To Westcott’s secret delight Morgan Anderson, going after dinner to see
that his other guest had been properly served, found Gard fast asleep in
the long chair.
“We’ll let him have his siesta out,” said his host. “I don’t suppose he
got any too much sleep last night, with that foot. Helen, you and I can
take Westcott to see the new corrals.”
This arrangement was entirely to Westcott’s pleasure. He knew, from past
experience, that the cattleman would promptly become interested in some
problem of the range, and leave his entertainment to Helen.
He strolled by her side as they made their way to the corrals, and put
from his mind the uneasy thoughts that kept intruding. In spite of his
defiance, he was horribly afraid of what Gard and Mrs. Hallard might be
able to do. He did not know how they would move to establish the deed,
but he was in a position that would make publicity awkward. How he
wished he knew where the paper had been found! To get any help from
Oliphant he believed was out of the question, and he, himself, had been
unable to find Sawyer. He was sure that Gard could not get hold of him;
and if he should, he knew how to fix the fellow. He had one more card up
his sleeve, and would play it, if Sawyer appeared.
But after this! He stole a glance at the girl walking beside him. He
wanted money; he wanted power; he wanted position—to offer her. He was
almost where he just now aspired to be on the political ladder. He had
not tried for small things; he was after the District Attorneyship, and
it was coming his way, now. Another year, and then, ... by Heaven!
Everything was going to be straight! There should be nothing that those
clear gray eyes might not see!
But this matter must not come out! He would see Mrs. Hallard in the town
while Gard was laid up. His career should not be ruined, just as he was
getting where he could hold up his head and choose the straight path. He
was weary in his soul of the other.
Helen looked up with a glance of inquiry.
“They seem to be long, long thoughts,” she said, with a smile.
“They are,” was the quick response. “I was thinking of my ambitions.”
“If it were so, it were a grievous fault,” she quoted, gaily.
“I don’t think so!” He threw out his chest and looked down at her from
his full height. “A man’s bound to have ambitions of some sort,” he
said, “They’re a measure of himself. Of course I have mine. I want the
things I want when I can get them; but I want them, nevertheless, and I
mean to have them.”
“Such as a gold collar for your donkey?” Helen asked, enigmatically.
Westcott looked puzzled, but she did not explain.
“Not exactly that,” he finally said, “If my donkey won’t go without a
gold collar I’m sorry for him; because he’s going just the same. He’s
got to carry me, ‘For the good of the order.’ This Territory needs men,
Miss Anderson: and I mean to be one of the men that it needs.”
“Oh! That is good!” Helen’s sympathetic response quickened what
Westcott, if he had characterized it, would have called his good
impulse.
“There’s a lot that needs straightening out within our lines,” he said,
“And I want the chance to help in the work. At any rate, it’s not an
ignoble ambition.”
“Indeed it is not.” Helen had never before seen Westcott in this mood,
and she rather reproached herself that she did not feel a keener
response. She felt that she had not done him justice.
“I am glad you think about those things,” she told him. “Father talks to
me, sometimes, and I know that he is often troubled. It seems as if
every man is solely for himself. We need those who can see wrong in high
places, as well as low; and who have courage to combat it.”
Westcott felt a pang of wretchedness as he answered her frank glance. He
realized that she would despise him if she knew some of the things that
he had done, and he winced in the realization. But he meant to leave all
that behind. He would do something for Mrs. Hallard, and once he had won
this splendid girl he would walk the open way. Heavens! What could a man
not do, with such a helpmate!
A sudden sense of his own unworthiness brought unwonted humility into
his heart. Ashley Westcott had never before, in his grown-up life, been
so near to feeling a noble impulse.
“Miss Anderson,” he said, “I’m afraid I should never come up to any
ideal of yours; but I aim to do as near right as I know how.”
They were at the corrals now, where the cattleman, who had drawn ahead,
was already talking to Sandy Larch about some young horses that were to
be got ready for shipment east, before spring. Polo ponies from the Palo
Verde enjoyed a good market back in “The States.”
In one of the corrals the future work-cattle were penned, half a dozen
head, lean, leggy brutes, wild-eyed and ugly. They kept together, moving
restlessly about in a bunch, watching the visitors sullenly, and
occasionally lunging at one another with wide, wicked horns.
“They’re beauts, for fair,” Sandy Larch remarked, “Only they can’t seem
to make up their minds to look it in public. They’re that kind o’ modest
vi’lets.”
“’Twon’t be exactly a Sunday school picnic to break them in,” Westcott
remarked, looking them over.
“Sure it will,” said Sandy, impressively. “Why them cows will be
door-yard pets, once they’re handled. Their bad looks is just a yearning
for appreciation. That one, now—”
He tossed a little clod into the blazed face of one huge steer that had
moved a little apart from the others. It was a vicious-looking brute,
and stood lowing, sullenly.
“That there blaze-faced cow’ll be coaxing fer sugar out’n your hand in a
week’s time, Miss Helen,” Sandy declared. “Can’t you see it in his eye?”
Helen could not see it, and said so, frankly. A cowboy, minded to reach
the further corral, where the young horses were, sprang down into the
enclosure with the cattle, and started across.
In an instant the big red steer came charging upon him, with mischief in
his eye. The cowboy saw the brute, and dodging, made a rapid sprint for
the nearest fence, clambering over it amid the derisive shouts of the
spectators. The man’s sudden scramble had brought him within a few feet
of Westcott who, turning to look at him, made a gesture of recognition.
“Hullo, Broome!” he said: “I didn’t know you were down here.”
“Looks like I was on the spot,” the fellow answered, “I bin holdin’ it
down fer about a week.”
“I heard you went prospecting,” Westcott continued, and Broome swore,
under his breath.
“Came mighty near cashin’ in that trip,” he growled, and then he drew
nearer, with a quick glance at the others, who were walking on toward
the horse corral.
“Say, Mr. Westcott,” he muttered, “Have you seen that there feller up ’t
the casa? Him with the hair _mat_tress on his face?”
“Do you mean Gard?” Westcott asked in amazement.
“Yep: that’s his name. Damn him an’ it! I met up with him on my ‘tower.’
He’s some buffalo now; but he was haired up like a bug-house billy-goat
then. But say, Mr. Westcott: he’d struck it rich; got a streak o’ color
that fair stunk o’ gold, back in the mountains. I want to tell you ’bout
it.”
Westcott looked after his companions.
“I can’t stop to hear it now, Broome,” he said. “Shall you be round when
I leave here? I’ll talk to you then.”
“I’m goin’ to be workin’ with the horses all the afternoon,” Broome
answered. “We’re goin’ to be bustin’ ’em out, an’ that’s one o’ my
jobs.”
He added the last with a good deal of pride, and Westcott nodded.
“I’ll see you, then,” he said, moving off.
“Do you know Broome?” Mr. Anderson asked, when Westcott overtook the
others.
“Pretty well”; was the reply. “I knew him up north. He was cow-punch for
a friend of mine, and I used to be up there a good deal. He’s a good
hand with horses.”
“So he claims,” Anderson said. “He blew in the other day, bragging that
he’s a first-class bronco-buster. We’re pretty short, so Sandy took him
on. I don’t think much of his looks.”
“Oh, he’s all right.” Westcott spoke carelessly. “A good many singed
cats look worse.”
Sandy Larch had gone up to the cook’s quarters on an errand, and passing
the casa found Gard awake.
“Hullo, Mr. Larch,” the latter called, espying him.
“_Mister_ Larch?” Sandy made a pretense of looking for the person
addressed. “Where ’d you keep ’im?” he asked, with elaborate solicitude.
“Keep who?”
“_Mister_ Larch.”
“They ain’t no such party hereabouts,” he went on before Gard could
reply. “Leastwise _you_ don’t know ’im. Dudes, an’ Chinks, they
nominates me _Mister_ Larch; because the first don’t know no better, an’
the others they has to, er git busted good an’ plenty. But to my friends
I’m Sandy.”
“I believe it!” laughed Gard. “I guess your friends find you _all_ sand,
when they need the article.”
Sandy looked at him with frank admiration.
“Say: now you’re shouting,” he cried. “I like that there. Speakin’ o’
bouquets, you couldn’t ’a’ handed me a prettier one if you’d set still
to think it up fer a week.”
“Glad you like it,” replied Gard. “I meant it to be liked.”
“Like it? Say! you just combed my hair nice, didn’t you? An’ when you
need someone to weigh out sand you just _buscar_ me, Mr. Gard.”
“No you don’t; you drop that!” Gard looked stern.
“Drop what?” demanded Sandy, startled.
“Your _Mister_ Gard. That rule of yours has got to work both ways, and
_my_ name is Gabriel.”
There was a twinkle in the brown eyes; but Gard’s tone was inflexible.
“Gabriel!” gasped Sandy. “Lord! How do you git off at it? Gabriel”; he
repeated, “Shoot me if I can git a rope over that.”
“Glory be!” A gleam of fun crossed his anxious face. “That name’s too
long for every day,” he said, “But I can fix it: I’ll call you Angel, if
you like. Angel Gabriel. That’s great! That’s how we’ll fix it. Angel on
week-days; Gabriel on Sundays, an’ Angel Gabriel on Fourth o’ Julys, an’
when I’m drunk. Angel Gabriel’s a first rate name fer a amachoor
sin-buster to sport.”
“You’ll drop that, too.” Gard seized one of the cushions Helen had
supplied his chair with, and hurled it at the cow-puncher. “Don’t you go
making fun of my name when I’m down,” he cried. “Sandy, you’ve got to
call me Gard.”
He held out his hand and Sandy grasped it, cordially.
“I like you, Gard,” said he, with quick seriousness. “We’re partners for
fair if you say so. If you need friends, as I expressed a while back,
you’ll know where to look fer one of ’em; you won’t fergit it?”
“Never,” Gard said, heartily, and Sandy drew back. The others were
coming up from the corrals.
“I never was hard on any man unless I thought he needed it, Gard,”
remarked Sandy, looking toward them. “But that there Westcott—well I’ll
be damned if I kin ‘go’ him. He can rope ’n hogtie the law, ’n brand it
ten different ways while you’re lookin’ one; but I bet he ain’t always
goin’ to git away on time.
“Say, Gard: he’s mighty sleek to look at, an’ women like sech; but if I
thought he was likely to git a rope over our pretty filly there—damned
if I wouldn’t wanter let a little daylight through ’im.”
So Sandy, too, had his fears. Gard’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the
approaching group.
“Shucks, Sandy!” he exclaimed. “You want to keep away from the loco
patches, man. He couldn’t do it!”
The thought of Helen’s frank, pure eyes put unnecessary emphasis into
his speech; but Sandy was pleased.
“Good talk!” he cried, with a long breath of relief. “Guess I’m some of
an old fool; but I’ve seen the little gal grow up from that high,”
measuring an incredibly short distance above the desert, “An’ you put in
a pin where I tell you, Gard: that there Westcott’s a tarantula an’ a
side-winder all into one; an’ some day you’ll know it.”
“I guess that’s no lie, Sandy.” Gard’s face was pale, and his eyes wore
a strange look. He spoke very low; for the others were coming within
earshot.
“Guess I’ll mosey along,” the foreman said. “I come a driftin’ up here
after some hog-grease, an’ I’ll have to _buscar_ Chang fer’t.”
He walked off in the direction of the kitchen as the others began
talking to Gard. Half an hour afterwards Anderson was waving _adios_ to
Westcott, from the great rancho gateway.
The attorney rode out on the desert, glorious in the afternoon light,
and taking a wide sweep turned back by way of the corrals. A cow-puncher
who had been squatting against one of the fences, waiting, got up as he
came in sight, and shuffled out to meet him.
“What did you want of me, Broome?” Westcott asked at once.
Broome lounged up against the fence, his hands in his pockets.
“I been playin’ in a hell o’ luck lately, Mr. Westcott,” he said.
Westcott made a move as if to ride on.
“If it’s nothing but a hard luck story,” he began.
“No, no. It ain’t.” Broome laid a restraining hand on the pony’s mane.
“I want ter know who that feller is up yonder.” He jerked his head
toward the casa, at the same time characterizing Gard after a manner
entirely to his own mind.
“I don’t know him from a hole in the post,” Westcott said, with great
apparent candor. “What makes him get on _your_ nerves so?”
“He give me the double cross an’ the grand throw-down, sure, all in the
same shuffle,” Broome said, with a snarl.
“Where was that.”
“Sommers in the mountains. I was lost in the desert; pretty near cashed
in, an’ I met up with this feller. He took me inter camp, hell of a
outfit. Everything made outer nothing, same ’s a Papago where they ain’t
no settlement handy. He was eatin’ tree beans, an’ shootin’ game with a
bowarrer, an’ he had all sorts o’ scare-crow Bible verses wrote up round
like a Sunday school. Sufferin’ snakes! You never see the beat of it!”
“I don’t know as I ever want to,” Westcott said, impatiently. “Drive on,
Broome.”
“I’m a drivin’. Gimme time. Say, Mr. Westcott: the cuss ’d struck it
rich up there, like I told you. Got a vein o’ yeller laid open like a
roarin’ buttercup.”
“Got it staked and located, too, I suppose,” the lawyer said, with a
sneer. “Bite it off, Broome: what are you driving at?”
“I tell you I _am_ bitin’ it off,” was the sullen rejoinder. “I tell you
there’s gold to burn up there. It’s the damndest, likeliest place you
ever see.”
“Why didn’t you prospect a little too?”
“Prospect!” Broome swore, savagely.
“That there locoed buffalo he tried to kill me, when he found I’d
discovered the vein. He’d took me up the trail clean dopy, an’ he
brought me down blindfold, with my hands tied, on the back of a damned
little she-ass; so I wouldn’t know how to git back there.”
“Oh,” Westcott jeered. “And what you want of me is to take you by the
little hand and lead you back there and let you dig?”
“No I don’t neither! I got a good scheme, an’ I want ter let you in on
it. You done a lot fer me, once, Mr. Westcott.”
“You bet I did,” was Westcott’s response. “You owe me the price of your
own neck, whatever that may be worth to you; but I can’t see where
you’re going to pay it out of this scheme.”
“I’d a done it all right by now if that feller hadn’t nearly killed me,”
Broome said.
“Why didn’t he quite kill you if he wanted to?” asked Westcott,
incredulously.
“Hell! _I_ dunno,” was the frank admission; “I’d a done him good an’
plenty, you bet; but he didn’t, an’ here I am.”
Westcott sat his horse, waiting, with an elaborate assumption of
patience.
“Here’s what I’m thinkin’ of,” began Broome, talking fast. “I’m busted,
Mr. Westcott: I ain’t got even a bronc o’ my own; but if I c’d git
anybody to grub-stake me, I’d go up the railroad to where Gard left that
burro—I know the place all right—an’ I’d git ’er; I’d know ’er by a big
scar on one shoulder. An’ you bet the hash once she was out on the
desert she’d strike fer that there camp in the mountains. She’s that
kind. He tamed her out o’ the wild, he said, an’ she never knowed no
other place.”
“Then what would you do?”
“Be Johnnie on the spot,” replied Broome. “Git in an’ dig. In the same
place, mebby.”
“Do you mean jump it?” The question was put in a low tone.
“I ain’t sayin’ what I mean; but I mean all ’t ’s necessary to git back
the rights that feller done me out of.”
Westcott considered, looking thoughtfully out on the desert.
“It’s risky,” was his comment, at length.
“I ain’t askin’ _you_ to risk it,” growled the other. “All I want o’ you
’s a grub-stake, an’ I’ll divvy fair.”
“I should advise you to.” The quiet voice was full of meaning.
“I will, fer fair. Will you do it?”
“I’ll think about it”; Westcott spoke in an ordinary tone. “There may be
a fair prospecting chance in it,” he continued. “I’ll see you again. I
wouldn’t do any talking if I were you,” he added.
Broome regarded him with sullen scorn.
“Think I’m a damned tenderfoot to go shootin’ off my mouth?” he
demanded.
The lawyer made no reply as he rode away, while Broome went back into
the shade. Wing Chang, darting around a corner of the fodder-sheds, to
make sure which way he turned, came face to face with Sandy Larch,
walking in the direction of the horse-corrals, his surprised eyes
following Westcott’s vanishing figure.
“Mistlee Westclott,” said Chang, noting the foreman’s interest. “Him an’
Bloome have long talkee-talkee out there, allee samee heap chin-chin.”
“So do you, you heap heathen,” replied the foreman. “What you doin’ down
here?”
The Chinaman grinned, full of friendliness.
“Sam Lee kid say you come look see for hog lard when me gone. When come
back I bling him.”
He held out a broken bean-pot containing the desired article. Sandy
Larch took it, sniffing it critically.
“Good boy, Chang,” he said, in approval. “And you just remember this
that I tell you: Broome an’ Mr. Westcott, they’ve most likely bin
arrangin’ a series o’ Salvation Army joss meetings, fer to convert all
you Chinks. Sabbee dat?”
“Me sabbee.”
“All right, then; you just sashay back an’ git on your cookin’ job.
That’s all.”
He put a broad hand on the Chinaman’s shoulder and turned him about.
“Allee lightee,” Wing Chang said, and went his way, smiling,
inscrutably.