A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES
The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything was
temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he
proved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemed
suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his
proper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then the
authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business
of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman,
and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley's.
Diane, acting on Tresler's advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs.
Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman
insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be
comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As a
matter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and
conditions of her father's death, and the discovery that he was so
terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the
death of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her old
home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on,
when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go into
Whitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness,
she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influence
and consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the
trial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at the
preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence
at the higher court.
And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return to
Forks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with the
ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for
anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement
to the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than might
have been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost second
nature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind and
watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and
with motherly solicitude--she had no children of her own--insisted on
the only remedy she understood--physic. And the girl submitted to the
kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help
her complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages and
assurances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in her
life than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried out
his threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on any
man. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a
girl with such a past, such parentage.
And so she waited for her lover's return to tell him. Once she thought
of writing it, but she knew Jack too well. He would only come down to
Forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no
desire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decision
when he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for the
government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep
it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country
forever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it
was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the
deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her
young face.
It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that
rough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men,
who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her
troubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and,
instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly
on the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate,
hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for
existence.
And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very different
man now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about him
as he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler's little
house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him
there. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney's
saloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help or
guide. He straightway hooked his horse's reins over the tie-post and
walked into the bar.
The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The
little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes
at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the
rascal's appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler
had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man
seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as
everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the
same men there--one or two more besides--the same reeking atmosphere,
the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.
Slum's greeting was characteristic. "Wal, blind-hulks has passed--eh?
I figgered you was comin' out on top. Guess the government'll treat
you han'some."
The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he
was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping
the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since
the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from
the little side table at which he was playing "solitaire" with a
greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which
he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment
before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as
they heard Slum's greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a
glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might
be.
Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so
much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for
drinks. Then he turned to Slum.
"Well," he said, "I'm going to take up my abode here for a week or
two."
"I'm real glad," said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the
prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before.
"The missis'll be glad, too," he added. "I 'lows she's a far-seein'
wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran' noo iron
bed, wi' green an' red stripes, an' a washbowl goin' with it. Say,
it's a real dandy layout, an' on'y three dollars a week wi'out board.
Guess I'll git right over an' tell her to fix--eh?"
Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Don't bother.
Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren't you, Carney?"
"That's how," replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the
plausible Slum.
"Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o' your goin' over from a pal
like that," said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and
stretched his arms further along the bar.
"Guess he's had some," observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards
anew. "I 'lows that bed has bugs, an' the wash-bowl's mostly used
dippin' out swill," he finished up scornfully.
Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. "Guess I never
knew you but what you was insultin', Shaky," he observed, in a tone of
pity. "Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin' them cards
too close. You never was bustin' wi' brains. Say, Carney," turning
back to the bar complainingly, "wher's them durned brandy 'cocks' Mr.
Tresler ordered a whiles back? You're gettin' most like a fun'ral on
an up-hill trail. Slow--eh? Guess if we're to be pizened I sez do it
quick."
"Comin' along, Slum," replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler
understand that the man's impatience was only a covering for his
discomfiture at Shaky's hands. "I've done my best to pizen you this
ten year. Guess Shaky's still pinin' fer the job o' nailin' a few
planks around you. Here you are. More comin'."
"Who's needin' me?" asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. "Slum
Ranks?" he questioned, pausing. "Guess I've got a plank or two fit fer
him. Red pine. Burns better."
He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum
lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.
"Say, go easy wi' that lucifer. Don't breathe on it, or ther' won't be
no need fer red pine fer you."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Carney, jocosely, "the present--kep to
the present. Because Slum, here, runs a--well, a boardin'
establishment, ther' ain't no need to discuss his future so coarsely."
"Not so much slack, Carney," said Slum, a little angrily. "Guess my
boardin' emporium's rilin' you some. You're feelin' a hur'cane; that's
wot you're feelin', I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin' value
fer their dollars, don't it?"
"Good fer you, good fer you," cried the butcher, and subsided with a
loud guffaw.
The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The
entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.
"Sail in, Slum," said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as
"Sawny" Martin. "I allus sez as you've got a dead eye fer the
tack-head ev'ry time. But go easy, or the boss'll bar you on the
slate."
"Don't owe him nuthin'," growled Slum.
"Which ain't or'nary in this company," observed the smiling Carney; he
loved to get Slum angry. "Say, Shaky," he went on, "how do Slum fix
you in his--hotel? You don't seem bustin' wi' vittals."
"Might do wuss," responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. "But, y' see, I
stan' in wi' Doc. Osler, an' he physics me reg'lar."
Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.
"Say, you gorl-durned 'fun'ral boards,' you're gittin' kind o' fresh,
but I'd bet a greenback to a last year's corn-shuck you don't quit
ther' an' come grazin' around Carney's pastures, long as my missis
does the cookin'."
"I 'lows your missis ken cook," said Shaky, with enthusiasm. "The
feller as sez she can't lies. But wi' her, my respec' fer your hog-pen
ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who's fer
'draw'?"
Slum turned back to the bar. "Here, Carney," he said, planking out a
ten-dollar bill, "hand over chips to that. We're losin' blessed hours
gassin'. I'm goin' fer a hand at 'draw.' An' say, give us a new deck
o' cards. Guess them o' Shaky's needs curry-combin' some. Mr.
Tresler," he went on, turning to his old boarder, "mebbe I owe you
some. Have you a notion?"
"No thanks, Slum," replied Tresler, decidedly. "I'm getting an old
hand now."
"Ah!"
And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted,
mahogany features.
Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent
bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for "draw." And
what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a
past master at poker--an artist. The baser instincts of the game
appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there to
best each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood that
his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only would
he resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would be
real trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had been
doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for
years more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had no
opinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them,
and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in
Life's great battle.
But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had been
waiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler asked
him the reason.
"Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler," the burly man said, with
something like a smile. "He wouldn't come in. Shall we go out to him?"
The other assented, and they passed out. Joe was sitting on his
buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his
old eyes.
"Why are you sitting there?" Tresler asked at once. Then he regretted
his question.
"Wal," Joe drawled, without the least hesitation, "I'm figgerin' you
oughter know by this time. Ther's things born to live on liquid, an'
they've mostly growed tails. Guess I ain't growed that--yet. Mebbe
I'll git down at Doc. Osler's. An' I'll git on agin right ther'," he
added, as an afterthought.
Joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but Tresler was
annoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him.
"Well, I'm sorry I suggested it, Joe," he said quickly; "as you say, I
ought to have known better. Never mind, I want you to do me a favor."
"Name it, an' I'll do it if I bust."
The little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor of
him.
Tresler didn't respond at once. He didn't want to put the matter too
bluntly. He didn't want to let Joe feel that he regarded him as a
subordinate.
"Well, you see, I'm looking for some one of good experience to give me
some friendly help. You see, I've bought a nice place, and--well, in
fact, I'm setting up ranching on my own, and I want you to come and
help me with it. That's all."
Joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distant
hills, his eyes turned on Doc. Osler's house; he cleared his throat
and screwed his face into the most weird shape. His eyes sought the
door of the saloon and finally came back to Tresler. He swallowed two
or three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he were
going to strike his benefactor.
"Shake," he muttered hoarsely.
And Tresler gripped the proffered hand. "And perhaps you'll have that
flower-garden, Joe," he said, "without the weeds."
"Mr. Tresler, sir, shake agin."
"Never mind the 'mister' or the 'sir,'" said Tresler. "We are old
friends. Now, Fyles," he went on, turning to the officer, who had been
looking on as an interested spectator, "have you any news for Miss
Marbolt?"
"Yes, the decision's made. I've got the document here in my pocket."
"Good. But don't tell it me. Give me an hour's start of you. I'm going
to see the lady myself. And, Joe," Tresler looked up into the old
man's beaming face. "Will you come with the sheriff when he
interviews--er--our client?"
"All right, Mis----"
"No."
"Tresler, si----"
"No."
"All right, Tresler," said the old man, in a strangely husky voice.
* * * * *
Diane was confronting her lover for the last interview. Mrs. Osler had
discreetly left them, and now they were sitting in the diminutive
parlor, the man, at the girl's expressed wish, sitting as far from her
as the size of the room would permit. All his cheeriness had deserted
him and a decided frown marred the open frankness of his face.
Diane, herself, looked a little older than when we saw her last at the
ranch. The dark shadows round her pretty eyes were darker, and her
face looked thinner and paler, while her eyes shone with a feverish
brightness.
"You overruled my decision once, Jack," she was saying in a low tone
that she had difficulty in keeping steady, "but this time it must not
be."
"Well, look here, Danny, I can give you just an hour in which to ease
your mind, but I tell you candidly, after that you'll have to say
'yes,' in spite of all your objections. So fire away. Here's the
watch. I'm going to time you."
Tresler spoke lightly and finished up with a laugh. But he didn't feel
like laughter. This objection came as a shock to him. He had pictured
such a different meeting.
Diane shook her head. "I can say all I have to say in less time than
that, Jack. Promise me that you will not misunderstand me. You know my
heart, dear. It is all yours, but, but--Jack, I did not tell all I
knew at the inquest."
She paused, but Tresler made no offer to help her out. "I knew father
could see at night. He was what Mr. Osler calls a--Nyc--Nyctalops.
That's it. It's some strange disease and not real blindness at all, as
far as I can make out. He simply couldn't see in daylight because
there was something about his eyes which let in so much light, that
all sense of vision was paralyzed, and at such time he suffered
intense pain. But when evening came, in the moonlight, or late
twilight; in fact at any time when there was no glare of light, just a
soft radiance, he could not only see but was possessed of peculiarly
acute vision. How he kept his secret for so many years I don't know. I
understand why he did, but, even now, I cannot understand what drove
him to commit the dreadful deeds he did, so wealthy and all as he
was."
Tresler thought he could guess pretty closely. But he waited for her
to go on.
"Jack, I discovered that he could see at night when you were ill, just
before you recovered consciousness," she went on, in a solemn,
awestruck tone.
"Ah!"
"Yes, while you were lying there insensible you narrowly escaped being
murdered."
Again she paused, and shuddered visibly.
"I was afraid of something. His conduct when you were brought in
warned me. He seemed to resent your existence; he certainly resented
your being in the house, but most of all my attendance on you. I was
very watchful, but the strain was too much, and, one night, feeling
that the danger of sleep for me was very real, I barricaded the
stairs. I did my utmost to keep awake, but foolishly sat down on my
own bed and fell asleep. Then I awoke with a start; I can't say what
woke me. Anyway, realizing I had slept, I became alarmed for you. I
picked up the light and went out into the hall, where I found my
barricade removed----"
"Yes, and your father at my bedside, with his hands at my throat."
"Loosening the bandage."
"To?"
"To open the wound and let you bleed to death."
"I see. Yes, I remember. I dreamt the whole scene, except the bandage
business. But you----"
"I had the lighted lamp, and the moment its light flashed on him he
was as--as blind as a bat. His hands moved about your bandage fumbling
and uncertain. Yes, he was blind enough then. I believe he would have
attacked me, only I threatened him with the lamp, and with calling for
help."
"Brave little woman--yes, I remember your words. They were in my
dream. And that's how you knew what to do later on when Jake and
he----"
The girl nodded.
"So Fyles was right," Tresler went on musingly. "You did know."
"Was I wrong, Jack, in not telling them at the inquest? You see he is
dead, and----"
"On the contrary, you were right. It would have done no manner of
good. You might have told me, though."
"Well, I didn't know what to do," the girl said, a little helplessly.
"You see I never thought of cattle-stealing. It never entered my head
that he was, or could be, Red Mask. I only looked upon it as a
villainous attempt on your life, which would not be likely to occur
again, and which it would serve no purpose to tell you of. Besides,
the horror----"
"Yes, I see. Perhaps you were right. It would have put us on the right
track though, as, later on, the fight with Jake and your action with
regard to it did. Never mind; that's over. Julian Marbolt was an utter
villain from the start. You may as well know that his trading in
'black ivory' was another name for slave-trading. His blindness had
nothing to do with driving him to crime, nor had your mother's doings.
He was a rogue before. His blindness only enabled him to play a deeper
game, which was a matter likely to appeal to his nature. However,
nothing can be altered by discussing him. I have bought a ranch
adjoining Mosquito Bend, and secured Joe's assistance as foreman. I
have given out contracts for rebuilding the house; also, I've sent
orders east for furnishings. I am going to buy my stock at the fall
round-up. All I want now is for you to say when you will marry me,
sweetheart."
"But, Jack, you don't seem to understand. I can't marry you. Father
was a--a murderer."
"I don't care what he was, Danny. It doesn't make the least difference
to me. I'm not marrying your father."
Diane was distressed. The lightness of his treatment of the subject
bothered her. But she was in deadly earnest.
"But, Jack, think of the disgrace! Your people! All the folk about
here!"
"Now don't let us be silly, Danny," Tresler said, coming over to the
girl's side and taking possession of her forcibly. In spite of protest
his arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed her
tenderly. "My people are not marrying you. Nor are the folk--who, by
the way, can't, and have no desire to throw stones--doing so either.
Now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, once
through your bravery. And I tell you no one has the right to save life
and then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burden
to the miserable wretch on whom they've lavished such care. That would
be a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentle
heart. Sweetheart," he went on, kissing her again, "you must complete
the good work. I am anything but well yet. In fact I am so weak that
any shock might cause a relapse. In short, there is only one thing, as
far as I can see, to save me from a horrid death--consumption or
colic, or some fell disease--and that's marriage. I know you must be
bored to death by----No," as the girl tried to stop him, "don't
interrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth--a sort of chronic
invalid, but if you don't marry me, well, I'll get Joe to bury me
somewhere at the crossroads. Look at all the money I've spent in
getting our home together. Think of it, Danny; our home! And old Joe
to help us. And----"
"Oh, stop, stop, or you'll make me----"
"Marry me. Just exactly what I intend, darling. Now, seriously, let's
forget the old past; Jake, your father, Anton, all of them--except
Arizona."
Diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests. There was
something so strong, reliant, masterful about her Jack that made him
irresistible to her. She knew she was wrong in allowing herself to
think like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak,
loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right.
If she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcame
her sense of duty, was there much blame? Tresler felt the gentle
clinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once.
"Time's nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe are
coming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regions
fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don't care which it
is--I mean--no. Yes, quick! They're on the verandah."
The girl nodded. "Yes," she said, so low that his face came in contact
with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly
sheriff knocked at the door.
He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side by
side. He was still holding her hand.
"Fyles," Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, "let me present
you to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe," he added, turning on the
little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his
nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, "are the corrals prepared, and
have you got my branding-irons ready? You see I've rounded her up."
The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent
peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Diane
listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely
remarking in true wifely fashion--
"Don't be absurd, Jack!"
At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring them
to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic
pocket.
"I've just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt," he
said deliberately. "Shall I read it to you, or would you----?"
"Never mind the reading," said Diane impulsively. "Tell me the
contents."
"Well, I confess it's better so. The legal terms are confusing," said
the officer emphatically. "You can read them later. I don't guess the
government could have acted better by you than they've done. The
property,"--he was careful to avoid the rancher's name--"the property
is to remain yours, with this proviso. An inquiry has been arranged
for, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years in
the district. And all approved claims will have to be settled out of
the estate. Five years is the time allowed for all such claims to be
put forward. After that everything reverts to you."
Diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finished
speaking.
"And, Jack, when that time comes we'll sell it all and give the money
to charity, and just live on in our own little home."
"Done!" exclaimed Tresler. And seizing her in his arms he picked her
up and gave her a resounding kiss. The action caused the sheriff to
cough loudly, while Joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in a
voice of wildest excitement, shouted--
"Gee, but I want to holler!"