DEATH AT A DOOR
Lawler smiled. "Then I reckon we're both surprised, ma'am," he said. "I
certainly wasn't expecting the norther to bring you. You had a mighty
narrow squeeze. You were pretty near all in when I opened the door and
saw you."
The girl drew a long, quavering breath and leaned back against the wall
of the bunk, closing her eyes.
Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, showing the white throat
through the damp, glistening folds; and when she again opened her eyes,
they were big and luminous--and brown, Lawler took note of that, for the
glare from the lamp was directly upon them.
Renewed life--animation--certainly beautified her. While Lawler had been
working with her to restore her suspended vitality he had felt no
emotion beyond an eagerness to restore her to consciousness. Now he was
vibrant with sympathy, with pity, and with wonder.
Why had she come here? It was quite evident that she had come
intentionally, for her words: "I got here, didn't I?" seemed to be proof
of that. Also, she had not anticipated finding him at the cabin, for she
had said so in as many words.
She gathered the blanket closer around her, noting that her feet were
wrapped in it and that one end of it covered her throat. Lawler saw the
blushes come and go in her face as she worked with the blanket, and he
secretly applauded her modesty.
When she had arranged the blanket she looked straight at him. She
studied his face long before she spoke, and his eyes gleamed with
satisfaction when he saw her lips form a faint, half-smile. She had
decided she was not afraid of him.
She was embarrassed, but not to the point of prudishness. Her gaze was
direct, frankly grateful. But there was something else in her eyes--a
vague uneasiness, curiosity, repressed eagerness. She glanced swiftly
around the interior of the cabin, and into the other bunks. And when she
saw Lawler watching her keenly she blushed. And now, as she dropped her
gaze, he saw her start as her eyes rested on the tangled ropes that
Lawler had torn from the two fence cutters when he had released them
after he had carried her into the cabin. The ropes were lying on the
floor where he had thrown them in his haste.
"Has--has anything happened?" she asked, looking swiftly at him,
blushing again.
"Plenty," he said; "you came."
"I--I mean--that is, has anything else happened?" she added. She seemed
to hold her breath, for his answer.
"I caught two fence cutters."
"Did they cut the fence?" She was rigid, tense.
Lawler nodded, and he saw her hands clench.
"But there wasn't any damage done. I caught them just after they cut it,
and I made them repair it before the cattle got through."
"And the two men?" she questioned, breathlessly.
"They're in the dugout--with the horses. They were in here, until you
came."
She leaned back, breathing fast. Her color was high, her eyes were
shining with satisfaction. And while Lawler watched her she laughed
quaveringly.
"Then I had that long, cold ride for nothing," she said.
Lawler looked straight at her. "You knew the fence was to be cut?"
Her color receded and she met his gaze unflinchingly, resolutely.
"Yes. I overheard Gary Warden telling two of the Two Diamond men--Link
and Givens--to cut it. Warden wanted to destroy all your cattle. It
seems he has had men watching them--and your men. And he learned the
herd was on the level near here. He told the men to wait until a storm
threatened. Gary didn't know I overheard him telling the men to cut the
fence; and I said nothing to him. But I waited until I saw an
opportunity, and then I came, to warn the men I expected would be here.
I didn't expect to find you here; and I intended to keep silent
regarding what I had heard."
"Why are you telling it, now?"
She blushed again and gazed downward. Then she looked at him with
direct, puzzled eyes.
"I--I really don't know," she said, hesitatingly. "I expect it was
because I felt guilty--or because I thought I saw something in your eyes
that made me think you knew that I hadn't ridden over here for the fun
of it. It was a very cold and disagreeable ride.
"And, somehow, I--I think you ought to know it. When I overheard Gary
telling those men to cut the fence it seemed to me that it was the
meanest scheme I ever had heard of. I was so angry I could have
horse-whipped Gary. At the time I believe I wasn't thinking of you at
all--I just kept seeing those poor cows wandering away in the storm, to
freeze to death in the open. And I determined to ride over here and
prevent it. I suppose what I have told you will make trouble for Gary. I
suppose I shouldn't have told you."
"Givens and Link told me."
"Oh! You made them tell, of course--_you_ would do that. What are you
going to do about it?"
"What would you do--Miss--" Lawler paused.
"I am Della Wharton," smiled the girl.
"Well, what would _you_ do, Miss Wharton?"
The girl flashed a quick glance at him. "Considering that the plan
didn't succeed, and that I rode clear over here to tell you about
it--don't you think you ought to keep silent, Mr. Lawler?"
Whatever Lawler intended to do later, he was silent now. He was puzzled,
amazed, over the startling frankness the girl had exhibited. He had
heard, from Blackburn--or somebody--it wasn't important whom--that this
girl was staying at the Two Diamond. He believed Blackburn had hinted at
relations more intimate. And she was at this moment betraying
Warden--delivering him into the hands of a man the latter hated.
"Miss Wharton," said Lawler gravely; "I confess I am puzzled. You accept
Warden's hospitality, and yet you come here to betray him."
She laughed. "I am not accepting Gary's hospitality. My father is a
member of the company that bought the Two Diamond, and I have as much
right to be there as Gary has. We live East--in New York. I came West
out of curiosity. I wanted to see the ranch. And now that I am here I
intend to stay. I have always been eager to live in the West."
"Then you don't like Gary Warden?"
The girl's face sobered. "I like him. That is all."
Lawler's eyes were still grave. "Miss Wharton," he said slowly; "do you
know what Gary Warden is doing--what the company with which your father
is connected, is doing?"
"Yes," said the girl, frankly; "they--all of them--are trying to control
the western cattle market." She looked straight at him, with no sign of
embarrassment.
"That is business, isn't it? It is what men are beginning to call 'big
business.' It means centralization of power, resources--and a number of
things that go with it. It is an admirable scheme--don't you think? It
eliminates uncertainty, risk of loss. It means the stabilizing of the
cattle industry; it means gigantic profits to the men who have brains
big enough to control it."
Lawler smiled. "Also, Miss Wharton, it means the complete subjection of
the cattle raiser. It means that competition will be stifled; that the
cattle owner will be compelled to take what prices the buyers offer. It
means that the incentive to raise cattle will be destroyed. It means the
end of the open market--which has always been a spur to industry. It is
evil."
The girl laughed. "How tragic!" she mocked. "One would think we were
facing a cataclysm, whereas business men are merely just beginning to
take advantage of some of the opportunities that are everywhere around
them. It is all perfectly legal, isn't it? I have heard my father say
that it is."
Lawler's smile grew slightly bitter. He saw that the girl's mind was
merely skipping over the surface of the commercial sea upon which her
father sailed a pirate craft; she had not plunged into the depths where
she might have found the basic principles of all business--fairness; she
had taken no account of the human impulse that, in just men, impels them
to grant to their fellows a fighting chance to win.
Watching her closely, Lawler saw in her the signs of frivolity and
vanity that he had failed to see that day when he had met her in
Willets. Her attitude now revealed her as plainly as though he had known
her all her days. She comprehended none of life's big problems; the
relations of men to one another had not compelled her attention; the
fine, deep impulses of sympathy had not touched her. She was selfish,
self-centered, light, inconsequential--a woman who danced from under the
burdens of life and laughed at those who were forced to bear them for
her.
And yet she was a woman, demanding respect from his sex. He smiled as
he turned from her to fix the fire, wondering at the courage that had
driven her to ride to the cabin in the storm. His smile broadened when
he remembered she had said she sympathized with the "cows"--that motive,
while not a high one, was as good as another since the pursuing of it
had meant good for him in the end.
"Do _you_ like this country?" she asked, as he turned.
"It isn't a half bad place. If it wasn't for some persons--and
northers----"
She laughed. "There are bad people everywhere. As for the 'norther'--I
enjoyed it very much until--until it got so bad that I just couldn't see
where I was going. I began to be afraid that I was lost and that I'd
freeze to death. And then I saw the light in the window--a little square
that flickered feebly in the distance, and which sometimes seemed to
disappear completely." She smiled, tremulously.
"It seemed that--after I got here--I was to freeze to death, anyway. For
I couldn't make you hear me. I rode close to the door and pounded on it.
I was afraid to get off, for fear I would fall in that big drift near
the door and not be able to get up again. I was so cold and stiff----"
She hesitated, and Lawler saw tears in her eyes.
It was the reaction, delayed by their talk. Self-accusation shone in
Lawler's eyes as he started toward her.
"I'm a box-head, Miss Wharton, for standing here, talking about nothing
at all, and you nearly freezing to death."
And then he halted, midway of the distance toward her, aware that he
could do nothing when he did reach her. And her manner warned him of
that, too, for she pulled the blanket closer around her and crowded as
far back into the bunk as she could get, looking at him with embarrassed
eyes.
"If you could get your clothes fixed," he began. "You see, Miss Wharton,
there wasn't much time, and we had to get them off mighty rapid. You can
see that we were none too gentle about it."
She blushed, and he abruptly turned his back and walked to the
fireplace. He stuck close to it until he heard her say:
"Won't you please hang my stockings up somewhere? They are so wet I
can't get them on."
The stockings, wet and limp, fell close beside him. He snatched them up,
grinning widely, though fearful that she might see the grin, and
carefully laid them over the back of a chair, pulling the chair close to
the fire.
Then he got out a frying-pan and began to prepare supper for her. When
the aroma of the sizzling bacon was wafted to her, he heard her exclaim:
"U-um, that smells good! Why, I am almost famished!"
Five minutes later, with a plate in her lap and a cup of steaming coffee
resting on the rail of the bunk, she was eating. Her eyes were bright
and her color high as she watched Lawler, who was seated at the table
with his back to her.
"You don't feel much like talking, do you?"
"No," he said. "According to the way this norther is whooping it up
we'll run out of talk before we can break trail out of here."
"Do you mean that the storm may last some days?"
"There is no telling. At this time of the year they are mighty
uncertain. I've known them to stick around for a month or more."
She sat very silent, and for a time did not even move her lips. Stealing
a swift glance at her, expecting to see a worried light in her eyes,
Lawler noted that there was a slight--a very slight smile on her lips.
He was amazed, incredulous, and he stole another glance at her to make
certain. There was no denying it--there was a smile in the eyes that
were gazing meditatively past him into the fire; a smile on her
lips--giving him proof that the prospect of remaining alone in the cabin
with him had not crushed her--had not brought the hysterical protests
that he had feared. She was plainly pleased, possibly considering the
thing an adventure which would have no damaging consequences.
With a malice in his eyes that she did not see--for he looked gravely at
her, he said, slowly:
"Listen, Miss Wharton!"
He raised a hand and looked at the north window. Following his gaze she
saw the snow whipping against the glass, rattling against the panes like
small hailstones hurled with frightful velocity. The incessant droning
whine of the wind reached their ears, deep in volume as though it would
tell them of its interrupted sweep across the vast plains; as though to
convince them of its unlimited power and ferocity. She knew as well as
he that the big drifts around the cabin had grown bigger; that other
drifts were forming around the walls. For the sounds were muffled, and a
great, weird calm had settled inside the cabin. The walls, snow-banked,
were deadening outside sound.
"A man couldn't go half a mile in that, now, Miss Wharton. And it will
be days before anybody can reach us. I am afraid we are in for a long
spell of monotony."
"Well," she said, gazing straight at him; a glow in her eyes that
puzzled him; "we can't help it, can we? And I suppose we shall have to
make the best of it."
Lawler, however, did not expect the storm to last more than a day or so.
They seldom did, at this time of the year. He had drawn the gloomy
picture merely in an attempt to force Miss Wharton to realize the
indelicacy of her position. He had thought she would have exhibited
perturbation. Instead, she was calm and plainly unworried.
Puzzled, Lawler leaned an elbow on the table and scowled into the fire.
There was no apparent reason why he should object to remaining in the
cabin with a pretty woman who did not seem eager to leave it. And yet he
was afflicted with a grave unrest.
Givens and Link were in the dugout, and presently they would return to
the cabin. They would have to remain in the cabin, for it would be
inhuman of him to compel them to stay very long in the dugout with the
horses. Thus was Miss Wharton shielded against the impropriety of
staying for any length of time in the cabin with him, alone.
But the safeguard of propriety was also a danger. Because Link had
permitted a certain light to glow in his eyes Lawler had knocked him
down. If the four of them were to remain in the cabin for any length of
time, there would be periods when he must sleep. And then Link----
Lawler's thoughts broke off here, for he heard a sound at the
door--Givens' voice, saying hoarsely:
"For God's sake, Boss, let us in! We're freezin' to death!"
Lawler got up and walked to the door. He hesitated as he lifted the bar,
telling Miss Wharton to wrap the blanket tightly around her in
anticipation of the rush of wind. When he saw that she obeyed him, he
swung the door open.
As Lawler opened the door he stepped back with it, escaping by inches
the sweep of an axe blade that caught the light from the lamp and
shimmered brightly in a half-circle as it was swung with the malignant
force of Link's arms.
The blade of the axe struck the floor, sinking deep into the boards;
while Link, hurled off balance by the viciousness of his attack, tumbled
headlong after the axe, sprawling on his hands and knees on the cabin
floor, muttering curses.