Sheila McCrae and Beaver Boy and Casey Dunne and Shiner drifted through
the golden afternoon just ahead of a dust cloud of their own making.
Sheila rode astride, in the manner of a country where side saddles are
almost unknown. Her stiff-brimmed pony hat was pushed back because of
the heat. Sometimes she rode with it in her hand, careless of the dust
which powdered her masses of dark, neatly coiled hair. The action
revealed her keen, cleanly cut features, so strongly resembling her
brother's. But the resemblance was softened by femininity; for young
McCrae's visage was masculine and hawklike, and under excitement
fierce, even predatory; while his sister's, apart from sex, was more
refined, more thoughtful, with a grave sweetness underlying the
firmness.
The two were unusually silent as the horses kicked off mile after mile.
Sheila roused herself first, and looked at her companion. Because his
hat was pulled low she could see but little of his face save the mouth
and chin; but the former was compressed and the latter thrust out at a
decidedly aggressive angle.
"A penny for them, Casey!"
"Take 'em free," he returned. "I was wondering whether we had any
chance to beat this game, and I can't see it. The bank roll against us
is too big. It will get our little pile in the end, just as sure as
fate."
"Well, you can't help that, can you?" she commented sharply. "What do
you want to do--lie down and quit? You wouldn't do that. Brace up!"
"That's the talk," he acknowledged. "That's what I need now and then.
Perhaps I get a pessimistic view when I'm trying for an impartial one."
"What do you think of this Farwell person?"
"Farwell represents the railway in more ways than one. He takes what he
wants--if he's strong enough. He's some bully--and so is the railway.
But he isn't a bluff--and neither is the railway. He's had
experience--plenty of it--and, on a guess, I should say that he is sent
down here to take care of any trouble that may start. He is hostile
already. You can see it."
"Yes." And after a moment's silence she asked: "What is going to start,
Casey?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Of course you know. Dad won't say a word, and Sandy makes wise remarks
about girls who try to butt into men's affairs. I'm left out, and it's
the first time _that_ has ever happened to me. Nice, isn't it?"
"No, it's confoundedly annoying. All the same, Sheila, they're quite
right."
"But why? I'm no silly kid--no chattering, gossipy young lady. I have
as much interest in the ranch as Sandy. I know as much about it and the
work of it as he does, and I do my share of it. Even Mr. Dunne has
occasionally honoured me by asking for my opinion. And now I'm left out
like a child. It isn't fair."
"From that angle it looks rather raw," he acknowledged. "Still, it's
better that you shouldn't know. In that case you can't be forced to
give evidence against your own people and your friends."
She glanced at him, a little startled. "What rot, Casey!"
"Not a bit of it. Anything we can do must be against the law. Suspicion
will be directed at us from the outset. You must see that."
"Yes, I see it," she assented thoughtfully. "Very well, I'll be good to
the extent of not asking questions. But you can't expect me to be deaf
and blind."
"Of course not," he assented and began to talk of the ranch work. She
listened, making occasional shrewd comments, offering suggestions which
showed that she understood such matters thoroughly.
"Why shouldn't we ride around by Chakchak?" she asked. "I haven't seen
it for a month, and there's plenty of day left. And then I can go on to
Talapus by myself."
"Trying to shake me?"
"No. But why should you trail along with me? I've ridden all over the
country alone. I do it every day."
"Hush, Sheila! Let me tell you a secret. I ride with you because I like
to."
"Oh, blarney! That's what it is to have a mick ancestry. I suppose I'll
have to own up that if I didn't like you to ride with me I wouldn't let
you do it."
Casey grinned. Their mutual liking was genuine and so far
unsentimental. They were of the same breed--the breed of the
pioneer--and their hearts held the same seldom-voiced but deeply rooted
love for the same things; the great, sun-washed spaces winnowed by the
clean winds, the rosy dawns, violet dusks and nights when the earth
scents hung heavy, almost palpable, clinging to the nostrils, the
living things of fur and feather bright of eye and wary of habit. But
most of all unconsciously they loved and cherished the feeling of room,
of space in which to live and breathe and turn freely.
"The present time being inopportune, and Shiner's temper too uncertain
for a further avowal of my sentiments," he said, "I suggest that we
turn off here and hit a few high spots for Chakchak. Stir up that
slothful cayuse of yours. Maybe there's a lope left in him somewhere.
See if you can comb it out with a quirt."
"I like your nerve!" she exclaimed. "Beaver Boy can run the heart out
of that old buzzard-head of yours and come in dry-haired. Come on, or
take my dust!"
The hoofbeats drummed dull thunder from the brown earth, and the dust
cloud behind drew out and lengthened with the speed of their going.
Side by side they swept through the silent land, breasting small rises,
swooping down slopes, breathing their horses whenever they came to
heavier ascents.
Sometimes as they rode knee touched knee. It gave Casey Dunne a strange
but comfortable feeling of comradeship. He looked at the woman beside
him, appreciating her firm, easy seat in the stock saddle, her
management of Beaver Boy, now eager to prove his prowess against the
buckskin's. He noted the rich colour lying beneath the tan of the
smooth cheeks, the rounded brown throat, the poise of the lithe, pliant
body and the watchful tension of the strong arms and shoulders as the
big bay fought hard for his head and a brief freedom to use his full
strength and speed in one mad heartbreaking burst. But most of all he
noted and was attracted by the level, direct, fearless stare beneath
the slightly drawn brows into the distances.
A brown girl in a brown land! It came to Casey Dunne, who was
imaginative within the strict seclusion of his inner self, that she
typified their land, the West, in youth, in fearlessness, in
potentialities yet lying fallow, unawakened, in fruitfulness to come.
What of the vagrant touch of the woman, the gold of the day, the clean,
dry air and the glory of motion, the chord of romance within him
vibrated and began to sing.
It invested her momentarily with a new quality, a new personality. She
was no longer the Sheila McCrae he had known so well. She was the
Spirit of the Land, a part of it--she was Sheila of the West; and her
heritage was plain and mountain, gleaming lake and rushing river, its
miles numbered by thousands, its acres by millions--a land for a new
nation.
How many Sheilas, he wondered--young, strong, clean of blood, straight
of limb--had ridden since the beginning of time into the new lands, and
borne their part in peopling them. Fifty years before, her prototypes
had ridden beside the line of crawling, creaking prairie schooners
across the great plains toward the setting sun; little more than fifty
years before that they had ridden down through the notches of the blue
Alleghenies into the promised land of Kain-tuck-ee, the Dark and Bloody
Ground, beside buckskin-clad, deckard-armed frontiersmen. Perhaps,
centuries before that, her ancestresses had ridden with burly,
skin-clad warriors out of the great forests of northern Europe down to
the pleasant weaker south. But surely she was the peer of any of
them--this woman riding knee to knee with him, the sloping sun in her
clear, brown eyes, and the warm, sweet winds kissing her cheeks!
And so Casey Dunne dreamed as he rode--dreamed as he had not dreamed
waking since the days when, a little boy, he had lain on warm sands
beside a blue inland sea on summer's afternoons and watched the patched
sails of the stone hookers, and the wheeling, gray lake gulls, and
heard the water hiss and ripple to the long, white beaches. And, as he
dreamed, a part of boyhood's joy in mere life awoke in him again.
Chakchak Ranch came into view. Its cultivated area smaller than that of
Talapus, it was nevertheless as scrupulously cared for. The one might
have served as model for the other. Here, also, were the straight lines
of the ditches, the squares of grain fields beginning to show green,
the young orchards, the sleek, contented stock, the corrals, and
outbuildings.
But, as became the residence of a bachelor, the ranch-house itself was
less pretentious. It was a small bungalow, with wide verandas which
increased its apparent size. There Casey lived with Tom McHale, his
right-hand man and foreman. The hired men, varying in number
constantly, occupied other quarters.
Casey would have helped Sheila to alight, but she swung down,
stretching her limbs frankly after the hard ride.
"That's _going_," she said. "Beaver Boy was a brute to hold; he wanted
to race Shiner. He nearly got away from me once. My wrists are actually
lame." She drew off her long buckskin gauntlets, flexing her wrists
cautiously, straightening her fingers, prolonging the luxury of
relaxing the cramped sinews.
"Let us now eat, drink, and be merry," said Casey, "for
to-morrow--well, never mind that. But what would you like? Coffee, tea,
claret lemonade? Tell me what you want."
"Too hot for tea. I'd like a dust eraser--a cold drink about a yard
long."
"Hey, you, Feng!" Casey cried, to a white-aproned, grinning Chinaman,
"you catch two ice drink quick--_hiyu_ ice, you savvy! Catch claret
wine, catch cracker, catch cake. Missy _hiyu_ dry, _hiyu_ hungry. Get a
hustle on you, now!"
Feng, understanding perfectly the curious mixture of pidgin and
Chinook, vanished soft-footed. They entered the living room of the
bungalow.
"Stretch out and be comfy while he's rustling it," said Casey,
indicating a couch. He himself fell into a huge wicker chair, flung his
hat carelessly at the table, and reached for a cigar box.
Sheila dropped on the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms
above her head, her hands clasped, every muscle of her relaxing. The
comparative coolness, the quiet, the soft cushions were good after a
day in the saddle. Down there on the Coldstream the strict proprieties
did not trouble them. If any one had suggested to Sheila McCrae that
she was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, she
would have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have been
unsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirability
of a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all,
the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advanced
civilization.
But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening.
"You're awfully untidy, Casey!" she said.
Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of the
room was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, and
tobacco. Odd tools--a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl--mingled
with them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinder
swung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can.
In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set of
antlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pair
of muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.
"Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?" she demanded.
"Why, you see," he explained, "they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry.
I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact." He
rose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through the
open door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila was
not placated.
"That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and now
it's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you know
that that makes work?"
"For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for--only he doesn't do it."
But she shook her head, brushing the excuse aside as trifling,
unsatisfactory. "It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey."
"Poor thing!"
"When you get one, I mean."
"Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same to
you, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the way
it is."
"Muss it up! I like that!" she responded. "Why, of all the old _junk_!
Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust." She
extended her fingers in proof. "That dirty rag! And a gun and
cartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn't
leave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving them
loaded, almost."
"That's Tom's gun. Sail into him."
"You shouldn't allow it."
"Allow it! I never touch another man's gun. Nobody comes in here but
Feng, and he doesn't matter. What's a Chink more or less?"
"But it's the _principle_. And what's this--down here? Why, Casey,
it's--it's a _hen!_"
It was a hen. In a space between two piles of newspapers, flanked by a
cigar box, squatted a white fowl, very intent upon her own affairs.
"Shoo!" said Sheila. But the bird merely cocked a bright eye at her,
and uttered a little warning, throaty sound. Casey laughed.
"That's Fluffy, and she's a lady friend of mine. Poor old Fluff, poor
old girl! Don't scare her, Sheila. Can't you see she's busy?"
"Casey Dunne, do you mean to tell me that you allow a hen to lay in
your sitting room, on your _table?_"
"Of course--when she's a nice little chicken like Fluffy. Why not? She
doesn't do any harm."
"I never heard of such a thing. The place for hens is in the chicken
run. Casey, you're simply _awful!_ Your wife--oh, heavens, what a life
she'll have!"
"Nobody could help liking Fluff," he replied. "She's really good
company. I wish I could talk her talk. She has a fine line of
conversation if I could only savvy it."
Sheila sat down with a hopeless gesture. Fond of all living things as
she was, she could not understand the tolerance that allowed a hen the
run of the house. To her a hen was a hen, nothing more. She could name
and pet a horse or a dog or any quadruped. But a hen! She could not
understand.
But Feng entered with the two "ice drink"--a tray containing long
glasses, tinkling ice, claret, lemons, cake, and biscuits. He set the
tray upon the table. As he did so his hand came in contact with Fluffy.
With a rasping cry of indignation she pecked him.
"Hyah!" cried Feng, startled, and reached for her impulsively.
Fluffy bounded from her nest, and fled shrieking for the door. Her
fluttering wings brushed the contents of the tray. The long glasses and
bottle capsized, rolled to the floor, and smashed, the crash of glass
mingling with her clamour.
"What foh?" yelled Feng, in a fury. "Jim Kli, dam chickum spoiley icey
dlink. _Hiyu_ no good--all same son of a gun! S'pose me catch him, ling
him neck!" And he darted after the hen, on vengeance bent.
But Casey caught him by the collar. "Never mind, Feng. That chicken all
same my _tillikum_, you savvy. _Hiyu_ good chicken; lay _hiyu_ egg. You
catch more ice drink!"
And when the angry Celestial had gone he lay back in his chair, and
laughed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly,
then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression,
in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gasped
for breath.
"Oh--oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such a
laugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too.
It's coming to her. That Chink--how mad he was! But what a mess! And
claret stains so. Your rug----"
She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could,
and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the veranda
steps.
This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with the
flat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a but
partially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazel
eyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of his
nourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.
"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there was
hostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there Chink? He's cussin'
scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"
"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff.
Result, one bottle of claret and two glasses gone to glory."
"Also one Chink on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in the
insurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She's
surely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than if
the Oriental was a coon. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."
"He always does when he gets a grouch. I wish I could get a white man."
"A white man that _can_ cook hates to stay sober long enough to build a
bannock," said McHale. "Chink grub has one flavour, but it comes
reg'lar, there's that about it."
Feng entered with fresh supplies, and they drank luxuriously, tinkling
the ice in the glasses, prolonging the satisfaction of thirst. McHale
went about his business. Sheila picked up her hat and gloves, declaring
that she must be going. Casey insisted on accompanying her. He shifted
his saddle to Dolly, a pet little gray mare; not because Shiner was
tired, but because there was a hard ride in store for him on the
morrow.
They rode into Talapus in time for supper. Afterward Casey and McCrae
discussed the coming of Farwell, and its significance.
"I pumped Corney Quilty a little," said Casey. "This Farwell is a
slap-up man, and they'd never waste him on this little job without some
good reason. I'm told he's bad medicine. Unpleasant devil, he seems. I
wonder if they've got wise at all? If they have it will be mighty
interesting for us."
"I'll chance it," said McCrae. "Anyway, we'll all be in it."
"That's a comforting thought," said Dunne. As he rode home that night
he went over the ranchers one by one; and he was quite sure that each
was trustworthy.