CHAPTER I--THE GENESIS OF TROUBLE_The Land of Frozen Suns: A Novel

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THE LAND OF FROZEN SUNS

A Novel

BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR

Author of "Raw Gold," Etc.

STREET & SMITH.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.

The Land of Frozen Suns.

Made in U. S. A.

Contents

- CHAPTER I--THE GENESIS OF TROUBLE

- CHAPTER II--BY WAY OF THE "NEW MOON"

- CHAPTER III--WHICH SHOWS THAT THE WORM DOES NOT ALWAYS TURN

- CHAPTER IV--A FORTHRIGHT FIGHTING-MAN

- CHAPTER V--THE RELATIVE MERITS OF THE FRYING-PAN AND THE FIRE

- CHAPTER VI--SLOWFOOT GEORGE

- CHAPTER VII--THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL

- CHAPTER VIII--BY WAYS THAT WERE DARK

- CHAPTER IX--MR. MONTELL

- CHAPTER X--"THERE'S MONEY IN IT"

- CHAPTER XI--A TRICK OF THE "TRADE."

- CHAPTER XII--THE FIRST MOVE

- CHAPTER XIII--A FORETASTE OF STRONG MEASURES

- CHAPTER XIV--INTEREST ON A DEBT

- CHAPTER XV--STRANGERS TWAIN

- CHAPTER XVI--CLAWS UNSHEATHED

- CHAPTER XVII--NINE POINTS OF THE LAW

- CHAPTER XVIII--THE LONG ARM OF THE COMPANY

- CHAPTER XIX--THE STRENGTH OF MEN--AND THEIR WEAKNESS

CHAPTER I--THE GENESIS OF TROUBLE

Who was it, I wonder, made that sagacious remark about the road to hell

being paved with good intentions? He might have added an amendment to

the effect that there's always a plentiful supply of material for that

much travelled highway. We all contribute, more or less. I know I have

done so. And so did my people before me. My father's intentions were

good, but he didn't live long enough to carry them out. If he hadn't

fallen a victim to an inborn streak of recklessness, a habit of taking

chances,--well, I can't say just how things would have panned out. I'm

not fatalist enough to believe that we crawl or run or soar through our

allotted span of years according to some prearranged scheme which we are

powerless to modify. Oh, no! It's highly probable, however, that if my

father and mother had lived I should have gone into some commercial

pursuit or taken up one of the professions. Either way, I should likely

have pegged along in an uneventful sort of way to the end of the

chapter--lots of men do. Not that I would have taken with enthusiasm to

chasing the nimble dollar for the pure love of catching it, but because

I was slated for something of the sort, and as the twig is bent so is

the tree inclined; a man can't sit down and twiddle his thumbs and

refuse to perform any useful act, because there is no glory in it. The

heroic age has gone a-glimmering down the corridors of time.

As it happened, my feet were set in other paths by force of

circumstances. Only for that the sage-brush country, the very place

where I was born might have remained a terra incognita. I should always

have felt, though, that I'd missed something, for I was ushered into

this vale of tears at the Summer ranch on the Red River of the South.

Sumner _here_ hadn't developed into a cow monarch those days, but he was

on the way. My earliest impressions were all of log and 'dobe buildings,

_of long-horned cattle_, of wild, shaggy-maned horses, and of wilder men

who rode the one and drove the other in masterly fashion. For landscape

there was rolling prairie, and more rolling prairie beyond; and here and

there the eternal brown of it was broken by gray sage-grown flats and

stretches of greasewood--as if Nature had made a feeble effort to break

the monotony. I knew only this until I was big enough to tease for a

pony. I cannot remember seeing a town when I was small. The world to me

was a place of great plains, very still, and hot, and dry, a huddle of

cabins, and corrals, and a little way to the south Red River slinking

over its quicksands--except in time of storm; then it raged.

So that when my father bundled mother and myself off to a place called

St. Louis, where great squadrons of houses stood in geometrical

arrangement over a vast area, I had already begun to look upon things

with the eyes of cattleland. I recollect that when we were settled in a

roomy, old-fashioned house I cried because my mother would not let me go

out to the corral and play.

"There are no corrals in a city, dear," she explained--and I cried the

harder. I could conceive of no joy in a place where I could not go out

to the corrals and have some brown-faced cowpuncher hoist me up on a

gentle horse and let me hold the reins while the pony moved sedately

about.

Left to himself, I think my father would have made a cowman of me, but

mother had known the range when it was a place to try the nerves of

strong men, and she hated it. I didn't know till I was nearly grown that

she had made dad promise when I was born that if the cattle made money

for us, I should never know the plains. She came of an old Southern

family, and her life had been a sheltered one till she met and married

Jack Sumner. And she would have had me walk in pleasant places, as the

men of her family had done--doctors, lawyers, planters, and such. The

life was too hard, too much of an elemental struggle, she said--and I

was to be saved some of the knocks that my dad had taken in the

struggling years. Poor mother mine--her son was the son of his father,

I'm afraid. But Sumner _pere_ made good on his promise when the Sumner

herds fattened his bank account sufficiently; and I gyrated through

school, with college and a yet-to-be-determined career looming on the

horizon.

So my childish memories of the great open, that lies naked to the

sun-glare and the chilling breath of the _northers_ year on year, grew

fainter and more like something of which I had dreamed. Dad would come

home occasionally, stay a day or two, perhaps a week, sometimes even a

month; but my mother never went west of the Mississippi--nor did I. I

often plagued them to let me go to the ranch during vacation, but they

evidently considered it best to keep me away from the round-ups and

horse-breaking and such, till I was old enough to see that there was

another side to the life besides the sunshiny, carefree one that makes

an irresistible appeal to a youngster.

And then, just a week after my twentieth birthday, my dad, slow-voiced,

easy-going old Jack Sumner rode his horse into the smiling Red and

drowned under the eyes of twenty men.

I was sitting on our front steps grouching about the heat when the

messenger brushed by me with the telegram in his hand. Mother signed for

it, and he ran down the steps whistling, and went about his business.

There was no sound within. I had no hint of trouble, till a maid

screamed. Then, I rushed in. Mother was drooping over the arm of a

Morris chair, and the bit of yellow paper lay on the rug where it had

fluttered from her hand. I carried her to a couch, and called a doctor.

But he could do nothing. Her heart was weak, he said, and might have

stopped any time; the shock had merely hastened her end.

I'm going to pass lightly over the week that followed. I was just a kid,

remember, and I took it pretty hard. It was my first speaking

acquaintance with death. A few of my mother's people came, and when it

was over with I went to Virginia with an uncle, a kindly, absent-minded,

middle-aged bachelor. But I couldn't settle down. For a week or ten days

I fidgeted about the sleepy Southern village, and then I bade my uncle

an abrupt good-bye and started for St. Louis. Little as I knew of

business and legal matters I was aware that now the Sumner herds and

ranches were mine, and I had a hankering to know where I stood. Except

that there was a ranch and cattle in Texas I knew nothing of my father's

business. It didn't even occur to me, at first, that I was a minor and

consequently devoid of power to transact any business of importance. I

knew that certain property was rightfully mine, and that was all.

Once in St. Louis, however, I began to get the proper focus on my

material interests. It occurred to me that Sumner _pere_ had done more

or less business with a certain bank, a private concern engineered by

two ultra-conservative citizens named Bolton and Kerr. I hunted them up,

thinking that they would likely be able to tell me just what I needed to

know. And it happened that by luck I came in the nick of time. A clerk

took in my card, and returned immediately for me. I found the senior

member, wrapping the bit of pasteboard around his forefinger when I was

ushered in. We shook hands, and he motioned to a chair. I asked for

information, and I got it, straight from the shoulder. Bolton was very

economical in the use of words.

"Yes, I knew your father well. There is a sum of money to his account in

the bank. He died intestate," he told me bluntly. "In view of a

communication I have just received, you will have little to do with any

property until you are of age. The estate is now in the hands of an

administrator--appointed by a Texas court. The court will probably order

that you be allowed a certain monthly sum until your majority."

"I see," said I thoughtfully; I hadn't considered that phase of it,

although in a hazy way I knew something of the regular procedure. "Will

our place here be managed by this administrator?"

"Very likely," Bolton returned. "He has served us with a court order for

the estate funds now in our hands. But you are legally entitled to the

use and occupancy of the family residence until such time as the estate

is appraised and the inventory returned. After that the administrator

has discretionary power; he can make any disposition of the property,

meanwhile making provision for your support."

"It seems to me," I hazarded, "that some relative should have been

appointed."

"Exactly," Bolton nodded. "They made no move, though. And this Texas

person acted at once: I dare say it's all right. However, you're a

minor. Better have some responsible person appointed your guardian. Then

if there's any mismanagement, you can take court action to have it

remedied. Frankly, I don't like the look of this haste to administer.

May be all right; may be all wrong."

"See here," I burst out impulsively, for I had taken a sudden liking to

this short-spoken individual who talked to me with one foot on a desk

and a half-smoked cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, "what's the

matter with you becoming my guardian? None of my people seem to have

thought of it. I'm sure we'd get along all right. It would be a mere

matter of form, anyway."

He smiled. My naive way of saddling myself upon him, along with a lot of

possible responsibilities was doubtless amusing to a hard-headed

financier like Bolton. I saw nothing out of the way in such an

arrangement at the time. It struck me as a splendid idea, in fact. But

he made allowance for my juvenile point of view. Shifting his cigar to

the other corner of his mouth he surveyed me critically for a few

seconds, crinkling his black brows thoughtfully.

"I'll do it," he finally assented. "The position ought to be a sinecure.

Run in to-morrow morning at ten-thirty, and we'll step around to the

courthouse and have the thing legally executed. You're staying at the

old place, I suppose?"

"I'm going to," I replied. "I haven't been at the house; I came straight

here from the train."

"Well, run along, son," he said good-naturedly. "I'd take you home to my

family, only I don't happen to possess one. I live at the club--the

Arion--mostly."

"Oh, by the way," he called to me as I neared the door. "How are you off

for funds?"

"To tell the truth," I owned, rather shamefacedly, "I'm getting in

pretty low water. I think I've some change at home, but I'm not sure.

Dad never gave me a regular allowance; he'd just send me a check now and

then, and let it go at that. I'm afraid I'm a pretty good spender."

"You'll have to reform, young man," he warned, mock-seriously.

"Here"--he dug a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket-book--"that'll keep

you going for a while. I'll keep you in pocket money till this

administrator allows you a monthly sum for maintenance. Don't forget the

time, now. Ten-thirty, sharp. Ta ta." And he hustled me out of the

office in the midst of my thanks. I was thankful, too, for I'd put it

mildly when I told him that I was getting near the rocks. I was on them.

I'd paid my last cent for a meal on the train that morning. And while I

did feel tolerably sure of finding some loose silver in the pockets of

my clothing at home, I knew it would not amount to more than four or

five dollars. Oh, I was an improvident youth, all right. The necessity

for being careful with money never struck me as being a matter of

importance; I'd never had to do stunts in economy, that was the trouble.

From the bank I went straight home. We hadn't kept a very pretentious

establishment, even though Sumner _pere_ had gone on increasing his pile

all through the years since we'd moved to the city. A cook and a

house-maid, a colored coachman and a gardener--the four of them had been

with us for years, and old Adam was waiting by the steps for me when I

came up the walk, his shiny black face beaming welcome. I had to go to

the stable and look over the horses, and tell Adam that everything was

fine, before the old duffer would rest.

In the house everything was as I'd left it. All that evening I moped

around the big, low-ceiled living-room. There was little comfort in the

place; it was too lonely. The hours dragged by on leaden feet. I

couldn't get over expecting to see mother come trailing quietly down the

wide stairway, or dad walk in the front door packing a battered old grip

and greeting me with his slow smile. I know it was silly, but the

feeling drove me out of the house and down town, where there was a crush

of humans, and the glitter of street lights and the noise of traffic.

There I met a chum or two, and subsequent proceedings tore a jagged hole

in Bolton's fifty dollar bill before I landed home in the little hours.

Even then I couldn't sleep in that still, old house.

The long night came to an end, as nights have a habit of doing, and

breakfast time brought with it the postman. The mail was mostly papers

and other uninteresting junk, but one missive, postmarked Amarillo,

Texas, and addressed to myself I opened eagerly. It was from the

administrator, as I had surmised.

Most of the communication was taken up with an explanation of how he

came to jump into the breach so quickly. He had been, it seemed, a close

friend of my father's. He knew that Jack Sumner had a son who was not

yet of age, and who, even if he were, knew little or nothing about

stock. Things needed looking after, he said; my father's sudden death

had left the business without a responsible head, and the ranch foreman

and the range boss were bucking each other. Things were going to the

devil generally, so he felt called upon to step into the breach, seeing

that none of the Sumner family showed up to protect their interests. I

wouldn't be under any obligation to him, he frankly explained, for as

administrator he would be paid for what he was doing. He also stated

that if I felt that my affairs would be more capably managed in the

hands of someone whom I knew better he would cheerfully turn over

control of the estate without any tiresome litigation. And he concluded

his letter with an urgent invitation to come down to headquarters and

see the wheels go round for myself. He signed himself in a big heavy

hand, Jake Howey, and the signature gave me an impression of a bluff,

hard-riding cowman--picturesque and thoroughly Western. If I had been

born a girl I expect my disposition would have been termed romantic.

Anyway, Mr. Jake Howey's letter made a hit with me.

When I went to keep my appointment with Bolton later in the forenoon I

took the letter with me. He glanced over it, and tucked it back in the

envelope.

"I don't much believe in long distance judgment of men," he declared,

"but I'd be willing to take a chance on this Texas person. I should say

you can expect a square deal from him--if this missive represents his

true personality."

"That's the way it struck me, too," I confessed. "I think I'd like to go

down there for a while."

"Yes? What about school?" he put in.

"Well, I suppose it's necessary for me to go through college," I

admitted. "Dad intended me to. I was to begin this coming school

year--September, isn't it? But that's nearly three months away. I would

like to see that Red River ranch. I was born there, you know."

"You'll have to cut your eye-teeth in the business sometime," he mused.

"You'll be less likely to get into mischief there than you will in town.

Yes, I daresay you might as well take the trip. But no funking school

this fall, mind. I've known youngsters to go to the cattle country and

stick there. Your father did."

"I won't," I promised, "even if I want to stay, I'll be ready to dig in

when September comes."

"You'd better." He laughed at my earnestness. "Or I'll be down there

after you. When do you propose to start?"

"As soon as I can." Having paved the way to go, I wanted, boy-fashion,

to be on the way at once.

"Any idea how to get there?" he queried; as if he had his doubts about

the development of my bump of location.

But I had him there.

"Oh, yes. Dad used to take the train through Little Rock to Fort Worth,

and on up into the Panhandle from there. Sometimes he took a steamer

from here to Memphis. I think I'd like the river trip best."

"All right," he decided. "You shall go, my boy, just as soon as you can

get ready. Now we'll see about this guardianship matter."

We saw about it in such wise that two days later I was the happy

possessor of a ticket to Amarillo and a well-lined pocket-book. I had

dinner with Bolton, and bade him good-bye quite cheerfully, for I felt a

good deal as Columbus must have done when he turned the prow of his

caravel away from Spanish shores. After leaving Bolton I went home after

a grip I'd forgotten. The river boat on which I'd taken passage was due

to leave at midnight.

And that midnight departure was what started one Bob Sumner up the

Trouble Trail. It isn't known by that name; it doesn't show on any map

that ever I saw; but the man who doesn't have to travel it some time in

his career--well, he's in luck. Or perhaps one should reason by the

reverse process. I daresay it all depends on the point of view.