CHAPTER XV—GLOOM—AND PLANS

Elam Parsons sat all day on the wide porch of the big house nursing

his resentment. He was hunched up in the chair, his shoulders were

slouched forward, his chin resting on the wings of his high, starched

collar, his lips in a pout, his eyes sullen and gleaming with

malevolence.

Parsons was beginning to recover from his astonishment over the attack

Carrington had made on him. He saw now that he should have known

Carrington was the kind of man he had shown himself to be; for now

that Parsons reflected, he remembered little things that Carrington

had done which should have warned him.

Carrington had never been a real friend. Carrington had used him—that

was it; Carrington had made him think he was an important member of

the partnership, and he had thought so himself. Now he understood

Carrington. Carrington was selfish and cruel—more, Carrington was a

beast and an ingrate. For it had been Parsons who had made it possible

for Carrington to succeed—for he had used Parsons’ money all

along—having had very little himself.

So Parsons reflected, knowing, however, that he had not the courage to

oppose Carrington. He feared Carrington; he had always feared him, but

now his fear had become terror—and hate. For Parsons could still feel

the man’s fingers at his throat; and as he sat there on the porch his

own fingers stroked the spot, while in his heart flamed a great

yearning for vengeance.

* * * * *

Marion Harlan had got up this morning feeling rather more interested

in the big house than she had felt the day before—or upon any day that

she had occupied it. She, like Parsons, had awakened with a

presentiment of impending pleasure. But, unlike Parsons, she found it

impossible to definitely select an outstanding incident or memory upon

which to base her expectations.

Her anticipations seemed to be broad and inclusive—like a clear,

unobstructed sunset, with an effulgent glow that seemed to embrace the

whole world, warming it, bringing a great peace.

For upon this morning, suddenly awakening to the pure, white light

that shone into her window, she was conscious of a feeling of

satisfaction with life that was strange and foreign—a thing that she

had never before experienced. Always there had been a shadow of the

past to darken her vision of the future, but this morning that shadow

seemed to have vanished.

For a long time she could not understand, and she snuggled up in bed,

her brow thoughtfully furrowed, trying to solve the mystery. It was

not until she got up and was looking out of the window at the mighty

basin in which—like a dot of brown in a lake of emerald

green—clustered the buildings of the Arrow ranch, that knowledge in an

overwhelming flood assailed her. Then a crimson flush stained her

cheeks, her eyes glowed with happiness, and she clasped her hands and

stood rigid for a long time.

She knew now. A name sprang to her lips, and she murmured it aloud,

softly: “Quinton Taylor.”

Later she appeared to Martha—a vision that made the negro woman gasp

with amazement.

“What happen to you, honey? You-all git good news? You look light an’

airy—like you’s goin’ to fly!”

“I’ve decided to like this place—after all, Martha. I—I thought at

first that I wouldn’t, but I have changed my mind.”

Martha looked sharply at her, a sidelong glance that had quite a

little subtle knowledge in it.

“I reckon that ‘Squint’ Taylor make a good many girls change their

mind, honey—he, he, he!”

“Martha!”

“Doan you git ’sturbed, now, honey. Martha shuah knows the signs. I

done discover the signs a long while ago—when I fall in love with a

worfless nigger in St. Louis. He shuah did captivate me, honey. I done

try to wiggle out of it—but ’tain’t no use. Face the fac’s, Martha,

face the fac’s, I tell myself—an’ I done it. Ain’t no use for to try

an’ fool the fac’s, honey—not one bit of use! The ol’ fac’ he look at

you an’ say: ‘Doan you try to wiggle ’way from me; I’s heah, an’ heah

I’s goin’ to stay!’ That Squint man ain’t no lady-killer, honey, but

he’s shuah a he-man from the groun’ up!”

Marion escaped Martha as quickly as she could; and after breakfast

began systematically to rearrange the furniture to suit her artistic

ideals.

Martha helped, but not again did Martha refer to Quinton

Taylor—something in Marion’s manner warned her that she could trespass

too far in that direction.

Some time during the morning Marion saw Parsons ride up and dismount

at the stable door; and later she heard him cross the porch. She

looked out of one of the front windows and saw him huddled in a big

rocking-chair, and she wondered at the depression that sat so heavily

upon him.

The girl did not pause in her work long enough to partake of the lunch

that Martha set for her—so interested was she; and therefore she did

not know whether or not Parsons came into the house. But along about

four o’clock in the afternoon, wearied of her task, Marion entered the

kitchen. From Martha she learned that Parsons had not stirred from the

chair on the porch during the entire day.

Concerned, Marion went out to him.

Parsons did not hear her; he was still moodily and resentfully

reviewing the incident of the morning.

He started when the girl placed a gentle hand on one of his shoulders,

seeming to cringe from her touch; then he looked up at her suddenly.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Don’t you feel well, Uncle Elam?” she inquired. Her hand rose from

his shoulder to his head, and her fingers ran through his hair with a

light, gentle touch that made him shiver with repugnance. There were

times when Parsons hated this living image of his brother-in-law with

a fervor that seemed to sear his heart. Now, however, pity for himself

had rather dulled the edge of his hatred. A calamity had befallen him;

he was crushed under it; and the sympathy of one whom he hated was not

entirely undesirable.

No sense of guilt assailed the man. He had never betrayed his hate to

her, and he would not do so now. That wasn’t his way. He had always

masked it from her, making her think he felt an affection for her

which was rather the equal of that which custom required a man should

feel for a niece. Yet he had always hated her.

“I’m not exactly well,” he muttered. “It’s the damned atmosphere, I

suppose.”

“Martha tells me that it _does_ affect some persons,” said the girl.

“And lack of appetite seems to be one of the first symptoms—in your

case. For Martha tells me you have not eaten.”

The girl’s soft voice irritated Parsons.

“Go away!” he ordered crossly; “I want to think!”

It was not the first time the girl had endured his moods. She smiled

tolerantly, and softly withdrew, busying herself inside the house.

Parsons did not eat supper; he slunk off to bed and lay for hours in

his room brooding over the thing that had happened to him.

He got up early the next morning, mounted his horse and left the house

before Marion could get a glimpse of him. It was still rather early

when he reached Dawes. There, in a saloon, he overheard the story of

the fight in the street in front of the courthouse, and with tingling

eagerness and venomous satisfaction he listened to a man telling

another of the terrible punishment inflicted upon Carrington by

Quinton Taylor.

Parsons did not go to see Carrington, for he feared a repetition of

Carrington’s savage rage, should he permit the latter to observe his

satisfaction over the incident of yesterday. He knew he could not face

Carrington and conceal the gloating triumph that gripped him.

So he returned to the big house. And for the greater part of the day

he sat in the rocker on the porch, his soul filled with a vindictive

joy.

He ate heartily, too; and his manner indicated that he had quite

recovered from the indisposition that had affected him the previous

day. He even smiled at Marion when she told him he was “looking

better.”

But his bitter yearning for vengeance had not been satisfied by the

knowledge that Taylor had thrashed Carrington. He knew, now that

Carrington had ruthlessly cast him aside, that he was no longer to

figure importantly in the scheme to loot the town; he knew that it was

Carrington’s intention to rob him of every dollar he had entrusted to

the man. He knew, too, that Carrington would not hesitate to murder

him should he offer the slightest objection, or should he make any

visible resistance to Carrington’s plans.

But Parsons was determined to be revenged upon Carrington, and he was

convinced that he could secure his revenge without boldly announcing

his plans.

As for that, he had no plans. But while sitting in the rocker on the

porch during the long afternoon, the vindictive light in his eyes

suddenly deepened, and he grinned evilly.

That night after supper he exerted himself to be agreeable to Marion.

During the interval between sunset and darkness he walked with the

girl along the edge of the butte above the big valley which held the

irrigation dam. And while standing in a timber grove at the edge of

the butte, he questioned her deftly about the news she had received of

her father, and she told him of her visits to the Arrow.

He had watched her narrowly, and he saw the flush that came into her

cheeks each time Taylor was mentioned.

“He is a remarkably forceful man,” he observed once, when he mentioned

Taylor. “And if I am not mistaken, Carrington is going to have his

hands full with him.”

“What do you mean? Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is not in sympathy with

Carrington’s plans concerning Dawes?”

“I mean just that. And if you had happened to be in Dawes yesterday

you might have witnessed a demonstration of Taylor’s lack of sympathy

with Carrington’s plans. For”—and now Parsons’ eyes gleamed

maliciously—“after Judge Littlefield, acting under instructions from

the governor, had refused to administer the oath of office to

Taylor—inducting his rival, Danforth, into the position instead——”

Here the girl interrupted, and Parsons was forced to relate the tale

in its entirety.

“Uncle Elam,” she said when Parsons paused, “are you certain that

Carrington’s intentions toward Dawes are honorable?”

Parsons smiled crookedly behind a palm, and then uncertainly at the

girl.

“I don’t know, Marion. Carrington is a rather hard man to gauge. He

has always been mighty uncommunicative and headstrong. He is getting

ruthless and domineering, too. I am rather afraid—that is, my dear, I

am beginning to believe we made a mistake in Carrington. He doesn’t

seem to be the sort of man we thought him to be. If he were like that

man Taylor, now——” He paused and glanced covertly at the girl, noting

the glow in her eyes.

“Yes,” he resumed, “Taylor _is_ a man. My dear,” he added

confidentially, “there is going to be trouble in Dawes—I am convinced

of that; trouble between Carrington and Taylor. Taylor thrashed

Carrington yesterday, but Carrington isn’t the kind to give up. I have

withdrawn from active participation in the affairs that brought me

here. I am not going to take sides. I don’t care who wins. That may

sound disloyal to you—but look here!” He showed her several black and

blue marks on his throat. “Carrington did that—the day before

yesterday. Choked me.” His voice quavered with self-pity, whereat the

girl caught her breath in quick sympathy and bent to examine the

marks. When she stood erect again Parsons saw her eyes flashing with

indignation, and he knew that whatever respect the girl had had for

Carrington had been forever destroyed.

“Oh!” she said, “why did he choke you?”

“Because I frankly told him I did not approve of his methods,” lied

Parsons, smirking virtuously. “He showed his hand, unmistakably, and

his methods mean evil to Dawes.”

The girl stiffened. “I shall go directly to Dawes and tell Carrington

what I think of him!” she declared.

“No—for God’s sake!” protested Parsons. “He would kill me! He would

know, instantly, that I had been talking. My life would not be worth a

snap of your fingers! Don’t let on that I have said _anything_ to you!

Let him come here, and treat him as you have always treated him. But

warn Taylor. Taylor may know something—it is certain he suspects

something—but Taylor will not know everything. Make a friend of

Taylor, my dear. Go to him—visit his ranch—as much as you like. But if

Carrington says anything to you about going there, tell him I opposed

it. That will mislead him.”

When Parsons and the girl reached the house, Parsons stood near the

kitchen door and watched her enter. He did not go in, himself; he

walked around to the front and sat on the edge of the porch, grinning

maliciously. For he knew something of the tortures of jealousy, and he

was convinced that he had added something to the antagonism that

already had been the cause of one clash between Carrington and Taylor.

And Parsons was convinced that both he and Carrington had made a

mistake in planning to loot Dawes; that despite the connivance of the

governor and Judge Littlefield, Quinton Taylor would defeat them.

Parsons might lose his money; but the point was that Carrington would

also lose. And if Parsons was wise and cautious—and did not antagonize

Taylor—there was a chance that he might gain more through his

friendship—a professed friendship—for Taylor, than he would have won

had he been loyal to Carrington. At the least, he would have the

satisfaction of working against Carrington in the dark. And to a man

of Parsons’ character that was a satisfaction not to be lightly

considered.