CHAPTER I—CONCERNING DAWES

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[Illustration: CARRINGTON LAUGHED JEERINGLY. (Page 268)]

THE RANCHMAN

BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER

AUTHOR OF THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y, FIREBRAND TREVISON, THE RANGE BOSS,

ETC.

FRONTISPIECE BY P. V. E. IVORY NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1919

Published September, 1919

_Copyrighted in Great Britain_

CHAPTER PAGE

I Concerning Dawes 1

II Slick Duds 14

III The Serpent Trail 20

IV The Hold-Up 26

V The Unexpected 36

VI A Man Makes Plans 51

VII The Shadow of the Past 59

VIII Concerning "Squint" 66

IX A Man Lies 75

X The Frame-Up 86

XI "No Fun Fooling Her" 91

XII Lifting the Mask 106

XIII The Shadow of Trouble 113

XIV The Face of a Fighter 128

XV Gloom--and Plans 142

XVI A Man Becomes a Brute 153

XVII The Wrong Ankle 172

XVIII The Beast Again 186

XIX The Ambush 193

XX A Fight to a Finish 200

XXI A Man Faces Death 212

XXII Looking for Trouble 218

XXIII A World-Old Longing 225

XXIV A Death Warrant 232

XXV Keats Looks for "Squint" 238

XXVI Keats Finds "Squint" 245

XXVII Besieged 254

XXXIII The Fugitive 259

XXIX The Captive 264

XXX Parsons Has Human Instincts 270

XXXI A Rescue 277

XXXII Taylor Becomes Riled 284

XXXIII Retribution 290

XXXIV The Will of the Mob 304

XXXV Triumph at Last 315

THE RANCHMAN

CHAPTER I—CONCERNING DAWES

The air in the Pullman was hot and, despite the mechanical

contrivances built into the coach to prevent such a contingency, the

dust from the right-of-way persisted in filtering through crevices.

Even the electric fans futilely combated the heat; their droning hum

bespoke terrific revolutions which did not materially lessen the

discomfort of the occupants of the coach; and the dry, dead dust of

the desert, the glare of a white-hot sun, the continuing panorama of

waste land, rolling past the car windows, afforded not one cool vista

to assuage the torture of travel.

For hours after leaving Kansas City, several of the passengers had

diligently gazed out of the windows. But when they had passed the vast

grass plains and had entered the desert, where their eyes met nothing

but endless stretches of feathery alkali dust, beds of dead lava, and

clumps of cacti with thorny spire and spatula blade defiantly upthrust

as though in mockery of all life—the passengers drew the shades and

settled down in their seats to endure the discomfort of it all.

A _blasé_ tourist forward reclined in one seat and rested his legs on

another. From under the peak of a cap pulled well down over his eyes

he smiled cynically at his fellow-passengers, noting the various

manifestations of their discomfort. The tourist was a transcontinental

traveler of note and he had few expectations. It amused him to watch

those who had.

A girl of about twenty, seated midway in the coach to the left of the

tourist, had been an intent watcher of the desert. With the covert eye

of the tourist upon her she stiffened, stared sharply out of the

window, then drew back, shuddering, a queer pallor on her face.

“She’s seen something unpleasant,” mused the tourist. “A heap of

bleached bones—which would be the skeleton of a steer; or a

rattlesnake—or most anything. She’s got nerves.”

_One_ passenger in the car had no nerves—of that the tourist was

convinced. The tourist had observed him closely, and the tourist was a

judge of men. The nerveless one was a young man who sat in a rear seat

staring intently out into the inferno of heat and sand, apparently

absorbed in his thoughts and unaware of any physical discomfort.

“Young—about twenty-seven or twenty-eight—maybe thirty,” mused the

tourist; “but an old-timer in this country. I wised up to him when he

got aboard at Kansas City. Been a miner in his time—or a cow-puncher.

I’d hate to cross him.”

Among the other passengers were two who attracted the attention of the

tourist. They occupied the seat in front of the young man.

One of the two, who sat nearest the window, was not much older than

the young man occupying the seat behind him. The tourist guessed his

age to be around thirty-five or thirty-six. He was big, almost

massive, and had lived well—as the slightly corpulent stomach

revealed. Despite that, however, he was in good physical condition,

for his cheeks glowed with good healthy color under the blue-black

sheen of his fresh-shaved beard; there was a snapping twinkle in his

black eyes, which were penetrating and steady; and there was a quiet

confidence in his manner which told that he knew and appreciated

himself. He was handsome in a heavy, sensuous fashion, and his

coal-black hair, close-cropped and wavy, gave him an appearance of

virility and importance that demanded a second look. The man seated

beside him was undersized and ordinary-looking, with straight,

iron-gray hair and a look of having taken orders all his life. The

tourist set his age at fifty-five.

The girl was of the type that the tourist admired. He had seen her

kind in the far corners of the world, on the thronged streets of

cosmopolitan cities, in isolated sections of the world—the

self-reliant, quietly confident American girl whose

straight-in-the-eye glance always made a man feel impelled to

respectfully remove his hat.

She was not beautiful, but she was undeniably good-looking. She was

almost tall, and the ease and grace of her movements sufficed to

convey to the tourist some conception of the symmetrical lines of her

figure. If her features had been more regular, the girl would have

been plain; but there was a slight uptilt to her nose that hinted of

piquancy, denied by the quiet, steady eyes.

A brown mass of hair, which she had twisted into bulging coils and

glistening waves, made the tourist wonder over her taste in that

feminine art.

“She knows what becomes her,” he decided.

He knew the two men seated in front of the young man were traveling

with her, for he had seen them together, with the older man patting

her shoulder affectionately. But often she left them with their talk,

which did not seem to interest her, while she withdrew to a distant

seat to read or to gaze out of the window.

She had not seemed to notice either the man of colorless personality

or the young man who occupied the seat behind her friends. If she had

glanced at them at all it was with that impersonal interest one feels

in the average traveler one meets anywhere.

But long ago—which, to be strictly accurate, was when he had entered

the coach at Kansas City—Quinton Taylor had been interested in her. He

was content, though, to conceal that interest, and not once when she

chanced to look toward him did she catch him looking at her.

Taylor knew he was no man to excite the interest of women, not even

when he looked his best. And he knew that in his present raiment he

did not look his best. He was highly uncomfortable.

For one thing, the white, starched collar he wore irritated him,

choked him, reddening his face and bulging his eyes. The starched

shirt had a pernicious habit of tightly sticking to him, the seams

chafing his skin.

The ready-made suit he had bought at Kansas City was too small, and he

could feel his shoulders bulging through the arms of the coat, while

the trousers—at the hips and the knees—were stretched until he feared

the cloth would not stand the strain.

The shoes were tight, and the derby hat—he glowered humorously at it

in the rack above his head and gazed longingly at the suitcase at his

feet, into which he had crammed the clothing he had discarded and

which he had replaced at the suggestion of his banker in Kansas City.

Cowboy rigging was not uncommon to Kansas City, the banker had told

him, but still—well, if a man was wealthy, and wished to make an

impression, it might be wise to make the change.

Not in years had Taylor worn civilized clothing, and he was fully

determined that before reaching his home town he would resume the

clothing to which he was accustomed—and throw the new duds out of a

window. He reddened over an imaginary picture of himself descending

from the train in his newly acquired rigging to endure the humorous

comments of his friends. Old Ben Mullarky, for instance, would think

he had gone loco—and would tell him so. Yes, the new clothes were

doomed; some ragged overland specimen of the genus “hobo” would

probably find them or, if not, they would clutter up the right-of-way

as the sad memento of a mistake he had made during a fit of momentary

weakness.

As a matter of fact the girl had noticed Taylor. A girl will notice

men, unconsciously. Sitting at her window even now, she was thinking

of him.

She was not aware that she had studied him, or that she had even

glanced at him. But despite her lack of interest in him she had a

picture of him in mind, and her thoughts dwelt upon him.

She, too, had been aware that Taylor’s clothes did not fit him. She

had noticed the bulging shoulders, the tight trousers, the shoes,

squeaking with newness, when once he had passed through the car to go

out upon the platform. She had noticed him screwing his neck around in

the collar; she had seen him hunch his shoulders intolerantly; she had

seen that the trousers were too short; that he looked like an awkward

farmer or homesteader abroad on a pleasure trip, and decidedly

uncomfortable in the unaccustomed attire.

She had giggled to herself, then. For Taylor did make a ridiculous

figure. But later—when he had reentered the car and she had looked

fairly, though swiftly, at him as he advanced down the aisle—she had

seen something about him that had impressed her. And that was what she

was thinking about now. It was his face, she believed. It was red with

self-consciousness and embarrassment, but she had seen and noted the

strength of it—the lean, muscular jaw, the square, projecting chin,

the firm, well-controlled mouth; the steady, steel-blue eyes, the

broad forehead. It had seemed to her that he was humorously aware of

the clothes, but that he was grimly determined to brazen the thing

out.

Her mental picture now gave her the entire view of Taylor as he had

come toward her. And she could see him in a different environment, in

cowboy regalia, on a horse, perfectly at ease. He made a heroic

figure. So real was the picture that she caught herself saying:

“Clothes _do_ make the man!” And then she smiled at her enthusiasm and

looked out of the window.

Taylor had been thinking of her with the natural curiosity of the man

who knows he has no chance and is not looking for one. But she had

impressed him as resembling someone with whom he had been well

acquainted. For an hour he puzzled his brain in an endeavor to

associate hers with some face of his recollection, but elusive memory

resisted his demands on it with the result that he gave it up and

leaned back as restfully as he could with the consciousness of the

physical torture he was undergoing.

And then he heard the younger of the two men in front of him speak to

the other:

“We’ll make things hum in Dawes, once we get hold of the reins.”

“But there will be obstacles, Carrington.”

“Sure! Obstacles! Of course. That will make the thing all the more

enjoyable.”

There was a ring in Carrington’s voice that struck a chord of sudden

antagonism in Taylor, a note of cunning that acted upon Taylor

instantly, as though the man had twanged discord somewhere in his

nature.

Dawes was Taylor’s home; he had extensive and varied interests there;

he had been largely responsible for Dawes’s growth and development; he

had fought for the town and the interests of the town’s citizens

against the aggressions of the railroad company and a grasping land

company that had succeeded in clouding the titles to every foot of

land owned by Dawes’s citizens—his own included.

And he had heard rumors of outside interests that were trying to gain

a foothold in Dawes. He had paid little attention to these rumors, for

he knew that capital was always trying to drive wedges that would

admit it to the golden opportunities afforded by new towns, and he had

ascribed the rumors to idle gossip, being aware that such things are

talked of by irresponsibles.

But the words, “Get hold of the reins,” had a sound of craft and

plotting. And there was something in Carrington’s manner and

appearance that suggested guile and smooth cunning. Seething with

interest, Taylor closed his eyes and leaned his head back upon the

cushion behind him, simulating sleep.

He felt Carrington turn; he could feel the man’s eyes on him, and he

knew that Carrington was speculating over him.

He heard the other man whisper, though he could not catch the words.

However, he heard Carrington’s answer:

“Don’t be uneasy—I’m not ‘spilling’ anything. _He_ wouldn’t know the

difference if I did. A homesteader hitting town for the first time in

a year, probably. Did you notice him? Lord, what an outfit!”

He laughed discordantly, resuming in a whisper which carried to

Taylor:

“As I was saying, we’ll make things hum. The good folks in Dawes don’t

know it, but we’ve been framing them for quite a spell—been feeding

them Danforth. You don’t know Danforth, eh? He’s quite a hit with

these rubes. Knows how to smear the soft stuff over them. He’s what we

call a ‘mixer’ back in Chicago. Been in Dawes for about a year,

working in the dark. Been going strong during the past few months.

Running for mayor now—election is today. It’ll be over by the time we

get there. He’ll win, of course; he wired me it was a cinch. Cost a

lot, though, but it’s worth it. We’ll own Dawes before we get

through!”

It was with an effort that Taylor kept his eyes closed. He heard

nothing further, for the man’s voice had dropped lower and Taylor

could not hear it above the roar of the train.

Still, he had heard enough to convince him that Carrington had designs

on the future welfare of Dawes, and his muscles swelled until the

tight-fitting coat was in dire danger of bursting.

Danforth he knew slightly. He had always disliked and distrusted the

man. He remembered Danforth’s public _début_ to the people of Dawes.

It had been on the occasion of Dawes’s first anniversary and some

public-spirited citizens had decided upon a celebration. They had

selected Danforth as the speaker of the day because of his

eloquence—for Danforth had seized every opportunity to publicly air

his vigorous voice, and Taylor had been compelled to acknowledge that

Danforth was a forceful and able speaker.

Thereafter, Danforth’s voice often found the public ear. He was a

lawyer, and the sign he had erected over the front of the frame

building adjoining the courthouse was as magnificent as Danforth was

eloquent.

But though Taylor had distrusted Danforth, he had found no

evidence—until now—that the lawyer intended to betray his

fellow-citizens. Before leaving Dawes the week before he had heard

some talk, linking Danforth’s name with politics, but he had

discredited the talk. His own selection had been Neil Norton, and he

had asked his friends to consider Norton.

Taylor listened intently, with the hope of hearing more of the

conversation being carried on between the two men in front of him. But

he heard no more on the subject broached by Carrington. Later,

however, his eyes still closed, still pretending to be asleep, he saw

through veiled eyelids the girl rise from her seat and come toward the

two men in front of him.

For the first time he got a clear, full view of her face and a deep,

disturbing emotion thrilled him. For now, looking fairly at her, he

was more than ever convinced that he had seen her before, or that her

resemblance to someone he had known was more startling than he had

thought.

Then he heard Carrington speak to her.

“Getting tired, Miss Harlan?” said Carrington. “Well, it will soon be

ended, now. One more night on the train—and then Dawes.”

The older man laughed, and touched the girl’s arm playfully. “You

don’t mind it, do you, Marion?”

The older man said more, but Taylor did not hear him. For at his

mention of the girl’s given name, so soon after Carrington’s

pronouncement of “Harlan,” Taylor’s eyes popped open, and he sat

erect, staring straight at the girl.

Whether her gaze had been drawn by his, or whether her woman’s

curiosity had moved her to look at him, Taylor never knew. But she met

his wide gaze fairly, and returned his stare with one equally wide.

Only, he was certain, there was a glint of mocking accusation in her

eyes—to remind him, he supposed, that she had caught him

eavesdropping.

And then she smiled, looking at Carrington.

“One is recompensed for the inconveniences of travel by the

interesting characters one chances to meet.”

And she found opportunity, with Carrington looking full at her, to

throw a swift, significant glance at Taylor.

Taylor flushed scarlet. Not, however, because of any embarrassment he

felt over her words, but because at that instant was borne

overwhelmingly upon him the knowledge that the girl, and the man,

Carrington, who accompanied her—even the older man—were persons with

whom Fate had insisted that he play—or fight. They were to choose. And

that they had chosen to fight was apparent by the girl’s glance, and

by Carrington’s words, “We’ll own Dawes before we get through.”

Taylor got up and went to the smoking-room, where he sat for a long

time, staring out of the window, his eyes on the vast sea of sagebrush

that stretched before him, his mental vision fixed on an earlier day

and upon a tragedy that was linked with the three persons in the

coach—who seemed desirous of antagonizing him.