A CONFESSION
Something seemed to strike Dave Carson a blow in the face. It was as
though he had suddenly plunged into cold water, and, for the moment, he
could not get his breath. The sneering words of Len Molick rang in his
ears:
"You're a nameless, picked-up nobody!"
Having uttered those cruel words, Len was riding on, driving before him
some of his father's stray cattle, as well as some belonging to the Bar U
ranch. The last act angered Dave, and anger, at that moment, was just what
was needed to arouse him from the lethargy in which he found himself. It
also served, in a measure, to clear away some of the unpleasant feeling
caused by the taunt.
"Hold on there a minute, Len Molick!" called Dave, sharply.
Len never turned his head, and gave no sign of hearing.
A dull red spot glowed in each of Dave's tanned cheeks. With a quick
intaking of his breath he lightly touched the spurs to his horse--lightly,
for that was all the intelligent beast needed. Dave passed his taunting
enemy on the rush, and planting himself directly in front of him on the
trail, drew rein so sharply that his steed reared. The cows, scattered by
the sudden rush, ambled awkwardly on a little distance, and then stopped
to graze.
"What do you mean by getting in my way?" growled Len.
"I mean to have you stop and answer a few questions," was the calm retort.
"If it's about these cattle I tell you I'm not trying to drive off any of
yours," said Len, in whining tones. He knew the severe penalty attached to
this in a cow country, and Dave was sufficiently formidable, as he sat
easily on his horse facing the bully, to make Len a little more
respectful.
"I'm not going to ask you about these cattle--at least not right away,"
Dave went on. "This is about another matter. You said something just now
that needs explaining."
"I say a good many things," Len admitted, and again there sounded in his
voice a sneer. "I don't have to explain to you everything I say; do I?"
"You do when it concerns me," and Dave put his horse directly across the
trail, which, at this point narrowed and ran between two low ranges of
hills. "You said something about me just now--you called me a nameless,
picked-up nobody!"
Dave could not help wincing as he repeated the slur.
"Well, what if I did?" demanded the bully.
"I want to know what you mean. You insinuated that Mr. Carson was not my
father."
"He isn't!"
"Why do you say that, and how do you know?" Dave asked. In spite of his
dislike of Len, and the knowledge that the bully was not noted for
truth-telling, Dave could not repress a cold chill of fear that seemed
to clutch his heart.
"I say that because it's so, and how I know it is none of your affair,"
retorted Len.
"Oh yes, it is my affair, too!" Dave exclaimed. He was fast regaining
control of himself. "It is very much my affair. I demand an explanation.
How do you know Mr. Carson isn't my father?"
"Well, I know all right. He picked you up somewhere. He doesn't know what
your name is himself. He just let you use his, and he called you Dave.
You're a nobody I tell you!"
Dave spurred his horse until it was close beside that of Len's. Then
leaning over in the saddle, until his face was very near to that of the
bully's, and with blazing eyes looking directly into the shrinking ones of
the other rancher's son, Dave said slowly, but with great emphasis:
"Who--told--you?"
There was menace in his tone and attitude, and Len shrank back.
"Oh, don't be afraid!" Dave laughed mirthlessly. "I'm not going to strike
you--not now."
"You--you'd better not," Len muttered.
"I want you first to answer my questions," Dave went on. "After that I'll
see what happens. It's according to how much truth there is in what you
have said."
"Oh, it's true all right," sneered the bully.
"Then I demand to know who told you!"
Dave's hand shot out and grasped the bridle of the other's horse, and
Len's plan of flight was frustrated.
"Let me go!" he whiningly demanded.
"Not until you tell me who said I am a nobody--that Mr. Carson is not my
father," Dave said, firmly.
"I--I----" began the shrinking Len, when the sound of another horseman
approaching caused both lads to turn slightly in their saddles. Dave half
expected to see Pocus Pete, but he beheld the not very edifying
countenance of Whitey Wasson, a tow-headed cowpuncher belonging to the
Centre O outfit. Whitey and Len were reported to be cronies, and
companions in more than one not altogether pleasant incident.
"Oh, here you are; eh; Len?" began Whitey. "And I see you've got the
strays."
"Yes, I've got 'em," said Len, shortly.
"Any trouble?" went on Whitey, with a quick glance at Dave. The position
of the two lads--Dave with his hand grasping Len's bridle--was too
significant to be overlooked.
"Trouble?" began Len. "Well, he--he--"
"He made a certain statement concerning me," Dave said, quietly, looking
from Len to Whitey, "and I asked him the source of his information. That
is all."
"What did he say?"
"He said I was a nameless, picked-up nobody, and that Mr. Carson was not
my father. I asked him how he knew, and he said some one told him that."
"So he did!" exclaimed Len.
"Then I demand to know who it was!" cried Dave.
For a moment there was silence, and then Whitey Wasson, with a chuckle
said:
"I told Len myself!"
"You did?" cried Dave.
"Yes, he did! Now maybe you won't be so smart!" sneered Len. "Let go my
horse!" he cried, roughly, as he swung the animal to one side. But no
force was needed; as Dave's nerveless hand fell away from the bridle. He
seemed shocked--stunned again.
"You--you--how do you know?" he demanded fiercely, raising his sinking
head, and looking straight at Whitey.
"Oh, I know well enough. Lots of the cowboys do. It isn't so much of a
secret as you think. If you don't believe me ask your father--no, he ain't
your father--but ask the Old Man himself. Just ask him what your name is,
and where you came from, and see what he says."
Whitey was sneering now, and he chuckled as he looked at Len. Dave's face
paled beneath his tan, and he did not answer.
A nameless, picked-up nobody! How the words stung! And he had considered
himself, proudly considered himself, the son of one of the best-liked,
best-known and most upright cattle raisers of the Rolling River country.
Now who was he?
"Come on, Len," said Whitey. "If you've got the strays we'll drive them
back. Been out long enough as 'tis."
He wheeled his horse, Len doing the same, and they started after the
straying cattle.
"Hold on there, if you please," came in a drawling voice. "Jest cut out
them Bar U steers before you mosey off any farther, Whitey," and riding
around a little hillock came Pocus Pete.
"Um!" grunted Whitey.
"Guess you'll be needin' a pair of specks, won't you, Whitey?" went on the
Bar U foreman, without a glance at Len or Dave. "A Centre O brand an' a
Bar U looks mighty alike to a feller with poor eyes I reckon," and he
smiled meaningly.
"Oh, we can't help it, if some of the Randolph cattle get mixed up with
our strays," said Len.
"Who's talkin' to you?" demanded Pocus Pete, with such fierceness that the
bully shrank back.
"Now you cut out what strays belong to you, an' let ours alone, Mr.
Wasson," went on Pocus Pete with exaggerated politeness. "Dave an' I can
take care of our own I reckon. An' move quick, too!" he added menacingly.
Whitey did not answer, but he and Len busied themselves in getting
together their own strays. Pocus Pete and Dave, with a little effort,
managed to collect their own bunch, and soon the two parties were moving
off in opposite directions. Dave sat silent on his horse. Pete glanced at
him from time to time, but said nothing. Finally, however, as they
dismounted to eat their lunch, Pete could not help asking:
"Have any trouble with them, Dave?"
"Trouble? Oh no."
Dave relapsed into silence, and Pete shook his head in puzzled fashion.
Something had happened, but what, he could not guess.
In unwonted silence Dave and Pete rode back to the Bar U ranch, reaching
it at dusk with the bunch of strays. They were turned in with the other
cattle and then Dave, turning his horse into the corral, walked heavily to
the ranch house. All the life seemed to have gone from him.
"Well, son, did you get the bunch?" asked Mr. Carson as he greeted the
youth.
"Yes--I did," was the low answer. Mr. Carson glanced keenly at the lad,
and something he saw in his face caused the ranch owner to start.
"Was there any trouble?" he asked. It was the same question Pocus Pete had
propounded.
"Well, Len Molick and Whitey Wasson had some of our cattle in with
theirs."
"They did?"
"Yes, but Pete and I easily cut 'em out. But--Oh, Dad!" The words burst
from Dave's lips before he thought. "Am I your son?" he blurted out. "Len
and Whitey said I was a picked-up nobody! Am I? Am I not your son?"
He held out his hands appealingly.
A great and sudden change came over Mr. Carson. He seemed to grow older
and more sorrowful. A sigh came from him.
Gently he placed one arm over the youth's drooping shoulders.
"Dave," he said gently. "I hoped this secret would never come out--that
you would never know. But, since it has, I must tell you the truth. I love
you as if you were my own son, but you are not a relative of mine."
The words seemed to cut Dave like a knife.
"Then if I am not your son, who am I?" Dave asked in a husky voice.
The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be plainly, yes, loudly
heard, as Mr. Carson slowly answered in a low voice:
"Dave, I don't know!"