DUG MCFARLANE
The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air.
Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of
its golden rays into the wide stoop. The mists were already gathering
upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be
steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.
Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda.
They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life
that was theirs. But then the day was closing, and one of them had
come a long saddle journey. Whisky stood on a table at the elbow of
Dug McFarlane. Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.
Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with
attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen
upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of
Orrville.
Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was in
strong contrast to his guest. The American-Scot was something of a
product of the soil. He was of the type which forces its way up from
the smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon a
career in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course.
He was a man of one idea--cattle.
He knew nothing beyond--cattle. Cattle was the sum and substance of
his celibate life. He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours
were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else.
But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a
roughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education and
refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could only
hope to count his in the distant years to come.
Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to
arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters. And
while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual
interest. The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was
their beginning and end. They discussed every prospect from the
overwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformation
of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. Their interest seemed
endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters for
their talk to continue until sleep overtook them.
But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the
name of Peters. Jeff was curious to hear about him.
"Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded. "He's not down in the stock
register, and nobody seems to have found him except you."
Dug's reply came with a great laugh. His very bright gray eyes were
full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.
"Peters? Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff.
You've never seen him? You don't know him? No. Sure you wouldn't.
Nor you wouldn't find him registered. Y'see, they don't register mixed
farm stock. Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. But he's
bright--oh, yep, he's bright, sure. He's a little feller. To git him
right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed
abnormal. He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his
patch of land. You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin'
things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can't
stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns
o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything
livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."
"Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.
Dug grinned and shook his head.
"No, siree," he cried. "It ain't a thing to do with it. But I guess
we'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around. Y'see, this
arbitration game needs to be played good. I'd hate to get ahead of the
little cuss by settin' out my case in private. Nope. I hain't got a
thing agin that grasshopper. Not a thing, and I jest need to get this
thing straightened right, even if it goes agin me. That's why we fixed
on appealin' to you rather than the law. Y'see, I could buy up a
decision at law, which Peters knows, so we decided on the right
judgment of a straight feller. Say, what in----!"
Dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath. Jeff, too, was on his
feet. There was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper. A
string of hoarse invective in a human voice. The hammering of horses'
hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot. Dug broke
into a great laugh as he thrust his head out.
"Well, I be----!" he cried.
Jeff joined in his laugh. An absurdly small man was clinging
desperately to the saddle of an absurdly large horse, which was rearing
and plunging in a wild effort to shed its rider and bolt from the
neighborhood of the overturned smudge-fire bucket.
What a wealth of terror reigned. The gray-headed little man's face
matched the hue of his hair. His short arms were grabbing frantically
at his horse's neck. His eyes were full of a piteous appeal, and his
savage-looking spurs were firmly grappling his steed's flanks. The
wretched horse was shaking in every limb. Its eyes were bulging, and
the fierce snorts of his gushing nostrils had the force of escaping
steam.
Before any assistance could be offered by the onlookers the climax was
reached and passed. Elias Peters rolled slowly out of the saddle and
reached the ground with a heavy flop. Then, while its recent burden
gathered himself up, quite unhurt and smiling amiably in relief, the
horse contentedly mouched off toward a patch of inviting grass.
"Guess I'm kind o' late, Mr. McFarlane," Elias apologized. "An' it
seems I've bust up your fire-bucket some," he added ruefully. Then
with cheery optimism: "It was hustling to get here. I didn't jest see
it. Still, I got around."
"You sure have," grinned Dug. Then he indicated his companion. "This
is Mr. Jeffrey Masters, President of the Western Union. If you'll come
right along in we ken get things fixed up. Meanwhiles I'll jest have a
'hand' round-up your plug an' feed him hay."
* * * * * *
Another chair was brought from the house and Elias Peters was ensconced
therein. He was a gray little man. Gray from head to foot, it seemed.
His hair, his eyes, his skin, his whiskers, his shirt, his loose jacket
over it, his trousers. Even the top-boots he wore, which, had
doubtless once been black. Everything about him was gray.
Dug pressed whisky on him.
"Take your time," he had said, in his easy, cordial fashion. "Ther'
ain't no sort o' hurry. It's li'ble to shake a boy o' your years
foolin' around in the dust when you'd oughter be in the saddle."
"That's just it, Mr. McFarlane," came the prompt, distressed complaint.
"What in the nature o' blamed things made me act that way?"
"Jest the--nature o' things, I guess."
The little man's eyes twinkled.
"Guess you mean ther's folks who ain't in their right element in the
saddle, an'--I'm one of 'em." Then he turned on Jeff, whose whole
interest had been quite absorbed in a personality which Dug had
described as being reminiscent of a "buck louse." "Say, Mr. Masters,
guess you ain't never tried any stunt like raisin' kebbiges on a hog
ranch? No, sure you ain't. Ther's jest one feller runnin' loose on
this planet 'ud act that way, an' that's me. Guess I bin doin' it all
my life," he added, thoughtfully chewing a forefinger. "I was built
for, an' raised in a fifth rate city, an' I got the ideas an' ambitions
of the President of a Republic. Ther' ain't a blamed thing I can't do
but I want to do. An' the worst of it is ther's a sort o' restless
spirit in me jest sets me so crazy to do it I can't resist makin' the
jump. That's how I come to buy up a bum homestead up toward the hills
here, an' got the notion I could make a pile runnin' a mixed farm that
way. That's how I come to get outside a hoss when I'd be safer inside.
That's how I come to--'break' a deal more prairie land than I could
ever sow or harvest. That's how I bought machinery for a thousand acre
farm when I'd only got a half a mile. That's how I come to run a bunch
of cows without settin' up fencin' around my crops. That's how I bo't
the whole blamed lay-out without verifyin' the darned law feller's
statement I'd got grazin' rights on Mr. McFarlane's grass--which is the
thing I came right here to yarn about when I got mixed up with that
unnatural hell, which I've learned since was only set up to amuse the
skitters. Kind o' makes me feel if I was to set fer my pictur' I'd
sure come out a shipwreck at sea, or some other darn fool kind of
unpleasantness."
Jeff was forced to echo the laugh which Dug indulged in without
restraint. It seemed cruel in face of the strange little man's serious
distress. But its only effect upon him was to produce an inquiring
glance of profound but unresentful astonishment.
"Guess I must 'a' said something," he protested mildly. "Seems to me I
most generly do, with Mr. McFarlane around." Then he smiled in his
wintry fashion, which was quite powerless to add warmth to his curious
aspect of grayness. "Guess he must ha' been born laffin'--p'raps," he
added thoughtfully. "It's a dandy thing bein' born laffin'. I don't
reckon I ever got that luck. It's more likely my moma got lost in a
fog the day I was born. Can't account noways fer things otherwise."
Dug pushed the whisky bottle at him as a set-off to his own
uncontrolled mirth, and in a few moments contrived to subdue his
paroxysms sufficiently to start the business in hand.
"Now, Masters," he said, as soon as the diminutive Elias had ministered
adequately to his glass, "we've got a curious proposition to set before
you. It's jest one of them things which crops up in a country like
this, where a whole heap o' the laws happens along through custom. An'
like all sech customs, ther's li'ble to be a tarnation lot of friction
lyin' around if we can't get a right settlement. Now, if we go to the
courts it's goin' to be a mighty big scrap, eatin' up a hell of a pile
of dollars. An' if you're wise to the ways of the law fellers you ken
just about figger the verdict is goin' to come along to the feller with
the biggest wad. In this case I guess I'm the feller with the biggest
wad. Now, ther's no sort o' bad blood between Peters an' me, 'cep' it
is he will sing hymns outrageous on a Sunday. Still, I ain't goin' to
let that cut no ice. I'm out for a square decision between us by a
feller that don't know the meanin' of graft. I don't care a cuss who
gets it. But I ain't goin' to be bluffed by any fancy legal readings
of a position by city lawyers who don't know the north end of a steer
goin' south from the cluckin' proposition of a blind hen motherin' a
litter o' dormice. Peters here'll give you his case, seein' he's
plaintiff, in an elegant flow of warm air, an' when he's through I'll
sort of hand you a counterblast. An' when we finished you'll hand out
your dope on the subject, that is if we ain't talked you into a home
for incurable arbitrators. You'll get busy right away, Peters."
The rancher's manner was irresistible in its breezy frankness and
generosity. Jeff wondered at him. Any man of modern business methods,
he felt, would have jumped at the advantage which his wealth would have
given him in the law courts over so insignificant a person as Elias
Peters. The whole situation inspired in him the feeling that he was in
the presence of a really big man. A man who deserved every fraction of
his success.
Nor was there any doubt as to the little gray man's feelings as he took
a drink of whisky, and fixed his small eyes upon the weather and
years-lined features of his adversary.
"Guess you've made me feel 'bout as big as an under-fed skitter," he
complained. "You make me sort o' feel I want to tell you to keep your
darn grazin' rights till I ken hand you a bunch of bills such as I'd
like to pass on to an honest man. But I don't guess I'm goin' to do
it. Y'see, I just can't afford it. If I can't graze my stock on your
grass they got to starve, or I got to get out. An', seein' I doped all
my wad into this lay-out, it 'ud well-nigh mean ruin to act that way."
Then he turned to Jeff, who was almost bewildered at the curious
attitude toward each other of these men.
"Now, I ain't got a fancy yarn to hand you," he went on, fumbling in
his pockets. "I jest got my papers, here, as I got 'em from the law
fellers. You best take 'em, an' after we done get a look into 'em."
He passed them across. "Now these are the fac's of how I bo't, why I
bo't, an' who I bo't from. The place is a haf section, an' they asked
five thousand odd dollars for it. It was a bum sort o' homestead, an'
belonged to a widder woman who'd got her man shot up by some rustlers
workin' around this country. They went by the name of Whitstone, but
their real name, by them papers, was Van Blooren----"
"What name?" Jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man.
"Van Blooren."
"Go on."
Jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper. He was no
longer regarding the man's unemotional gray features.
"Wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clause
in them papers. This widder woman owned a right to graze up to two
hundred head o' stock on Mr. McFarlane's range. There was no mention
o' lease, nor nothin' to talk of payin' fer it. The right was in the
deed of sale, clear an' unquestioned. You'll see it right there in
them papers. Wal, I'm runnin' a hundred of stock, and the half section
is under cultivation. Now, Mr. McFarlane comes on me with the news
that this widder woman had no such rights to sell, an' that she and her
man were only allowed to graze their stock on his grass to help them
out. He's acted white over it so far, an' ain't taken no sort of
action. He's jest let my fool cows an' their calves run around chewin'
till their jaws is tired, which is a white way of seein' things. All
he's handed me is that I ain't got no right, an' the thing stands
pending your decision. He says the whole proposition is jest business.
He's got to safeguard the values of his property. Now, sir, I claim
them rights by right of that deed, an' if ther's any case it's between
that Van Blooren widder an' Mr. McFarlane. You got my papers,
an'--wal, how d'you guess I stand?"
The little man's eyes were anxious as he made his final appeal. But no
satisfaction was forthcoming at the moment. Jeff's head was bent over
the papers he had been handed. His eyes were hidden. He seemed wholly
engrossed upon the various clauses in the deed. Finally he spoke
without looking up.
"There's no deed granting grazing rights executed by Mr. McFarlane
here," he said.
Before Peters could reply, Dug broke in.
"Ther' never was one made," he said easily. "I don't guess you'll find
it ther'--'less you use trick eyes. Here--say, Peters has given you
his story right. I ain't no kick comin' to a word of it. But this
thing has more sides to it than you'd fancy. Now, I don't just care a
cuss Peters' grazin' two hundred, or five hundred head of stock on my
pastures. But if Peters bo't rights an' ken prove it, why, he's the
right to sell 'em on to any feller who comes along, which kind o' turns
my ranch into common land. Nothin' doin'. No, siree!"
Jeff had abandoned his search of the papers. Nor was he regarding
either of the men. His eyes were directed through the lacing of
creeper, his gaze concentrated upon the purple vista of the hills. His
brows were depressed with profound thought. Nor were the blue depths
of his eyes easy. Peters' whole attention was upon the rancher.
"Now, see right here, Masters," Dug went on, after a deeply considering
pause. "I got a story to tell you I'd have liked to hold up, an' the
reason I hate handin' it you is jest a sort o' fool sense of honor.
Howsum, when folks git gay I can't see you're right to hold your hand.
Now, them rights are sold by the law fellers of that widder woman, an',
I guess, actin' under her instructions. Now, she knows she don't own
no rights to sell. Wal, I allow she's on the crook."
"Crook?" Jeff's interrogation came swiftly, in a harsh voice utterly
unlike his own. Then his eyes came round to the face of the rancher.
There was something deadly in the steadiness of their regard. "This
widow," he said. "Her name is Van Blooren. What is her first name,
and the first name of her--husband?"
Before Dug could reply Peters pointed at the deeds of sale.
"Guess her full name's writ ther'," he said. "Elvine van Blooren.
Sort of queer name, ain't it? It sort o' hit me that way when I first
see it. Kind o' good name fer a--crook."
Jeff's eyes dropped to the papers again as Dug gave the other
information required.
"The man's name was Robert--Bob. Called hisself when he was here.
Y'see, his paw was some swell guy who guessed his son had made some
darn fool marriage. An' I allow he was wise. Howbe, their names an'
sech don't cut no ice."
"No."
Jeff's monosyllable brought Dug's gaze swiftly in his direction. The
next moment they were looking squarely into each other's eyes, and, as
far as Jeff was concerned, Peters was entirely forgotten.
"Will you tell me all you know of--this woman?" Jeff said, after a
moment. "I guess it'll be necessary--before we're through."
"Sure. That's how I figgered." A momentary tension seemed to have
been relaxed. Dug once more settled himself at his ease.
"'Tain't a pretty yarn, when you come to think," he said, his brows
contracting under his feelings. "Men are jest men, an' I guess you
don't generly expect more'n a stink from a skunk. But with women it's
diff'rent. When a feller thinks of women, he thinks of his mother, or
sweetheart, or his wife. An' when he thinks that way, why, I don't
guess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good.
Howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a feller
cryin' as laffin' most times. This thing come over that Lightfoot
gang. We got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped full
of lead out of hand they was hanged. Sort o' queer, too, the way we
got 'em. I'd set up a reward. Ten thousand dollars. It was right out
o' my own bank roll. Wal, I set it up--the notice o' reward--one
night, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for. Bob
Whitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me. I
hadn't no use fer the feller up to then. He was weak-kneed. And, in a
way, had fallen fer Ju Penrose's rye. He'd come to me once before on
the subject o' these all-fired grazin' rights. Y'see, he'd been tryin'
to git ahead raisin' wheat in a country where ther' was only a market
fer cattle an' rye whisky. Anyway, he cut most o' the wheat racket,
an' guessed he'd travel the same road as other folks, an' asked me for
permission to graze. I was kind o' sorry about him, an' his
good-lookin' wife--both city-raised folk--an' I did as he ast. I said
he could graze up to two hundred head. Git a line on that. Them
rights was verbal between him an' me to help him out. Ther' wa'an't no
sort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition. Wal,
when he come along in with his news I set him right through it, an' I
allow, before I quit him, I got the notion that fer all his addled ways
there was a heap to him I hadn't guessed. He started by sayin' he'd
located the rustlers, got their camp set in the hills, an' could hand
over the whole blamed bunch right away quick. That was elegant. But I
ast him how it come he'd on'y located 'em twelve hours after I'd set up
a ten thousand dollar reward. Y'see, they'd been rustlin' around fi'
years. Wal, to cut a long yarn, I got the whole thing out of him in
quick time--he was like a kid in my hands. He hadn't located that
camp, he wasn't goin' to touch a cent of them ten thousand. He called
it 'blood money,' an' cussed it good an' plenty with an elegant flow.
It was his wife. Yes, siree, it was the woman driving the man. She'd
located them rustlers by chance only the day before, while he was
around Ju's place sousin' rye. When he got home an told her of the
reward, she was nigh crazy to git her hands on the dollars. Seems to
me ther' must have been a mighty scrap-up. I guess she told him of his
ways, an' what he'd brought her to--in a way some women-folk can. I
didn't git it all clear. Y'see, he did his best to screen her.
Anyways, she made him promise to fix things so she touched those
dollars. An' that's why he come to me. Ther's jest one thing stuck in
my head so I can't lose it. It was his last words to me about it. He
says, says he, see here, Mr. McFarlane, I need one favor out o' you. I
want to go with you on this racket, an' if ther's any mercy in the God
of Heaven, he'll let me get my dose when the shootin' starts.
Effie--that's how he called his wife--wants them dollars, an' you'll
see she gets 'em. But for me I just couldn't ever live around a woman
who'd handled that blood money! He didn't use them words. They're
mine. But it's 'bout how he put it. Wal, when the play was over he'd
had his wish. He was dropped plumb in his tracks. Then I handed his
widder the dollars. She ain't around these parts now so it don't
matter handin' you the story of it. Maybe she's married agin. She was
some picture woman. But anyway I'd say right here, the woman who could
take the price of men's lives would be low enough to bluff a boy like
Peters here out of his stock of dollars on a play like these rights.
An' that's why I reckon this thing's been done on the crook."
He reached round for his glass and took a deep drink in the silence
that followed his story. Then, as neither the man who was to
arbitrate, nor Peters, attempted to break it, he went on:
"Guess a reward's jest a reward, an' you can't kick at the feller who
comes along an' grabs a holt on it. But when a woman, young, a
good-looker, an' eddicated, an' refined, gits grabbin', why, it makes
you see sulphur an' brimstone, an' horns an' hoofs when your thoughts
are full o' buzzin' white wings an' harps, an' halos an' things. Git
me? I guess stealin' dollars out o' a citizen's pocket-book wouldn't
be a circumstance to a female of that nature. Say, I ain't got rid o'
the stink of it yet, though it happened four years ago."
The man's contempt and loathing were intense. He had offered the
reward, paid it, he had led the Vigilantes in the hanging. But these
things were simply part of the justice of man as he saw it, and rightly
administered.
The silent moments slipped by. Jeffrey Masters was sitting erect in
his chair. A marble coldness seemed to have settled itself upon his
keen face. Peters was waiting for that decision he desired. Dug
McFarlane, with more understanding, realized that something was wrong.
He, too, remained silent, however.
At last Jeff stirred. His gaze shifted. It turned half vaguely upon
the little man Peters. Then it seemed to drift unmeaningly toward the
rancher. A moment later it fell upon the papers he was so tightly
gripping. It was then that realization seemed to come upon him. He
reached out and handed the deeds to their owner. A moment later he was
on his feet, and had moved across to the front of the veranda, where he
stood, slim, erect, and with his back turned upon the others.
He cleared his throat and spoke in a steady voice.
"I can only hand you a decision on the intention as apart from the
legal aspect of the case," he said judicially. "It's clear to me no
saleable rights were given. There was no transaction over them. The
widow of this man had no rights to sell. If disinterested advice is
acceptable I should urge this. It's in view, I guess, of McFarlane's
expressed indifference to Peters' cattle grazing on his land. Let
Peters acknowledge he has no rights. Then let McFarlane enter into an
agreement that Peters can run his stock on his land, the right being
non-transferable. I should put the whole thing in writing."
"An' a darn good an' honest decision, too," cried Dug heartily.
The shadow of a beatific smile passed over Peters' small features.
"Bully!" he murmured. Then he added: "But I sort o' feel we both
oughter set the law on that--she devil."
Jeff turned abruptly. His movement was almost electrical.
"I shouldn't," he said sharply.
Dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.
"Why not?" There was a dash of resentment in Peters' tone.
But Jeff was spared a reply. Dug anticipated him with an oath.
"Gol darn you, because she's--a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth.
"Hell take it you ken have your rights. That's enough, I guess. I'll
have the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow. Meanwhile I'm
sick to death of the whole blamed thing. I quit right here."
His intention was plain enough. He meant there should be no
misunderstanding it. And the little man, Peters, took his dismissal
without demur.
The moment Peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in a
cloud of dust, Dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest. Jeff
almost mechanically accepted it. He gulped down a stiff drink of neat
spirit. Dug watched him.
"Guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.
Jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.
Dug returned to his seat and gazed out at the yellow and purple
afterglow of sunset.
"Say, maybe you'd feel like handin' me the reason you wouldn't set the
law on to that--woman?" he went on presently.
The question was by no means idle. It was inspired by the man's
genuinely kindly nature. Somehow, he felt that he had been responsible
for that which he had seen, still saw, in this man's eyes.
But he was wholly unprepared for the reply forthcoming. It came
promptly. Each word came distinctly, deliberately, in a voice of
bitter coldness. The tragedy of it left the rancher speechless.
"Because I married Elvine van Blooren just over six weeks ago."