“ON THE TRAIL”
Williston himself came to the door. His thin, scholarly face looked
drawn and worn in the mid-day glare. A tiredness in the eyes told
graphically of a sleepless night.
“I’m glad to see you, Langford,” he said. “It was good of you to come.
Leave your horse for Mary. She’ll give her water when she’s cooled off a
bit.”
“You sent for me, Williston?” asked the young man, rubbing his face
affectionately against the wet neck of his mare.
“I did. It was good of you to come so soon.”
“Fortunately, your messenger found me at home. As for the rest, Sade,
here, hasn’t her beat in the cow country, if she is only a cow pony, eh,
Sade?”
At that moment, Mary Williston came into the open doorway of the rude
claim shanty set down in the very heart of the sun-seared plain which
stretched away into heart-choking distances from every possible point of
the compass. And sweet she was to look upon, though tanned and glowing
from close association with the ardent sun and riotous wind. Her auburn
hair, more reddish on the edges from sunburn, was fine and soft and
there was much of it. It seemed newly brushed and suspiciously glossy.
One sees far on the plains, and two years out of civilization are not
enough to make a girl forget the use of a mirror, even if it be but a
broken sliver, propped up on a pine-board dressing table. She looked
strangely grown-up despite her short, rough skirt and badly scuffed
leather riding-leggings. Langford stared at her with a startled look of
mingled admiration and astonishment. She came forward and put her hand
on the mare’s bridle. She was not embarrassed in the least. But color
came into the stranger’s face. He swept his wide hat from his head
quickly.
“No indeed, Miss Williston; I’ll water Sade myself.”
“Please let me. I’d love to.”
“She’s used to it, Langford,” said Williston in his quiet, gentlemanly
voice, the well-bred cadence of which spoke of a training far removed
from the harassments and harshnesses of life in this plains country.
“You see, she is the only boy I have. She must of necessity be my chore
boy as well as my herd boy. In her leisure moments she holds down her
kitchen claim; I don’t know how she does it, but she does. You had
better let her do it; she will hold it against you if you don’t.”
“But I couldn’t have a woman doing my grooming for me. Why, the very
idea!”
He sprang into the saddle.
“But you waited for me to do it,” said the girl, looking up at him
curiously.
“Did I? I didn’t mean to. Yes, I did, too. But I beg your pardon. You
see—say, look here; are you the ‘little girl’ who left word for me this
morning?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Well, you see,” smiling, but apologetic, “one of the boys said that
Williston’s little girl had ridden over and said her father wanted to
see me as soon as I could come. So, you see, I thought—”
“Dad always calls me that, so most of the people around here do, too. It
is very silly.”
“I don’t think so at all. I only wonder why I have not known about you
before,” with a frank smile. “It must be because I’ve been away so much
of the time lately. Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked suddenly. “Ten
miles is a sort of a lonesome run—for a girl.”
“I did wait a while,” said Mary, honestly, “but you didn’t seem in any
hurry. I expect you didn’t care to be bored that long way with the silly
chatter of a ‘little girl.’”
“Well,” said Langford, ruefully, “I’m afraid I did feel a little
relieved when I found you had not waited. I never will again. I do beg
your pardon,” he called, laughingly, over his shoulder as he galloped
away to the spring.
When he returned there was no one to receive him but Williston. Together
they entered the house. It was a small room into which Langford was
ushered. It was also very plain. It was more than that, it was shabby.
An easy-chair or two that had survived the wreckage of the house of
Williston had been shipped to this “land of promise,” together with a
few other articles such as were absolutely indispensable. The table was
a big shipping box, though Langford did not notice that, for it was
neatly covered with a moth-eaten, plum-colored felt cloth. A rug,
crocheted out of particolored rags, a relic of Mary’s conservative and
thrifty grandmother, served as a carpet for the living-room. A peep
through the open door into the next and only other room disclosed
glimpses of matting on the floor. There was a holy place even in this
castaway house on the prairie. As the young man’s careless eyes took in
this new significance, the door closed softly. The “little girl” had
shut herself in.
The two men sat down at the table. It was hot. They were perspiring
freely. The flies, swarming through the screenless doorway, stung
disagreeably.
Laconically Williston told his story. He wasted no words in the telling.
In the presence of the man whose big success made his own pitiful
failures incongruous, his sensitive scholar’s nature had shut up like a
clam.
Langford’s jaw was set. His young face was tense with interest. He had
thrown his hat on the floor as he came in, as is the way with men who
have lived much without women. He had a strong, bronzed face, with
dare-devil eyes, blue they were, too, and he had a certain turn of the
head, a mark of distinction which success always gives to her sons. He
had big shoulders, clad in a blue flannel shirt open at the throat. In
his absorption he had forgotten the “little girl” as completely as if
she had, in very truth, been the ten-year-old of his imagination. How
plainly he could see all the unholy situation,—the handful of desperate
men perfectly protected on the little island. One man sighting from
behind a cottonwood could play havoc with a whole sheriff’s posse on
that open stretch of sand-bar. Nothing but a surprise—and did these
insolent men fear surprise? They had laughed at the suggestion of the
near presence of an officer of the law. And did they not do well to
laugh? Surely it was a joke, a good one, this idea of an officer’s being
where he was needed in Kemah County.
“And my brand was on that spotted steer,” he interrupted. “I know the
creature—know him well. He has a mean eye. Had the gall to dispute the
right of way with me once, not so long ago, either. He was in the corral
at the time, but he’s been on the range all Summer. He may have the evil
eye all right, but he’s mine, bad eye and all; and what is mine, I will
have. And is that the only original brand you saw?”
“The only one,” quietly, “unless the J R on that red steer when he got
up was an original one.”
“J R? Who could J R be?”
“I couldn’t say, but the man was—Jesse Black.”
“Jesse Black!”
The repeated words were fairly spit out.
“Jesse Black! I might have known. Who else bold enough to loot the Three
Bars? But his day has come. Not a hair, nor a hide, not a hoof, not
tallow enough to fry a flapjack shall be left on the Three Bars before
he repents his insolence.”
“What will you do?” asked Williston.
“What will you do?” retorted Langford.
“I? What can I do?” in the vague, helpless tone of the dreamer.
“Everything—if you will,” briefly.
He snatched up his wide hat.
“Where are you going?” asked Williston, curiously.
“To see Dick Gordon before this day is an hour older. Will you come
along?”
“Ye—es,” hesitatingly. “Gordon hasn’t made much success of things so
far, has he?”
“Because you—and men like you—are under the thumb of men like Jesse
Black,” said Langford, curtly. “Afraid to peach for fear of antagonizing
the gang. Afraid to vote against the tools of the cattle thieves for
fear of antagonizing the gang. Afraid to call your souls your own for
fear of antagonizing the gang. Your ‘on the fence’ policy didn’t work
very well this time, did it? You haven’t found your cattle, have you?
The angel must have forgotten. Thought you were tainted of Egypt, eh?”
“It is easy for you to talk,” said Williston, simply. “It would be
different if your bread and butter and your little girl’s as well
depended on a scrawny little bunch like mine.”
“Maybe,” said Langford, shrugging his shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to have
exempted you, though, does it? But Black is no respecter of persons, you
know. However, the time has come for Dick Gordon to show of what stuff
he is made. It was for this that I worked for his election, though I
confess I little thought at the time that proofs for him would be
furnished from my own herds. Present conditions humiliate me utterly. Am
I a weakling that they should exist? Are we all weaklings?”
A faint, appreciative smile passed over Williston’s face. No, Langford
did not look a weakling, neither had the professed humiliation lowered
his proud head. Here was a man—a godlike type, with his sunny hair and
his great strength. This was the man who had thrown not only the whole
weight of his personal influence, which was much, but his whole-hearted
and aggressive service as well, into the long and bitter campaign for
county sovereignty, and had thus turned the scale in favor of the
scarcely hoped-for victory over the puppet of the cattle rustlers.
Williston knew his great object had been to rid the county of its
brigands. True it was that this big, ruddy, self-confident ranchman was
no weakling.
Langford strode to the door. Then he turned quickly.
“Look here, Williston, I shall make you angry, I suppose, but it has to
go in the cattle country, and you little fellows haven’t shown up very
white in these deals; you know that yourself.”
“Well?”
“Are you going to stand pat with us?”
“If you mean, am I going to tell what I know when called upon,” answered
Williston, with a simple dignity that made Langford color with sudden
shame, “I am. There are many of us ‘little fellows’ who would have been
glad to stand up against the rustling outrage long ago had we received
any backing. The moral support of men of your class has not been what
you might call a sort of ‘on the spot’ support, now, has it?” relapsing
into a gentle sarcasm. “At least, until you came to the front,” he
qualified.
“You will not be the loser, and there’s my hand on it,” said Langford,
frankly and earnestly, ignoring the latter part of the speech. “The
Three Bars never forgets a friend. They may do you before we are through
with them, Williston, but remember, the Three Bars never forgets.”
Braggadocio? Maybe. But there was strength back of it, there was
determination back of it, and there was an abiding faith in the power of
the Three Bars to make things happen, and a big wrath destined to sleep
not nor slumber till some things had happened in the cattle country.
Mary Williston, from her window, as is the way with a maid, watched the
two horsemen for many a mile as they galloped away. She followed them
with her eyes while they slowly became faint, moving specks in the level
distance and until they were altogether blotted out, and there was no
sign of living thing on the plain that stretched between. But Paul
Langford, as is the way with a man, forgot that he had seen a beautiful
girl and had thrilled to her glance. He looked back not once as he urged
his trusty little mare on to see Dick Gordon.