CHAPTER VIII—CONCERNING “SQUINT”

Marion Harlan had responded eagerly to Carrington’s fabrication

regarding the rumor of Lawrence Harlan’s presence in Dawes.

Carrington’s reference to her father’s sojourn in the town had been

vague—he merely told her that a rumor had reached him—a man’s word,

without details—and she had accepted it at its face value. She was

impatient to run the rumor down, to personally satisfy herself, and

she believed Carrington.

But she spent a fruitless week interrogating people in Dawes. She had

gone to the courthouse, there to pass long hours searching the

records—and had found nothing. Then, systematically, she had gone from

store to store—making small purchases and quizzing everyone she came

in contact with. None had known a man named Harlan; it seemed that not

one person in Dawes had ever heard of him.

Parsons had returned to town in the buckboard shortly after noon on

the day of their arrival at the new house, and she had not seen him

again until the following morning. Then he had told her that

Carrington had gone away—he did not know where. Carrington would not

return for a week or two, he inferred.

Parsons had bought some horses. A little bay, short-coupled but wiry,

belonged to her, Parsons said—it was a present from Carrington.

She hesitated to accept the horse; but the little animal won her

regard by his affectionate mannerisms, and at the end of a day of

doubt and indecision she accepted him.

She had ridden horses in Westwood—bareback when no one had been

looking, and with a side-saddle at other times—but she discovered no

side-saddle in Dawes. However, she did encounter no difficulty in

unearthing a riding-habit with a divided skirt, and though she got

into that with a pulse of trepidation and embarrassment, she soon

discovered it to be most comfortable and convenient.

And Dawes did not stare at her because she rode “straddle.” At first

she was fearful, and watched Dawes’s citizens furtively; but when she

saw that she attracted no attention other than would be attracted by

any good-looking young woman in more conventional attire, she felt

more at ease. But she could not help thinking about the sanctimonious

inhabitants of Westwood. Would they not have declared their kindly

predictions vindicated had they been permitted to see her? She could

almost hear the chorus of “I-told-you-so’s”—they rang in her ears over

a distance of many hundreds of miles!

But the spirit of the young, unfettered country had got into her soul,

and she went her way unmindful of Westwood’s opinions.

For three days she continued her search for tidings of her father,

eager and hopeful; and then for the remainder of the week she did her

searching mechanically, doggedly, with a presentiment of failure to

harass her.

And then one morning, when she was standing beside her horse near the

stable door, ready to mount and fully determined to pursue the

Carrington rumor to the end, the word she sought was brought to her.

She saw a horseman coming toward her from the direction of Dawes. He

was not Parsons—for the rider was short and broad; and besides,

Parsons was spending most of his time in Dawes.

The girl watched the rider, assured, as he came nearer, that he was a

stranger; and when he turned his horse toward her, and she saw he

_was_ a stranger, she leaned close and whispered to her own animal:

“Oh, Billy; what if it _should_ be!”

An instant later she was watching the stranger dismount within a few

feet of where she was standing.

He was short and stocky, and undeniably Irish. He was far past middle

age, as his gray hair and seamed wrinkles of his face indicated; but

there was the light of a youthful spirit and good-nature in his eyes

that squinted at the girl with a quizzical interest.

With the bridle-rein in the crook of his elbow and his hat in his

hand, he bowed elaborately to the girl.

“Would ye be Miss Harlan, ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, her face alight with eagerness, for now since the

man had spoken her name the presentiment of news grew stronger.

The man’s face flashed into a wide, delighted grin and he reached out

a hand, into which she placed one of hers, hardly knowing that she did

it.

“Me name’s Ben Mullarky, ma’am. I’ve got a little shack down on the

Rabbit-Ear—which is a crick, for all the name some locoed ignoramus

give it. You c’ud see the shack from here, ma’am—if ye’d look sharp.”

He pointed out a spot to her—a wooded section far out in the big level

country southward, beside the river—and she saw the roof of a building

near the edge of the timber.

“That’s me shack,” offered Mullarky. “Me ol’ woman an’ meself owns

her—an’ a quarter-section—all proved. We call it seven miles from the

shack to Dawes. That’d make it about three from here.”

“Yes, yes,” said the girl eagerly.

He grinned at her. “Comin’ in to town this mornin’ for some

knickknacks for me ol’ woman, I hear from Coleman—who keeps a

store—that there’s a fine-lookin’ girl named Harlan searchin’ the

country for news of her father, Larry Harlan. I knowed him, ma’am.”

“You did? Oh, how wonderful!” She stood erect, breathing fast, her

eyes glowing with mingled joy and impatience. She had not caught the

significance of Mullarky’s picturesque past tense, “knowed;” but when

he repeated it, with just a slight emphasis:

“I _knowed_ him, ma’am,” she drew a quick, full breath and her face

whitened.

“You knew him,” she said slowly. “Does that mean——”

Mullarky scratched his head and looked downward, not meeting her eyes.

“Squint Taylor would tell you the story, ma’am,” he said. “You see,

ma’am, he worked for Squint, an’ Squint was with him when it

happened.”

“He’s dead, then?” She stood rigid, tense, searching Mullarky’s face

with wide, dreading eyes, and when she saw his gaze shift under hers

she drew a deep sigh and leaned against Billy, covering her face with

her hands.

Mullarky did not attempt to disturb her; he stood, looking glumly at

her, reproaching himself for his awkwardness in breaking the news to

her.

It was some minutes before she faced him again, and then she was pale

and composed, except for the haunting sadness that had come into her

eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can find Mr.

Taylor—‘Squint,’ you called him? Is that the Taylor who was elected

mayor—last week?”

“The same, ma’am.” He turned and pointed southward, into the big,

level country that she admired so much.

“Do you see that big timber grove ’way off there—where the crick

doubles to the north—with that big green patch beyond?” She nodded.

“That’s Taylor’s ranch—the Arrow. You’ll find him there. He’s a mighty

fine man, ma’am. Larry Harlan would tell you that if he was here.

Taylor was the best friend that Larry Harlan ever had—out here.” He

looked at her pityingly. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to be the bearer of ill

news; but when I heard you was in town, lookin’ for your father, I

couldn’t help comin’ to see you.”

She asked some questions about her father—which Mullarky answered;

though he could tell her nothing that would acquaint her with the

details of her father’s life between the time he had left Westwood and

the day of his appearance in this section of the world.

“Mebbe Taylor will know, ma’am,” he repeated again and again. And

then, when she thanked him once more and mounted her horse, he said:

“You’ll be goin’ to see Squint right away, ma’am, I suppose. You can

ease your horse right down the slope, here, an’ strike the level.

You’ll find a trail right down there. You’ll follow it along the

crick, an’ it’ll take you into the Arrow ranchhouse. It’ll take you

past me own shack, too; an’ if you’ll stop in an’ tell the ol’ woman

who you are, she’ll be tickled to give you a snack an’ a cup of tea.

She liked Larry herself.”

The girl watched Mullarky ride away. He turned in the saddle, at

intervals, to grin at her.

Then, when Mullarky had gone she leaned against Billy and stood for a

long time, her shoulders quivering.

At last, though, she mounted the little animal and sent him down the

slope.

She found the trail about which Mullarky had spoken, and rode it

steadily; though she saw little of the wild, virgin country through

which she passed, because her brimming eyes blurred it all.

She came at last to Mullarky’s shack, and a stout, motherly woman,

with an ample bosom and a kindly face, welcomed her.

“So you’re Larry Harlan’s daughter,” said Mrs. Mullarky, when her

insistence had brought the girl inside the cabin; “you poor darlin’.

An’ Ben told you—the blunderin’ idiot. He’ll have a piece of my mind

when he comes back! An’ you’re stoppin’ at the old Huggins house, eh?”

She looked sharply at the girl, and the latter’s face reddened.

Whereat Mrs. Mullarky patted her shoulder and murmured:

“It ain’t your fault that there’s indacint women in the world; an’ no

taint of them will ever reach you. But the fools in this world is

always waggin’ their tongues, associatin’ what’s happened with what

they think will happen. An’ mebbe they’ll wonder about you. It’s your

uncle that’s there with you, you say? Well, then, don’t you worry. You

run right along to see Squint Taylor, now, an’ find out what he knows

about your father. Taylor’s a mighty fine man, darlin’.”

And so Marion went on her way again, grateful for Mrs. Mullarky’s

kindness, but depressed over the knowledge that the atmosphere of

suspicion, which had enveloped her in Westwood, had followed her into

this new country which, she had hoped, would have been more friendly.

She came in sight of the Arrow ranchhouse presently, and gazed at it

admiringly. It was a big building, of adobe brick, with a wide

porch—or gallery—entirely surrounding it. It was in the center of a

big space, with timber flanking it on three sides, and at the north

was a green stretch of level that reached to the sloping banks of a

river.

There were several smaller buildings; a big, fenced enclosure—the

corrals, she supposed; a pasture, and a garden. Everything was in

perfect order, and had it not been for the aroma of the sage that

assailed her nostrils, the awe-inspiring bigness of it all, the sight

of thousands of cattle—which she could see through the trees beyond

the clearing, she could have likened the place to a big eastern

farmhouse of the better class, isolated and prosperous.

She dismounted from her horse at a corner of the house, near a door

that opened upon the wide porch, and stood, pale and hesitant, looking

at the door, which was closed.

And as she stared at the door, it swung inward and Quinton Taylor

appeared in the opening.