TRESLER INVOLVES HIMSELF FURTHER;
THE LADY JEZEBEL IN A FREAKISH MOOD
Enthusiasm is the mainspring of a cowboy's life. Without enthusiasm a
cowboy inevitably falls to the inglorious level of a "hired man"; a
nice distinction in the social conditions of frontier life. The cowboy
is sometimes a good man--not meaning a man of religion--and often a
bad man. He is rarely indifferent. There are no half measures with
him. His pride is in his craft. He will lavish the tenderness of a
mother for her child upon his horse; he will play poker till he has
had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing his last cent pass into
somebody else's pocket; he will drink on the most generous scale, and
is ever ready to quarrel. Even in this last he believes in
thoroughness. But he has many good points which often outweigh his
baser instincts. They can be left to the imagination; for it is best
to know the worst of him at the outset to get a proper, and not a
glorified estimate of his true character. The object of this story is
to give a veracious, and not a highly gilded picture of the hardy
prairie man of days gone by.
Before all things the cowboy is a horseman. His pride in this almost
amounts to a craze. His fastidiousness in horse-flesh, in his
accoutrements, his boots, his chapps, his jaunty silk handkerchief
about his neck, even to the gauntlets he so often wears upon his
hands, is an education in dandyism. He is a thorough dandy in his
outfit. And the greater the dandy, the more surely is he a capable
horseman. He is not a horse-breaker by trade, but he loves
"broncho-busting" as a boy loves his recreation. It comes to him as a
relief from the tedium of branding, feeding, rounding up, cutting out,
mending fences, and all the utility work of the ranch. Every unbroken
colt is like a ticket in a lottery; it may be easy, or it may be a
tartar. And the tartar is the prize that every cowpuncher wants to
draw so that he may demonstrate his horsemanship.
Broncho-busting was the order of the next day at Mosquito Bend, and
all hands were agog, and an element of general cheeriness pervaded the
bunkhouse whilst breakfast was in preparation. Marbolt had obtained a
contract to supply the troops with a large band of remounts, and the
terms demanded that each animal must be saddle-broken.
Tresler, with the rest, was up betimes. He, too, was going to take his
part in the horse-breaking. While breakfast was in the course of
preparation he went out to overhaul his saddle. There must be no
doubtful straps in his gear. Each saddle would have a heavy part to
play, and his own, being one he had bought second-hand from one of his
comrades, needed looking to.
He was very thoughtful as he went about his work. His overnight talk
with Joe Nelson had made him realize that he was no longer a
looker-on, a pupil, simply one of the hands on the ranch. Hitherto he
had felt, in a measure, free in his actions. He could do as it pleased
him to do. He could have severed himself from the ranch, and washed
his hands of all that was doing there. Now it was different. Whether
he would or no he must play out his part. He had taken a certain
stand, and that stand involved him with responsibilities which he had
no wish to shirk.
His saddle was in order, his mare had been rubbed down and fed, and he
was leisurely strolling over to the bunkhouse for breakfast. And as he
passed the foreman's hut he heard Jake's voice from within hailing him
with unwonted cheeriness.
"Mornin', Tresler," he called out. "Late gettin' in last night."
Tresler moved over and stood in the doorway. He was wary of the tone,
and answered coolly--
"Yes; the mare bolted this side of the ford, and took me ten miles
south. When I got on the Forks trail I met Nelson on his way home."
"Ah, that mare's the very devil. How are you doin' with her now?"
"Oh, so, so. She leads me a dance, but I'd rather have her than any
plug you've got on the ranch. She's the finest thing I've ever put a
leg over."
"Yes, guess that's so. The boss was always struck on her. I kind of
remember when she came. She wasn't bred hereabouts. The old man bought
her from some half-breed outfit goin' through the country three years
ago--that's how he told me. Then we tried to break her. Say, you've
done well with her, boy."
Jake had been lacing up a pair of high field boots; they were massive
things with heavy, clumped soles, iron tips and heels. Now he
straightened up.
"Did Nelson say why he was late?" he went on abruptly.
"No. And I didn't ask him."
"Ah, knew it, I s'pose. Drunk?"
"No."
Tresler felt that the lie was a justifiable one.
"Then what the devil kept the little swine?"
Jake's brows suddenly lowered, and the savage tone was no less than
the coarse brutality of his words. The other's coolness grew more
marked.
"That was none of my concern. He'd delivered the letter, and it was
only left for me to hurry him home."
"I'll swear he was loafin' around the saloon all day. Say, I guess
I'll see him later."
Tresler shrugged and turned away. He wanted to tell this man what he
thought of him. He felt positively murderous toward him. He had never
met anybody who could so rouse him. Sooner or later a crisis would
come, in spite of his reassurances to Diane, and then--Jake watched
him go. Then he turned again to the contemplation of his great boots,
and muttered to himself.
"It won't be for long--no, not for long. But not yet. Ther's too much
hangin' to it----" He broke off, and his fierce eyes looked after the
retreating man.
The unconscious object of these attentions meanwhile reached the
bunkhouse. Breakfast was well on, and he had to take his pannikin and
plate round to Teddy's cookhouse to get his food. "Slushy," as the
cook was familiarly called, dipped him out a liberal measure of pork
and beans, and handed him half a loaf of new-made bread. Jinks was no
niggard, and Tresler was always welcome to all he needed.
"Goin' to ride?" the youth demanded, as he filled the pannikin with
tea.
"Why, of course." Tresler had almost forgotten the change of work that
had been set out for the day. His face brightened now as the cook
reminded him of it. "Wouldn't miss it for a lot. That mare of mine has
given me a taste for that sort of thing."
"Taste!" Teddy exclaimed, with a scornful wave of his dipper. "Belly
full, I tho't, mebbe." He turned to his stove and shook the ashes
down. "Say," he went on, over his shoulder, "guess I'm bakin' hash in
mine. Ther' ain't so much glory, but ther's a heap more comfort to
it."
Tresler passed out smiling at the youth's ample philosophy. But the
smile died out almost on the instant. A half-smothered cry reached him
from somewhere in the direction of the barn. He stood for an instant
with his brows knitted.
The next, and his movements became almost electrical.
Now the man's deliberate character flatly contradicted itself. There
was no pause for consideration, no thought for what was best to do. He
had heard that cry, and had recognized the voice. It was a cry that
summoned him, and wrung the depths of his heart. His breakfast was
pitched to the ground. And, as though fate had ordained it, he beheld
a heavy rawhide quirt lying on the ground where he had halted. He
grabbed the cruel weapon up, and set off at a run in the direction
whence the cry had come.
His feet were still encased in the soft moccasin slippers he usually
wore in exchange for his riding boots, and, as he ran, they gave out
no sound. It was a matter of fifty yards to the foreman's hut, and he
sprinted this in even time, keeping the building between himself and a
direct view of the barn, in the region of which lay his destination.
And as he ran the set expression of his face boded ill for some one.
Jaws and mouth were clenched to a fierce rigidity that said far more
than any words could have done.
He paused for one breathless instant at the hither side of the
foreman's hut. It was because he heard Jake's voice cursing on the
other side of it. Then he heard that which made his blood leap to his
brain. It was a stifled cry in Nelson's now almost unrecognizable
voice. And its piteous appeal aroused in him a blind fury.
He charged round the building in half a dozen strides. One glance at
the scene was sufficient. Poor old Joe Nelson was lying on the ground,
his arms thrown out to protect his head, while Jake, his face ablaze,
stood over him, kicking him with his cruel field boots, with a force
and brutishness that promised to break every bone in the old man's
body.
It all came to him in a flash.
Then he leapt with a rush at the author of the unnatural scene. The
butt of his quirt was uplifted. It swung above his head a full
half-circle, then it descended with that whistling split of the air
that told of the rage and force that impelled it. It took the giant
square across the face, laying the flesh open and sending the blood
spurting with its vicious impact. It sent him reeling backward with a
howl of pain, like a child at the slash of an admonishing cane. And
Jake's hands went up to his wounds at once; but, even so, his
movements were not swift enough to protect him from a second slash of
the vengeful thong. And Tresler's aim was so swift and sure that the
bully fell to the ground like a pole-axed steer.
And with Jake's fall the tension of Tresler's rage relaxed. He could
have carried the chastisement further with a certain wild delight, but
he was no savage, only a real, human man, outraged and infuriated by
the savagery of another. His one thought was for his poor old friend,
and he dropped on his knees, and bent over the still, shrunken form in
a painful anxiety. He called to him, and put one hand under the gray
old head and raised it up. And as he did so the poor fellow's eyes
opened. Joe murmured something unintelligible, and Tresler was about
to speak again, when a movement behind him changed his purpose and
brought him to his feet with a leap.
Nor was he any too soon. And his rage lit anew as he saw Jake
struggling to rise. In an instant he was standing over him
threateningly.
"Move, and I'll paralyze you!" he cried hoarsely.
And Jake made no further effort. He lay back with a growl of impotent
rage, while his hands moved uneasily, mopping his blood-stained
features.
Now it was, for the first time, Tresler became aware that the men from
the bunkhouse had come upon the scene.
The sight of all those faces gazing in wide-eyed astonishment at the
fallen Jake brought home to him something of the enormity of his
offense, and it behooved him to get Joe out of further harm's way. He
stooped, and gathering the little choreman tenderly into his powerful
arms, lifted him on to his shoulders and strode away to the bunkhouse,
followed by his silent, wondering comrades.
He deposited Joe upon his own bed, and the men crowded round. And
questions and answers came in a wild volley about him.
It was Arizona who spoke least and rendered most assistance. Together
he and Tresler undressed the patient and treated him to a rough
surgical examination. They soon found that no limbs were broken, but
of his ribs they were less certain. He was severely bruised about the
head, and this latter no doubt accounted for his unconsciousness. Cold
water, harshly applied, though with kind intent, was the necessary
restorative, and after a while the twisted face took on a hue of life
and the eyes opened. Then Tresler turned to the men about him.
"Boys," he said gravely, "I want you all to remember that this is
purely my affair. Joe's and mine--and Jake's. I shall settle it in my
own way. For the present we have our work to do."
There was a low murmur, and Arizona raised a pair of fierce eyes to
his face. He was going to speak--to voice a common thought; but
Tresler understood and cut him short.
"Go easy, Arizona. We're good friends all. You wouldn't like me to
interfere in a quarrel of yours."
"That's so--but----"
"Never mind the 'buts.'" And Tresler's keen, honest eyes looked
squarely into the seared face of the wild cowpuncher.
For a moment the men stood around looking on with lowering faces,
eyeing the prostrate man furtively. But Tresler's attitude gave them
no encouragement, and even Arizona felt the influence of his strong
personality. Suddenly, as though with a struggle, the cowboy swung
round on his fellows and his high-pitched tones filled the silent
room.
"Come right on, boys. Guess he's right. We'll git." And he moved
toward the door.
And the men, after the slightest possible hesitation, passed out in
his wake. Tresler waited until the door had closed behind the last of
them, then he turned to the injured man.
"Feeling better, Joe?"
"Feelin' better? Why, yes, I guess."
Joe's answer came readily, but in a weak voice.
"No bones broken?"
"Bones? Don't seem."
Tresler seated himself on the bunk and looked into the gray face. At
last he rose and prepared to go, but Joe detained him with a look.
"Say--they're gone?" he murmured.
The other sat down again. "Yes."
"Good." Joe sighed and reclosed his eyes; but it was only for a
second. He opened them again and went on. "Say, you won't tell
her--Miss Dianny. Don't you tell her. Pore little soul, she'll wep
them pretty eyes o' hers out, sure. Y' see, I know her. Y' see, I did
git drunk yesterday. I knew I'd git it. So it don't signify. Don't
tell her."
"She'll be sure to hear of it."
"Say, Tresler," Joe went on, ignoring the other's objection. "Go easy;
jest say nothin'. Kind o' fergit this thing fer the time. Ther's other
work fer you. I'd a heap sooner I'd bin killed than you git roped into
this racket. It's Miss Dianny you're to look to, not me; an' now,
mebbe, they'll run you off'n the ranch."
Tresler shook his head decidedly. "Don't be afraid; they can't get rid
of me, Joe," he said.
"Ah! Wal, I guess meanwhile you'd best git off to work. I'll pull
round after a while. You see, you must go dead easy wi' Jake, 'cos o'
her. Mind it's her--on'y her. You sed it last night. Mebbe this
thing's goin' to make trouble. Trouble fer you; an' trouble fer you
means trouble fer her."
"I'm going."
Tresler saw the force of the other's argument. He must give them no
further hold to turn on him. Yes, he saw how bad his position would be
in the future. He wondered what would come of that morning's work;
and, in spite of his confident assurance to Joe, he dreaded now lest
there should be any means for them to get rid of him. He moved toward
the door.
"All right, Joe. I'll keep a check on myself in the future," he said.
"But don't you go and get drunk again or----"
He broke off. Flinging the door open to pass out, he found himself
face to face with the object of their solicitude. Diane had been about
to knock, and now started back in confusion. She had not expected
this. She thought Tresler was with the "breaking" party. The man saw
her distress, and the anxiety in her sweet brown eyes. He knew that at
that moment all her thought was for Joe. It was the basket on her arm,
full of comforts, that told him. And he knew, too, that she must have
been a witness to the disgraceful scene by the barn, for how else
could she have learned so quickly what had happened? He put his finger
on his lip to silence her, while he closed the bunkhouse door behind
him. Then he responded to the inquiry he saw in her eager, troubled
face.
"He is better, Miss Diane. He will soon be all right," he added,
keeping his voice low lest it should reach the man inside. "Can I give
him anything for you? Any message?" He glanced significantly from her
face to the basket on her arm.
The girl did not answer at once. Her eyes looked seriously up into his
face.
"Thank you," she said at last, a little vaguely. Then she broke out
eagerly, and Tresler understood the feeling that prompted her. "I saw
the finish of it all," she went on; "oh, the dreadful finish. Thank
God I did not see the rest. When you bore him off on your shoulders I
thought he was dead. Then I felt I could not stay away. While I was
wondering how to get down here without attracting attention, Sheriff
Fyles arrived, and father and he went at once into the office. I knew
Jake would be out of the way. I waited until Anton had disappeared
with the sheriff's horse, then I hurried down here. Can I see him now?
I have a few little luxuries here which I scrambled together for him."
The girl's appeal was irresistible. Nor was Tresler the man to attempt
the impossible. Besides, she knew all, so there was nothing to hide
from her. He glanced over at the barn. The men had already saddled. He
saw Arizona leading two horses, and recognized Lady Jezebel as one of
them. The wild cowpuncher had saddled his mare for him, and the
friendliness of the act pleased him.
"Yes, go in and see him," he said. "The place hasn't been cleaned up
yet, but perhaps you won't mind that. You will come like an angel of
comfort to poor Joe. Poor old fellow! He thinks only of you. You are
his one care in life. It will be like a ray of sunshine in his clouded
life to be waited on by you. I need hardly give you the caution,
but--don't stay long."
Diane nodded, and Tresler stepped aside. The girl's hand was on the
door-latch; she hesitated a moment and finally faced about.
"Fyles is here now," she said significantly. "The raiders; do you
think you ought----"
"I am going to see him."
"Yes." The girl nodded. She would have said more, but her companion
cut her short.
"I must go," he said. Then he pointed over at the mare. "You see?" he
added. "She is in view of Jake's window."
The next moment they had parted.
The Lady Jezebel was very fretful when Tresler mounted her. She
treated him to a mild display of bad temper, and then danced
boisterously off down the trail, and her progress was as much made on
her hind legs as on all fours. Once round the bend her rider tried to
bring her to a halt, but no persuasion could reduce her to the
necessary docility. She fretted on until, exasperated, the man jabbed
her sharply with the spurs. Then the mischief started. Her head went
down and her back humped, and she settled to a battle royal.
It was in the midst of this that another horseman rounded the bend and
rode leisurely on to the field of battle. He drew up and watched the
conflict with interest, his own great raw-boned bay taking quite as
enthusiastic an interest in what was going forward as its rider.
The mare fought like a demon; but Tresler had learned too much for
her, and sat on his saddle as though glued to it; and the newcomer's
interest became blended with admiration for the exhibition of
horsemanship he was witnessing. As suddenly as she had begun the lady
desisted. It was in a pause for breath that she raised her infuriated
head and espied the intruder. Doubtless, realizing the futility of her
efforts, and at the same time not wishing one of the opposite sex to
witness her defeat, she preferred to disguise her anger and gave the
impression of a quiet, frivolous gambol, for she whinnied softly and
stared, with ears pricked and head erect, in a haughty look of inquiry
at the more cumbersome figure of the bay.
And her rider, too, had time to look around. His glance at once fell
upon the stranger, and he knew that it was the man he wanted to talk
to.
The two men met with little formality.
"Sheriff Fyles?" Tresler said as he came up.
There was something wonderfully picturesque yet businesslike about
this prairie sleuth. This man was the first of his kind he had seen,
and he studied him with interest. The thought of Sheriff Fyles had
come so suddenly into his mind, and so recently, that he had no time
to form any imaginative picture of him. Had he done so he must
inevitably have been disappointed with the reality, for Fyles was
neither becoming nor even imposing. He was rather short and decidedly
burly, and his face had an innocent caste about it, a farmer-like
mould of russet-tanned features that was extremely healthy-looking,
but in no way remarkable for any appearance of great intelligence.
But this was a case of the fallibility of appearances. Fyles was
remarkable both for great intelligence and extreme shrewdness. Not
only that, he was a man of cat-like activity. His bulk was the result
of a superabundance of muscle, and not of superfluous tissue. His
bucolic spread of features was useful to him in that it detracted from
the cold, keen, compelling eyes which looked out from beneath his
shaggy eyebrows; and, too, the full cheeks and fat neck, helping to
hide the determined jaws, which had a knack of closing his rather
full lips into a thin, straight line. Nature never intended a man of
his mould to occupy the position that Fyles held in his country's
peace regime. He was one of her happy mistakes.
And in that first survey Tresler realized something of the personality
which form and features were so ludicrously struggling to conceal.
"Yes." The officer let his eyes move slowly over this stranger. Then,
without the least expression of cordiality he spoke the thought in his
mind. "That's a good nag--remarkably good. You handle her tolerably.
Didn't get your name?"
"Tresler--John Tresler."
"Yes. New hereabouts?"
The broad-shouldered man had an aggravatingly official manner. Tresler
replied with a nod.
"Ah! Remittance man?"
At this the other laughed outright. He saw it was useless to display
any anger.
"Wrong," he said. "Learning the business of ranching. Going to start
on my own account later on."
"Ah! Younger son?"
"Not even a younger son!" The two horses were now moving leisurely on
toward the ford. "Suppose we quit questions and answers that serve no
particular purpose, sheriff. I have been waiting to see you."
"So I figured," observed the other, imperturbably, "or you wouldn't
have answered my questions so amiably. Well?"
The sheriff permitted himself a sort of wintry smile, while his
watchful eyes wandered interestedly over the surrounding bush.
"There are things doing about this country," Tresler began a little
lamely. "You've possibly heard?"
"Things are generally doing in a cattle country where brands are
easily changed and there is no official to inquire who has changed
them."
Fyles glanced admiringly down at Lady Jezebel's beautiful clean legs.
"This Red Mask?" Tresler asked.
"Exactly."
"You've heard the story of his latest escapade? The murder of Manson
Orr?"
"From Mr. Marbolt--and others. In telling me, the blind man offered
five thousand dollars' reward for the capture of the man."
"That's better than I hoped for," replied Tresler, musingly. "You
see," he went on, "the blind man's something cantankerous. He's lost
cattle himself, but when some of the boys offered to hunt Red Mask
down, he treated them with scant courtesy--in fact, threatened to
discharge any man who left the ranch on that quest."
"I found him amiable."
"You would." Tresler paused. This man was difficult to talk to, and he
wanted to say so much. Suddenly he turned and faced him, and, to his
chagrin, discovered that the other was still intent on the mare he was
riding. His eyes were fixed on the lady's shoulder, where the
indistinct marks of the brand were still visible. "You see, sergeant,"
he went on, ignoring the other's abstraction, "I have a story to tell
you, which, in your official capacity, you may find interesting. In
the light of recent events, I, at any rate, find it interesting. It
has set me thinking a heap."
"Go ahead," said the officer, without even so much as raising his
eyes. Tresler followed the direction of his gaze, but could see
nothing more interesting in his mare's fore-quarters than their
perfect shape. However, there was no alternative but to proceed with
his narrative. And he told the sheriff of the visit of the
night-riders which he had witnessed on the night of his arrival at the
ranch. In spite of the other's apparent abstraction, he told the story
carefully and faithfully, and his closing remarks were well pointed
and displayed a close analysis. He told him of the previous visits of
these night-riders, and the results following upon the circulation of
the story by each individual who chanced to witness them. He told of
Joe Nelson's warning to him, and how his earnestness had, at length,
persuaded him to keep quiet. He felt no scruples in thus changing the
responsibility of Diane's warning. Nothing would have induced him to
drag her name into the matter.
"You see, sheriff," he said in conclusion, "I think I did right to
keep this matter to myself until such time as I could tell it to you.
It has all happened several times before, and, therefore, will no
doubt happen again. What do you think?"
"She's the finest thing I've ever set two eyes on. There's only one
like her--eh?" Tresler had given audible expression to his impatience,
and the other abruptly withdrew his gaze from the mare. "It's
interesting--decidedly."
"Did Marbolt tell you of the previous visits of these raiders? He
knows of them."
"He told me more than I had time to listen to."
"How?"
"He told me of the revolutionary spirit pervading the ranch."
"Ah!"
Tresler saw the trap the wily police officer had laid for him and
refused the bait. Evidently the blind man had told his version of that
morning's doings, and the sheriff wished to learn the men's side of
it. Probably his, Tresler's. This calm, cold man seemed to depend in
no way upon verbal answers for the information he desired, for he went
on without any appearance of expecting a reply.
"There's one thing you've made plain to me. You suspect collusion
between these raiders and some one on the ranch."
"Yes. I meant you to understand that."
"Whom do you suspect? And your reasons?"
The two questions rapped out one after the other like lightning.
"My suspicions rest nowhere, because I can find no reason."
They had drawn rein at the ford. Fyles now looked keenly into
Tresler's face, and his glance was full of meaning.
"I'm glad I've had this talk with you, Tresler. You have a keen
faculty for observation, and a wise caution. When you have reason to
suspect any one, and wish to tell me of it, you can communicate with
me at any hour of the day or night. I know this ranch well by repute.
So well, in fact, that I came out here to find you. You see, you also
were known to me--through mutual acquaintances in Forks. Now your
excellent caution will tell you that it would be bad policy for you to
communicate openly with me. Good. Your equally excellent observation
will have called your attention to this river. I have a posse
stationed further down stream, for certain reasons which I will keep
to myself. It is a hidden posse, but it will always be there. Now, to
a man of your natural cleverness, I do not think you will have any
difficulty in finding a means of floating a message down to me. But do
not send an urgent message unless the urgency is positive. Any message
I receive in that way I shall act upon at once. I have learned a great
deal to-day, Tresler, so much indeed that I even think you may
need to use this river before long. All I ask of you is to be
circumspect--that's the word, circumspect."
The sheriff edged his horse away so that he could obtain a good view
of Lady Jezebel. And he gazed at her with so much intentness that
Tresler felt he must call attention to it.
"She is a beauty," he suggested.
And Fyles answered with a sharp question. "Is she yours?"
"No. Only to use."
"Belongs to the ranch?"
"Jake told me she is a mare the blind man bought from a half-breed
outfit passing through the country. He sets great store by her, but
they couldn't tame her into reliability. That's three years ago. By
her mouth I should say she was rising seven."
"That's so. She'd be rising seven. She's a dandy."
"You seem to know her."
But Fyles made no answer. He swung his horse round, and, raising his
hand in a half-military salute in token of "good-bye," called over his
shoulder as his bay took to the water--
"Don't forget the river."
Tresler looked after him for some moments, then his mare suddenly
reared and plunged into the water to follow. He understood at once
that fresh trouble was brewing in her ill-balanced equine mind, and
took her sharply to task. She couldn't buck in the water; and,
finally, after another prolonged battle, she dashed out of it and on
to the bank again. But in the scrimmage she had managed to get the
side-bar of the bit between her teeth, and, as she landed, she
stretched out her lean neck, and with a snort of ill-temper, set off
headlong down the trail.