THE MAN IN THE PLAID
There was no mistaking the assiduity with which Major King waited upon
Nola Chadron that night at the ball, any more than there was a chance
for doubt of that lively little lady's identity. He sought her at the
first, and hung by her side through many dances, and promenaded her in
the garden walks where Japanese lanterns glimmered dimly in the soft
September night, with all the close attention of a farrier cooling a
valuable horse.
Perhaps it was punishment--or meant to be--for the insubordination of
Frances Landcraft in speaking to the outlawed Alan Macdonald on last
beef day. If so, it was systematically and faithfully administered.
Nola was dressed like a cowgirl. Not that there were any cowgirls in
that part of the country, or anywhere else, who dressed that way,
except at the Pioneer Week celebration at Cheyenne, and in the
romantic dramas of the West. But she was so attired, perhaps for the
advantage the short skirt gave her handsome ankles--and something in
silk stockings which approached them in tapering grace.
She was improving her hour, whether out of exuberant mischief or in
deadly earnest the ladies from the post were puzzled to understand,
and if headway toward the already pledged heart of Major King was any
indication of it, her star was indeed ascendant.
Frances Landcraft appeared at the ball as an Arabian lady, meaning in
her own interpretation of the masking to stand as a representation of
the "Thou," who is endearingly and importantly capitalized in the
verses of the ancient singer made famous by Irish-English Fitzgerald.
Her disguise was sufficient, only that her hair was so richly
assertive. There was not any like it in the cattle country; very
little like it anywhere. It was a telltale, precious possession, and
Major King never could have made good a plea of hidden identity
against it in this world.
Frances had consolation enough for his alienation and absence from her
side if numbers could compensate for the withdrawal of the fealty of
one. She distributed her favors with such judicial fairness that the
tongue of gossip could not find a breach. At least until the tall
Scotsman appeared, with his defiant red hair and a feather in his
bonnet, his plaid fastened across his shoulder with a golden clasp.
Nobody knew when he arrived, or whence. He spoke to none as he walked
in grave stateliness among the merry groups, acknowledging bold
challenges and gay banterings only with a bow. The ladies from the
post had their guesses as to who he might be, and laid cunning little
traps to provoke him into betrayal through his voice. As cunningly he
evaded
them, with unsmiling courtesy, his steady gray eyes only seeming to
laugh at them behind his green mask.
Frances had finished a dance with a Robin Hood--the slender one in
billiard-cloth green--there being no fewer than four of them,
variously rounded, diversely clad, when the Scot approached her where
she stood with her gallant near the musicians' brake of palms.
A flask of wine, a book of verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness--
said the tall Highlandman, bending over her shoulder, his words low in
her ear. "Only I could be happy without the wine," he added, as she
faced him in quick surprise.
"Your penetration deserves a reward--you are the first to guess it,"
said she.
"Three dances, no less," said he, like a usurer demanding his toll.
He offered his arm, and straightway bore her off from the astonished
Robin Hood, who stood staring after them, believing, perhaps, that he
was the victim of some prearranged plan.
The spirit of his free ancestors seemed to be in the lithe, tall
Highlander's feet. There was no dancer equal to him in that room. A
thistle on the wind was not lighter, nor a wheeling swallow more
graceful in its flight.
Many others stopped their dancing to watch that pair; whisperings ran
round like electrical conjectures. Nola steered Major King near the
whirling couple, and even tried to maneuver a collision, which
failed.
"Who is that dancing with Frances Landcraft?" she breathed in the
major's ear.
"I didn't know it was Miss Landcraft," he replied, although he knew it
very well, and resolved to find out who the Scotsman was, speedily and
completely.
"My enchanted hour will soon pass," said the Scot, when that dance was
done, "and I have been looking the world over for you."
"Dancing all the way?" she asked him lightly.
"Far from it," he answered, his voice still muffled and low.
They were standing withdrawn a little from the press in the room after
their second dance, when Major King came by. The major was a cavalier
in drooping hat, with white satin cape, and sword by his side, and
well enough known to all his friends in spite of the little spat of
mustache and beard. As the major passed he jostled the Scot with his
shoulder with a rudeness openly intentional.
The major turned, and spoke an apology. Frances felt the Highlander's
muscles swell suddenly where her hand lay on his arm, but whatever had
sprung into his mind he repressed, and acknowledged the major's
apology with a lofty nod.
The music for another dance was beginning, and couples were whirling
out upon the floor.
"I don't care to dance again just now, delightfully as you carry a
clumsy one like me through--"
"A self-disparagement, even, can't stand unchallenged," he interrupted.
"Mr. Macdonald," she whispered, "your wig is awry."
They were near the door opening to the illumined garden, with its late
roses, now at their best, and hydrangea clumps plumed in foggy bloom.
They stepped out of the swirl of the dance like particles thrown from
a wheel, not missed that moment even by those interested in keeping
them in sight.
"You knew me!" said he, triumphantly glad, as they entered the
garden's comparative gloom.
"At the first word," said she.
"I came here in the hope that you would know me, and you alone--I came
with my heart full of that hope, and you knew me at the first word!"
There was not so much marvel as satisfaction, even pride for her
penetration, in it.
"Somebody else may have recognized you, too--that man who brushed
against you--"
"He's one of your officers."
"I know--Major King. Do you know him?"
"No, and he doesn't know me. He can have no interest in me at all."
"Very well; set your beautiful red wig straight and then tell me why
you wanted to come here among your enemies. It seems to me a hardy
challenge, a most unnecessary risk."
"No risk is unnecessary that brings me to you," he said, his voice
trembling in earnestness. "I dared to come because I hoped to meet you
on equal ground."
"You're a bold man--in more ways than one." She shook her head as in
rebuke of his temerity.
"But you don't believe I'm a thief," said he, conclusively.
"No; I have made public denial of it." She laughed lightly, but a
little nervously, an uneasiness over her that she could not define.
"An angel has risen to plead for Alan Macdonald, then!"
"Why should you need anybody to plead for you if there's no truth in
their charges? What is a man like you doing in this wild place,
wasting his life in a land where he isn't wanted?"
They had turned into a path that branched beyond the lanterns. The
white gravel from the river bars with which it was paved glimmered
among the shadowy shrubs. Macdonald unclasped his plaid from his
shoulders and transferred it to hers. She drew it round her, wrapping
her arms in it like a squaw, for the wind was coming chill from the
mountains now.
"It is soon said," he answered, quite willingly. "I am not hiding
under any other man's name--the one they call me by here is my own. I
was a 'son of a family,' as they say in Mexico, and looked for
distinction, if not glory, in the diplomatic service. Four years I
grubbed, an under secretary in the legation at Mexico City, then
served three more as consul at Valparaiso. An engineer who helped put
the railroad through this country told me about it down there when the
rust of my inactive life was beginning to canker my body and brain. I
threw up my chance for diplomatic distinction and came off up here
looking for life and adventure, and maybe a copper mine. I didn't find
the mine, but I've had some fun with the other two. Sometimes I'd like
to lose the adventure part of it now--it gets tiresome to be hunted,
after a while."
"What else?" she asked, after a little, seeing that he walked slowly,
his head up, his eyes far away on the purple distances of the night,
as if he read a dream.
"I settled in this valley quite innocently, as others have done,
before and after me, not knowing conditions. You've heard it said that
I'm a rustler--"
"King of the rustlers," she corrected.
"Yes, even that. But I am not a rustler. Everybody up here is a
rustler, Miss Landcraft, who doesn't belong to, or work for, the
Drovers' Association. They can't oust us by merely charging us with
homesteading government land, for that hasn't been made a statutory
crime yet. They have to make some sort of a charge against us to give
the color of justification to the crimes they practice on us, and
rustler is the worst one in the cattlemen's dictionary. It stands
ahead of murder and arson in this country. I'm not saying there are no
rustlers around the edges of these big ranches, for there are some.
But if there are any among the settlers up our way we don't know
it--and I think we'd pretty soon find out."
They turned and walked back toward the house.
"I don't see why you should trouble about it; this plainly isn't your
place," she said.
"First, I refused to be driven out by Chadron and the rest because the
thing got on my mettle. I knew that I was right, and that they were
simply stealing the public domain. Then, as I hung on, it became
apparent that there was a man's work cut out for somebody up here.
I've taken the ready-made job."
"Tell me about it."
"There's a monstrous injustice being practiced, systematically and
cruelly, against thousands of homeless people who come to this country
in innocent hope every year. They come here believing it's the great
big open-handed West they've heard so much about, carrying everything
with them that they own. They cut the strings that hold them to the
things they know when they face this way, and when they try to settle
on the land that is their inheritance, this copper-bottomed
combination of stockmen drives them out. If they don't go, they shoot
them. You've heard of it."
"Not just that way," said she, thoughtfully.
"No, they never shoot anybody but a rustler, the way the world hears
of it," said he, in resentment. "But they'll hear another story on the
outside one of these days. I'm in this fight up to the eyes to break
the back of this infernal combination that's choking this state to
death. It's the first time in my life that I ever laid my hand to
anything for anybody but myself, and I'm going to see it through to
daylight."
"But there must be millions behind the cattlemen, Mr. Macdonald."
"There are. It seems just about hopeless that a handful of ragged
homesteaders ever can make a stand against them. But they're usurping
the public domain, and they'll overreach themselves one of these days.
Chadron has title to this homestead, but that's every inch of land
that he's got a legal right over. In spite of that, he lays the claim
of ownership to the land fifteen miles north of here, where I've
nested. He's been telling me for more than two years that I must clear
out."
"You could give it up, and go back to your work among men, where it
would count," she said.
"There are things here that count. I couldn't put a state on the
map--an industrial and progressive one, I mean--back home in
Washington, or sitting with my feet on the desk in some sleepy
consulate. And I'm going to put this state on the map where it
belongs. That's the job that's cut out for me here, Miss Landcraft."
He said it without boast, but with such a stubborn note of determination
that she felt something lift within her, raising her to the plane of
his aspirations. She knew that Alan Macdonald was right about it,
although the thing that he would do was still dim in her perception.
"Even then, I don't see what a ranch away off up here from anywhere
ever will be worth to you, especially when the post is abandoned. You
know the department is going to give it up?"
"And then you--" he began in consternation, checking himself to add,
slowly, "no, I didn't know that."
"Perhaps in a year."
"It can't make much difference in the value of land up this valley,
though," he mused. "When the railroad comes on through--and that will
be as soon as we break the strangle hold of Chadron and men like
him--this country will develop overnight. There's petroleum under the
land up where I am, lying shallow, too. That will be worth something
then."
The music of an old-style dance was being played. Now the piping
cowboy voice of some range cavalier rose, calling the figures. The two
in the garden path turned with one accord and faced away from the
bright windows again.
"They'll be unmasking at midnight?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'm afraid I can't go in again, then. The hour of my enchantment is
nearly at its end."
"You shouldn't have come," she chided, yet not in severity, rather in
subdued admiration for his reckless bravery. "Suppose they--"
"Mac! O Mac!" called a cautious, low voice from a hydrangea bush close
at hand.
"Who's there?" demanded Macdonald, springing forward.
"They're onto you, Mac," answered the voice from the shrub, "they're
goin' to do you hurt. They're lookin' for you now!"
There was a little rustling in the leaves as the unseen friend moved
away. The voice was the voice of Banjo Gibson, but not even the shadow
of the messenger had been seen.
"You should have gone before--hurry!" she whispered in alarm.
"Never mind. It was a risk, and I took it, and I'd take it again
tomorrow. It gave me these minutes with you, it was worth--"
"You must go! Where's your horse?"
"Down by the river in the willows. I can get to him, all right."
"They may come any minute, they--"
"No, they're dancing yet. I expected they'd find me out; they know me
too well. I'll get a start of them, before they even know I'm gone."
"They may be waiting farther on--why don't you go--go! There--listen!
"They're saddling," he whispered, as low sounds of haste came from the
barnyard corral.
"Go--quick!" she urged, flinging his plaid across his arm.
"I'm going--in one moment more. Miss Landcraft, I'll ride away from
you tonight perhaps never to see you again, and if I speak impetuously
before I leave you, forgive me before you hear the words--they'll not
hurt you--I don't believe they'll shame you."
"Don't say anything more, Mr. Macdonald--even this delay may cost your
life!"
"They'll kill me if they can; they've tried it more than once. I never
know when I ride away whether I'll ever return. It isn't a new
experience, just a little graver than usual--only that. I came here
tonight because I--I came to--in the hope--" he stammered, putting out
his hands as if supplicating her to understand, his plaid falling to
the ground.
"Go!" she whispered, her hand on his arm in appeal, standing near him,
dangerously near.
"I've got a right to love you--I've got a right!" he said, the torrent
of his passion leaping all curbing obstacles of delicacy, confusion,
fear. He flung the words from him in wild vehemence, as if they eased
a pang.
"No--no, you have no right! you--"
"I'll leave you in a minute, Frances, without the expectation of ever
seeing you again--only with the hope. It's mine to love you, mine to
have you if I come through this night. If you're pledged to another
man it can't be because you love him, and I'll tear the right away
from him--if I come through this night!"
He spoke rapidly, bending so near that his breath moved the hair on
her temple. She stood with arms half lifted, her hands clenched, her
breath laboring in her bosom. She did not know that love--she had not
known that love--could spring up that way, and rage like a flame
before a wind.
"If you're pledged to another man, then I'll defy him, man to man--I
do defy him, I challenge him!"
As he spoke he stooped, suddenly, like a wind-bent flame, clasped her,
kissed her, held her enfolded in his arms one moment against his
breast. He released her then, and stepped back, standing tall and
silent, as if he waited for her blast of scorn. It did not come. She
was standing with hands pressed to her face, as if to cover some shame
or sorrow, or ease the throbbing of a soul-deep pain.
The sound of men and horses came from the corral. He stood, waiting
for judgment.
"Go now," she said, in a sad, small voice.
"Give me a token to carry away, to tell me I have not broken my golden
hope," he said.
"No, I'll give you nothing!" she declared, with the sharpness of one
wronged, and helpless of redress. "You have taken too much--you have
taken--"
"What?" he asked, as if he exulted in what he heard, his blood singing
in his ears.
"Oh, go--go!" she moaned, stripping off one long white glove and
throwing it to him.
He caught it, and pressed it to his lips; then snatching off his
bonnet, hid it there, and bent among the shrubbery and was gone, as
swiftly and silently as a wolf. Frances flew to the house and up the
stairs to her room. There she threw up the window and sat panting in
it, straining, listening, for sounds from the river road.
From below the voices of the revelers came, and the laughter over the
secrets half-guessed before masks were snatched away around the
banquet table. There was a dash of galloping hoofs from the corral,
the clatter of the closing gate. The sound grew dimmer, was lost, in
the sand of the hoof-cut trail.
After a little, a shot! two! a silence; three! and one as if in reply.
Frances slipped to her knees beside the open window, a sob as bitter
as the pang of death rising from her breast. She prayed that Alan
Macdonald might ride fast, and that the vindictive hands of his
enemies might be unsteady that night by the gray riverside.