Lee Virginia's efforts to refine the little hotel produced an amazing
change in Eliza Wetherford's affairs. The dining-room swarmed with those
seeking food, and as the news of the girl's beauty went out upon the
range, the cowboys sought excuse to ride in and get a square meal and a
glimpse of the "Queen" whose hand had witched "the old shack" into a
marvel of cleanliness.
Say what you will, beauty is a sovereign appeal. These men, unspeakably
profane, cruel, and obscene in their saddle-talk, were awed by the fresh
linen, the burnished glass, and the well-ordered tables which they found
in place of the flies, the dirt, and the disorder of aforetime. "It's
worth a day's ride just to see that girl for a minute," declared one
enthusiast.
They did not all use the napkins, but they enjoyed having them there
beside their plates, and the subdued light, the freedom from insects
impressed them almost to decorum. They entered with awe, avid for a word
with "Lize Wetherford's girl." Generally they failed of so much as a
glance at her, for she kept away from the dining-room at meal-time.
Lee Virginia was fully aware of this male curiosity, and vaguely conscious
of the merciless light which shone in the eyes of some of them (men like
Gregg), who went about their game with the shameless directness of the
brute. She had begun to understand, too, that her mother's reputation was
a barrier between the better class of folk and herself; but as they came
now and again to take a meal, they permitted themselves a word in her
praise, which she resented. "I don't want their friendship _now_," she
declared, bitterly.
As she gained courage to look about her, she began to be interested in
some of her coatless, collarless boarders on account of their
extraordinary history. There was Brady, the old government scout, retired
on a pension, who was accustomed to sit for hours on the porch, gazing
away over the northern plains--never toward the mountains--as if he
watched for bear or bison, or for the files of hostile red hunters--though
in reality there was nothing to see but the stage, coming and going, or a
bunch of cowboys galloping into town. Nevertheless, every cloud of dust
was to him diversion, and he appeared to dream, like a captive eagle,
bedraggled, spiritless, but with an inner spark of memory burning deep in
his dim blue eyes.
Then there was an old miner, distressingly filthy, who hobbled to his
meals on feet that had been frozen into clubs. He had a little gold loaned
at interest, and on this he lived in tragic parsimony. He and the old
scout sat much together, usually without speech (each knew to the last
word the other's stories), as if they recognized each other's utter
loneliness.
Sifton, the old remittance man, had been born to a higher culture,
therefore was his degradation the deeper. His poverty was due to his
weakness. Virginia was especially drawn toward him by reason of his
inalienable politeness and his well-chosen words. He was always the
gentleman--no matter how frayed his clothing.
So far as the younger men were concerned, she saw little to admire and
much to hate. They were crude and uninteresting rowdies for the most part.
She was put upon her defence by their glances, and she came to dread
walking along the street, so open and coarse were their words of praise.
She felt dishonored by the glances which her feet drew after her, and she
always walked swiftly to and from the store or the post-office.
Few of these loafers had the courage to stand on their feet and court her
favor, but there was one who speedily became her chief persecutor. This
was Neill Ballard, celebrated (and made impudent) by two years' travel
with a Wild West show. He was tall, lean, angular, and freckled, but his
horsemanship was marvellous and his skill with the rope magical. His
special glory consisted in a complicated whirling of the lariat. In his
hand the limp, inert cord took on life, grace, charm. It hung in the air
or ran in rhythmic waves about him, rising, falling, expanding,
diminishing, as if controlled by some agency other than a man's hand, and
its gyrations had won much applause in the Eastern cities, where such
skill is expected of the cowboys.
He had lost his engagement by reason of a drunken brawl, and he was now
living with his sister, the wife of a small rancher near by. He was vain,
lazy, and unspeakably corrupt, full of open boasting of his exploits in
the drinking-dens of the East. No sooner did he fix eyes upon Virginia
than he marked her for his special prey. He had the depraved heart of the
herder and the insolent confidence of the hoodlum, and something of this
the girl perceived. She despised the other men, but she feared this one,
and quite justly, for he was capable of assaulting and binding her with
his rope, as he had once done with a Shoshone squaw.
The Greggs, father and son, were in open rivalry for Lee also, but in
different ways. The older man, who had already been married several times,
was disposed to buy her hand in what he called "honorable wedlock," but
the son, at heart a libertine, approached her as one who despised the
West, and who, being kept in the beastly country by duty to a parent, was
ready to amuse himself at any one's expense. He had no purpose in life but
to feed his body and escape toil.
There are women to whom all this warfare would have been diverting, but it
was not so to Lee. Her sense of responsibility was too keen. It was both a
torture and a shame. The chivalry of the plains, of which she had read so
much--and which she supposed she remembered--was gone. She doubted if it
had ever existed among these centaurs. Why should it inhere in ignorant,
brutal plainsmen any more than in ignorant, brutal factory hands?
There came to her, now and again, gentle old ranchers--"grangers," they
would be called--and shy boys from the farms, but for the most part the
men she saw embittered her, and she kept out of their sight as much as
possible. Her keenest pleasures, almost her only pleasures, lay in the
occasional brief visits of the ranger, as he rode in for his mail.
Lize perceived all these attacks on her daughter, and was infuriated by
them. She snapped and snarled like a tigress leading her half-grown kitten
through a throng of leopards. Her brows were knotted with care as well as
with pain, and she incessantly urged Virginia to go back to Sulphur. "I'll
send you money to pay your board till you strike a job." But to this the
girl would not agree; and the business, by reason of her presence, went on
increasing from day to day.
To Redfield Lize one day confessed her pain. "I ought to send for that
doctor up there, but the plain truth is I'm afraid of him. I don't want to
know what's the matter of me. It's his job to tell me I'm sick and I'm
scared of his verdict."
"Nonsense," he replied; "you can't afford to put off getting him much
longer. I'm going back to-night, but I'll be over again to-morrow. Why
don't you let me bring him down? It will save you twelve dollars. And, by
the way, suppose you let me take Lee Virginia home with me? She looks a
bit depressed; an outing will do her good. She's taken hold here
wonderfully."
"Hasn't she! But I should have sent her away the very first night. I'm
getting to depend on her. I'm plumb foolish about her now--can't let her
out of my sight; and yet I'm off my feed worryin' over her. Gregg is
getting dangerous--you can't fool me when it comes to men. Curse 'em,
they're all alike--beasts, every cussed one of them. I won't have my girl
mistreated, I tell you that! I'm not fit to be her mother, now that's the
God's truth, Reddy, and this rotten little back-country cow-town is no
place for her. But what can I do? She won't leave me so long as I'm sick,
and every day ties her closer to me. I don't know what I'd do without her.
If I'm goin' to die I want her by me when I take my drop. So you see just
how I'm placed."
She looked yellow and drawn as she ended, and Redfield was moved by her
unwonted tenderness.
"Now let me advise," he began, after a moment's pause. "We musn't let the
girl get homesick. I'll take her home with me this afternoon, and bring
her back along with a doctor to-morrow."
"All right, but before you go I want to have a private talk--I want to
tell you something."
He warned her away from what promised to be a confession. "Now, now,
Eliza, don't tell me anything that requires that tone of voice; I'm a bad
person to keep a secret, and you might be sorry for it. I don't want to
know anything more about your business than I can guess."
"I don't mean the whiskey trade," she explained. "I've cut that all out
anyway. It's something more important--it's about Ed and me."
"I don't want to hear _that_ either," he declared. "Let bygones be
bygones. What you did then is outlawed, anyway. Those were fierce times,
and I want to forget them." He looked about. "Let me see this Miss
Virginia and convey to her Mrs. Redfield's invitation."
"She's in the kitchen, I reckon. Go right out."
He was rather glad of a chance to see the young reformer in action, and
smiled as he came upon her surrounded by waiters and cooks, busily
superintending the preparations for the noon meal, which amounted to a
tumult each day.
She saw Redfield, nodded, and a few moments later came toward him, flushed
and beaming with welcome. "I'm glad to see you again, Mr. Supervisor."
He bowed profoundly. "I'm delighted to find you well, Miss Virginia, and
doubly pleased to see you in your regimentals, which you mightily adorn."
She looked down at her apron. "I made this myself. Do you know our
business is increasing wonderfully? I'm busy every moment of the day till
bedtime."
"Indeed I do know it. I hear of the Wetherford House all up and down the
line. I was just telling your mother she'll be forced to build bigger,
like the chap in the Bible."
"She works too hard. Poor mother! I try to get her to turn the cash-drawer
over to me, but she won't do it. Doesn't she seem paler and weaker to
you?"
"She does, indeed, and this is what I came in to propose. Mrs. Redfield
sends by me a formal invitation to you to visit Elk Lodge. She is not
quite able to take the long ride, else she'd come to you." Here he handed
her a note. "I suggest that you go up with me this afternoon, and
to-morrow we'll fetch the doctor down to see your mother. What do you say
to that?"
Her eyes were dewy with grateful appreciation of his kindness as she
answered: "That would be a great pleasure, Mr. Redfield, if mother feels
able to spare me."
"I've talked with her; she is anxious to have you go."
Virginia was indeed greatly pleased and pleasantly excited by this
message, for she had heard much of Mrs. Redfield's exclusiveness, and also
of the splendor of her establishment. She hurried away to dress with such
flutter of joyous anticipation that Redfield felt quite repaid for the
pressure he had put upon his wife to induce her to write that note. "You
may leave Lize Wetherford out of the count, my dear," he had said. "There
is nothing of her discernible in the girl. Virginia is a lady. I don't
know where she got it, but she's a gentlewoman by nature."
Lize said: "Don't you figure on me in any way, Reddy. I'm nothing but the
old hen that raised up this lark, and all I'm a-livin' for now is to make
her happy. Just you cut me out when it comes to any question about your
wife and Virginia. I'm not in their class."
It was hot and still in the town, but no sooner was the car in motion than
both heat and dust were forgotten. Redfield's machine was not large, and
as he was content to go at moderate speed, conversation was possible.
He was of that sunny, optimistic, ever-youthful nature which finds delight
in human companionship under any conditions whatsoever. He accepted this
girl for what she seemed--a fresh, unspoiled child. He saw nothing cheap
or commonplace in her, and was not disposed to impose any of her father's
wild doings upon her calendar. He had his misgivings as to her
future--that was the main reason why he had said to Mrs. Redfield, "The
girl must be helped." Afterward he had said "sustained."
It was inevitable that the girl should soon refer to the ranger, and
Redfield was as complimentary of him as she could wish. "Ross hasn't a
fault but one, and that's a negative one: he doesn't care a hang about
getting on, as they say over in England. He's content just to do the duty
of the moment. He made a good cow-puncher and a good soldier; but as for
promotion, he laughs when I mention it."
"He told me that he hoped to be Chief Forester," protested Virginia.
"Oh yes, he says that; but do you know, he'd rather be where he is, riding
over the hills, than live in London. You should see his cabin some time.
It's most wonderful, really. His walls are covered with bookshelves of his
own manufacture, and chairs of his own design. Where the boy got the
skill, I don't see. Heaven knows, his sisters are conventional enough!
He's capable of being Supervisor, but he won't live in town and work in an
office. He's like an Indian in his love of the open."
All this was quite too absorbingly interesting to permit of any study of
the landscape, which went by as if dismissed by the chariot wheels of some
contemptuous magician. Redfield's eyes were mostly on the road (in the
manner of the careful driver), but when he did look up it was to admire
the color and poise of his seat-mate, who made the landscape of small
account.
She kept the conversation to the desired point. "Mr. Cavanagh's work
interests me very much. It seems very important; and it must be new, for I
never heard of a forest ranger when I was a child."
"The forester is new--at least, in America," he answered. "My dear young
lady, you are returned just in the most momentous period in the history of
the West. The old dominion--the cattle-range--is passing. The supremacy of
the cowboy is ended. The cow-boss is raising oats, the cowboy is pitching
alfalfa, and swearing horribly as he blisters his hands. Some of the
rangers at the moment are men of Western training like Ross, but whose
allegiance is now to Uncle Sam. With others that transfer of allegiance is
not quite complete, hence the insolence of men like Gregg, who think they
can bribe or intimidate these forest guards, and so obtain favors; the
newer men are college-bred, real foresters. But you can't know what it all
means till you see Ross, or some other ranger, on his own heath. We'll
make up a little party some day and drop down upon him, and have him show
us about. It's a lonely life, and so the ranger keeps open house. Would
you like to go?"
"Oh, yes indeed! I'm eager to get into the mountains. Every night as I see
the sun go down over them I wonder what the world is like up there."
Then he began very delicately to inquire about her Eastern experience.
There was not much to tell. In a lovely old town not far from
Philadelphia, where her aunt lived, she had spent ten years of happy
exile. "I was horribly lonely and homesick at first," she said. "Mother
wrote only short letters, and my father never wrote at all. I didn't know
he was dead then. He was always good to me. He wasn't a bad man, was he?"
"No," responded Redfield, without hesitation. "He was very like the rest
of us--only a little more reckless and a little more partisan, that's all.
He was a dashing horseman and a dead-shot, and so, naturally, a leader of
these daredevils. He was popular with both sides of the controversy up to
the very moment when he went South to lead the invaders against the
rustlers."
"What was it all about? I never understood it. What were they fighting
about?"
"In a sense, it was all very simple. You see, Uncle Sam, in his careless,
do-nothing way, has always left his range to whomever got there first, and
that was the cattle-man. At first there was grass enough for us all, but
as we built sheds and corrals about watering-places we came to claim
_rights_ on the range. We usually secured by fraud homesteads in the
sections containing water, and so, gun in hand, 'stood off' the man who
came after. Gradually, after much shooting and lawing, we parcelled out
the range and settled down covering practically the whole State. Our
adjustments were not perfect, but our system was working smoothly for us
who controlled the range. We had convinced ourselves, and pretty nearly
everybody else, that the State was only fit for cattle-grazing, and that
we were the most competent grazers; furthermore, we were in possession,
and no man could come in without our consent.
"However, a very curious law of our own making was our undoing. Of course
the 'nester' or 'punkin roller,' as we contemptuously called the small
farmer, began sifting in here and there in spite of our guns, but he was
only a mosquito bite in comparison with the trouble which our cow-punchers
stirred up. Perhaps you remember enough about the business to know that an
unbranded yearling calf without its mother is called a maverick?"
"Yes, I remember that. It belongs to the man who finds him, and brands
him."
"Precisely. Now that law worked very nicely so long as the poor cowboy was
willing to catch and brand him for his employer, but it proved a 'joker'
when he woke up and said to his fellows: 'Why brand these mavericks at
five dollars per head for this or that outfit when the law says it belongs
to the man who finds him?'"