THE BLIND MAN
Tresler was unfeignedly glad to leave Jake Harnach behind him, but he
looked very serious as he and his companion moved on to the house. The
result of his meeting with the foreman would come back on him later,
he knew, and it was as well that he was prepared. The meeting had been
unfortunate, but, judging by what he had heard of Jake in Forks, he
must inevitably have crossed the bully sooner or later; Jake himself
would have seen to that.
Diane Marbolt paused as she came to the verandah. They had not spoken
since their greeting. Now she turned abruptly, and quietly surveyed
her guest. Nor was there any rudeness in her look. Tresler felt that
he was undergoing a silent cross-examination, and waited, quietly
smiling down at her from his superior height.
At last she smiled up at him and nodded.
"Will I do?" he asked.
"I think so."
It was a curious position, and they both laughed. But in the girl's
manner there was no levity.
"You are not sure? Is there anything wrong about me? My--my dress, for
instance?" Tresler laughed again; he had missed the true significance
of his companion's attitude toward him.
Just for a moment the dark little face took on a look of perplexity.
Then the pucker of the brows smoothed out, and she smiled demurely as
she answered.
"Oh, I see--no," doubtfully. Then more decidedly, "No. You see, you
are a 'tenderfoot.' You'll get over it later on."
And the last barrier of formality was set aside.
"Good," exclaimed Tresler, emphatically. "We are going to be friends,
Miss Marbolt. I knew it. It was only that I feared that 'they' might
ruin my chances of your approbation. You see, they've already caused
me--er--trouble."
"Yes, I think we shall be friends," Diane answered quietly. "In the
meantime, come along into the house and have your lunch. It is ready,
I saw you coming and so prepared it at once. You will not mind if I
sit and look on while you eat. I have had mine. I want to talk to you
before you see my father."
There was distinct anxiety in her manner. More surely than all, her
eyes betrayed her uneasiness. However, he gave no sign, contenting
himself with a cordial reply.
"You are very kind. I too should like a chat. You see, I am a
'tenderfoot,' and you have been kind enough to pass over my
shortcomings."
Diane led the way into the house. And Tresler, following her, was
struck with the simple comfort of this home in the wilds. It was a
roomy two-storied house, unpretentious, but very capacious. They
entered through one of three French windows what was evidently a
useful sort of drawing-room-parlor. Beyond this they crossed a
hallway, the entrance door of which stood open, and passed into a
dining-room, which, in its turn, opened directly into a kitchen
beyond. This room looked out on the woods at the back. Diane explained
that her father's sanctum was in front of this, while behind the
parlor was his bedroom, opposite the dining-room and kitchen. The
rooms up-stairs were bedrooms, and her own private parlor.
"You see, we keep no female servants, Mr. Tresler," the girl said, as
she brought a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen and set it on
the table. "I am housekeeper. Joe Nelson, the choreman, is my helper
and does all the heavy work. He's quite a character."
"Yes, I know. I've met him," observed Tresler, dryly.
"Ah! Try that ham. I don't know about the cold pie, it may be tough.
Yes, old Joe is an Englishman; at least, he was, but he's quite
Americanized now. He spent forty years in Texas. He's really an
educated man. Owned a nice ranch and got burned out. I'm very fond of
him; but it isn't of Joe I want to talk."
"No."
The man helped himself to the ham and veal pie, and found it anything
but tough.
Diane seated herself in a chair with her back to the uncurtained
window, through which the early summer sun was staring.
"You have met Jake Harnach and made an enemy of him," she said
suddenly, and with simple directness.
"Yes; the latter must have come anyway."
The girl sighed, and her eyes shone with a brooding light. And
Tresler, glancing at her, recognized the sadness of expression he had
noticed at their first meeting, and which, he was soon to learn, was
habitual to her.
"I suppose so," she murmured in response. Then she roused herself, and
spoke almost sharply. "What would you have done had he struck you? He
is a man of colossal strength."
Tresler laughed easily. "That depends. I'm not quite sure. I should
probably have done my best to retaliate. I had an alternative. I might
have shot him."
"Oh!" the girl said with impulsive horror.
"Well, what would you have?" Tresler raised his eyebrows and turned
his astonished eyes upon her. "Was I to stand lamb-like and accept a
thrashing from that unconscionable ruffian? No, no," he shook his
head. "I see it in your eyes. You condemn the method, but not the man.
Remember, we all have a right to live--if we can. Maybe there's no
absolute necessity that we should, but still we are permitted to do
our best. That's the philosophy I've had hammered into me with the
various thrashings the school bullies at home have from time to time
administered. I should certainly have done my best."
"And if you had done either of these things, I shudder to think what
would have happened. It was unfortunate, terribly unfortunate. You do
not know Jake Harnach. Oh, Mr. Tresler," the girl hurried on, leaning
suddenly forward in her chair, and reaching out until her small brown
hand rested on his arm, "please, please promise me that you won't run
foul of Jake. He is terrible. You don't, you can't know him, or you
would understand your danger."
"On the contrary, Miss Marbolt. It is because I know a great deal of
him that I should be ready to retaliate very forcibly. I thank my
stars I do know him. Had I not known of him before, your own words
would have warned me to be ready for all emergencies. Jake must go his
way and I'll go mine. I am here to learn ranching, not to submit to
any bulldozing. But let us forget Jake for the moment, and talk of
something more pleasant. What a charming situation the ranch has!"
The girl dropped back in her chair. There was no mistaking the
decision of her visitor's words. She felt that no persuasion of hers
could alter him. With an effort she contrived to answer him.
"Yes, it is a beautiful spot. You have not yet had time to appreciate
the perfections of our surroundings." She paused for him to speak, but
as he remained silent she labored on with her thoughts set on other
things. "The foot-hills come right down almost to our very doors. And
then in the distance, above them, are the white caps of the mountains.
We are sheltered, as no doubt you have seen, by the almost
inaccessible wall beyond the river, and the pinewoods screen us from
the northeast and north winds of winter. South and east are miles and
miles of prairie-lands. Father has been here for eighteen years. I was
a child of four when we came. Whitewater was a mere settlement then,
and Forks wasn't even in existence. We hadn't a neighbor nearer than
Whitewater in those days, except the Indians and half-breeds. They
were rough times, and father held his place only by the subtlety of
his poor blind brain, and the arms of the men he had with him. Jake
has been with us as long as I can remember. So you see," she added,
returning to her womanly dread for his safety, "I know Jake. My
warning is not the idle fear of a silly girl."
Tresler remained silent for a moment or two. Then he asked sharply--
"Why does your father keep him?"
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Jake is the finest ranchman in the
country."
And in the silence that followed Tresler helped himself to more
coffee, and finished off with cheese and crackers. Neither seemed
inclined to break up the awkwardness of the pause. For the time the
man's thoughts were wandering in interested speculation as to the
possibilities of his future on the ranch. He was not thinking so much
of Jake, nor even of Julian Marbolt. It was of the gentler
associations with the girl beside him--associations he had never
anticipated in his wildest thoughts. She was no prairie-bred girl. Her
speech, her manner, savored too much of civilization. Yes, he decided
in his mind, although she claimed Mosquito Bend as her home since she
was four, she had been educated elsewhere. His thoughts were suddenly
cut short. A faint sound caught his quick ears. Then Diane's voice,
questioning him, recalled his wandering attention.
"I understand you intend to stay with us for three years?"
"Just as long as it will take to learn all the business of a ranch,"
he answered readily. "I am going to become one of the----"
Again he heard the peculiar noise, and he broke off listening. Diane
was listening too. It was a soft tap, tap, like some one knocking
gently upon a curtained door. It was irregular, intermittent, like the
tapping of a telegraph-sounder working very slowly.
"What's that?" he asked.
The girl had risen, and a puzzled look was in her eyes. "The noise?
Oh, it's father," she said, with a shadowy smile, and in a lowered
tone. "Something must have disturbed him. It is unusual for him to be
awake so early."
Now they heard a door open, and the tapping ceased. Then the door
closed and the lock turned. A moment later there came the jingle of
keys, and then shuffling footsteps accompanied the renewed tapping.
Tresler was still listening. He had turned toward the door, and while
his attention was fixed on the coming of the blind rancher, he was yet
aware that Diane was clearing the table with what seemed to him
unnecessary haste and noise. However, his momentary interest was
centred upon the doorway and the passage outside, and he paid little
heed to the girl's movements. The door stood open, and as he looked
out the sound of shuffling feet drew nearer; then a figure passed the
opening.
It was gone in a moment. But in that moment he caught sight of a tall
man wrapped in the gray folds of a dressing-gown that reached to his
feet. That, and the sharp outline of a massive head of close-cropped
gray hair. The face was lost, all except the profile. He saw a long,
high-bridged nose and a short, crisp grayish beard. The tapping of the
stick died slowly away. And he knew that the blind man had passed out
on to the verandah.
Now he turned again to the girl, and would have spoken, but she raised
a warning finger and shook her head. Then, moving toward the door, she
beckoned to him to follow.
* * * * *
"Father, this is Mr. Tresler."
Tresler found himself looking down upon a remarkable face. He
acknowledged Diane's introduction, forgetful, for the moment, of the
man's sightless eyes. He gripped the outstretched hand heartily, while
he took in his first impression of a strange personality.
They were out on the verandah. The rancher was sitting in a prim,
uncushioned armchair. He had a strong, well-moulded, pale face, the
sightless eyes of which held the attention. Tresler at once
appreciated Shaky's description of them.
They were dreadful eyes. The pupils were there, and, in a measure,
appeared natural except for their enormous size. They were black, jet
black, and divided from what should have been the whites by minute
rings of blue, the only suspicion of iris they possessed. But it was
the whites that gave them their dreadful expression. They were scarlet
with inflammation--an inflammation which extended to the rims of the
lids and had eaten away the lashes. Of the rest of the face it was
impossible for him to form much of an opinion. The iron-gray brows
were depressed as though with physical pain, and so obliterated all
natural expression. And the beard shut out the indications which the
mouth and chin might have afforded.
"You're welcome, Mr. Tresler," he said, in a low, gentle tone. "I knew
you were here some time ago."
Tresler was astonished at the quiet refinement of his voice. He had
grown so accustomed to the high, raucous twang of the men of these
wilds that it came as a surprise to him.
"I hope I didn't disturb you," he answered cheerily. "Miss Marbolt
told me you were sleeping, and----"
"You didn't disturb me--at least, not in the way you mean. You see,
I have developed a strange sensitiveness--a sort of second sight,"
he laughed a little bitterly. "I awoke by instinct the moment you
approached the house, and heard you come in. The loss of one sense,
you see, has made others more acute. Well, well, so you have
come to learn ranching? Diane"--the blind man turned to his
daughter--"describe Mr. Tresler to me. What does he look like? Forgive
me, my dear sir," he went on, turning with unerring instinct to the
other. "I glean a perfect knowledge of those about me in this way."
"Certainly." The object of the blind man's interest smiled over at the
girl.
Diane hesitated in some confusion.
"Go on, child," her father said, with a touch of impatience in his
manner.
Thus urged she began. "Mr. Tresler is tall. Six feet.
Broad-shouldered."
The man's red, staring eyes were bent on his pupil with a steady
persistency.
"Yes, yes," he urged, as the girl paused.
"Dressed in--er fashionable riding costume."
"His face?"
"Black hair, steel-blue eyes, black eyelashes and brows. Broad
forehead----"
"Any lines?" questioned the blind man.
"Only two strong marks between the brows."
"Go on."
"Broad-bridged, rather large nose; well-shaped mouth, with inclination
to droop at the corners; broad, split chin; well-rounded cheeks and
jaw."
"Ha! clean-shaven, of course--yes."
The rancher sat silent for some moments after Diane had finished her
description. His lips moved, as though he were talking to himself; but
no words came to those waiting. At last he stirred, and roused from
his reverie.
"You come from Springfield, Mr. Tresler, I understand?" he said
pleasantly.
"Yes."
"Um. New England. A good country that breeds good men," he nodded,
with an expression that was almost a smile. "I'm glad to be able to
welcome you; I only wish I could see. However," he went on kindly,
"you will be able to learn ranching in all its branches here. We breed
horses and cattle. You'll find it rough. My foreman is not exactly
gentle, but, believe me, he knows his business. He is the finest
ranchman in the country, and I owe much of my success to him. You must
get on the right side of Jake, though. It requires finding--the right
side, I mean--but it is worth seeking."
Tresler smiled as he listened. He thoroughly agreed with the reference
to the difficulty of finding Jake's "right" side. He endeavored to
catch Diane's eye, but she avoided his gaze. As the rancher paused, he
broke in at once.
"I presume I start work in earnest to-morrow morning?"
The blind man shook his head. "No; better start in to-day. Our
agreement reads to-day; it must not be broken. You take your position
as one of the hands, and will be under the control of Jake Harnach."
"We can have tea first, though," put in Diane, who had followed her
father's words with what seemed unnecessary closeness.
"Tut, tut, child," he replied impatiently. "Yes, we will have tea.
'Tis all you think of. See to it, and bring Tresler a chair; I must
talk to him."
His words were a dismissal; and after Diane had provided a chair, she
retired into the house, leaving apprentice and master alone. And the
two men talked, as men will talk who have just come together from the
ends of the world. Tresler avoided the details of his journey; nor
did the blind man seem in any way interested in his personal affairs.
It was the news of men, and matters concerning the world, that they
discussed. And the rancher's information and remarks, and keen,
incisive questions, set the newcomer wondering. He watched the face
before him, the red, sightless eyes. He studied the quiet,
gentle-voiced man, as one may study an abstruse problem. The result
was disheartening. One long, weary expression of pain was all he
beheld; no lights and shades of emotion and interest. It was the face
of one grown patient under a lifelong course of suffering. Tresler had
listened to the bitter cursings against this man, but as the soft
voice and cultured expressions fell upon his ears, the easy-flowing,
pointed criticisms on matters of public interest, the broad
philosophy, sometimes faintly dashed with bitterness and cynicism, but
always sound, he found it hard to associate him with the significant
sobriquet of the ranch. Tea-time found him still wrestling with the
unsolved problem. But, with the advent of Diane with the table and
laden tray, he set it aside for future study.
For the next half-hour he transferred his attention to the relations
between father and daughter, as they chatted pleasantly of the
ranching prospects of the country, for the benefit of their visitor.
This was a lesser problem, and one he came near to achieving. Before
he left them, he resolved that Diane stood in great awe, not to say
fear, of her father. This to him was astonishing, judging by the
strength of character every feature in her face displayed. It seemed
to him that she was striving hard to bestow affection on him--trying
to create an affection that had no place in her heart. Her efforts
were painfully apparent. She convinced him at once of a lively sense
of duty--a sense she was carrying to a point that was almost pitiful.
All this he felt sure of, but it was the man who finally baffled him
as he had baffled him before. How he regarded Diane it was impossible
to say. Sometimes he could have sworn that the man's devotion to her
was that of one who, helpless, clings to a support which never fails
him; at others, he treated her to a sneering intolerance, which roused
the young man's ire; and, again, he would change his tone, till the
undercurrent of absolute hatred drowned the studied courtesy which
veneered it. And when he finally rose to leave the verandah and seek
out the foreman and report himself for duty, it was with a genuine
feeling of relief at leaving the presence of those dreadful red eyes.
Diane was packing up the tea-things, and Tresler still lingered on the
verandah; he was watching the blind man as he tapped his way into the
house. Then, as he disappeared, and the sound of his shuffling feet
grew faint and distant, he became aware that Diane was standing
holding the tray and watching him. He knew, too, by her attentive
attitude, that she was listening to ascertain when her father should
be out of ear-shot. As the sounds died away, and all became silent
within the house, she came over to him. She spoke without pausing on
her way; it seemed that she feared observation.
"Don't forget, Mr. Tresler, what I told you about Jake. Be warned. In
spite of what you say, you do not know him."
"Thanks, Miss Marbolt," he replied warmly; "I shall not forget."
Diane was about to speak again, but the voice of her father, harsh and
strident enough now, reached them from the hallway.
"Come in, child, and let Tresler go to his work."
And Tresler noted the expression of fear that leapt into the girl's
face as she hurriedly passed into the house. He stood for a moment
wrathful and wondering; then he strode away toward the corrals,
reflecting on the strange events which had so swiftly followed one
upon the other.
"Ye gods," he muttered, "this is a queer place--and these are queer
people."
Then as he saw the great figure of Jake coming up the hill toward him,
from the direction of a small isolated hut, he went out to meet him,
unconsciously squaring himself as he drew near.
He expected an explosion; at least an angry demonstration. But nothing
of the sort happened. The whole attitude of the man had changed to one
of studied amiability. Not only that, but his diction was careful to a
degree, as though he were endeavoring to impress this man from the
East with his superiority over the other ranchmen.
"Well? You have seen him?"
"Yes. I have now come to report myself ready for work," Tresler
replied at once. He adopted a cold business tone, deeming it best to
observe this from the start.
To his surprise Jake became almost cordial. "Good. We can do with some
hands, sure. Had a pleasant talk with the old man?" The question came
indifferently, but a sidelong glance accompanied it as the foreman
turned away and gazed out over the distant prairie.
"I have," replied Tresler, shortly. "What are my orders, and where do
I sleep?"
"Then you don't sleep up at the house?" Jake inquired, pretending
surprise. There was a slight acidity in his tone.
"That is hardly to be expected when the foreman sleeps down there."
Tresler nodded, indicating the outbuildings.
"That's so," observed the other, thoughtfully. "No, I guess the old
man don't fancy folk o' your kidney around," he went on, relapsing
into the speech of the bunkhouse unguardedly. "Mebbe it's different
wi' the other."
Tresler could have struck him as he beheld the meaning smile that
accompanied the fellow's words.
"Where do I sleep?" he demanded sharply.
"Oh, I guess you'll roll into the bunkhouse. Likely the boys'll fix
you for blankets till your truck comes along. As for orders, why, we
start work at sunup, and Slushy dips out breakfast before that. Guess
I'll put you to work in the morning; you can't do a deal yet, but
maybe you'll learn."
"Then I'm not wanted to-night?"
"Guess not." Jake broke off. Then he turned sharply and faced his man.
"I've just one word to say to you 'fore you start in," he went on. "We
kind o' make allowance fer 'tenderfeet' around here--once. After that,
we deal accordin'--savee? Say, ther' ain't no tea-parties customary
around this layout."
Tresler smiled. If he had been killed for it he must have smiled. In
that last remark the worthy Jake had shown his hand. And the latter
saw the smile, and his face darkened with swift-rising anger. But he
had evidently made up his mind not to be drawn, for, with a curt
"S'long," he abruptly strode off, leaving the other to make his way to
the bunkhouse.
The men had not yet come in for their evening meal, but he found
Arizona disconsolately sitting on a roll of blankets just outside the
door of the quarters. He was chewing steadily, with his face turned
prairieward, gazing out over the tawny plains as though nothing else
in the world mattered to him.
He looked up casually as Tresler came along, and edged along the
blankets to make room, contenting himself with a laconic--
"Set."
The two men sat in silence for some moments. The pale-faced cowpuncher
seemed absorbed in deep reflection. Tresler was thinking too; he was
thinking of Jake, whom he clearly understood was in love with his
employer's daughter. It was patent to the veriest simpleton. Not only
that, but he felt that Diane herself knew it. The way the foreman had
desisted from his murderous onslaught upon himself at her coming was
sufficient evidence without the jealousy he had betrayed in his
reference to tea-parties. Now he understood, too, that it was because
the blind man was asleep, and in going up to the house he, Tresler,
would only meet Diane, and probably spend a pleasant afternoon with
her until her father awoke, that Jake's unreasoning jealousy had been
aroused, and he had endeavored to forcibly detain him. He felt glad
that he had learned these things so soon. All such details would be
useful.
At last Arizona turned from his impassive contemplation of the
prairie.
"Wal?" he questioned. And he conveyed a world of interrogation in his
monosyllable.
"Jake says I begin work to-morrow. To-night I sleep in the bunkhouse."
"Yes, I know."
"You know?" Tresler looked around in astonishment.
"Guess Jake's bin 'long. Say, I'll shoot that feller, sure--'less some
interferin' cuss gits along an' does him in fust."
"What's up? Anything fresh?"
For answer Arizona spat forcibly into the little pool of tobacco-juice
on the ground before him. Then, with a vicious clenching of the
teeth--
"He's a swine."
"Which is a libel on hogs," observed the other, with a smile.
"Libel?" cried Arizona, his wild eyes rolling, and his lean nostrils
dilating as his breath came short and quick. "Yes, grin; grin like a
blazin' six-foot ape. Mebbe y'll change that grin later, when I tell
you what he's done."
"Nothing he could do would surprise me after having met him."
"No." Arizona had calmed again. His volcanic nature was a study.
Tresler, although he had only just met this man, liked him for his
very wildness. "Say, pardner," he went on quietly, reaching one long,
lean hand toward him, "shake! I guess I owe you gratitood fer bluffin'
that hog. We see it all. Say, you've got grit." And the fierce eyes
looked into the other's face.
Tresler shook the proffered hand heartily. "But what's his latest
achievement?" he asked, eager to learn the fresh development.
"He come along here 'bout you. Sed we wus to fix you up in pore Dave
Steele's bunk."
"Yes? That's good. I rather expected he'd have me sleep on the floor."
Arizona gave a snort. His anger was rising again, but he checked it.
"Say," he went on, "guess you don't know a heap. Ther' ain't bin a
feller slep in that bunk since Dave--went away."
"Why?" Tresler's interest was agog.
"Why?" Arizona's voice rose. "'Cos it's mussed all up wi' a crazy
man's blood. A crazy man as wus killed right here, kind of, by Jake
Harnach."
"I heard something of it."
"Heerd suthin' of it? Wal, I guess ther' ain't a feller around this
prairie as ain't yelled hisself hoarse 'bout Dave. Say, he wus the
harmlessest lad as ever jerked a rope or slung a leg over a stock
saddle. An' as slick a hand as ther' ever wus around this ranch. I
tell ye he could teach every one of us, he wus that handy; an' that's
a long trail, I 'lows. Wal, we wus runnin' in a bunch of outlaws fer
brandin', an' he wus makin' to rope an old bull. Howsum he got him
kind o' awkward. The rope took the feller's horns. 'Fore Dave could
loose it that bull got mad, an' went squar' for the corral walls an'
broke a couple o' the bars. Dave jumped fer it an' got clear. Then
Jake comes hollerin' an' swearin' like a stuck hog, an' Dave he took
it bad. Y' see no one could handle an outlaw like Dave. He up an' let
fly at Jake, an' cussed back. Wot does Jake do but grab up a brandin'
iron an' lay it over the boy's head. Dave jest dropped plumb in his
tracks. Then we got around and hunched him up, an' laid him out in his
bunk, bleedin' awful. We plastered him, an' doctored him, an' after a
whiles he come to. He lay on his back fer a month, an' never a sign o'
Jake or the blind man come along, only Miss Dianny. She come, an' we
did our best. But arter a month he got up plump crazed an' silly-like.
He died back ther' in Forks soon after." Arizona paused significantly.
Then he went on. "No, sir, ther' ain't bin a feller put in that bunk
sense, fer they ain't never gotten pore Dave's blood off'n it. Say,
ther' ain't a deal as 'ud scare us fellers, but we ain't sleepin' over
a crazy man's blood."
"Which, apparently, I've got to do," Tresler said sharply. Then he
asked, "Is it the only spare bunk?"
"No. Ther's Thompson's, an' ther's Massy's."
"Then what's the object?"
"Cussedness. It's a kind o' delicate attention. It's fer to git back
on you, knowin' as us fellers 'ud sure tell you of Dave. It's to kind
o' hint to you what happens to them as runs foul o' him. What's like
to happen to you."
Arizona's fists clenched, and his teeth gritted with rage as he
deduced his facts. Tresler remained calm, but it did him good to
listen to the hot-headed cowpuncher, and he warmed toward him.
"I'm afraid I must disappoint him," he said, when the other had
finished. "If you fellows will lend me some blankets, I'll sleep in
Massy's or Thompson's bunk, and Mr. Jake can go hang."
Arizona shot round and peered into Tresler's face. "An' you'll do
that--sure?"
"Certainly. I'm not going to sleep in a filthy bunk."
"Say, you're the most cur'usest 'tenderfoot' I've seen. Shake!"
And again the two men gripped hands.
That first evening around the bunkhouse Tresler learned a lot about
his new home, and, incidentally, the most artistic manner of cursing
the flies. He had supper with the boys, and his food was hash and tea
and dry bread. It was hard but wholesome, and there was plenty of it.
His new comrades exercised their yarning propensities for him, around
him, at him. He listened to their chaff, boisterous, uncultured;
their savage throes of passion and easy comradeships. They seemed to
have never a care in the world but the annoyances of the moment. Even
their hatred for the foreman and their employer seemed to lift from
them, and vanish with the sound of the curses which they heaped upon
them. It was a new life, a new world to him; and a life that appealed
to him.
As the sun sank and the twilight waned, the men gradually slipped away
to turn in. Arizona was the last to go. Tresler had been shown Massy's
bunk, and friendly hands had spread blankets upon it for him. He was
standing at the foot of it in the long aisle between the double row of
trestle beds. Arizona had just pointed out the dead man's disused
couch, all covered with gunny sacks.
"That's Dave's," he said. "I kind o' think you'll sleep easier right
here. Say, Tresler," he went on, with a serious light in his eyes,
"I'd jest like to say one thing to you, bein' an old hand round these
parts myself, an' that's this. When you git kind o' worried, use your
gun. Et's easy an' quick. Guess you've plenty o' time an' to spare
after fer sizin' things up. Ther' ain't a man big 'nough in this world
to lift a finger ef you sez 'no' and has got your gun pointin' right.
S'long."
But Tresler detained him. "Just one moment, Arizona," he said,
imitating the other's impressive manner. "I'd just like to say one
thing to you, being a new hand around these parts myself, and that's
this. You being about my size, I wonder if you could sell me a pair
of pants, such as you fellows ordinarily wear?"
The cowpuncher smiled a pallid, shadowy smile, and went over to his
kit-bag. He returned a moment later with a pair of new moleskin
trousers and threw them on the bunk.
"You ken have them, I guess. Kind o' remembrancer fer talkin' straight
to Jake. Say, that did me a power o' good."
"Thanks, but I'll pay----"
"Not on your life, mister."
"Then I'll remember your advice."
"Good. S'long."