway. Standing close behind him, leaning against the
rough casing, Effie looked down upon his huddled figure. Her eyes were
alight with a power of suppressed excitement. The blood was surging
through her young veins, and every nerve was tense with the strain of
waiting, of anticipation.
But her emotions were by no means shared by her husband. For all her
beauty and woman's charm she was different, utterly different from him.
She had been brought up to the understanding that she would have to
make her own way in the world. All her parents had been able to do for
her was to see that she was as fully equipped for the adventure of life
as their limited means would permit. Those means would die when her
chief parent died, and the style in which they had lived left no margin
for saving.
So, with cool calculation, Effie had set about her life's effort. Nor
had she considered herself unsuccessful in the first spreading of her
maiden wings. A millionaire's son! It was a splendid match. It had
met with the entire approval of her family.
Then had come disillusionment. A determined opposition from Bob's
father. She had been urged to break off the engagement. She even
intended to do so. But some how she had miscalculated the nature which
her education had been powerless to eradicate. She realized at last
when the demands of her campaign made themselves heard, that there was
something she had hitherto completely ignored. There was the woman's
heart of her. She had most absurdly fallen in love with this first
stepping-stone toward the goal of her ambition. It was the absurd
uncalculating love of extreme youth. But it was sufficiently impetuous
to flout all the reason which her training and upbringing had been
calculated to inspire her with.
The rest followed in natural sequence, and now, after two years of
married penury, she was ready to seize any straw which chance flung in
her way as a means of salving that ambition which she now saw, with
more perfectly clear vision, was completely upon the rocks.
Now, in her mind, there were only three matters of concern. Would Dug
McFarlane come? Would they succeed in capturing this Lightfoot gang?
Would she get those ten thousand dollars, which appeared so vast a sum
to eyes only accustomed to dwelling upon cents?
Bob was silent. His whole aspect seemed to have undergone a complete
changes. He had returned to her with the story of his interview with
Dug McFarlane. He had returned to her with the assurance that he had
sold his conscience, his honor, at her bidding, and he hoped she was
satisfied. Since then he had wrapped himself in a moody silence which
had defied her utmost effort to break down.
The horses stood ready saddled in the barn. Effie was clad in her
riding suit. As yet the moon had not risen to reduce the starlit
magnificence of the velvet summer night sky. Nor was there any sound
to warn them that the hours of suspense were nearly over.
Finally, Effie could endure the silence no longer. Her dark eyes were
intently gazing down upon the bowed figure of the man. They were hard
with every bitter woman's emotion. She was full of a fierce, hot
resentment against the man who could so obstinately resist the spirit
of her longing.
"Bob," she cried at last, all restraint completely giving way, "do you
know what I could do just now more willingly than anything else in the
world? I could thrust out my foot and spurn you with it as you might
any surly cur which barred your way. I tell you I'm hot with every
feeling of contempt for your crazy attitude. You dare to set yourself
and your moral scruples between my welfare and the miserable life
you've condemned me to. Your moral scruples. Were there ever such
things? Morals? Ju Penrose's saloon day and night--for you. The
sluttish drudgery of this wretched place for me. Then you dare to
place your conscience before my--comfort."
"Do I?"
The man did not look up. His brooding eyes were on the sky-line to the
southeast.
"I've done as you needed. I've arranged everything with the--hangman.
You're going to touch those pleasant dollars. What more are you asking
me?"
"What more? Yes, you've done these things because I've driven you to
them. You? You'd rather see me sitting around here starving, a worn
wreck of a woman, than lend a willing hand to bettering our lot. Oh,
yes, you've done these things, and--I hate you for the way you've done
them."
The man sat up. He shifted his position so that he could gaze up at
the splendid creature standing over him.
"You don't hate me worse than I hate myself, Effie," he said with an
exasperating lack of emotion. "Say, you feel like kicking me. You
feel like treating me like a surly cur. Well, I guess you're welcome.
I don't guess there's a thing you can do that way can hurt me worse
than you've done already." Then he smiled. And his smile was more
maddening to the woman than his words. "Don't worry a thing. You're
going to get your dollars if there's anything I can do to help you, and
when you've got 'em--why, if the merciful God we've both been brought
up to believe in is all we believe Him, I shan't be around to watch you
dirtying your hands with them."
Then with a swift, alert movement he raised a warning hand.
"H'sh!"
For some seconds they remained listening. Far away to the southeast a
low murmuring note came over the low hills. The girl remained with
eyes straining to pierce the starlit monotone. The man rose slowly
from his seat. Finally he turned about and faced her, and his eyes
smiled into hers.
"The hanging bee," he said.