FOR THE HEART OF A GIRL
Something sang in the heart of Johnny Dice. The one being in the
world who mattered had faith in him. The impulse to take her into
his arms at this moment almost overcame him. He had seen Molly Kent
under varied circumstances, but never so superb as now. She was all
woman; mature where Johnny had believed her mere girl. The sight of
her so aroused, so alive, thrilled him in a manner quite new.
Whatever had gone before was as nothing now. Life began here. Down
through the years his memories of Molly Kent would date from this
moment, so utterly did his spirit bend to worship her.
It had needed a moment as dramatic as this to awaken the boy to the
enormity of his loss should he lose her.
And, although he was enraged, Jackson Kent’s eyes had been opened,
too. He saw the abyss yawning at his feet, and an abyss it was,
indeed—the losing of his girl! Death was trivial beside it. Old age
was upon him and it frightened Jackson Kent to the very marrow to
consider the future, robbed of Molly’s great love. And it would get
to that if this man came between them.
In his day Kent had held himself a hard man, cold, unemotional;
asking affection of none. But, as so often happens with men of his
type, he gave when he least suspected it, and now that the tide had
set the other way he knew his need. Often he had fooled himself into
worshiping his money. His false god mocked him.
His hungry heart needed Molly, not money! And he swore that he would
have her; that Johnny Dice should never see her again. Had the fool
bewitched the girl? Wait until she heard how he had been caught
skulking in her room. Yes, and his insolence at the Rock; she’d
resent that. There was good steel in Molly. This Dice person would
find that the Kents stuck together!
And, oh, how he hated Johnny! Anger surged through his brain in
blinding waves until his withered old body trembled. Had he been at
all apoplectic, Jackson Kent would have been stricken dead.
Poor Molly winced as she regarded him. She had insisted on fair
play, but without intending to wound her father. What had got into
folks lately to make them fly at each others’ throats in this
fashion? Thoroughly distressed, she said:
“Father, I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
The old man unbent readily enough.
“No matter,” he said, opening his arms to her. “I’m not angry with
you. This man here is the person I’ve got my quarrel with. You look
tired, nervous. I’ll get you a room and you go and lie down for a
spell. When you’re rested up we’ll go home. Anythin’ we’ve got to
say to each other we can say when we’re alone.”
“Maybe that is best; but while the three of us are here, father, I
want to ask you one question. Did you know Crosbie Traynor?”
The suddenness of the question startled Johnny. He thought he saw
the old man sway and struggle for breath even as his head shook his
denial of any knowledge of the dead man. The next instant there was
a grim smile on Kent’s lips. It made Johnny, who knew not the cost
of it, open his eyes still wider.
“Traynor?” Kent questioned. “Crosbie Traynor? No, I never heard of
him. Is he a friend of this man?”
The question was ingenious. Johnny recovered his tongue in time to
answer for himself.
“I don’t know anythin’ about him to make me ashamed to call him
friend.”
“Your standard ain’t high,” snapped the old man. “A person who’ll go
snoopin’ round a girl’s bedroom ain’t likely to pick his friends
carefully.”
The inference was too thinly veiled to escape Molly.
“Explain yourself, father. What do you mean?”
“You bet I’ll explain. He knows what I mean. I figured he wouldn’t
be sayin’ anythin’ about that to you. I caught him red-handed, I
tell you. Snoopin’ in your room, where no man has ever set his
foot—not even me. Wa’n’t anybody to home but the Chink and Hughie.
Just the chance he was lookin’ for. Am I lyin’?” he demanded of
Johnny.
The boy’s cheeks were scarlet! Molly was staring at him amazedly.
With a clicking of syllables Johnny’s answer leaped from his lips:
“Since you speak of it, tell her the whole truth!”
“That’s what I intend!” Turning to Molly the old man said: “When I
surprised him, he made a lot of talk about bringin’ you a present.
Ain’t no need of a forty-dollar-a-month cowpunch spendin’ his money
bringin’ you presents, and lookin’ for some favor in return. Ain’t
nothin’ money would buy that I’ve ever refused you.”
Molly tried to protest, but the old man waved her down.
“Don’t tell me I’m puttin’ it too strong. He’s got his eye set on
you; told me so to my face.”
Kent saw bitter tears flood the girl’s eyes, but he went on.
“This is all true talk, Molly,” he asserted. “Look at the man—he may
be a romantic figure in your eyes, seein’ you’re so young, but I’m
tellin’ you that nine months a year he’s flat broke! It’d take him
three months to earn the price of the dress you’re wearin’. I ain’t
raised you careful-like, givin’ you every advantage a girl ought to
have to see you waste yourself on a forty-dollar man!”
Level-eyed now, Molly searched the faces of the two men before her.
Johnny Dice had spoken no word of love to her. Yes, but love was not
a thing of words. It was something that came to life of its own
volition, and grew and grew until it caught the hearts of men and
women in a vise. Only when it had made its presence known would
retrospection reveal the hundred little ways in which it had sought
to announce itself from the very beginning.
Molly was permitted such a moment. What she beheld left her body
trembling. Was this love? Did she love Johnny Dice? The thought had
never occurred to her before. Was this feeling of comradeship, this
boy and girl friendship, love? At least the thought was not
unpleasant to her. Poor he might be, but Johnny was too much a man
to be unworthy of love. The more she thought of it the greater
became the tug on her heart. Anger, resentment, all her other
emotions were blotted out. Even her insistence on fair play between
the two men became less vital to the girl.
Whether she knew it or not, Molly was taking sides. And, as women
have done down through the ages, she turned from her own to champion
the man who desired her. She was no longer the judge, but the
counsel for the defense.
“Were you better off at his age, father?” she asked.
Kent must have sensed the widening between them, for he answered
almost surlily: “Times have changed. What was good enough for me
ain’t good enough for you. Did he show you the picture of you he’s
got in his pocket? Your picture—carryin’ it around!”
“Why, no, father. I can’t believe it. I haven’t had a picture taken
in years.”
“Well, it was years since this one was took. You know the one you’ve
got framed and hanging beside your door? He’s got a copy of it. I
asked him for it. I don’t want my little girl’s picture goin’ the
rounds of the cow camps. He wouldn’t give it up. Said he’d ask you
if he could keep it. He didn’t, did he? Made some wild talk about
its belonging to a dead man.”
“Dead man!” The words chilled the girl.
She turned questioningly to Johnny. With rising suspicion she saw
the boy nod his head in answer to the interrogation in her eyes.
“Let me see it!” she demanded, stretching out her hands toward
Johnny, who was drawing the picture from his pocket.
One glance at it was enough for the girl.
“Father!” she exclaimed. “It _is_ my picture.”
“Of course,” the old man snapped. “Ask him how he came by it.”
“Johnny, tell me,” Molly cried, “what does it all mean? What is this
talk of ‘dead man’? From whom did you get this picture?”
And now Johnny faced Kent.
“From Crosbie Traynor,” said the boy.
“From Crosbie Traynor,” Molly repeated slowly.
The old man’s smile failed him this time. He choked over his words
as he fought to repress his excitement. “Traynor! Traynor!” he cried
at last. “What’s all this talk of him?”
Molly was sobbing.
“Father, father,” she murmured, “I’m so afraid, so frightened. This
picture, this letter, death, murder—what does it mean, what does it
mean?”
The letter crinkled in Kent’s bony hands as he tried to hold it
steady enough to read it. He seemed to sicken as he read; lines came
into his face; he breathed with difficulty; with shaking hands he
clutched at his collar to loosen it.
As the button snapped under the strain and his hand came away he
flashed a glance at the boy. Quick, ferretlike, it was.
Johnny’s face was wooden. Even his eyes were emotionless. For the
moment Molly was unconscious of his presence. Dumbly she stared at
the older man. She saw him sink into a chair, gasping for breath;
but she did not run to his side to comfort him. Something
unexplainable made her draw back. And she knew that she did, and the
knowledge crucified her. A blush of shame mounted to her cheeks—that
she could watch the misery of her own and be untouched by it. And
she felt herself urged on. This was not yet the end.
“Father,” she heard herself saying, “do you understand that
reference to my not going near the shipping pens? The Diamond-Bar
shipped from here on the sixth last year and the year before. Mr.
Traynor thought you would be there. Please don’t lie to me, father.
You can’t deny that you knew this man.”
Seconds slipped by, with Kent’s spasmodic breathing the only sound
to break the stillness.
At last the old man spoke.
“No, Molly,” he said with an effort. “I can’t deny it any longer. I
knew Traynor. You’ve never heard his name on my lips before. Your
mother knew him, too. God forbid that you should. Trouble always
followed him. He was such another as this man here. He made my life
a hell. I didn’t want anythin’ but to keep out of his way. I never
expected to see him again. A skunk is always a skunk. I’m glad he’s
dead!”
“Then you recognized him the other night in Standing Rock, eh?”
Johnny asked.
“Of course!”
“Well, why didn’t you admit it?”
“Are you dumb enough to ask that? Do you think I wanted my girl’s
name mixed up with a killin’? Ain’t no Kent goin’ to be mixed up
like that. Me and mine stay clean. Let the dead take care of
themselves. No one but you figured he’d been killed. Plain enough he
did it himself. He was that kind. If he figured on meetin’ me here,
it was to make a touch. But he’s dead now and he’ll stay dead. He’s
gone where he’ll never put the tongues of folks on my child. Whether
he killed himself or was murdered makes no difference to me.”
“Justice don’t mean anythin’ to you, eh?”
“You’ve known me for nigh on ten years. You can take your own answer
to your question from that. Traynor was a lowdown, ornery reptile.
He didn’t get less than his deserts!”
Johnny shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said grimly, “but I don’t believe you. I’ll have my
own answer before I’m through. No act or word of mine will bring any
harm to your daughter. Her good opinion of me is the most precious
thing I possess. I aim to keep it. I can’t figure any easier way to
lose it than to let her think I’m two-faced. I finish what I start!
You’ve made me look small with your talk and insinuations. If I
didn’t tell her about the picture and of my own run-in with you, it
was because I knew she was too upset to hear it now. But I said I’d
ask her—and I’m doin’ it this minute.”
Johnnie turned his back on the old man and came close to Molly’s
side.
“You’ve heard it all, Molly,” said Johnny. “You know what I’m
askin’—I want to keep that picture. Am I fit to have it?”
Without looking up, Molly handed the picture to him. It was a
confession of faith well calculated to arouse the best in the boy.
“And about my comin’ to the ranch,” he went on. “If you asked me to
come tomorrow I’d come, and nothin’ wouldn’t stop me. But I can’t
see that it would serve any purpose. From now on I go alone. Even
Tony stays behind. As it is, I’ve not been frank with him. What I
find out no one but me’ll know. If there’s talk you’ll know who to
blame. If ever you want me, you get word to the Basque; he’ll find
me. And—_good-bye_.”
He was gone; nor did he hear the girl’s softly murmured answer.