THE LADY AND THE PLAN
They were chatting the next morning over the late breakfast of Mrs.
Laithe. Her brother, summoned from the branding pen, where tender and
terrified calves were being marked for life, had come reluctantly, ill
disposed to forego the vivacity of that scene. He had rushed in with the
look of a man harassed by large affairs. His evil beard was still
unshorn, his dress as untidy as care could make it. He drew a chair up
to the oilcloth covered table and surveyed the meager fare of his sister
with high disapproval.
"What you need is food, Nell," he began abruptly. "Look at me. This
morning I ate two pounds of oatmeal, three wide slices of ham, five
chunks of hot bread, about two thousand beans, and drank all the coffee
I could get--and never foundered. How's that, against one silly glass of
malted milk two weeks ago? And I slept till seven. I woke up for just
eight seconds at four-thirty to hear the boys turning out. Oh, it was
gray and cold in that bunkhouse--with me warm in the blankets. That was
the one moment of real luxury I've ever known--not to turn out if I
didn't choose. And I did _not_ choose--if anyone should ride up hastily
and inquire of you. When we were on the drive I had to turn out with the
rest of the bunch and catch horses and unbuckle frosty hobbles with
stiff fingers, and fetch pails of ice water and freeze and do other
things, but this morning I just grinned myself asleep again. That was
worth living for, my girl."
But his sister was for once unresponsive. She had not seemed to hear
him.
"Clarence," she began, as if reciting lines she had learned, "there's a
chap over on the next ranch--Ewing's his name--that ought to have
something done for him. He's young, twenty-four, I believe, and boyish
even for that age, but he draws; draws well. His father was a painter
who died here years ago, and the boy has lived in these mountains ever
since. His father taught him to draw, but he has had no chance to study,
and he's reached a point where he must learn more or lose all he has.
I'm almost certain he can make something of himself. He ought to go to
New York, where he can study and see pictures and find out things. Now,
please advise me about it."
"How's his health--his stomach?"
"I believe we've never spoken of it. That's hardly the point."
"Well, I call it a big point. Suppose he went off to New York and got
plumb ruined, the way I did--no eats, no sleeps. If you want my advice,
he ought to stay right here where everybody's healthy. He shouldn't be
foolish."
"Clarence!" Her eyes shone with impatience. "It isn't whether he's to go
or not. He's _going_, and he's to have money to keep him there till he
makes himself known. It's on that point I need advice."
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't savvy at first. You're to tell me what
to advise and I'm to advise it? Well, tell me what to say."
"Don't be stupid, dear--just for a moment, please. You're bound to
agree with me when you see his work. And you might offer to lend him the
money--my money, though he's not to know that. Or perhaps you ought to
buy his pictures. I'm sure you'll want some of those things he has. Of
course that's the better way. It will let him feel independent. There,
it's fixed. It was simple, after all." She flashed him a look of
gratitude. "You're a help after all, dear, when you choose to be."
"But--one moment, my babe! Perhaps after listening to my advice so
meekly you'll let the poor chap say a word for himself. Perhaps he'd
rather stay right here in God's own country if he eats and sleeps well
now."
"Please, please, let's not be so--so foody! Of course he wants to go!"
"But what in Heaven's name would you ever have done without my help,
poor mindless child that you are?"
But she was oblivious to this subtlety.
"Yes, dear, you're always a comfort. We'll ride over this afternoon and
tell him he's to go. It will be a fine thing to do--he's so promising."
"Look here, Nell"--he glanced at her shrewdly--"is this to be his picnic
or yours?"
She burned with a little inner rage to feel her cheeks redden, but the
black fringe of her eyes did not fall before him.
"We'll ride over after luncheon," she repeated, "and I do wish,
Clarence, that you'd shave and wear a collar or a stock, and throw that
unspeakable coat away, and have your boots cleaned, and send for some
cigars."
He looked complacently down over the objectionable attire, pulled
sputteringly at the condemned pipe, then grinned at her.
"Say, Sis, if it's going to be _that_ much fun for you, I'll rope and
throw him, and send him on tied if he acts rough."
Late that evening the two inmates of the lake cabin sat before the big
fireplace in the studio to talk of a wondrous thing. They had survived
the most exciting half day in the life of either, and the atmosphere of
the room was still electrical with echoes of the big event. Through
their supper Ewing, unable to eat, had sat staring afar, helpless in the
rush of the current, inert as a bowlder in the bed of a mountain stream.
He, so long at rest, was to be swept down from the peace of his hill
nook to the ocean, to life itself. It was a thing to leave one aghast
with a consternation that was somehow joyous. Since supper he had stared
into the fire in dumb surrender to the flood, with intervals of dazed
floor-pacing, in which he tried to foresee his course.
Ben Crider, submerged by the waters of the same cloudburst, was giving
stouter battle to the current. His face drawn to more than its wonted
dejection, he strove to play the beacon. Between snatches of worldly
counsel he read with solemn inflection certain gems of guidance from
authors in whose wisdom he had long felt a faith entire. His ready mind
harked forward to direful emergencies, and he submitted devices for
meeting these.
"Remember what that says, Kid," he urged impressively, and he read once
more a saving passage from his well-thumbed "Guide to Polite Behavior."
"'If you cannot sing a song or tell a mirth-provoking story at an
evening ball or party you may well perform a few tricks in legerdemain.
The following are among the simplest and, when deftly performed never
fail to provoke loud applause and win you the undying gratitude of your
hostess.' Are you a-hearin' me? Well, I've turned down the pages at that
one with the coin and the hat, and the one where you must tell the right
card by a simple act of mind-readin'. And don't forget what he says
here, 'the hand is quicker'n the eye.'"
"Yes, Ben; I'm listening."
"Well, listen to this here other book. It's more serious."
He took up his treasured "Traps and Pitfalls of a Great City," and again
became a voice in the wilderness, waving a forefinger to punctuate and
warn.
"'It is the habit of these gentry to lie in wait for their intended
victims when they alight at the principal railway stations, and where,
by their plausible and insinuating advances, they ingratiate themselves
into the _confidence_ of those whom it is their purpose to fleece; hence
the name, "confidence men." Only by constant watchfulness and a thorough
knowledge of their methods may the stranger in the great city hope to
escape their wiles, since their ways of approach are manifold.' You hear
that, Kid--their ways is manifold. Here's a pitcher of one of 'em
tacklin' a countryman. See what an oily-lookin' feller he is, stovepipe
hat, fancy vest, big watchchain, long coat, striped pants. You'd say he
was a bank president. Oh, I bet they're slick ones. They'd have to be to
tog out like that every day in the week. Now remember, if one o' them
ducks comes up to you and starts to butter you up with fine words and
wants to carry your satchel, you just let out a yell for the police and
hand him over. That's the way to settle 'em!"
"I'll surely remember, Ben."
"And there's thugs and footpads. Always keep your coat buttoned over
your watch, it says, and if you're goin' along Broadway or Fifth Avenue
after dark, get out and walk in the middle o' the street, so's they
can't spring around a corner and slug you. And don't talk to strangers,
and don't look into store windows ner up at the high buildin's, else
they'll spot you fer a greeny and give you the laugh."
"I can't believe it yet, Ben." He rose to walk the floor again, his
hands sunk deep in his pockets, his head bent low.
"And don't git into no card game on the train with a couple o' smooth
strangers that ain't ever met each other before and want to pass away
the time pleasantly. And don't bet you can open the patent lock after
you think you found the secret spring. And don't buy any o' that money
you can't tell from real, that was printed from stolen Gov'ment plates."
"Think of his giving a hundred dollars for that drawing of 'Lon Pierce
on the pinto, throwing a steer, and all that money for the others."
"Serves him right!" Ben hissed this vindictively, having first
reluctantly laid aside "Traps and Pitfalls." "Serves him dead right!
That feller puts on a wise look that's about sixty-five years beyond his
real age, as I'd cal'late it. I tell you, son, it sure takes all kinds
o' fools to make a world."
"But he said they were worth the money," Ewing pleaded. "He said I would
do even better, some day."
"Sure--_sure_ he said it! An' didn't he ask me if I had dyspepsia, an'
did I sleep at night, an' I'd better remember to live an outdoor life of
activity if I ever got that a-way. An' he thinks he's learned how to
grain a deer hide after watching me do it three minutes, an' he's goin'
to pick up a live skunk next chanct he gits, because I told him jest how
to grab it. Oh, he _said_ things all right! He said a variety o'
things!" He glared at Ewing as he rounded out this catalogue of follies.
"I'm torn in two, Ben. I shan't be glad to leave here, and yet I'll be
glad to go. I've dreamed it so long. It seems as if I'd dreamed it so
hard I'd made it come true."
"Always pin your money to the inside of your vest, like I told you,"
came the voice of warning.
"I will, I will. But things _do_ happen, don't they? This is like a
fairy tale."
"Fairy tale!" The wise one uttered this with violent scorn. "Likely you
was the sleepin' beauty, an' this here princess comes along with an
alarm clock!"
"Not a princess, Ben." He laughed boyishly. "She's a sure-enough queen."
"Jest remember they's knaves in the deck. That's all _I_ ask."
"You like her don't you?"
Ben made an effort to be fair.
"Well, I do an' then I don't. She's saddle stock, fur looks, that lady
is, but she ain't serious. No, sir! When her eyes is on me I know as
well's I want to she's snickerin' inside; makes no difference if her
face does look like it was starched. You'll find, when all's said an'
done, that she's plumb levitous, an' levitous folks is triflin'."
"Have you seen how sorrowful she looks sometimes, a sort of glad-sorry,
as if she felt sorry for herself and glad for other people? She makes
me feel old when she looks that way--as if I must protect her."
"Yes, an' other times she's stiffer'n Lot's wife!"
"Other times she seems older than all the world, a woman who has always
lived and always will."
"Well, son, when you git put afoot there, you write on an' I'll manage
to scare up a git-away stake fur you."
"It's wonderful to think of going out into the world that _they_ knew,
Ben--my father and mother. It seems as if they must be out there now,
and that I'm going to meet them very quietly and naturally some day. I
think it wouldn't astonish me."
"Look a-here, Kid! That'll be about enough o' _that_! You go to bed."
The other smiled a little wanly.
"I can't. I'm afraid to. I'm going to sit here awhile and think, and
when the moon gets up I'm going outside to think. The hills haven't
heard the news yet, and the trail over to the lake doesn't know about
it. I've got to spread it before I sleep. You see, when I do sleep, I'm
afraid I'll wake up and find it was stuff I dreamed."
"Shucks, Kid, what's the use o' talking like that? It ain't no dream.
It's true as God made little apples." There was, at the moment, a
noticeable relaxation from the speaker's habitual austerity. An awkward
smile of affection melted the hardness of his face as he held out a hand
to Ewing. "An' I'm doggoned if I'd be so _all-fired_ amazed if
everything come out fur the best. Yes, sir, blame me, Kid, if I don't
almost half b'lieve you'll make good!"
"You can bet I'll try, Ben!"
"That's right; you do your damndest--'angels can do no more,' as the
feller said."
As he lighted a candle his face was grim once more--savagely grim, even
as he sang, in going to his rest:
"Oh, 'twas on a summer's eve when I first _metter_,
Swingin' on the garden ga-a-ate!"