ANGUS IN LOVE AND WAR
The judge merely told Angus that if he could work the ranch properly it
would not be rented; and thus encouraged he buckled into the work. The
responsibility thrust on him changed his outlook even more than he
himself realized.
Jean felt her responsibilities as much as he. She was fond of books, but
she grudged the time spent at school, and from before daylight till long
after dark she was as busy as a young hen with a brood of chicks. The
boys helped her with the hard tasks, and on the whole she got along very
well.
But though Angus and Jean felt their responsibilities and endeavored to
live up to them, young Turkey did not. He was a curious combination,
with as many moods and shifts as an April day. By turns he was
headstrong and impulsive, and then coldly calculating. If he felt like
it, he would be industrious; but if not, he would be deliberately and
provokingly idle. In the days of Adam Mackay these qualities had been
not so apparent; but with the passing of his father he recognized no
authority and he resented bitterly the least suggestion of control.
He would soon have gotten completely out of hand had Angus permitted it.
Matters came to a show-down one morning when Turkey, snug between his
blankets, delivered a flat ultimatum to his brother's command that he
get up and help pick potatoes.
"You go plum!" said Turkey. "Saturday's a holiday, and I'm goin'
fishin'. Pick spuds yourself!"
The next moment he was yanked out of his nest by the ankle and, fighting
like a young wildcat, was thrown on the floor.
"Will you pick those spuds?" Angus demanded.
"No!" Turkey shouted, and Angus whirled him over on his face and
reaching out acquired a leather slipper.
"Get this straight," he said. "You'll pick spuds, or I'll lick you till
you do."
"You lick me, and I'll kill you," roared Turkey, emphasizing the threat
with language gleaned from certain teamsters of his acquaintance, but
which was cut short by the slipper.
"Will you come to work now?" Angus asked after a heated interval.
"No!" yelled Turkey, sobbing more with rage than with pain, "no, I
won't, you big--"
But again the slipper cut him short, and this time his brother put his
full strength into it. Finally, Turkey recognized the old-time doctrine
of force, and gave up. That day he picked potatoes with fair diligence,
and though he would not speak to Angus for a week, he did as he was
told.
And so that Fall the young Mackays were very busy, and the threshing was
done, and the roots dug and got in, and some fall plowing, before the
frosts hardened the earth and the snow came to overlie it.
With winter the work of the ranch lightened--or at least its hours
shortened. But still there was plenty to do.
But there were the long evenings, when all the work was done, and supper
over and the lamps lit, and they sat by the big, airtight heater, and
Angus at least enjoyed the warmth the more because, well-fed and
comfortable himself, he knew that every head of his stock was also
full-bellied and contented in pen and stable and stall and shed, and the
wind might blow and the snow drift and not matter at all.
A year passed uneventfully. The ranch paid its way, though Angus could
not meet the mortgage interest. In that year Angus had grown physically.
Adam Mackay had been a strong man, and his son was beginning to show his
breed, and the results of the good plain food and open air and hard
exercise which had been his all his life.
He was yet lanky and apparently awkward, being big of bone, but long
ropes of muscle were beginning to come on his arms and thighs, and bands
and plasters of it lay on his shoulders and along his back and armored
ribs. He took pride in the strength that was coming upon him, rejoicing
in his ability to shoulder a sack of grain without effort, to lift and
set around the end of a wagon, to handle the big breaking plow at the
end of a furrow, and he was forever trying new things which called for
strength and activity. At nineteen he could, though he did not know it,
have taken the measure of any ordinary man. And about this time an
incident occurred which nearly turned out disastrously.
Angus had delivered a load of potatoes at a hotel much frequented by
lumberjacks, and, seeking its proprietor, he entered the bar. A logging
camp had broken up, and its members, paid off, were celebrating in the
good old way. As Angus approached the bar he passed between two young
men. These, with one telepathic glance, suddenly administered to the
unsuspecting youth the rite known as the "Dutch flip." Although the
humor of the "flip" is usually more apparent to perpetrators and
onlookers than to the victim, Angus merely grinned as he found himself
on his feet again, and all would have been well if, in his involuntary
parabola, his feet aforesaid had not brushed a huge tie-maker. This
tie-maker was a Swede, "bad," with a reputation as a fighter and the
genial disposition of a bear infested with porcupine quills. Also he was
partly drunk. In this condition he chose to regard the involuntary
contact of Angus' heels as a personal affront. With a ripping blasphemy
he slapped the boy in the face, and as instantly as a reflex action
Angus lashed back with a blow clean and swift as the kick of a colt, and
nearly as powerful.
The logger recovered from his surprise, and with a roar sprang and
caught him. Strong for a boy, Angus was as yet no match for such an
adversary. The weight of the man, apart from fighting experience, made
the issue undoubted. But suddenly the Swede was twisted, wrenched loose,
and sent staggering ten feet. Straight down the length of the room the
big tie-maker shot, landing with a terrific crash, and lay groaning.
"Let the kid alone!" a deep voice commanded.
Angus' rescuer was Gavin French, the eldest of the brothers. The largest
of a family of big men, Gavin stood three inches over six feet in his
stockings, and tapered from shoulders to heels. He was long of limb,
long of sinew, and so beautifully built that at first sight his real
bulk and weight were not apparent. His hair, reddish gold, was so wavy
that it almost curled, his eye a clear blue, but as hard as newly-cut
ice. He nodded to Angus.
"All right, Mackay; I won't let him hurt you."
Gavin French surveyed his handiwork with cold satisfaction.
"Give the boys a drink," he said. And when the drink had been disposed
of he walked out without a second glance at his late adversary who was
sitting up. Angus followed him.
"Thanks for handling him," he said. "He was too strong for me."
The cold blue eyes rested on him appraisingly.
"You'll be all right when you're older. Better keep out of trouble till
then."
"He struck me," Angus said, "and no man will ever do that without
getting back the best I have, no matter how big he is. That was my
father's way."
Gavin French made no reply. He nodded, and turning abruptly left Angus
alone.
This episode, trivial in itself, gave Angus food for thought. For long
months the sight of the big Swede hurtling through the air was before
his eyes, and he admired and envied the mighty strength of Gavin French.
By contrast his own seemed puny, insignificant. He set himself
deliberately to increase it.
The second fall after Adam Mackay's death the school which Jean and
Turkey attended had a new teacher. Jean fell in love with her from the
start, and even Turkey, who had regarded teachers as his natural
enemies, was inclined to make an exception. Jean brought this paragon to
the ranch over Sunday. Alice Page was a clear-eyed young woman of
twenty-four, brown of hair and eye as Jean herself, full of quiet fun,
but with a dignity which forbade familiarity. She was the first person
who had ever given Angus a handle to his name. This was at dinner, and
Turkey yelped joyously:
"Ah, there, 'Mister' Mackay!" he cried. "A little more meat, 'Mister'
Mackay, and a dose of spuds and gravy, 'Mister' Mackay. I see you missed
some of the feathers by your left ear when you was shavin', 'Mister'
Mackay!"
Having just begun the use of the razor, Angus reddened to the ear
aforesaid. Like most taciturn, reserved people he was keenly sensitive
to ridicule.
"'Meester' Mackay! Haw-haw!" rumbled big Gus through a mouthful of food.
"He's shave hees viskers! Das ban purty good von. Ho-ho!"
Dave Rennie grinned. Angus' black brows drew down, but just then he
choked on a crumb of bread which went the wrong way.
"Pat 'Mister' Mackay on the back!" shrieked Turkey.
"I'll pat you, young fellow!" Angus wheezed.
But Alice Page saw how the land lay; saw also that the black-browed,
awkward boy was in danger of losing his temper.
"Shall I call you 'Angus'?" she asked, and there was something in her
tone and friendly smile which calmed him.
"That would be fine," he said. "And if you would lick Turkey Monday
morning it would be a great favor."
A month afterward Alice Page came to live at the ranch. Her
companionship meant much to Jean. It meant more to Angus, who presently
suffered a severe attack of calf-love.
Being in love, Angus began to suffer the pangs of jealousy, for there
were others who found Alice Page attractive. Chief among these was Nick
Garland, the young man who had accompanied Mr. Braden on his first
visit to the ranch. His visits became frequent, and he made himself very
much at home at the ranch, treating Angus with a careless superiority
and seniority which the latter found intensely irritating.
Now Garland, who esteemed himself a devil of a fellow, was merely
attempting a flirtation with the pretty school teacher. He could not but
notice Angus' attitude toward himself, and in a flash of perception
divined the cause. He found it humorous, as no doubt it was. He did not
like Angus, which made it the more amusing. He intended to tell Alice
Page the joke, but in the meantime kept it to himself.
He rode up one moonlight night while Angus was in the stable dressing by
the light of a lantern the leg of a horse which had calked himself, put
his mare in a stall and forked down hay as a matter of course. Angus,
after a short greeting, maintained silence. Then picking up his lantern,
he left the stable. Garland thought his chance had come.
"They tell me you're going to school this winter," he observed.
"No," Angus replied.
"Mighty pretty teacher," Garland insinuated. "If I had the chance, I'd
sure go. I think I could learn a lot from her."
"There would be lots of room," Angus retorted.
"What!" Garland demanded, stopping short.
"Ay," Angus said grimly, setting his lantern on the ground and facing
him. "You might learn to mind your own business."
Garland peered at him in the moonlight.
"I'm not used to talk like that, young fellow."
"You need not take it unless you like," Angus said.
Garland laughed contemptuously. "Sore, are you? This is the funniest
thing I ever came across. I'm on to you, kid. It's too good to keep.
I'll have to tell her."
Angus scowled at him in silence for a moment. Then, deliberately,
bitterly, he gave him what is usually regarded as a perfectly good
_casus belli_.
Garland began to realize that he had made a mistake. He had anticipated
fun, but found this serious. If he thrashed Angus he could not very well
continue to call at the ranch. Also, looking at the tall, raw-boned
youth confronting him, he had an uneasy feeling that he might have his
hands full if he tried. He had not realized till then how much the boy
had grown. At bottom Garland was slightly deficient in sand. And so he
tried to avert the break he had brought about.
"That's no way to talk," he said. "You'll have to learn to take a joke,
some day."
"Maybe," Angus retorted. "But I will never learn to take what you are
taking."
Garland flushed angrily. The element of truth in the words stung.
"I'd look well, beating up a boy," he said loftily. "I'm not going to
quarrel with you. When you're older maybe you'll have more sense."
He left Angus, and marched away to the house. Angus looked after him
till the door closed, and then struck straight away across the bare
fields for the timber.
These night rambles by moonlight were a habit which fitted well with his
nature. He was taciturn, reserved, with an infinite capacity, developed
by circumstance for solitude. But that night, as he covered mile after
mile with a swift, springy stride, his mood was as sinister as the black
shadows the great firs threw across his path. His naturally hard, bitter
temper, usually controlled, was in the ascendant. His long dislike of
Garland had come to a head. And yet there was Garland seated in his
house with Alice Page, while he was forced to walk in the night. It
amounted to that in his estimation.
At last he turned back, in no better temper. It was late, and he was
sure that Garland had gone. But as he came to the road leading to the
house he saw figures black in the moonlight approaching. Just then he
was in no mood to meet any one. An irrigation ditch bordered by willows
paralleled the road. He jumped the ditch and, concealed by the willows,
waited till whoever it was should go by.
It was Alice Page, and Garland, leading his horse. Opposite him they
halted. Snatches of conversation blurred by the gurgle of running water
came to his ears. Garland moved closer to her. Suddenly he caught her in
his arms. She strained back, pushing him away, but he kissed her, and at
that moment Angus leaped the ditch, landing beside them. The suddenness
of his appearance startled them. The horse snorted and pulled back.
Garland released Alice with an oath and turned to face the intruder.
"It's you, is it?" he said angrily.
"You had better get out of here," Angus told him, "and be quick about
it."
But Garland, being angry, forgot his prudence. He was not going to be
ordered off by a boy, especially before Alice Page.
"Be civil, you young fool!" he said. "I've taken enough from you
to-night."
"Will you get on your horse and pull out?" Angus demanded between his
teeth.
"When I get good and ready, and not before," Garland replied.
Without another word Angus went for him. Garland was older, heavier and
presumably stronger, and furious as Angus was he felt that probably he
was in for a licking. But he went in hard, like a forlorn hope, and like
a forlorn hope he intended to do as much damage as he could.
Garland tried to fend him off with a push, and failing, hit. But his
blow glanced from Angus' head and the latter slashed up under the ribs
with a vicious right hand, and was amazed at the depth his fist sank in
the body and the rasping gasp it brought forth. Angus' knowledge of
offensive and defensive was not great. But at school he had engaged in
various rough-and-tumble affairs and one winter a lithe young fellow
hired by the elder Mackay had shown him how to hold his hands. But these
things were quite forgotten for the moment. Like his claymore-wielding
ancestors, his one idea was to get to close quarters and settle the
matters there. He caught Garland around the middle and was gripped in
return.
For a moment he thought Garland was not trying, was not doing his best;
and then, suddenly and joyfully, he realized that he _was_ doing it, and
that it was not good enough. He was stronger than Garland. He had the
back, and the legs, and the arms and the lungs of him, man though he
was. With the knowledge he snarled like a young wolf, and suddenly
strength swelled in him like the bore of a tide. He ran Garland back
half a dozen paces, and wrenched and twisted him. Getting his right
hand free he smashed him again under the ribs, and as Garland, gasping,
clinched, he locked his long arms around him, and with his shoulder
against the stomach, his legs propped and braced, and every muscle from
jaw to heel tautening, he squeezed him like a young python.
Garland tried to hold the walls of his body against the grip, and
failed. Angus heard him pant, and felt the tremors of the man's frame as
the strength oozed out of him. Garland's grip weakened and loosened, and
he tried for Angus' throat and failed, for the boy's chin was tucked
home on his breast-bone, and he beat him over the back and head wildly
with his fists and caught at his arms; and then his head and body began
to go backward.
Angus heard Alice Page's voice as from a great distance, for that locked
grip of his was like the blind one of a bulldog.
"Angus! Angus! let him go!"
And he plucked Garland from his footing easily, for the latter was now
little more than dead weight, and threw him on his back into the running
ditch. He stood above him, his chest heaving, like a young wolf above
his first kill.
Garland splashed into the chilly water, and drew himself out of it
gasping and cursing with returning breath. Angus tapped him on the mouth
with the toe of his moccasin.
"That is no talk for a woman to hear," he said. "Get out, or I'll throw
you back in the ditch."
Garland got to his feet unsteadily, and went to his horse.
"I'll fix you for this," he said as he got into the saddle.
"You are a bluff," Angus told him, "and you know it as well as I do. Get
out!"
When horse and rider were indistinct, Angus turned to Alice Page.
"You saw him--kiss me, Angus?" she said.
"Yes," he admitted, "but I didn't mean to. I had words with him
to-night, and I was waiting till you would go past, but you stopped
right in front of me."
"I'm very glad you were there. I don't want you to think I am the sort
of girl who is kissed by moonlight."
"I'd never think that," Angus said. "I think you are the finest girl in
the world."
She stared at him in amazement, as much at his tone as at the words.
"Why, Angus!" she exclaimed.
"I do," he asseverated, "the very finest! I've wanted to tell you so,
but I hadn't the nerve. I--I think an awful lot of you."
So there it was at last, blurted out with boyish clumsiness.
"Good heavens!" cried Alice Page. "I never--why, Angus, my dear boy--"
She laughed and checked herself, and the laugh turned into a little
hysterical sob, and without any further warning she began to cry.
Utterly dismayed Angus stood helpless. And then, because it always
seemed to comfort Jean when in trouble, he put his arm around her. For a
moment Alice Page leaned against him, just as Jean did, but somehow the
sensation was quite different. Very hesitatingly and awkwardly, but
doing it as well and carefully as he knew how, he kissed her. Whereupon
Alice Page jumped as if he had bitten her.
"You, too!" she cried. "O Angus! Oh, good heavens, what a night! Let me
go, Angus!"
He let her go, feeling all palpitant and vibrant, for he had never
kissed any girl, save Jean, who naturally did not count, but glad that
at any rate he had stopped her crying. And Alice Page, who had a large
store of common sense, did the very best thing possible. Sitting down on
the bank of the ditch she made him sit beside her, and talked to him so
gently and frankly that after a while, though he still considered
himself to be in love, he felt resigned to its hopelessness, and in fact
rather proud of his broken heart and blighted life, as boys are apt to
be. Indeed, with his knowledge that he had squared the account with
Garland, he was almost happy.