CHAPTER II—SLICK DUDS

After a time Taylor’s lips wreathed into a smile. He searched in his

pockets—he had transferred all his effects from the clothing in the

suitcase to his present uncomfortable raiment—and produced a long,

faded envelope in danger of imminent disintegration.

The smile faded from his lips as he drew out the contents of the

envelope, and a certain grim pity filled his eyes. He read:

Squint:

That rock falling on me has fixed me. There is no use in me trying to

fool myself. I’m going out. There’s things a man can’t say, even to a

friend like you. So I’m writing this. You won’t read it until after

I’m gone, and then you can’t tell me what you think of me for shoving

this responsibility on you. But you’ll accept, I know; you’ll do it

for me, won’t you?

I’ve had a lot of trouble—family trouble. It wouldn’t interest you.

But it made me come West. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know;

but it seemed best.

You’ve been a mighty persevering friend, and I know you from the

ground up. You never inquired about my past, but I know you’ve

wondered. Once I mentioned my daughter, and I saw you look sharp at

me. Yes, there is a daughter. Her name is Marion. There was a wife and

her brother, Elam Parsons. But only Marion counts. The others were too

selfish and sneaking.

You won’t be interested in that. But I want Marion taken care of. She

was fifteen when I saw her last. She looked just like me; thank God

for that! She won’t have any of the characteristics of the others!

Squint, I want you to take care of her. You’ll find her in Westwood,

Illinois. You and me have talked of selling the mine. Sell it; take my

share and for it give Marion a half-interest in your ranch, the Arrow.

If there is any left, put it in land in Dawes—that town is going to

boom. Guard it for her, and marry her, Squint; she’ll make you a good

wife. Tell her I want her to marry you; she’ll do it, for she always

liked her “dad.”

There was more, but Taylor read no further. He stuffed the envelope

into a pocket and sat looking out of the window, regarding morosely

the featureless landscape. After a time he grinned saturninely:

“Looks to me like a long chance, Larry,” he mused. “Considered as a

marrying proposition she don’t seem to be enthusiastic over me. Now

what in thunder is she doing out here, and why is that man Carrington

with her—and where did she pick him up?”

There came no answer to these questions.

Reluctant, after the girl’s mocking smile, to seem to intrude, Taylor

sat in the smoking-compartment during the long afternoon, until the

dusk began to descend—until through the curtains of the compartment he

caught a glimpse of the girl and her companions returning from the

dining-car. Then, after what he considered a decent interval, he

emerged from the compartment, went to the diner, ate heartily, and

returned to the smoking-room.

He had met Larry Harlan about three years before. Harlan had appeared

at the Arrow one morning, looking for a job. Taylor had hired him, not

because he needed men, but because he thought Harlan needed work. A

friendship had developed, and when one day Harlan had told Taylor

about a mine he had discovered in the Sangre de Christo Mountains,

some miles southwestward, offering Taylor a half-interest if the

latter would help him get at the gold, Taylor had agreed.

They had found the mine, worked it, and had taken considerable gold

out of it, when one day a huge rock had fallen on Harlan. Taylor had

done what he could, rigging up a drag with which to take Harlan to

town and a doctor, but Harlan had died before town could be reached.

That had been the extent of Taylor’s friendship for the man. But he

had followed Harlan’s directions.

Sitting in the smoking-compartment, he again drew out Harlan’s note to

him and read further:

Marion will have considerable money, and I don’t want no sneak to get

hold of it—like the sneak that got hold of the money my wife had, that

I saved. There’s a lot of them around. If Marion is going to fall in

love with one of that kind, I’d rather she wouldn’t get what I

leave—the man would get it away from her.

Use your own judgment, and I’ll be satisfied.

It was not difficult for Taylor to divine what had happened to Harlan,

nor was it difficult to understand that the man’s distrust of other

men amounted to an obsession. However, Taylor had no choice but to

assume the trust and no course but to obey Harlan’s wishes in the

matter.

Taylor’s trip eastward to Kansas City had been for the purpose of

attending to his own financial interests, and incidentally to conclude

the deal for the sale of the mine. He had deposited the money in his

own name, but he intended—or had intended—after returning to the Arrow

to make arrangements for his absence, to go to Westwood to find Marion

Harlan. The presence of the girl on the train and the certain

conviction that she was bound for Dawes made the trip to Westwood

unnecessary.

For Taylor had no doubt that the girl was the daughter of Larry

Harlan. That troublesome resemblance of hers to someone of his

acquaintance bothered him no longer, for the girl was the living image

of Larry Harlan.

Taylor had not anticipated the coming of Carrington into his scheme of

things. For the first time since Larry Harlan’s letter had come into

his possession he realized that deep in his heart was a fugitive

desire for the coming of the girl to the Arrow. He had liked Larry

Harlan, and he had drawn mental pictures of what the daughter would be

like; and, though she was not exactly as he had pictured her, she was

near enough to the ideal he had visualized. He wanted, now more than

ever, to faithfully fulfil his obligation to Larry Harlan.

The presence of Carrington on the train, coupled with the inference

that Carrington was a close friend of the girl’s, irritated Taylor.

For at the first glance he had felt a subtle antagonism for the man.

Yet he was more disturbed over the mockery in the girl’s eyes when she

had looked directly at him when she had caught him listening to her

talk with Carrington and the older man.

Still, Taylor was not the type of man who permits the imminence of

discord to disturb his mental equanimity, and he grinned into the

growing darkness of the plains with a grimly humorous twist to his

lips that promised interesting developments should Carrington oppose

him.

When he again looked out of the aperture in the curtains screening the

smoking-compartment from the aisle he saw the porter pass, carrying

bedclothing. Later he saw the porter returning, smilingly inspecting a

bill. After an interval the porter stuck his head through the curtains

and surveyed him with a flashing grin:

“Is you ready to retiah, boss?” he asked.

A quarter of an hour later Taylor was alone in his berth, gazing at

his reflection in the glass while he undressed.

“You wouldn’t have the nerve to think she is interested in you, would

you—you homely son-of-a-gun?” he queried of his reflection. “Why, no,

she ain’t, of course,” he added; “no woman could be interested in you.

You’ve been all day looking like a half-baked dude—and no woman is

interested in dudes!”

Carefully removing the contents of the several pockets of the despised

wearing apparel in which he had suffered for many days, he got into

his nightclothes and rang for the porter. When the latter appeared

with his huge grin, Taylor gave him the offensive clothing, bundled

together to form a large ball.

“George,” he said seriously, almost solemnly, “I’m tired of being a

dude. Some day I may decide to be a dude; but not now. Take these duds

and save them until I ask for them. If you offer them to me before I

ask for them, I’ll perforate you sure as hell!”

He produced a big Colt pistol from somewhere, and as the weapon

glinted in the light the porter’s eyes bulged and he backed away,

gingerly holding the bundle of clothing.

“Yassir, boss—yassir! I shuah won’t mention it till you does, boss!”

When the porter had gone, Taylor grinned into the glass.

“I sure have felt just what I looked,” he said.

Then he got into his berth and dreamed all night of a girl whose

mocking eyes seemed to say:

“Well, do you think you have profited by listening?”

“Why, sure,” he retorted, in his dreams; “I’ve seen you, ain’t I?”