At the end of a week Farwell told Keeler that he was going to ride over
to Talapus. He added unnecessarily that he wanted to see how his horse
was getting on. Whereat his assistant, who had very good ears, grinned
internally, though outwardly he kept a decorous face. He did not expect
his chief back till late.
But Farwell returned early, and spent a busy half hour in blowing up
everybody from Keeler down. On this occasion he had not seen Sheila at
all. She and Casey Dunne, so Mrs. McCrae informed him, were at the
latter's ranch. Mr. Dunne, it appeared, was buying some house
furnishings, and wanted Sheila's advice. Farwell took an abrupt
departure, declining a hospitable invitation. He barely looked at the
lame horse.
For another week he sulked in a poisonous temper. He was done with
Talapus. He thought that McCrae girl had some sense, but if she was
going traipsing all over the country with Dunne, why, that let him out.
Maybe she was going to marry Dunne. It looked like it. Anyway, it was
none of his business. But the end of it was that he went to Talapus
again.
This time he found Sheila alone. The elder McCraes were gone to
Coldstream in the buckboard. Young Alec was somewhere on the ditch.
Sheila, flanked by clothesbasket and workbasket, sat on the veranda
mending his shirts. The occupation was thoroughly unromantic, little
calculated to appeal to the imagination. Nevertheless, it appealed to
Farwell.
Largely because it is the perverse nature of man to believe that the
Fates have set him in the wrong groove, Farwell, like many others whose
lives have been spent in exclusively masculine surroundings, believed
his tastes to be domestic. Not that he had ever pushed this belief
beyond the theoretical stage; nor would he have exchanged places with
any of his confrères who had taken wives. But he railed inwardly at the
intense masculinity of his life, for the same reason that the sailorman
curses the sea and the plainsman the plains. Just as the tragedian is
certain in his inmost soul that his proper rôle is light comedy, while
the popular comedian is equally positive that he should be starring in
the legitimate; so Farwell, harsh, dominant, impatient, brutal on
occasion, a typical lone male of his species, knowing little of and
caring less for the softer side of life, cherished a firm belief that
his proper place was the exact centre of a family circle.
Although he had never seen a home that he cared beans about--including
the one of his childhood--the singing of "Home, Sweet Home" invariably
left him pensive for half an hour. Theoretically--heretofore always
strictly theoretically--he possessed a strong _dulce domum_ impulse.
And so the spectacle of Sheila mending her brother's shirts was one of
which he thoroughly approved. It gave him a feeling of intimacy, as
though he had been admitted to the performance of a domestic rite.
Sheila picked up a second shirt, inspected it critically, and frowned.
"Now, isn't that a wreck?" she observed. "Sandy's awfully hard on his
shirts." She nipped a thread recklessly between her teeth, shot the end
deftly through the needle's eye, and sighed. "Oh, well, I suppose I
must just do the best I can with the thing."
"Your brother is lucky," said Farwell. "My things get thrown away. No
one to look after them when they begin to go."
"That's very wasteful," she reproved him. "Why don't you send them
somewhere?"
"Where, for instance?"
"Oh, anywhere. I don't know. There must be women in every town who
would like to earn a little money."
"Well, I haven't time to hunt for them. If you know any one around here
who would undertake the job, I could give her quite a bit of work. So
could the others."
"You don't mean me, do you?" laughed Sheila. "Sandy gives me all I can
handle."
"Of course I never thought of such a thing," said Farwell seriously.
"Did it sound like that?"
"No, I am joking. I think you take things seriously, Mr. Farwell."
"I suppose so," he admitted. "Yes, I guess I do. I can't help it. I'm
no joker; no time for that. Jokers don't get anywhere. Never saw one
that did. It's the fellow who keeps thinking about his job and banging
away at it who gets there."
"The inference being that I won't get anywhere."
Farwell, puzzled momentarily, endeavoured to remember what he had said.
"I guess I made another break. I wasn't thinking of you. Women don't
have to get anywhere. Men do--that is, men who count. I've seen a lot
of fellows in my own profession--smart, clever chaps--but, instead of
buckling down to work, they were eternally running about having a good
time. And what did any of them ever amount to? Not that!" He snapped
his fingers contemptuously.
"But wasn't that the fault of the men themselves? I mean that, apart
from their liking for a good time, perhaps they hadn't the other
qualities to make them successful."
"Yes, they had," said Farwell positively. "Didn't I say they were
clever? It wasn't lack of that--it was their confounded fooling around.
Almost every man gets one chance to make good. If he's ready for it
when it comes, he's made. If he isn't--well, he isn't. That was the way
with these fellows. When they should have been digging into the
ground-work of their profession they weren't. And so, when good things
were given them, they fell down hard. They lost money for other people,
and that doesn't do. Now they're down and out--lucky to get a job with
a level and one rodman to boss. There's no sympathy coming to them. It
was their own fault."
He spoke positively, with finality, beating the heel of his clenched
fist against his knee to emphasize his words. Evidently he spoke out of
the faith that was in him. Not a line of his face suggested humour or
whimsicality. Not a twinkle of the eye relieved its hardness. He was
grave, dour, purposeful, matter-of-fact. He took himself, his life, and
the things of life with exceeding seriousness.
Sheila regarded him thoughtfully. Somehow she was reminded of her
father. There was the same gravity, marching hand in hand with tenacity
of purpose, fixity of ideas; the same grim scorn of the tonic wine of
jest and laughter. But in the elder man these were mellowed and
softened. In Farwell, in the strength of his prime, they were in full
tide, accentuated.
"Every man should have a good chance, and be ready for it," she
replied; "but some men never get it."
"Yes, they do; yes, they do," he asseverated. "They get it, all right.
Only some of them don't know it when it comes; and others are ashamed
to own up that they've missed it. We all get it, I tell you, sooner or
later."
"It may come too late to some."
"No, no, it comes in time if a man is wide awake. It's about the only
square deal creation gives him. And it's about all creation owes him.
It's right up to them then. If he's asleep, it's his own fault. I don't
say it doesn't happen more than once; but it does happen once."
Plainly he was in deep earnest. He had no tolerance of failure, no
excuse for it. According to his theory, every man at some time was
master of his fate.
"Have you had your chance?" she asked.
"Not the big chance that I want. I've done some good work, here and
there. But the big thing is coming to me. I feel it. And I'm in shape
to handle it, too. When I do that, I'll quit working for other people.
I'll work for myself. Yes, by George! they can come to me."
Sheila laughed at him. His absolute cocksureness was too ridiculous.
But in spite of herself she was impressed by the sincerity of his
belief in himself. And she realized that opportunity was apt to knock
at the door of a man who believed in his own capacity for success and
let others know it.
"I probably make you tired," said Farwell. "You asked me, and I told
you. I'm not worrying about _my_ future. Now, let's talk about yours.
You were away when I was here last week."
"Yes, I was over at Chakchak."
"That's Dunne's ranch. Your mother said you were helping him choose
some things from a mail-order catalogue."
"Furniture, linen, dishes, and a lot of other things." There was no
embarrassment in her tone.
"Oh!" said Farwell; and as he uttered the word it resembled a growl.
"Well, when is it to be?"
"When is what to be?"
"Why, the wedding, of course."
"What wedding?" She laid down her work and stared at him. Then she
laughed, though the colour surged to her cheeks. "Oh, I see. You think
I was choosing these things for Mr. Dunne's prospective bride?"
"Of course."
"Not a bit of course--unless Casey has deceived me shamefully. Can't a
man furnish his house better without having a wedding in view?"
"He can, but usually he doesn't. That's my experience."
"I wasn't aware that you were married."
"Married?" cried Farwell. "Me? I'm not. I'm glad of it. I have enough
to worry me now. I----" He came to an abrupt stop. "Oh, well, laugh
away," he added. "I'll tell you what I thought. I thought you were
going to marry Dunne."
Sheila's laughter closed suddenly. "You haven't the least right to
think that or say it," she said coldly. "It's strange if I can't help a
friend choose a few house furnishings without impertinent comment."
"Oh, come!" said Farwell. "I didn't mean to be impertinent, Miss
McCrae. I know I'm too outspoken. I'm always putting my foot in it."
"Very well," said Sheila. "I think you said you wanted to speak to me
of my future?"
"Yes. I spoke to your father about selling the ranch. He refused
point-blank. What can we do about it?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "'We?' If he told you he won't sell, he
won't. I didn't know you had spoken to him."
"Couldn't you persuade him?"
"I wouldn't try. I don't want Talapus sold. What right have you to hold
us up? That's what it amounts to."
"There's a woman for you!" cried Farwell to the world at large. "Hold
you up? Great Scott, that's just what I'm not doing! I offered him the
value he put on the ranch himself, not a holdup price. I mean I offered
to get it for him. I want you to put it up to him, and get your mother
to help you. You ought to have some say in this. He ought to think of
you a little."
"It's his ranch," Sheila returned loyally. "He knows what he's doing.
When a man has made up his mind, women shouldn't make things harder for
him by whining."
"That's right enough, too," said Farwell, whose masculinity was in
thorough accord with the last sentiment. "But he is just the same as
throwing away a hundred thousand dollars. I don't want to see it. I
know what he's up against. I want him to get out while he can break
even."
"What about the rest of the ranchers?"
"I don't care a hang for the rest of the ranchers."
"And why do you make a distinction in our favour?"
Farwell was not prepared with an answer, even to himself. Her bluntness
was disconcerting. "I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't matter. The
main thing is to make your father get out of the way of the tree, for
it's going to fall right where he's standing. He can't dodge once it
starts. And what hits him hits you."
"Then I won't dodge, either," she declared bravely. "He's right not to
sell. I wouldn't if I were in his place."
Farwell slid back in his chair and bit his cigar savagely.
"I never saw such a family!" he exclaimed. "You've got nerve a-plenty,
but mighty poor judgment. Get it clear now, what's going to happen.
You'll have enough water for domestic purposes and stock, but none for
the ranch. Then it won't be worth a dollar an acre. Same way with the
rest. And now let me tell you another thing: Just as soon as the water
is turned off, every rancher will fall all over himself to sell. That's
what your father doesn't believe. He'll see when it's too late. It's
rank folly."
"It's our own folly, Mr. Farwell!"
"You mean it's none of my business. Well, I make it my business. I butt
in on this. I'll put it right up to him. I'll shove the money right
under his nose. If he turns it down I'm done. I'll quit. And if you
don't do your best to make him take it, you won't be dealing fairly
with him, your mother, or yourself."
Sheila stared at him, quite unused to such a tone. He, an utter
stranger, was arrogating to himself the position of friend to the
family, presuming to criticise her father's wisdom, to tell her what
she should do and should not do. But withal she was impressed by his
earnestness. His advice, she could not believe, was entirely
disinterested. At the same time, inconsistently, she was angry.
"Well," she said. "I must say you _are_ 'butting in.' You--you--oh, you
don't lack nerve, Mr. Farwell!"
"Don't worry about my nerve," he retorted grimly. "You'll have other
troubles. For Heaven's sake have some sense. Will you do as I tell you,
or won't you?" He leaned forward, tapping the arm of her chair with
tense fingers.
"No," she answered positively, "I won't."
Young McCrae came around the corner of the house. He was hatless,
coatless, muddy from his work in the ditches. A pair of faded blue
overalls were belted to his lean middle by a buckskin thong, and his
feet were incased in wet moccasins. He came noiselessly but swiftly,
not of purpose, but from habit, with a soft, springy step; and he was
level with them before they were aware of him. He came to an abrupt
halt, his eyes on Farwell, every muscle tensing. For an instant he
resembled a young tiger about to spring.
"Oh, Sandy," cried his sister, "what a mess! For goodness sake don't
come up here with those muddy moccasins."
"Just as you say," drawled young McCrae. "I thought you might want me.
Anything I can do for you, sis? Want anything carried in--or _thrown
out?_" He accented the last words.
Farwell, who had read danger signals in men's eyes before, saw the
flare of enmity in the young man's, and raised his shoulders in a faint
shrug. He smiled to himself in amusement.
"No, there's nothing, thanks," said Sheila, quite unconscious of the
hidden meaning of his words. "Better get cleaned up for supper."
McCrae swung on silently, with his rapid, noiseless step. Farwell
turned to Sheila.
"Do this for me, Miss McCrae," he pleaded. "Give me a fair chance with
your father if you won't help me with him. Don't tell your brother of
what I'm trying to do. If you do that, his influence will be the other
way."
"If my father has made up his mind, none of us can change it," said
Sheila. "But I'll give you a fair field. I won't tell Sandy."
Farwell, in spite of previous virtuous resolutions, remained for
supper. The elder McCraes had not returned. The young people had the
meal to themselves; and Sheila and Farwell had the conversation to
themselves, for Sandy paid strict and confined attention to his food,
and did not utter half a dozen words. Immediately afterward he
vanished; but, when Farwell went to the stable for his horse, he found
the young man saddling a rangy, speedy-looking black.
"Guess I'll ride with you a piece," he announced.
"All right," Farwell replied carelessly. He did not desire company; but
if it was forced on him he could not help it.
The light was failing as they rode from the ranch house. The green
fields lay sombre in the creeping dusk. Nighthawks in search of food
darted in erratic flight, uttering their peculiar booming notes.
Running water murmured coolly in the ditch that flanked the road.
Cattle, full of repletion, stood in contented lethargy by the watering
place, ruminating, switching listlessly at the evening flies which
scarcely annoyed them. The vivid opalescent lights of the western sky
grew fainter, faded. Simultaneously the zenith shaded from turquoise to
sapphire. In the northeast, low over the plains, gleaming silver
against the dark velvet background of the heavens, lay the first star.
But Farwell paid no attention to these things. Instead, he was thinking
of Sheila McCrae--reconstructing her pose as she bade him good-bye, the
direct, level gaze of her dark eyes, the contour of her face, the
cloudy masses of her brown hair. He was unconsciously engaged in the
perilous, artistic work of drawing for his sole and exclusive use a
mental "portrait of a lady"; and, after the manner of man attracted by
woman, he idealized the picture of his creation. By virtue of this
absorbing occupation, he quite forgot the presence of the brother of
the woman. But a mile beyond the ranch young McCrae pulled up.
"I turn off here," he said.
"That so? Good night," said Farwell.
"There's something I came to tell you," McCrae pursued. "I'm not making
any grand-stand play about it; but you'd better be a lot more careful
when you're talking to my sister. Understand?"
"No, I don't," said Farwell. "I never said anything to Miss McCrae that
her father and mother mightn't hear."
"Oh, _that!_" said young Sandy, and spat in disgust. "No, I guess you
didn't--and you hadn't better. But you told her to do something--fairly
ordered her. I heard you, and I heard her tell you she wouldn't.
Perhaps you'll tell me what it was?"
"Perhaps I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to, mostly," said Farwell impatiently. "Also
because it's none of your business. Your sister and I understand each
other. Our conversation didn't concern you--directly, anyway."
"I'll let it go at that on your say-so," Sandy returned, with
surprising calmness. "I'm not crowding trouble with you, but get this
clear: You know why you're hanging around the ranch, and I don't. All
the same, if you are up to any monkey business, you'll settle it with
me."
Farwell's temper, never reliable, rose at once.
"Quite a Wild West kid, aren't you?" he observed, with sarcasm. "You
make me tired. It's a good thing for you your people are decent." He
crowded his horse close to the other. "Now, look here, young fellow, I
won't stand for any fool boy's talk. You're old enough to know better.
Cut it out with me after this, do you hear?"
"Where are you coming with that cayuse?" demanded young McCrae, and
suddenly raked a rowelled heel behind the animal's shoulder.
Ensued five strenuous minutes for Farwell, wherein he sought to soothe
his mount's wounded feelings. When at last the quadruped condescended
to allow his four hoofs to remain on the ground simultaneously for more
than a fraction of a second, young McCrae was gone; and Farwell,
somewhat shaken, and profane with what breath was left him, had nothing
for it but to resume his homeward way.