Two Friends and a Girl
Howard and Carr rode down into the darkening valley side by side. The
silence of the coming dusk was no deeper than that silence which had
crept about them while the three stood upon the cliff's edge.
Longstreet's laugh had whipped up the colour into Helen's cheeks and
had lighted a battle fire in her eyes. She had whisked away from them
and gone straight back to the cabin, meaning to save her father from
his own artlessness and from the snare of a designing widow. She had
remembered to call out a breathless 'Good-night' without turning her
head. They had taken their dismissal together, understanding Helen's
tortured mood. Each man grave and taciturn, like two automatons they
buckled on their spurs, mounted and reined toward the trail.
Then Howard had said merely: 'Come down to the ranch-house, John. I
want to talk with you.' And Carr had nodded and acquiesced.
Thereafter they were silent again for a long time.
The coming of night is a time of vague veilings, of grotesque
transformations, of remoulding and steeping in new dyes.
Matter-of-fact objects, clear-cut during the day, assume fantastic
shapes; a bush may appear a crouching mountain cat; a rock may
masquerade as a mastodon. This is an hour of uncertainties. And
doubtings and questionings and uncertainties were other shadow shapes
thronging the demesnes of two men's souls. Silence and dim dusk
without, dim dusk and silence within.
Once Howard, the lighter spirited of the two, sought to laugh the
constraint away.
'Something seems to have come over us, John,' he said. But as he spoke
he knew that what he should have said was that something had come
between them. Further, he knew that Carr would have amended his words
thus in his own mind and that that was why he did not reply. He
recalled vividly how they three had stood on the cliff, he on Helen's
left, John on her right. He and John were friends; in the desert lands
friendship is sacred. Further, it is mighty, stalwart, godly, and all
but indomitable. They had shared together, fought together. One
friend would do to the uttermost for the other, would die for him. He
would rush into the other's fight, asking no questions, and if he went
down the chill of coming death would be warmed by the glow of conscious
sacrifice. The friendship of Howard and Carr had stood the many tests
of time. But only now had the supreme test come. Until to-day, either
of them in the generousness of his spirit would have stepped gladly
aside for the other. But now? A girl is not a cup of water that one
man, dying of thirst, may say of her to his friend: 'Take her.' Their
friendship was not changed; simply it was no longer the greatest thing
in life. The love of a man for a man, though it be strengthened by ten
thousand ties, is less than the love of a man for his chosen mate,
though to the other eyes and minds that love may be inexplicable. Set
any Damon and Pythias upon an isolated desert island, then into their
lives bring the soft eyes of a girl, and inevitably the day will dawn
when those eyes will look upon the death of a friendship. This
knowledge had at last become a part of the understandings of Alan
Howard and John Carr.
'You are going East, John?' asked Howard when at length his spirit
sought a second time to shake off the oppression of the hour.
Even these words came with something of an effort. He tried to speak
naturally. But behind his words were troops of confused thoughts; Carr
was going East, and had said nothing to him; if Carr left, what then of
Helen? Carr had tried to persuade the Longstreets to go with him.
And to Carr the query sounded more careless, more lightly casual than
Howard had intended. His own thoughts were quick to respond though his
reply came after a noticeable hesitation. Alan did not appear to care
whether he went away or remained; he had not asked if this were to be a
brief absence or an indefinite sojourn.
'Yes,' Carr's answer at last was short and blunt; 'I have business
there.'
Carr thought that if Alan were interested he would ask naturally, as
one friend had always asked the other, to know more. Howard thought
that if Carr cared to speak of his own personal affairs he would do so.
Hence, while both waited, neither spoke. Perhaps both were hurt.
Certainly the constraint between them thickened and deepened in step
with the engulfing night; they could not see each other's faces, they
could not glimpse each other's souls. Both were baffled and into the
temper of each came a growing irritation. One thing alone they
appeared to have in common--the desire to come to the end of the ride.
Their spurs dipped and they raced along wordlessly.
When Howard dismounted at the home corrals and began unsaddling, Carr
rode on to the house.
'You're going to stay all night, John,' Howard called after him. 'Put
your horse in the barn.'
But Carr swung down at the yard gate and tied his horse there.
'Can't this time,' he said. 'I'll have to ride on, Al.'
Thus each made his pretence, less to his friend than to himself, that
everything was all right. They sought to be natural and failed, and
knew that they had failed. Carr waited for Howard, smoking at the
gate; Howard hastened up to the house and went in. He struck a match,
lighted the table lamp and filled the pipe lying beside it. Carr
tossed his hat to the table and sat down. Their eyes roved about the
familiar room. Here were countless traces of both men; Carr had lived
here, Howard lived here now. Helen had been here, and she too had left
something to mark her passing. They both saw it. It was only a
bluebird's feather, but Alan had set it in a place of conspicuousness
just above the fireplace. Even into a room which had been home to
each, which they had held must always be home to both, something of
Helen came like a little ghost.
'You'll have use for some money about now,' said Howard abruptly. He
drew out the table drawer; inside were scraps of paper, a fountain-pen,
a cheque-book and some old stubs. 'Time's up for a payment, too. I
sold a pretty fair string the other day.'
'I could use a little cash,' Carr admitted carelessly. 'I've got in
pretty deep with the Quigley mining outfit. I made Longstreet a
proposition--I am a trifle short, I guess,' he concluded lamely.
'I see,' responded Howard, whereas he saw nothing at all very clearly.
He busied himself with his pen, shook it savagely, opened his
cheque-book. 'Ten thousand this trip, wasn't it?'
Carr hesitated.
'I had figured on twelve five,' he said. 'Wasn't that the amount due
now?'
Howard hunted through the back of the drawer and finally found a little
memorandum book. He turned through the pages upon which he had
scribbled notes of purchases of cattle and horses and of ranch
equipment, passed on to a tabulation of his men's wages, and finally
stopped at a page devoted to his agreement with his friend.
'Here you are,' he said when he had found it. 'Ten thousand, due on
the eleventh of the month. I'm pretty near a week late on it, John,'
he smiled.
Carr however had his own note-book with him; readily he found his own
entry.
'I've set it down here as twelve thousand five hundred,' he said
quietly. 'You remember we talked over a couple of methods of payment,
Al. But,' and he snapped the rubber band about his book and dropped it
into his pocket, 'what's the odds? Let it go at ten.'
'No,' said Howard. 'Not if you've counted on more.' A flush ran up
into his face and his eyes were inscrutable. He was conscious of being
in the absurd mood to note trifles; John had come with his memoranda,
John had meant to ask him for the money. 'I'd just as lief pay
twenty-five hundred extra now as at any time.' And with lowered head
and sputtering pen he wrote the cheque.
'I don't want to inconvenience you, Al,' Carr accepted the cheque with
certain reluctance. 'Sure it's all right?'
'Sure,' said Howard emphatically. He tossed the pen and book into the
drawer. Now the awkwardness of the silence upon them was more marked
than ever before. Carr tarried only a few minutes, during which both
men were ill at ease. Only an expressionless 'So long!' passed between
them when he got up to go. They might see each other again before Carr
went East; they might not. Howard went back to his chair at the table,
staring moodily at the bluebird feather.
Nothing of the instinct of a clerk had ever filtered into the habits of
Alan Howard. His system of books was simple. He set down in one place
the amounts which came in; in another place those expended. He added
and subtracted. He deposited his money in the bank and checked it out.
He must bank more when the last was gone. That was about all. It was
seldom that he knew just how far his assets were above his liabilities
or below. But to-night he knew that he had strained his account. He
had counted on paying ten thousand and had paid twelve thousand five
hundred. He turned first to his cheque-book, which had not been
balanced for a couple of months. No adept at figures he spilled much
ink, scratched out many calculations and went through them again, grew
hot and exasperated and finally before he got anywhere was in a mood to
damn everything that came under his hand. It was midnight when he had
assembled upon one sheet of paper an approximately truthful statement
of his financial condition. And then he sat back limply and lifted his
eyebrows and whistled.
Within something less than thirty days he must take up a note which
Pony Lee held for a thousand dollars; Pony would want the money and had
said as much when he had advanced it. Then there were the calves, due
within the week, from French Valley; Tony Vaca was rushing them, was
selling at a very low figure and would want his money on the nail.
Well, he must have it. That was another seven hundred dollars. There
was another note held by Engle, down in San Juan. The banker might
extend it; he might not. It was for fifteen hundred dollars, and would
fall due within sixty days. On top of this were the running expenses:
the ranch was working full-handed, the men would want their wages a
week from Saturday: this was Tuesday. He turned to their accounts;
three or four of them had not drawn down last month. They would all
want their money when next pay-day came. He estimated the amount. In
the neighbourhood of seven hundred dollars. He totalled all of these
forthcoming payments. The aggregate was close to four thousand
dollars. And his cheque-book, balanced to date, indicated that he had
overdrawn to make the payment to Carr. He could have paid the ten
thousand and have had something over two thousand in cold cash to run
on; now he had not enough in the San Juan bank to make his own cheque
good.
'If Carr had only been satisfied with the ten thousand,' he muttered.
'Or if he had given me warning ahead that he wanted the extra
twenty-five hundred. Now what?'
None of these issues were clouded, and in due time he decided upon all
points. He gave up all thought of bed, made himself a pot of coffee
and sat up all night, devoting himself to details. The cheque he had
given Carr must be honoured; hence he must ride to-morrow to San Juan
to see Engle, the banker. He was only a few hundred dollars short
there and Engle would help him to balance the account. The fifteen
hundred he owed the bank on his personal note could no doubt be
extended if necessary. There remained the money for the calves, the
thousand due Pony Lee and another thousand to pay his men and for such
necessities as would arise. All of this he would talk over with Engle.
It might be that the bank would take a mortgage on his equity in Desert
Valley and advance a considerable sum on it.
But he must not forget that the present crisis was not all to be
considered. Another year would bring the time of another payment to
Carr. In the meantime the ranch must be operated, it must be made to
pay. He had already planned on asking extensions from Engle; but it
did not enter his thought now to ask John Carr to wait.
'I've got my work cut out for me,' said Howard grimly. 'I've got to
work like hell, that's all. I've got to carve down expenses, fire men
I can manage without, be on the job all the time to buy in stock cheap
wherever it can be got and unload for a quick turnover and some ready
cash. I've got to go in for more hay and wheat another season; the
price is up and going higher. And real soon, the chances are, I've got
to sell some more cows.'
Before dawn he was at the men's bunk-house. He woke Chuck Evans and
told him to hurry into his clothes and come up to the house. When
Chuck came the two men sat down at the table, pencil and paper in
Howard's hand, Chuck's eyes keen upon his employer's set face.
'I'm right down to cases, Chuck,' said Howard bluntly. 'I am in up to
my neck, and that's all there is to it. As soon as I get through with
you I am off to San Juan to see if there is any real money left in the
world. I'll be back as soon as I can. But you get busy while I'm
gone. First thing, here are five men you will have to give their time.
Tell them why; tell them there's always a job open for them here when
I've got the cash for pay-day. Then you and what's left will get your
necks into your collars and go to it, long hours and hard work until we
pull out. Get the boys out this morning for another round-up. Bring
in every hoof and tail that will size up for a decent sale. If you can
get time, ride down to San Ramon and see if there's a chance to sell a
string of mules to the road gang. That's about all this time; look for
me back in two or three days.'
'All right, Al,' said Evans. 'So long.' He went to the door and
paused. He wanted to say something and didn't know just what to say or
how to say it. So he coughed and said again, 'Well, so long, Al,' and
went out.
In the first flush of the dawn Howard rode away toward San Juan. He
turned in the saddle and looked back toward the Last Ridge country. He
fancied that he could make out the Longstreet cabin even when he knew
that his lover's desire was tricking his sense. He thought of Helen;
she would be sleeping now. He would not see her for several days. He
thought of John Carr; Carr would see her every day until he was forced
to go East. Carr had not confided in him when he expected to leave.
His eyes left the uplands lingeringly and wandered across the sweeping
fields of Desert Valley. He straightened in the saddle and his lungs
filled and expanded. The valley was his, his to work for, to struggle
and plan for, to make over as he would have it--to hold for Helen. For
Helen loved it no less than he loved it. And he loved Helen.
'. . . One should be loyal to one's friends.' He held to that
stoutly, insistent and stubborn to play his part. Something had come
over him and Carr, or between them; but none the less he obstinately
sought to refuse to harbour thoughts which came again and again and
which always angered him with himself. There was the suspicion: 'Carr
was unfair in seeking to take Helen and her father away with him to the
East.' He told himself that that was Carr's right if Carr held it so.
There came the accusation: 'Carr had been hard on him last night.' He
told himself that it was easily granted that they had misunderstood
each other when, long ago, they had arranged for the payments; further,
that no doubt Carr, too, was hard up for cash. The thought suggested
itself: 'Carr had no right to berate him for allowing Sanchia to ride
to the Longstreet cabin.' Carr had spoken quickly, unthinkingly, and
they all were under stress. He would play fair and give a man his
due--and his thoughts switched to Helen and Carr was forgotten and,
with a half-smile on his lips, he rode on through the brightening
morning, dreaming of the ranch that should be when Helen came with him
to ride and their hands found each other and she whispered: 'I love it
and--it is ours!'
John Engle, the banker of San Juan, was something more than a banker.
Not only was he a fine, upstanding, broad-minded man; he was a man, no
longer in the first flush of youth, who had made himself what he was
and who from forty-five vividly recalled twenty-five. He had learned
caution, but he had known what it was to plunge head-first into deep
waters. That now, a man established, he no longer had to take long
chances, was due largely to the successes met in long chances taken
when all of life lay before him, inviting. When now Alan Howard came
to him in his office at the bank and put his case before him
straightforwardly and without evasion or reservation, he came to the
one man in the world who because of his position and his character
could best help him.
'Take it slow, Alan,' said Engle quietly. 'I can give you the whole
day, if necessary. I've got to know just where you stand and just
which way you are headed before I can get anywhere.'
He drew out his pad and very methodically began to set down figures as
the cattleman talked. Finally:
'It's the bank's money, not my own, that I'll be advancing you, you
know. I am pretty well sewed up personally as usual. Consequently,
while I can see you over a few of the immediate bumps in your trail, I
can't give you all that you'll want. But I fancy you can get across
with it.' His keen eyes took fresh stock of the cattleman, marking the
assertive strength, the clean build, the erect carriage, the hard
hands, the lean jaw and finally the steady eyes which always met his
own. The personal equation always counts, perhaps with the banker more
than most men imagine, and John Engle found no sign of any
deterioration in the security offered by Alan Howard's personality.
'It's a good thing, anyway,' he went on, with the first hint of a
twinkle in his regard, 'for a youngster like you to have to scrap
things out after the old fashion. Not married yet, are you?'
'No,' said Alan.
Engle laughed.
'But hoping to be? Well, it's time. That's a good ballast for a man.
Now, I've got this pretty straight, let's have your plans. You hope to
swing the ranch all right, or you wouldn't be calling on me. You're in
deep already and, of course, if it's a human possibility you've got to
swing it. What do you figure to do?'
Howard during his long ride had considered his problem from all angles,
and now, leaning forward eagerly, told in detail what he had decided.
Engle, a rancher himself with broad experience, nodded now and then,
asked his few pertinent questions, made an occasional suggestion. Then
he rose to his feet and put out his hand.
'Drop in and see us when you're in town and have the time,' he said
cordially. 'Mrs. Engle was speaking of you only the other day. You'll
want to be on your way now. I'll let you have five thousand on your
equity and let the other fifteen hundred ride with it, making one note
for sixty-five hundred. I think that if you work things right and hold
down expenses and make the sales and purchases and other sales you have
in mind, you'll get away with your deal. Just the same, my boy,' and
for an instant there came into his eyes the fighting look which had
been there frequently in the day when he fought out his own battles,
'you've got a man's-sized job on your hands.'
'I know it,' said Alan. And when, the proper papers signed, he said
good-bye, his eyes brightened and he said directly: 'It's a great
thing, John Engle, to have a man's-sized man to talk things over with.'
From his window Engle musingly watched the tall form go out to the
horse at the hitching-post and swing up into the saddle.
'Now what's happened between him and John Carr?' he asked himself. And
without hesitation he answered his own question: 'A girl, I suppose.
Well, she ought to be a real girl to do that.'
Howard, riding joyously back toward Desert Valley, thought first of
Helen. But not even Helen could hold all of his thoughts when at
length his horse's hoofs fell again upon the rim of Desert Valley Land.
Upon the bordering hills of the southern edge of the valley he drew
rein and sat, lost in thought. He saw herds feeding, and they were his
herds and he himself did not know their exact number. He must know;
the game was swiftly becoming one where pawns count. He saw a man
riding; it was his man, whom he must direct and pay. He saw water
running in one of his larger creeks, and thought how it too must be
made to work for him. Yonder were colts running wild; there were more
than he required at present. They must be broken; they could be sold.
He looked across empty acres, rich pasture lands void of grazing stock.
A slow, thoughtful frown gathered in his eyes; he must somehow put
stock into them, stock to be bought skilfully and sold skilfully. All
of this glorious sweep of country stretching to the four corners of the
compass was his, his very own, if he were man enough to go on with the
work to which he had somewhat lightly set his hand. He had loved it
always, since first he had come here as John Carr's guest. He loved
it now with a mounting passion. It flashed over him that when, at some
far-distant time, he should die, this was the one spot upon God's great
earth where he should want his ashes scattered on the little wind which
came down from the hills. It was a part of him and he a part of it.
And as he loved it and yearned for it utterly, so did Helen love it.
'It is going to be mine and yours, my dear.' He spoke aloud, his voice
stern with his determination. 'For us to have and to hold.'
And because of the thought and the knowledge of what lay ahead of him,
he knew that for the present he must forego that to which he had looked
forward all day. He must for a little postpone a ride to see Helen.
For already he foresaw the calls upon his time; short-handed, it was to
be work for him from long before day until long after dark. As he
started down the hill into the valley he saw a herd of cattle coming
from the north. He had a round-up on his hands to begin with, and it
was already beginning.