DAVE ACCEPTS AN INVITATION
Crawford and Dave, with their prisoner, lay out in the chaparral for an
hour, then made their way back to Malapi by a wide circuit. They did not
want to meet Shorty and Doble, for that would result in a pitched battle.
They preferred rather to make a report to the sheriff and let him attempt
the arrest of the bandits.
Reluctantly, under the pressure of much prodding, Miller repeated his
story to Sheriff Applegate. Under the circumstances he was not sorry that
he was to be returned to the penitentiary, for he recognized that his
life at large would not be safe so long as Shorty and Doble were ranging
the hills. Both of them were "bad men," in the usual Western acceptance
of the term, and an accomplice who betrayed them would meet short shrift
at their hands.
The sheriff gave Crawford a receipt for the gold after they had counted
it and found none missing.
The old cattleman rose from the table and reached for his hat.
"Come on, son," he said to Dave. "I'll say we've done a good day's work.
Both of us were under a cloud. Now we're clear. We're goin' up to the
house to have some supper. Applegate, you'll get both of the confessions
of Miller fixed up, won't you? I'll want the one about George Doble's
death to take with me to the Governor of Colorado. I'm takin' the train
to-morrow."
"I'll have the district attorney fix up the papers," the sheriff
promised.
Emerson Crawford hooked an arm under the elbow of Sanders and left the
office.
"I'm wonderin' about one thing, boy," he said. "Did Miller kill George
Doble accidentally or on purpose?"
"I'm wondering about that myself. You remember that Denver bartender said
they had been quarreling a good deal. They were having a row at the very
time when I met them at the gate of the corral. It's a ten-to-one shot
that Miller took the chance to plug Doble and make me pay for it."
"Looks likely, but we'll never know. Son, you've had a rotten deal handed
you."
The younger man's eyes were hard as steel. He clamped his jaw tight, but
he made no comment.
"Nobody can give you back the years of yore life you've lost," the
cattleman went on. "But we'll get yore record straightened out, anyhow,
so that won't stand against you. I know one li'l' girl will be tickled to
hear the news. Joy always has stuck out that you were treated shameful."
"I reckon I'll not go up to your house to-night," Dave said in a
carefully modulated voice. "I'm dirty and unshaven, and anyhow I'd rather
not go to-night."
Crawford refused to accept this excuse. "No, sir. You're comin' with me,
by gum! I got soap and water and a razor up at the house, if that's
what's troublin' you. We've had a big day and I'm goin' to celebrate by
talkin' it all over again. Dad gum my hide, think of it, you solemn-faced
old owl! This time last night I was 'most a pauper and you sure were.
Both of us were under the charge of havin' killed a man each. To-night
we're rich as that fellow Crocus; anyhow I am, an' you're haided that
way. And both of us have cleared our names to boot. Ain't you got any red
blood in that big body of yore's?"
"I'll drop in to the Delmonico and get a bite, then ride out to the
Jackpot."
"You will not!" protested the cattleman. "Looky here, Dave. It's a
showdown. Have you got anything against me?"
Dave met him eye to eye. "Not a thing, Mr. Crawford. No man ever had a
better friend."
"Anything against Joyce?"
"No, sir."
"Don't hate my boy Keith, do you?"
"How could I?"
"Then what in hell ails you? You're not parlor-shy, are you? Say the
word, and we'll eat in the kitchen," grinned Crawford.
"I'm not a society man," said Sanders lamely.
He could not explain that the shadow of the prison walls was a barrier he
could not cross; that they rose to bar him from all the joy and happiness
of young life.
"Who in Mexico's talkin' about society? I said come up and eat supper
with me and Joy and Keith. If you don't come, I'm goin' to be good and
sore. I'll not stand for it, you darned old killjoy."
"I'll go," answered the invited man.
He went, not because he wanted to go, but because he could not escape
without being an ungracious boor.
Joyce flew to meet her father, eyes eager, hands swift to caress his
rough face and wrinkled coat. She bubbled with joy at his return, and
when he told her that his news was of the best the long lashes of the
brown eyes misted with tears. The young man in the background was struck
anew by the matronly tenderness of her relation to her father. She
hovered about him as a mother does about her son returned from the wars.
"I've brought company for supper, honey," Emerson told her.
She gave Dave her hand, flushed and smiling. "I've been so worried," she
explained. "It's fine to know the news is good. I'll want to hear it
all."
"We've got the stolen money back, Joy," exploded her father. "We know who
took it--Dug Doble and that cowboy Shorty and Miller."
"But I thought Miller--"
"He escaped. We caught him and brought him back to town with us."
Crawford seized the girl by the shoulders. He was as keen as a boy to
share his pleasure. "And Joy--better news yet. Miller confessed he
killed George Doble. Dave didn't do it at all."
Joyce came to the young man impulsively, hand outstretched. She was
glowing with delight, eyes kind and warm and glad. "That's the best yet.
Oh, Mr. Sanders, isn't it good?"
His impassive face gave no betrayal of any happiness he might feel in his
vindication. Indeed, something almost sardonic in its expression chilled
her enthusiasm. More than the passing of years separated them from the
days when he had shyly but gayly wiped dishes for her in the kitchen,
when he had worshiped her with a boy's uncritical adoration.
Sanders knew it better than she, and cursed the habit of repression that
had become a part of him in his prison days. He wanted to give her happy
smile for smile. But he could not do it. All that was young and ardent
and eager in him was dead. He could not let himself go. Even when
emotions flooded his heart, no evidence of it reached his chill eyes and
set face.
After he had come back from shaving, he watched her flit about the room
while she set the table. She was the competent young mistress of the
house. With grave young authority she moved, slenderly graceful. He
knew her mind was with the cook in the kitchen, but she found time to
order Keith crisply to wash his face and hands, time to gather flowers
for the center of the table from the front yard and to keep up a running
fire of talk with him and her father. More of the woman than in the days
when he had known her, perhaps less of the carefree maiden, she was
essentially unchanged, was what he might confidently have expected her to
be. Emerson Crawford was the same bluff, hearty Westerner, a friend to
tie to in sunshine and in storm. Even little Keith, just escaping from
his baby ways, had the same tricks and mannerisms. Nothing was different
except himself. He had become arid and hard and bitter, he told himself
regretfully.
Keith was his slave, a faithful admirer whose eyes fed upon his hero
steadily. He had heard the story of this young man's deeds discussed
until Dave had come to take on almost mythical proportions.
He asked a question in an awed voice. "How did you get this Miller to
confess?"
The guest exchanged a glance with the host. "We had a talk with him."
"Did you--?"
"Oh, no! We just asked him if he didn't want to tell us all about it, and
it seems he did."
"Maybe you touched his better feelin's," suggested Keith, with memories
of an hour in Sunday School when his teacher had made a vain appeal to
his.
His father laughed. "Maybe we did. I noticed he was near blubberin'. I
expect it's 'Adios, Señor Miller.' He's got two years more to serve, and
after that he'll have another nice long term to serve for robbin' the
stage. All I wish is we'd done the job more thorough and sent some
friends of his along with him. Well, that's up to Applegate."
"I'm glad it is," said Joyce emphatically.
"Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?" asked the president of that
company.
"Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at the
post-office," Miss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because a
blush insisted on flowing into her cheeks. "He says it's the biggest
thing he ever saw, but it's going to be awf'ly hard to control. Where
_is_ that note? I must have put it somewhere."
Emerson's eyes flickered mischief. "Oh, well, never mind about the note.
That's private property, I reckon."
"I'm sure if I can find it--"
"I'll bet my boots you cayn't, though," he teased.
"Dad! What will Mr. Sanders think? You know that's nonsense. Bob wrote
because I asked him to let me know."
"Sure. Why wouldn't the secretary and field superintendent of the Jackpot
Company keep the daughter of the president informed? I'll have it read
into the minutes of our next board meetin' that it's in his duties to
keep you posted."
"Oh, well, if you want to talk foolishness," she pouted.
"There's somethin' else I'm goin' to have put into the minutes of the
next meetin', Dave," Crawford went on. "And that's yore election as
treasurer of the company. I want officers around me that I can trust,
son."
"I don't know anything about finance or about bookkeeping," Dave said.
"You'll learn. We'll have a bookkeeper, of course. I want some one for
treasurer that's level-haided and knows how to make a quick turn when he
has to, some one that uses the gray stuff in his cocoanut. We'll fix a
salary when we get goin'. You and Bob are goin' to have the active
management of this concern. Cattle's my line, an' I aim to stick to it.
Him and you can talk it over and fix yore duties so's they won't
conflict. Burns, of course, will run the actual drillin'. He's an A1
man. Don't let him go."
Dave was profoundly touched. No man could be kinder to his own son, could
show more confidence in him, than Emerson Crawford was to one who had no
claims upon him.
He murmured a dry "Thank you"; then, feeling this to be inadequate,
added, "I'll try to see you don't regret this."
The cattleman was a shrewd judge of men. His action now was not based
solely upon humanitarian motives. Here was a keen man, quick-witted,
steady, and wholly to be trusted, one certain to push himself to the
front. It was good business to make it worth his while to stick to
Crawford's enterprises. He said as much to Dave bluntly.
"And you ain't in for any easy time either," he added. "We've got oil.
We're flooded with it, so I hear. Seve-re-al thousand dollars' worth a
day is runnin' off and seepin' into the desert. Bob Hart and Jed Burns
have got the job of puttin' the lid on the pot, but when they do that
you've got a bigger job. Looks bigger to me, anyhow. You've got to get
rid of that oil--find a market for it, sell it, ship it away to make room
for more. Get busy, son." Crawford waved his hand after the manner of one
who has shifted a responsibility and does not expect to worry about it.
"Moreover an' likewise, we're shy of money to keep operatin' until we can
sell the stuff. You'll have to raise scads of mazuma, son. In this oil
game dollars sure have got wings. No matter how tight yore pockets are
buttoned, they fly right out."
"I doubt whether you've chosen the right man," the ex-cowpuncher said,
smiling faintly. "The most I ever borrowed in my life was twenty-five
dollars."
"You borrow twenty-five thousand the same way, only it's easier if the
luck's breakin' right," the cattleman assured him cheerfully. "The
easiest thing in the world to get hold of is money--when you've already
got lots of it."
"The trouble is we haven't."
"Well, you'll have to learn to look like you knew where it grew on
bushes," Emerson told him, grinning.
"I can see you've chosen me for a nice lazy job."
"Anything but that, son. You don't want to make any mistake about this
thing. Brad Steelman's goin' to fight like a son-of-a-gun. He'll strike
at our credit and at our market and at our means of transportation. He'll
fight twenty-four hours of the day, and he's the slickest, crookedest
gray wolf that ever skulked over the range."
The foreman of the D Bar Lazy R came in after supper for a conference
with his boss. He and Crawford got their heads together in the
sitting-room and the young people gravitated out to the porch. Joyce
pressed Dave into service to help her water the roses, and Keith hung
around in order to be near Dave. Occasionally he asked questions
irrelevant to the conversation. These were embarrassing or not as it
happened.
Joyce delivered a little lecture on the culture of roses, not because she
considered herself an authority, but because her guest's conversation was
mostly of the monosyllabic order. He was not awkward or self-conscious;
rather a man given to silence.
"Say, Mr. Sanders, how does it feel to be wounded?" Keith blurted out.
"You mustn't ask personal questions, Keith," his sister told him.
"Oh! Well, I already ast this one?" the boy suggested ingenuously.
"Don't know, Keith," answered the young man. "I never was really wounded.
If you mean this scratch in the shoulder, I hardly felt it at all till
afterward."
"Golly! I'll bet I wouldn't tackle a feller shootin' at me the way that
Miller was at you," the youngster commented in naïve admiration.
"Bedtime for li'l boys, Keith," his sister reminded him.
"Oh, lemme stay up a while longer," he begged.
Joyce was firm. She had schooled her impulses to resist the little
fellow's blandishments, but Dave noticed that she was affectionate even
in her refusal.
"I'll come up and say good-night after a while, Keithie," she promised as
she kissed him.
To the gaunt-faced man watching them she was the symbol of all most to be
desired in woman. She embodied youth, health, charm. She was life's
springtime, its promise of fulfillment; yet already an immaculate Madonna
in the beauty of her generous soul. He was young enough in his knowledge
of her sex to be unaware that nature often gives soft trout-pool eyes of
tenderness to coquettes and wonderful hair with the lights and shadows of
an autumn-painted valley to giggling fools. Joyce was neither coquette
nor fool. She was essential woman in the making, with all the faults and
fine brave impulses of her years. Unconsciously, perhaps, she was showing
her best side to her guest, as maidens have done to men since Eve first
smiled on Adam.
Dave had closed his heart to love. It was to have no room in his life. To
his morbid sensibilities the shadow of the prison walls still stretched
between him and Joyce. It did not matter that he was innocent, that all
his small world would soon know of his vindication. The fact stood. For
years he had been shut away from men, a leprous thing labeled "Unclean!"
He had dwelt in a place of furtive whisperings, of sinister sounds. His
nostrils had inhaled the odor of musty clothes and steamed food. His
fingers had touched moisture sweating through the walls, and in his small
dark cell he had hunted graybacks. The hopeless squalor of it at times
had driven him almost mad. As he saw it now, his guilt was of minor
importance. If he had not fired the shot that killed George Doble, that
was merely a chance detail. What counted against him was that his soul
was marked with the taint of the criminal through association and habit
of thought. He could reason with this feeling and temporarily destroy it.
He could drag it into the light and laugh it away. But subconsciously it
persisted as a horror from which he could not escape. A man cannot touch
pitch, even against his own will, and not be defiled.
"You're Keith's hero, you know," the girl told Dave, her face bubbling
to unexpected mirth. "He tries to walk and talk like you. He asks the
queerest questions. To-day I caught him diving at a pillow on the bed.
He was making-believe to be you when you were shot."
Her nearness in the soft, shadowy night shook his self-control. The music
of her voice with its drawling intonations played on his heartstrings.
"Think I'll go now," he said abruptly.
"You must come again," she told him. "Keith wants you to teach him how to
rope. You won't mind, will you?"
The long lashes lifted innocently from the soft deep eyes, which rested
in his for a moment and set clamoring a disturbance in his blood.
"I'll be right busy," he said awkwardly, bluntly.
She drew back within herself. "I'd forgotten how busy you are, Mr.
Sanders. Of course we mustn't impose on you," she said, cold and stiff as
only offended youth can be.
Striding into the night, Dave cursed the fate that had made him what he
was. He had hurt her boorishly by his curt refusal of her friendship. Yet
the heart inside him was a wild river of love.