CHAPTER IX—A MAN LIES

Taylor was arrayed as Marion had mentally pictured him that day when,

in the Pullman, she had associated him with ranches and ranges.

Evidently he was ready to ride, for leather chaps incased his legs.

The chaps were plain, not even adorned with the spangles of the

drawings she had seen; and they were well-worn and shiny in spots. A

pair of big, Mexican spurs were on the heels of his boots; the

inevitable cartridge-belt about his middle, sagging with the heavy

pistol; a quirt dangled from his left hand. Assuredly he belonged in

this environment—he even seemed to dominate it.

She had wondered how he would greet her; but his greeting was not at

all what she had feared it would be. For he did not presume upon their

meeting on the train; he gave no sign that he had ever seen her

before; there was not even a glint in his eyes to tell her that he

remembered the scornful look she had given him when she discovered him

listening to the conversation carried on between her uncle and

Carrington. His manner indicated that if _she_ did not care to mention

the matter _he_ would not. His face was grave as he stepped across the

porch and stood before her. And he said merely:

“Are you looking for someone, ma’am?”

“I came to see you, Mr. Taylor,” she said. (And then he knew that the

negro porter on the train had not lied when he said the girl had paid

him for certain information.)

But Taylor’s face was still grave, for he thought he knew what she had

come for. He had overheard a great deal of the conversation between

Parsons and Carrington in the dining-car, and he remembered such

phrases as: “That fairy tale about her father having been seen in this

locality; To get her out here, where there isn’t a hell of a lot of

law, and a man’s will is the only thing that governs him;” and, “Then

you lied about Lawrence Harlan having been seen in this country.”

Also, he remembered distinctly another phrase, uttered by Carrington:

“That you framed up on her mother, to get her to leave Larry.”

All of that conversation was vivid in Taylor’s mind, and mingled with

the recollection of it now was a grim pity for the girl, for the

hypocritical character of her supposed friends.

To be sure, the girl did not know that Parsons had lied about her

father having been seen in the vicinity of Dawes; but that did not

alter the fact that Larry Harlan had really been here; and Taylor

surmised that she had made inquiries, thus discovering that there was

truth in Carrington’s statement.

He got a chair for her and seated himself on the porch railing.

“You came to see me?” he said, encouragingly.

“I am Marion Harlan, the daughter of Lawrence Harlan,” began the girl.

And then she paused to note the effect of her words on Taylor.

So far as she could see, there was no sign of emotion on Taylor’s

face. He nodded, looking steadily at her.

“And you are seeking news of your father,” he said. “Who told you to

come to me?”

“A man named Ben Mullarky. He said my father had worked for you—that

you had been his best friend.”

She saw his lips come together in straight lines.

“Poor Larry. You knew he died, Miss Harlan?”

“Mullarky told me.” The girl’s eyes moistened. “And I should like to

know something about him—how he lived after—after he left home;

whether he was happy—all about him. You see, Mr. Taylor, I loved him!”

“And Larry Harlan loved his daughter,” said Taylor softly.

He began to tell her of her father; how several years before Harlan

had come to him, seeking employment; how Larry and himself had formed

a friendship; how they had gone together in search of the gold that

Larry claimed to have discovered in the Sangre de Christo Mountains;

of the injury Larry had suffered, and how the man had died while he

himself had been taking him toward civilization and assistance.

During the recital, however, one thought dominated him, reddening his

face with visible evidence of the sense of guilt that had seized him.

He must deliberately lie to the daughter of the man who had been his

friend.

In his pocket at this instant was Larry’s note to him, in which the

man had expressed his fear of fortune-hunters. Taylor remembered the

exact words:

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

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.

And Taylor’s judgment was that Carrington and Parsons were

fortune-hunters; that if they discovered the girl to be entitled to a

share of the money that had been received from the sale of the mine,

they would endeavor to convert it to their own use. And Taylor was

determined they should not have it.

The conversation he had overheard in the dining-car had convinced him

of their utter hypocrisy and selfishness; it had aroused in him a

feeling of savage resentment and disgust that would not permit him to

transfer a cent of the money to the girl as long as they held the

slightest influence over her.

Again he mentally quoted from Larry’s note to him:

The others were too selfish and sneaking. (That meant Parsons—and one

other.) Squint, I want you to take care of her.... Sell—the mine—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.

Since the first meeting with the girl on the train Taylor had felt an

entire sympathy with Larry Harlan in his expressed desire to have

Taylor marry the girl; in fact, she was the first girl that Taylor had

ever wanted to marry, and the passion in his heart for her had already

passed the wistful stage—he was determined to have her. But that

passion did not lessen his sense of obligation to Larry Harlan. Nor

would it—if he could not have the girl himself—prevent him doing what

he could to keep her from forming any sort of an alliance with the

sort of man Larry had wished to save her from, as expressed in this

passage of the note: “If Marion is going to fall in with one of that

kind, I’d rather she wouldn’t get what I leave.”

Therefore, since Taylor distrusted Carrington and Parsons, he had

decided he would not tell the girl of the money her father had

left—the share of the proceeds of the mine. He would hold it for her,

as a sacred trust, until the time came—if it ever came—when she would

have discovered their faithlessness—or until she needed the money.

More, he was determined to expose the men.

He knew, thanks to his eavesdropping on the train, at least something

regarding the motives that had brought them to Dawes; Carrington’s

words, “When we get hold of the reins,” had convinced him that they

and the interests behind them were to endeavor to rob the people of

Dawes. That was indicated by their attempt to have David Danforth

elected mayor of the town.

Taylor had already decided that he could not permit Marion to see the

note her father had left, for he did not want her to feel that she was

under any obligation—parental or otherwise—to marry him. If he won her

at all, he wanted to win her on his merits.

As a matter of fact, since he had decided to lie about the money, he

was determined to say nothing about the note at all. He would keep

silent, making whatever explanations that seemed to be necessary,

trusting to time and the logical sequence of events for the desired

outcome.

He was forced to begin to lie at once. When he had finished the story

of Larry’s untimely death, the girl looked straight at him.

“Then you were with him when he died. Did—did he mention anyone—my

mother—or me?”

“He said: ‘Squint, there is a daughter’”—Taylor was quoting from the

note—“‘she was fifteen when I saw her last. She looked just like

me—thank God for that!’” Taylor blushed when he saw the girl’s face

redden, for he knew what her thoughts were. He should not have quoted

that sentence. He resolved to be more careful; and went on: “He told

me I was to take care of you, to offer you a home at the Arrow—after I

found you. I was to go to Westwood, Illinois, to find you. I suppose

he wanted me to bring you here.”

The speech was entirely unworthy, and Taylor knew it, and he eased his

conscience by adding: “He thought, I suppose, that you would like to

be where he had been. I’ve not touched the room he had. All his

effects are there—everything he owned, just as he left them. I had

given him a room in the house because I liked him (that was the

truth), and I wanted him where I could talk to him.”

“I cannot thank you enough for that!” she said earnestly. And then

Taylor was forced to lie again, for she immediately asked: “And the

mine? It proved to be worthless, I suppose. For,” she added, “that

would be just father’s luck.”

“The mine wasn’t what we thought it would be,” said Taylor. He was

looking at his boots when he spoke, and he wondered if his face was as

red as it felt.

“I am not surprised.” There was no disappointment in her voice, and

therefore Taylor knew she was not avaricious—though he knew he had not

expected her to be. “Then he left nothing but his personal

belongings?” she added.

Taylor nodded.

The girl sat for a long time, looking out over the river into the vast

level that stretched away from it.

“He has ridden there, I suppose,” she said wistfully. “He was here for

nearly three years, you said. Then he must have been everywhere around

here.” And she got up, gazing about her, as though she would firmly

fix the locality for future reminiscent dreams. Then suddenly she

said:

“I should like to see his room—may I?”

“You sure can!”

She followed him into the house, and he stood in the open doorway,

watching her as she went from place to place, looking at Larry’s

effects.

Taylor did not remain long at the door; he went out upon the porch

again, leaving her in the room, and after a long time she joined him,

her eyes moist, but a smile on her lips.

“You’ll leave his things there—a little longer, won’t you? I should

like to have them, and I shall come for them, some day.”

“Sure,” he said. “But, look here, Miss Harlan. Why should you take his

things? Leave them here—and come yourself. That room is yours, if you

say the word. And a half-interest in the ranch. I was going to offer

your father an interest in it—if he had lived——”

He realized his mistake when he saw her eyes widen incredulously. And

there was a change in her voice—it was full of doubt, of distrust

almost.

“What had father done to deserve an interest in your ranch?” she

demanded.

“Why,” he answered hesitatingly, “it’s rather hard to say. But he

helped me much; he suggested improvements that made the place more

valuable; he was a good man, and he took a great deal of the work off

my mind—and I liked him,” he finished lamely.

“And do you think I could do his share of the work?” she interrogated,

looking at him with an odd smile, the meaning of which Taylor could

not fathom.

“I couldn’t expect that, of course,” he said boldly; “but I owe Harlan

something for what he did for me, and I thought——”

“You thought you would be charitable to the daughter,” she finished

for him, with a smile in which there was gratitude and understanding.

“I am sure I can’t thank you enough for feeling that way toward my

father and myself. But I can’t accept, you know.”

Taylor did know, of course. A desperate desire to make amends for his

lying, to force upon her gratuitously what he had illegally robbed her

of, had been the motive underlying his offer. And he would have been

disappointed had she accepted, for that would have revealed a lack of

spirit which he had hoped she possessed.

And yet Taylor felt decidedly uncomfortable over the refusal. He

wanted her to have what belonged to her, for he divined from the note

her father had left that she would have need of it.

He discovered by judicious questioning, by inference, and through

crafty suggestion, that she was entirely dependent upon her uncle;

that her uncle had bought the Huggins house, and that Carrington had

made her a present of the horse she rode.

This last bit of information, volunteered by Marion, provoked Taylor

to a rage that made him grit his teeth.

A little while longer they talked, and when the girl mounted her horse

to ride away, they had entered into an agreement under which on

Tuesdays and Fridays—the first Tuesday falling on the following

day—Taylor was to be absent from the ranch. And during his absence the

girl was to come and stay at the ranchhouse, there to occupy her

father’s room and, if she desired, to enter the other rooms at will.

As a concession to propriety, she was to bring Martha, the Huggins

housekeeper, with her.

But Taylor, after the girl had left, stood for an hour on the porch,

watching the dust-cloud that followed the girl’s progress through the

big basin, his face red, his soul filled with loathing for the part

his judgment was forcing him to play. But arrayed against the loathing

was a complacent satisfaction aroused over the thought that Carrington

would never get the money that Larry Harlan had left to the girl.