"Cherokee Street"
She was the first to break the silence after her announcement.
"What's the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
He had. The ghost of a dreadful day had leaped at him out of the past.
Men on murder bent were riding down the street toward their victim. At
the head of that company rode her father; the one they were about to
kill was his. A wave of sickness shuddered through him.
"It--it's my heart," he answered in a smothered voice. "Sometimes it
acts queer. I'll be all right in a minute."
The young woman drew the horse to a halt and looked down at him. Her
eyes, for the first time since they had met, registered concern.
"The altitude, probably. We're over nine thousand feet high. You're
not used to walking in the clouds. We'll rest here."
She swung from the saddle and trailed the reins.
"Sit down," the girl ordered after she had seated herself
tailor-fashion on the moss.
Reluctantly he did as he was told. He clenched his teeth in a cold
rage at himself. Unless he conquered that habit of flying into panic
at every crisis, he was lost.
Beulah leaned forward and plucked an anemone blossom from a rock
cranny. "Isn't it wonderful how brave they are? You wouldn't think
they would have courage to grow up so fine and delicate among the rocks
without any soil to feed them."
Often, in the days that followed, he thought of what she had said about
the anemones and applied it to herself. She, too, had grown up among
the rocks spiritually. He could see the effect of the barren soil in
her suspicious and unfriendly attitude toward life. There was in her
manner a resentment at fate, a bitterness that no girl of her years
should have felt. In her wary eyes he read distrust of him. Was it
because she was the product of heredity and environment? Her people
had outlawed themselves from society. They had lived with their hands
against the world of settled order. She could not escape the law that
their turbulent sins must be visited upon her.
Young Beaudry followed the lead she had given him. "Yes, that is the
most amazing thing in life--that no matter how poor the soil and how
bad the conditions fine and lovely things grow up everywhere."
The sardonic smile on her dark face mocked him. "You find a sermon in
it, do you?"
"Don't you?"
She plucked the wild flower out by the roots. "It struggles--and
struggles--and blooms for a day--and withers. What's the use?" she
demanded, almost savagely. Then, before he could answer, the girl
closed the door she had opened for him. "We must be moving. The sun
has already set in the valley."
His glances swept the park below. Heavily wooded gulches pushed down
from the roots of the mountains that girt Huerfano to meet the fences
of the ranchers. The cliffs rose sheer and bleak. The panorama was a
wild and primitive one. It suggested to the troubled mind of the young
man an eagle's nest built far up in the crags from which the great bird
could swoop down upon its victims. He carried the figure farther.
Were these hillmen eagles, hawks, and vultures? And was he beside them
only a tomtit? He wished he knew.
"Were you born here?" he asked, his thoughts jumping back to the girl
beside him.
"Yes."
"And you've always lived here?"
"Except for one year when I went away to school."
"Where?"
"To Denver."
The thing he was thinking jumped into words almost unconsciously.
"Do you like it here?"
"Like it?" Her dusky eyes stabbed at him. "What does it matter
whether I like it? I have to live here, don't I?"
The swift parry and thrust of the girl was almost ferocious.
"I oughtn't to have put it that way," he apologized. "What I meant
was, did you like your year outside at school?"
Abruptly she rose. "We'll be going. You ride down. My foot is all
right now."
"I wouldn't think of it," he answered promptly. "You might injure
yourself for life."
"I tell you I'm all right," she said, impatience in her voice.
To prove her claim she limped a few yards slowly. In spite of a
stubborn will the girl's breath came raggedly. Beaudry caught the
bridle of the horse and followed her.
"Don't, please. You might hurt yourself," he urged.
She nodded. "All right. Bring the horse close to that big rock."
From the boulder she mounted without his help. Presently she asked a
careless question.
"Why do you call him Cornell? Is it for the college?"
"Yes. I went to school there a year." He roused himself to answer
with the proper degree of lightness. "At the ball games we barked in
chorus a rhyme: 'Cornell I yell--yell--yell--Cornell.' That's how it
is with this old plug. If I want to get anywhere before the day after
to-morrow, I have to yell--yell--yell."
The young woman showed in a smile a row of white strong teeth. "I see.
His real name is Day-After-To-Morrow, but you call him Cornell for
short. Why not just Corn? He would appreciate that, perhaps."
"You've christened him, Miss Rutherford. Corn he shall be, henceforth
and forevermore."
They picked their way carefully down through the canon and emerged from
it into the open meadow. The road led plain, and straight to the horse
ranch. Just before they reached the house, a young man cantered up
from the opposite direction.
He was a black-haired, dark young giant of about twenty-four. Before
he turned to the girl, he looked her companion over casually and
contemptuously.
"Hello, Boots! Where's your horse?" he asked.
"Bolted. Hasn't Blacky got home yet?"
"Don't know. Haven't been home. Get thrown?"
"No. Stepped into one of your wolf traps." She turned to include
Beaudry. "This gentleman--Mr.--?"
Caught at advantage, Roy groped wildly for the name he had chosen. His
mind was a blank. At random he snatched for the first that came. It
happened to be his old Denver address.
"Cherokee Street," he gasped.
Instantly he knew he had made a mistake.
"That's odd," Beulah said. "There's a street called Cherokee in
Denver. Were you named for it?"
He lied, not very valiantly. "Yes, I--I think so. You see, I was born
on it, and my parents--since their name was Street, anyhow,--thought it
a sort of distinction to give me that name. I've never much liked it."
The girl spoke to the young man beside her. "Mr. Street helped me out
of the trap and lent me his horse to get home. I hurt my leg." She
proceeded to introductions. "Mr. Street, this is my brother, Jeff
Rutherford."
Jeff nodded curtly. He happened to be dismounting, so he did not offer
to shake hands. Over the back of the horse he looked at his sister's
guest without comment. Again he seemed to dismiss him from his mind as
of no importance. When he spoke, it was to Beulah.
"That's a fool business--stepping into wolf traps. How did you come to
do it?"
"It doesn't matter how. I did it."
"Hurt any?"
She swung from the saddle and limped a few steps. "Nothing to make any
fuss about. Dad home?"
"Yep. Set the trap again after you sprung it, Boots?"
"No. Set your own traps," she flung over her shoulder. "This way, Mr.
Street."
Roy followed her to the house and was ushered into a room where a young
man sat cleaning a revolver with one leg thrown across a second chair.
Tilted on the back of his head was a cowpuncher's pinched-in hat. He
too had black hair and a black mustache. Like all the Rutherfords he
was handsome after a fashion, though the debonair recklessness of his
good looks offered a warning of temper.
"'Lo, Boots," he greeted his sister, and fastened his black eyes on her
guest.
Beaudry noticed that he did not take off his hat or lift his leg from
the chair.
"Mr. Street, this is my brother Hal. I don't need to tell you that he
hasn't been very well brought up."
Young Rutherford did not accept the hint. "My friends take me as they
find me, sis. Others can go to Guinea."
Beulah flushed with annoyance. She drew one of the gauntlets from her
hand and with the fingers of it flipped the hat from the head of her
brother. Simultaneously her foot pushed away the chair upon which his
leg rested.
He jumped up, half inclined to be angry. After a moment he thought
better of it, and grinned.
"I'm not the only member of the family shy on manners, Boots," he said.
"What's the matter with you? Showing off before company?"
"I'd have a fine chance with you three young rowdies in the house," she
retorted derisively. "Where's dad?"
As if in answer to her question the door opened to let in a big,
middle-aged rancher with a fine shock of grizzled hair and heavy black
eyebrows. Beulah went through the formula of introduction again, but
without it Beaudry would have known this hawk-nosed man whose gaze
bored into his. The hand he offered to Hal Rutherford was cold and
clammy. A chill shiver passed through him.
The young woman went on swiftly to tell how her guest had rescued her
from the wolf trap and walked home beside her while she rode his horse.
"I'll send for Doc Spindler and have him look at your ankle, honey,"
the father announced at once.
"Oh, it's all right--bruised up a bit--that's all," Beulah objected.
"We'll make sure, Boots. Slap a saddle on and ride for the Doc, Hal."
When the young man had left the room, his father turned again to Roy.
His arm gathered in the girl beside him. "We're sure a heap obliged to
you, Mr. Street. It was right lucky you happened along."
To see the father and daughter together was evidence enough of the
strong affection that bound them. The tone in which he had spoken to
his son had been brusque and crisp, but when he addressed her, his
voice took on a softer inflection, his eyes betrayed the place she held
in his heart.
The man looked what he was--the chief of a clan, the almost feudal
leader of a tribe which lived outside the law. To deny him a certain
nobility of appearance was impossible. Young Beaudry guessed that he
was arrogant, but this lay hidden under a manner of bluff frankness.
One did not need a second glance to see from whom the younger
Rutherfords had inherited their dark, good looks. The family likeness
was strong in all of them, but nature had taken her revenge for the
anti-social life of the father. The boys had reverted toward savagery.
They were elemental and undisciplined. This was, perhaps, true of
Beulah also. There were moments when she suggested in the startled
poise of her light body and the flash of her quick eyes a wild young
creature of the forest set for night. But in her case atavism
manifested itself charmingly in the untamed grace of a rich young
personality vital with life. It was an interesting speculation whether
in twenty years she would develop into a harridan or a woman of unusual
character.
The big living-room of the ranch house was a man's domain. A
magnificent elk head decorated one of the walls. Upon the antlers
rested a rifle and from one of the tines depended a belt with a
six-shooter in its holster. A braided leather quirt lay on the table
and beside it a spur one of the boys had brought in to be riveted.
Tossed carelessly into one corner were a fishing-rod and a creel. A
shotgun and a pair of rubber waders occupied the corner diagonally
opposite.
But there were evidences to show that Beulah had modified at least her
environment. An upright piano and a music-rack were the most
conspicuous. Upon the piano was a padded-covered gift copy of "Aurora
Leigh." A similar one of "In Memoriam" lay on the mantel next to a
photograph of the girl's dead mother framed in small shells. These
were mementoes of Beulah's childhood. A good copy of Del Sarto's John
the Baptist hanging from the wall and two or three recent novels
offered an intimation that she was now beyond shell frames and
padded-leather editions.
Miss Rutherford hobbled away to look after her ankle and to give orders
for supper to the ranch cook. Conversation waned. The owner of the
place invited Roy out to look over with him a new ram he had just
imported from Galloway. The young man jumped at the chance. He knew
as much about sheep as he did of Egyptian hieroglyphics, but he
preferred to talk about the mange rather than his reasons for visiting
Huerfano Park.
Just at present strangers were not welcome in the park. Rutherford
himself was courteous on account of the service he had done Beulah, but
the boys were frankly suspicious. Detectives of the express company
had been poking about the hills. Was this young fellow who called
himself Street a spy sent in by the Western? While Beaudry ate supper
with the family, he felt himself under the close observation of four
pairs of watchful eyes.
Afterward a young man rode into the ranch and another pair of eyes was
added to those that took stock of the guest. Brad Charlton said he had
come to see Ned Rutherford about a gun, but Ned's sister was the real
reason for his call. This young man was something of a dandy. He wore
a Chihuahua hat and the picturesque trappings with which the Southwest
sometimes adorns itself. The fine workmanship of the saddle, bridle,
and stirrups was noticeable. His silk handkerchief, shirt, and boots
were of the best. There was in his movements an easy and graceful
deliberation, but back of his slowness was a chill, wary strength.
Roy discovered shortly that Charlton was a local Admirable Crichton.
He was known as a crack rider, a good roper, and a dead shot.
Moreover, he had the reputation of being ready to fight at the drop of
the hat. To the Rutherford boys he was a hero. Whether he was one
also to Beulah her guest had not yet learned, but it took no wiseacre
to guess that he wanted to be.
As soon as the eyes of Charlton and Beaudry met there was born between
them an antagonism. Jealousy sharpened the suspicions of the young
rancher. He was the sort of man that cannot brook rivalry. That the
newcomer had been of assistance to Miss Rutherford was enough in itself
to stir his doubts.
He set himself to verify them.