AT MCWHORTER'S RANCH
Colin McWhorter was a man of long silences. A big framed, black-bearded
giant of a man, he commanded the respect of all who knew him, and the
friendship of few. His ranch, his sheep, his daughter were things that
concerned him--the rest of the world was for others. Twice each year, on
the twentieth of June and the third of December, he locked himself in
his room and drank himself very drunk. At all other times he was very
sober. No one, not even Janet, knew the significance of those dates. All
the girl knew was that with deadly certainty when the day arrived her
father would be locked in his room, and that on the third day thereafter
he would unlock the door and come out of the room, shaken in nerve and
body, dispose of an armful of empty bottles, resume his daily routine,
and never by word or look would he refer to the matter.
These semi-annual sprees had been among the girl's earliest
recollections. They had come as regularly and as certainly as the
passing of the seasons, and she had come to accept them as a matter of
course. Janet McWhorter stood in no fear of her father, yet never had
she brought herself to venture one word of remonstrance, nor offer one
word of sympathy. His neighbours accepted the fact as they accepted
McWhorter--with respect. If they wondered, they continued to wonder, for
so far as anyone knew nobody had ever had the temerity to seek knowledge
at its fountain head.
McWhorter's habit of silence was not engendered by any feeling of
aloofness--cowpunchers, sheep-men, horse-thieves, or nesters--all
were welcome at his cabin, and while they talked, McWhorter
listened--listened and smoked his black pipe. With Janet he was
as sparing of words as with others. Father and daughter understood
each other perfectly--loved each other with a strange undemonstrative
love that was as unfaltering as the enduring hills.
The moment McWhorter came upon the girl at the gate of the corral he
sensed that something was wrong. She had greeted him as usual but as he
watched her walk to the cabin, he noted an unwonted weariness in her
steps, and a slight drooping of her square shoulders. Unsaddling his
horse, he turned him into the corral with the bay mare. He noted the
absence of the big roan. "Been tryin' to ride Blue, an' he got away from
her," he thought; "weel, she'll tell me aboot it, if so."
While Janet placed supper on the table her father washed noisily at the
bench beside the door, then entered, and took his place at the table.
The meal progressed in silence, and in silence McWhorter, as was his
custom, helped the girl wash and dry the dishes and put them away on
their shelves. This done, he filled his black pipe and seated himself in
the chair. In another chair drawn close beside the big lamp, Janet
pretended to read a magazine, while at every muffled night sound, her
eyes flew to the window.
"Wheer's Blue," asked McWhorter, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe
and refilled it.
"I loaned him to a man who came here on foot."
"From the bad lands?"
"No. From the river. He's Mr. Colston's range foreman and he and--and
somebody else were crossing the river on Long Bill's ferry and the cable
broke, and the boat came ashore above here."
"An' the ither--did the ither come?"
"No. That's why he borrowed Blue--to hunt for the other."
"An' ye rode wi' 'um? I see the mare's be'n rode."
Janet nodded: "Yes, I rode with him as far as the bad lands, and
then--he sent me back."
McWhorter puffed for some minutes in silence: "Think you he will come
here the night?"
"Yes--unless something happens."
"An' that's what's worrin' ye--that something might happen him--oot
theer? What wad ye think could happen?"
"Why--why--lots of things could happen," she glanced at her father,
wondering at his unwonted loquacity.
The man caught the look: "Ye'll be thinkin' I'll be talkin' o'er much,"
he said, "but ye've found out befoor this, when theer's words to be said
I can say 'em." The man's voice suddenly softened: "Come, lass, 'tis
ye're own happiness I'm thinkin' of--ye've na one else. Is he some braw
young blade that rode that de'el of a Blue wi'oot half tryin'? An' did
he speak ye fair? An' is he gude to look on--a man to tak' the ee o' the
weemin'? Is ut so?" The girl stood at the window peering out into the
darkness, and receiving no answer, McWhorter continued: "If that's the
way of ut, tak' ye heed. I know the breed o' common cowpunchers--they're
a braw lot, an' they've takin' ways--but in theer hearts they're
triflin' gude-for-naughts, wi' na regard for God, mon, nor the de'el."
"He's not a common cowpuncher!" defended the girl hotly, she had turned
from the window and stood facing the stern faced Scotchman with flushed
cheeks. Then the words of the hand-bill seemed to burn into her brain.
"He's--he's--if he were a common cowpuncher Mr. Colston would never have
made him foreman," she concluded lamely.
McWhorter nodded gravely: "Aye, lass--but, when all is said an' done,
what Colston wants--what he hires an' pays for, is cowpunchin'--the work
o' the head an' hands. Gin an mon does his work, Colston wadna gi' a
fiddle bow for what's i' the heart o' him. But, wi' a lass an' a
mon--'tis different. 'Tis then if the heart is clean, it little matters
that he whirls his loop fair, or sits his leather like a plough-boy."
"What's this nonsense," cried the girl, angrily, "--this talk about
choosing a man? I never saw him till today! I hate men!"
McWhorter finished his pipe, returned it to his pocket and stepping into
his own room reappeared a moment later with a pair of heavy blankets
which he laid on the table. "I'm goin' to bed, for I must be early to
the lambin' camp. I'm thinkin' the young mon will not return the
night--but if he does, here's blankets." He stood for a moment looking
down at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the stern
eyes allowed: "My little lass," he murmured, as though speaking to
himself, "I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter--an' I am glad. The anger
will pass--an' 'twill set ye thinkin'--that, an' what's here on the
paper." Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed it
upon the blankets. "'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same as
the one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate--'twas seein'
that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, lass--an' 'twad be sair hard to
see ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twad
steal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night."
McWhorter turned abruptly, and passing into his own room, shut the
door.
Standing beside the table, Janet watched the door close behind her
father. The anger was gone from her heart, as McWhorter had said it
would go, and in its place was a wild desire to throw herself into his
arms as she used to do long, long ago--to sob her heart out against his
big breast, and to feel his big hand awkwardly stroking her hair, as he
muttered over and over again: "Theer, theer wee lassie, theer,
theer"--soothing words--those, that had eased her baby hurts and her
childish heartaches--she remembered how she used to press her little ear
close against his coarse shirt to hear the words rumble deep down in the
great chest. He had been a good father to his motherless little
girl--had Colin McWhorter.
The girl turned impulsively toward the closed door, hot tears brimming
her eyes. One step, and she stopped tense and listening. Yes, there it
was again--the sound of horse's hoofs. Dashing the tears from her eyes
she flung open the outer door and stood framed in the oblong of yellow
lamplight. Whoever it was had not stopped at the corral, but was riding
on toward the cabin. A figure loomed suddenly out of the dark and the
Texan drew up before the door.
"You here alone?" he inquired, stooping slightly to peer past her into
the cabin, "'cause if you are, I'll go on to the lambin' camp."
"No, Dad's here," she answered, "he's gone to bed."
The man dismounted. "Got any oats?" he asked, as he turned toward the
corral. "Blue's a good horse, an' I'd like him to have more'n just hay.
I may ride him hard, tomorrow."
"Yes--wait." The girl turned back into the cabin and came out with a
lighted lantern. "I'll go with you. They're in the stable."
Side by side they walked to the corral, where she held the lantern while
the Texan stripped off the saddle. "Got a halter? I ain't goin' to turn
him in with the others. They'd nose him out of his oats, or else worry
him so he couldn't eat comfortable."
"Blue's never been in the stable--and he's never eaten oats. He don't
know what they are."
"It's time he learnt, then," he smiled, "but, I don't reckon he'll kick
up any fuss. A horse will do anything you want him to, once you get him
mastered."
"Like women, aren't they?" the girl asked maliciously, as she handed him
the halter.
The Texan adjusted the halter, deftly slipped the bridle from beneath
it, and glanced quizzically into her face: "Think so?" he countered,
"reckon I never run across any that was mastered." At the door of the
stable the horse paused, sniffed suspiciously, and pulled back on the
halter rope. "Just step away with the lantern so he can't see what's
ahead of him, an' he'll come--won't you, Blue?"
"They wouldn't any of them come if they could see what's ahead, would
they?"
The Texan peered into the girl's face but it was deep in the shadows,
"Maybe not," he agreed, "I expect it's a good thing for all of us that
we can't see--what's ahead." The man abruptly transferred his attention
to the horse; gently slapping his neck and pulling playfully at his
twitching ears. His voice dropped into a soothing monotone: "Come on,
you old Blue, you. You old fraud, tryin' to make out like you're afraid.
Come on--take a chance. There's oats, an' hay, an' beddin' a foot thick
in there. An' a good stall to stand in instead of millin' around a
corral all night." The rope slackened, and securing a firm grip on the
halter, the Texan edged slowly toward the door, the horse following with
nervous, mincing steps, and nostrils aquiver. From her place beside the
corral, the girl watched in astonishment as man and horse passed from
sight. From the black interior of the stable the voice of the Texan
sounded its monotonous drone, and presently the man himself appeared and
taking the lantern returned to attend to the horse. Alone in the
darkness, Janet wondered. She knew the big blue roan, and she had
expected a fight. A few minutes later the man reappeared, chuckling:
"He's learnt what oats are," he said, "ate 'em out of my hand, first.
Now he's goin' after 'em like he'd tear the bottom out of the feed box.
I wonder if your Dad would sell Blue? I'll buy him, an' gentle him, an'
then----"
"And then--what?" asked the girl after a moment of silence. She received
no answer, and with a trace of impatience she repeated the question.
"What would you do then?"
"Why--then," answered the man, abstractedly, "I don't know. I was just
thinkin' maybe it ain't such a good thing after all we can't see farther
ahead."
"Did you find your friend?" Janet asked abruptly, as they walked toward
the house.
"No." In spite of herself, the dead tonelessness of the man's voice
aroused her to sudden pity. She remembered the pain and the misery in
his eyes. Perhaps after all, he loved this woman--loved her
honestly--yet, how could he love honestly another man's wife? Her lips
tightened, as she led the way into the house, and without a word, busied
herself at the stove.
Hat in hand, the Texan stood beside the table, and as his glance strayed
from the girl, it fell upon a small square of paper upon a fold of a
blanket. Mechanically he glanced at the printed lines, and at the first
word, snatched the paper from the table and held it to the light.
The girl turned at the sound: "Oh!" she cried, and stepped swiftly
forward as if to seize it from his hand. Her face was flaming red: "Dad
left it there--and then--you came--and I--I--forgot it."
The man read the last word and carefully returned the paper to the
table. "I didn't aim to read your papers," he apologized, "but I
couldn't help seein' my own name--an' hers--an' I thought I had the
right--didn't I have the right?"
"Yes," answered the girl, "of course you had the right. Only
I--we--didn't leave it there on purpose. It----"
"It don't make any difference how it come to be there," he said dully,
and as he passed his hand heavily across his brow, she saw that his
fingers fumbled for a moment on the bandage. "The news got around right
quick. It was only last night."
"Long Bill Kearney stuck one on the corral post, and he left some at the
lambing camp."
"Long Bill, eh?" The man repeated the name mechanically, with his eyes
on the square of paper, while the girl pushed the blankets back and
placed dishes upon the table.
"You must eat, now," she reminded him, as she filled his plate and
poured a cup of steaming coffee.
The Texan drew up a chair and ate in silence. When he had finished he
rolled a cigarette: "One hundred dollars," he said, as though speaking
to himself, "that's a right pickyune reward to offer for a full-grown
man. Why, there's over a thousand for Cass Grimshaw."
"Cass Grimshaw is a horse-thief. Apparently, horses are held in higher
regard than mere wives."
Tex disregarded the withering sarcasm. He answered, evenly, "Looks that
way. I suppose they figure a man could steal more of 'em."
"And now that Purdy has stolen her from you, will you continue the
search, or look around for another. Surely, wives are cheap--another
hundred dollars oughtn't to make any difference."
"No. Another hundred won't make any difference. Win Endicott was a fool
to post that reward. It makes things look bad----"
"Look bad!" cried the girl, angrily. "Could it look any worse than it
is?"
"No," agreed the Texan, "not with Purdy into it, it couldn't."
"Because, now--he'll probably claim the reward he and Long Bill--and you
will have had your trouble for your pains."
"Claim the reward!" exclaimed the Texan. To the girl's surprise he
seemed to grasp at the thought as a drowning man would grasp at a straw.
There was a new light in his eyes and the words seemed to hold a ray of
hope. "Do you suppose he would? Would he hold her safe for a thousand
dollars? Prob'ly he'll try to get more!" The man talked rapidly in short
jerky sentences. "How'd Long Bill cross the river? Have those two got
together? Does Purdy know about the reward?"
"Long Bill was riding----"
"Purdy's horse?"
"Not the one Purdy rode today--but, I think I've seen Purdy ride that
horse."
"But, why did they go on spreadin' these bills? Why didn't they keep it
to themselves?" The girl shook her head, and after a few moments of
silence, during which his fists opened and closed as if striving to
grasp at the truth, the Texan spoke: "Maybe if they had the girl hid
away safe, they wanted folks to be on the lookout for me." He pushed
back his chair abruptly and as he stood up the girl indicated the
blankets, and the package of food.
"Here are blankets," she said, "and there is grub for tomorrow. There is
a bunk in the loft----"
The Texan gathered the things into his arms: "Never mind the bunk," he
said, "I'll sleep in the hay. I'll be wanting an early start. You've
helped, girl," he said looking straight into her eyes, "you've guessed
wrong--but you've helped--maybe more than you know. I reckon Win wasn't
such a fool with his reward after all," and before she could frame a
reply, the man had opened the door and disappeared into the night.