BETTY RIDES
Betty Reed had watched unhappily the young tramp shuffle into the
willows and disappear. She felt depressed by a complex she could not
analyze. In part it was shame, for her father, for this tramp who
looked as though he were made for better things, for the whole squalid
episode; in part pity, not wholly divorced from admiration at the boy’s
insolence and courage. He might be a wastrel, as her father had said.
He might be a ne’er-do-well. But by some sure instinct she knew that
there had been a time when he fronted with high hope to the future.
That momentary meeting of the eyes had told her as much.
Something had killed him as surely as a bullet fired through the heart.
The boy he had been was dead.
Lon Forbes chuckled. “They’ll keep going, I reckon, now they’ve found
out this ain’t no Hotel de Gink. You certainly handed that youngest bum
his hat, Clint. I’ll say you did.”
Now that it was over Reed was not very well satisfied with his conduct.
The hobo had brought the punishment on himself. Still--there was
something morally degrading about such an affray. One can’t touch pitch
without paying the penalty.
“We’ll begin cutting this field to-morrow, Lon,” he said shortly.
“Hustle the boys up so’s to finish the mesa to-day.” Across his
shoulder he flung a question at the girl. “You going to town, Bess?”
“In an hour or so. Want me to do something?” she asked.
“Call at Farrell’s and see if he’s got in those bolts I ordered.”
The ranchman strode to the car followed by Forbes. The foreman was
troubled by no doubts. His mind functioned elementally. If hoboes
camped on the Diamond Bar K and made themselves a danger to the crops,
they had to be hustled on their way. When they became insolent, it was
necessary to treat them rough. That was all there was to it.
Betty swung to the saddle and rode back to the house. She was returning
from an inspection of a bunch of two-year-olds that were her own
private property. She was rather well off in her own right, as the
ranch country counts wealth. The death of her uncle a year before had
left her financially independent.
As Betty cantered into the open square in front of the house, her
father and the foreman were getting out of the car. A chubby,
flaxen-haired little lass came flying down the porch steps a-quiver
with excited delight.
“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, what d’you fink? I went out to the barn
an’--an’--an’ I fink Fifi’s got puppies, ’cause she--she--”
“Thought I told you to stay away from the barn,” the ranchman chided.
His harsh voice dried up the springs of the child’s enthusiasm. She
drew back as though she had been struck. From the winsome, wee face
the eager, bubbling delight vanished, the enchanting dimples fled. The
blue eyes became wells of woe. A small finger found the corner of the
Cupid’s-bow mouth.
Clint Reed, ashamed and angry at himself, turned away abruptly. Little
Ruth was the sunshine of his life, the last pledge of his dead wife’s
love, and he had deliberately and cruelly wounded her.
Swinging from the saddle, Betty ran to the porch. Her arms enfolded the
child and drew her tenderly close. “Ruthie, tell big sister all about
it,” she whispered gently.
“D-d-d-daddy--” the sobbing little girl began, and choked up.
“Daddy’s worried, dear. He didn’t mean to hurt your precious little
feelings. Tell Betty about Fifi’s puppies, darling.”
Through her tears and between sobs Ruth told her great news. Presently
she forgot to weep and was led to the scene of Fifi’s amazing and
unique triumph. She gave little squeals of delight when Betty handed
her a blind little creature to cuddle in spite of the indignant
mother’s protesting growls. The child held the warm white-and-brown
puppy close to her bosom and adored it with her eyes. With reluctance
she returned it at last.
Ruth’s happiness was quite restored after her sister had given her a
glass of milk and a cookie and sent her out to play.
The young woman waved her a smiling good-bye and went to work.
She had some business letters to write and she went to the room that
served her as a library and office. The sound of the typewriter keys
drifted out of the open window for an hour or more.
The girl worked swiftly. She had a direct mind that found fluent
expression through the finger-tips. When she knew what she wanted to
say, it was never any trouble for Betty Reed to say it. A small pile
of addressed and sealed letters lay in the rack on the desk before she
covered the machine.
These she took with her.
Clint Reed she found tinkering with a reaper that had gone temporarily
out of service.
“Want anything more, Dad? I’m going now,” she said.
“You’ve got that list I left on the desk. That’s all, except the bolts.”
The sky was a vault of blue. Not even a thin, long-drawn skein of cloud
floated above. A hot sun baked down on the dusty road over which Betty
traveled. Heat waves danced in front of her. There was no faintest
breath of breeze stirring.
The gold of autumn was creeping over the hills. Here and there was a
crimson splash of sumac or of maple against the almost universal yellow
toning. It seemed that the whole landscape had drunk in the summer
sunshine and was giving it out now in a glow of warm wealth.
The girl took a short cut over the hills. The trail led by way of draw,
gulch, and open slope to the valley in which Wild Horse lay. She rode
through the small business street of the village to the post-office.
Here she bought supplies of the storekeeper, who was also post-master.
Battell was his name. He was an amiable and harmless gossip. Wild Horse
did not need a newspaper as long as he was there to hand tobacco and
local information across the counter. An old maid in breeches, Lon
Forbes had once called him, and the description serves well enough. He
was a whole village sewing circle in himself. At a hint of slander his
small bright eyes would twinkle and his shrunken little body seem to
wriggle like that of a pleased pup. Any news was good news to him.
“Mo’ning, Miss Betty. Right hot, I’ll tell the world. Ninety-nine in
the shade this very minute. Bart Logan was in to get Doc Caldwell for
his boy Tom. He done bust his laig fallin’ from the roof of the root
house. Well, Bart was sayin’ your paw needs help right bad to harvest
his wheat. Seems like if the gov’ment would send out some of these here
unemployed to work on the ranches it would be a good idee. Sometimes
Congress acts like it ain’t got a lick o’ sense.”
Betty ordered coffee, sugar, tobacco, and other supplies. While he
waited upon her Battell made comment pertinent and impertinent.
“That Mecca brand o’ coffee seems to be right popular. Three pounds for
a dollar. O’ course, if it’s for the bunkhouse-- Oh, want it sent out
to the Quarter Circle D E. How’re you makin’ it on your own ranch, Miss
Betty? Some one was sayin’ you would clean up quite a bit from your
beef herd this year, mebbe twelve or fifteen thousand. I reckon it was
Bart Logan.”
“Is Bart keeping my books for me?” the girl asked dryly.
The storekeeper cackled. “Folks will gossip.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “How much is that corn meal a hundred?”
“Cost you ten cents more’n the last. Folks talk about cost of livin’
coming down. Well, mebbe ’tis an’ mebbe ’tain’t. I told Bart I wouldn’t
believe you’d cleared any twelve or fifteen thousand till I heard you
say so. That’s a lot of money, if any one asks you.”
Apparently Betty misunderstood him. “Yes, you’re high, but I’ll take
two sacks. Send it to the Quarter Circle and charge it to me.”
Betty stopped at the railroad station to ask the agent about a shipment
of goods her father was expecting, and from there went to Farrell’s to
find out about the bolts.
It was well on toward noon when she took the road for home. At
Four-Mile Crossing it intersected the railroad track. A man with a pack
on his back was plodding along the ties in the direction of Wild Horse.
The instant her eyes fell on him, the girl recognized the tramp her
father had beaten. The pallid face was covered with wheals and bruises.
Both of the sullen eyes were ringed with purple and black.
They met face to face. Full into hers his dogged gaze challenged.
Without a word they passed.
Betty crossed the grade and followed a descent to a small grove of
pines close to the road. The sun was so hot that she decided to
dismount and give the pony a breathing spell.
From the saddle she swung, then trailed the reins and loosened the
cinch.
A sound brought her head round sharply. Two men had come over the brow
of a little hill silently. One of them was almost at her elbow. A
twisted, malevolent grin was on his lips. He was the hobo Lon Forbes
had thrashed two or three hours ago.
“Welcome to our city, goil,” he jeered in choice Boweryese. “Honest to
Gawd, you knock me dead. Surest thing you know. We’ll treat you fine,
not like your dad an’ that other big stiff did us. We’ll not tell youse
to move on, m’ dearie. Nothin’ like that.”
The girl’s heart felt as though drenched in ice-cold water. She had
not brought with her the small revolver she sometimes carried for
rattlesnakes. Both instinct and observation told her this man was vile
and dangerous. She was in his power and he would make her pay for what
her father had done.
She trod down the fear that surged up in her bosom. Not for nothing
had she been all her life a daughter of the sun and the wind and wide
outdoor spaces.
“I stopped to rest my pony from the heat of the sun,” she explained.
“You stopped to see old Cig,” he corrected. “An’ now you’re here it’ll
be him an’ you for a while. The hop-nut don’t belong to de same push as
us no longer. I shook him. An’ York don’t count. He’s no lady’s man,
York ain’t.”
The slim girl in the riding-suit could not quite keep the panic out of
her eyes. None of the motives that swayed the men she knew would have
weight with him. He was both base and bold, and he had lived among
those who had small respect for a woman.
Betty’s glance moved to York. It found no comfort there. The gross
hobo was soft as putty. He did not count, as his companion had openly
sneered.
“No. I won’t stop,” she said, and made as though to tighten the
loosened cinch.
“Won’cha? Think again, miss. Old Cig ain’t seen a skirt since he left
li’l’ old New York. Sure as youse is a foot high he’s hungry for a
sweetie of his own.”
He put his hand on her arm. At the touch her self-control vanished. She
screamed.
The man’s fingers slid down to the wrist and tightened. His other hand
clamped over her mouth and cut off the cry.
She writhed, twisting to free herself. In spite of her slenderness she
was strong. From her lips she tore his hand and again called for help
in an ecstasy of terror.
The crook of his arm garroted her throat and cut off the air from her
lungs. He bent her body back across his hip. Still struggling, she
strangled helplessly.
“Youse would, eh?” His voice, his narrowed eyes, exulted. “Forget it,
miss. Cig’s an A1 tamer of Janes. That’s de li’l’ old thing he’s de
champeen of de world at.”
He drew her closer to him.
There came a soft sound of feet thudding across the grass. The arm
about Betty’s throat relaxed. She heard a startled oath, found herself
flung aside. Her eyes opened.
Instantly she knew why Cig had released her. The man stood crouched,
snarling, his eyes fixed on an approaching runner, one who moved with
the swift precision of a half-back carrying a ball down a whitewashed
gridiron.
The runner was the tramp whose face her father had battered to a pulp.
He asked for no explanations and made no comment. Straight for the
released convict he drove.
Cig had not a chance. The bad air and food of the slums, late hours,
dissipation, had robbed him of both strength and endurance. He held
up his fists and squared off, for he was game enough. But Tug’s fist
smashed through the defense as though it had been built of paper. The
second-story man staggered back, presently went down before a rain of
blows against which he could find no protection.
Tug dragged him to his feet, cuffed him hard with his half-closed fist
again and again, then flung him a second time to the ground. He stood
over the fellow, his eyes blazing, his face colorless.
“Get up, you hound!” he ordered in a low voice trembling with anger.
“Get up and take it! I’ll teach you to lay hands on a woman!”
Cig did not accept this invitation. He rolled away, caught up York’s
heavy tramping stick, and stood like a wolf at bay, the lips lifted
from his stained yellow teeth.
“Touch me again an’ I’ll knock your block off,” he growled,
interlarding the threat with oaths and foul language.
“Don’t!” the girl begged of her champion. “Please don’t. Let’s go.
Right away.”
“Yes,” agreed the young fellow, white to the lips.
York flat-footed forward a step or two. “No use havin’ no trouble. Cig
he didn’t mean nothin’ but a bit of fun, Tug. Old Cig wouldn’t do no
lady any harm.” The tramp’s voice had taken on the professional whine.
Tug fastened the girth, his fingers trembling so that he could hardly
slip the leather through to make the cinch. Even in the reaction from
fear Betty found time to wonder at this. He was not afraid. He had
turned his back squarely on the furious gangster from the slums to
tighten the surcingle. Why should he be shaking like a man in a chill?
The girl watched Cig while the saddle was being made ready. The eyes
in the twisted face of the convict were venomous. If thoughts could
have killed, Tug would have been a dead man. She had been brought up
in a clean world, and she did not know people could hate in such a
soul-and-body blasting way. It chilled the blood only to look at him.
The girl’s rescuer turned to help her into the saddle. He gave her the
lift as one does who is used to helping a woman mount.
From the seat she stooped and said in a low voice, “I want you to go
with me.”
He nodded. Beside the horse he walked as far as the road. “My pack’s
back there on the track,” he said, and stopped, waiting for her to ride
away.
Betty looked down at him, a troubled frown on her face. “Where are you
going?”
A bitter, sardonic smile twitched the muscles of the bruised face. He
shrugged his shoulders.
“Looking for work?” she asked.
“Maybe I am,” he answered sullenly.
“We need men on the Diamond Bar K to help with the harvest.”
“The ranch where I was kicked off?”
“Father’s quick-tempered, but he’s square. I’ll talk with him about
you--”
“Why waste your time?” he mocked mordantly. “I’ll not impose on him
a good-for-nothing loafer, a worthless rotten-to-the-core hobo, a
slacker, a wastrel who ought to be on a rock-pile.”
“Dad didn’t mean all that. He was angry. But if you don’t want to work
for him, perhaps you’d work for me. I own a ranch, too.”
He looked up the road into the dancing heat waves. She was wasting
pity on him, was she? No doubt she would like to reform him. A dull
resentment burned in him. His sulky eyes looked into hers.
“No,” he said shortly.
“But if you’re looking for work,” she persisted.
“I’m particular about who I work for,” he told her brutally.
She winced, but the soft dark eyes were still maternally tender for
him. He had fought for her, had saved her from a situation that held at
least degradation and perhaps horrible despair. Moreover, young though
he was, she knew that life had mauled him fearfully.
“I need men. I thought perhaps--”
“You thought wrong.”
“I’m sorry--about Father. You wouldn’t need to see him if you didn’t
want to. The Quarter Circle D E is four miles from the Diamond Bar K.”
“I don’t care if it’s forty,” he said bluntly.
Her good intentions were at an _impasse_. The road was blocked. But
she could not find it in her heart to give up yet, to let him turn
himself adrift again upon a callous world. He needed help--needed it
desperately, if she were any judge. It was written on his face that he
was sailing stormy seas and that his life barque was drifting toward
the rocks. What help she could give she must press upon him.
“I’m asking you to be generous and forget what--what we did to you,”
she pleaded, leaning down impulsively and putting a hand on his
shoulder. “You saved me from that awful creature. Isn’t it your turn
now to let me help you if I can?”
“You can’t help me.”
“But why not? You’re looking for work. I need men. Wouldn’t it be
reasonable for us to get together on terms?” Her smile was very sweet
and just a little wistful, her voice vivid as the sudden song of a
meadow-lark.
Under the warmth of her kindness his churlishness melted.
“Good of you,” he said. “I’m much obliged. But it’s no use. Your father
had the right of it. I’m not any good.”
“I don’t believe it. Your life’s got twisted somehow. But you can
straighten it. Let me help. Won’t you? Because of what you did for me
just now.”
Her hand moved toward him in a tentative offer of friendship.
Automatically his eyes recorded that she wore a diamond ring on the
third finger. Some lucky fellow, probably some clean young man who had
given no hostages to vice, had won her sweet and gallant heart.
She was all eager desire and sympathy. For a moment, as he looked into
the dusky, mobile face that expressed a fine and gallant personality,
it seemed possible for him to trample down the vice that was destroying
him. But he pushed this aside as idle sentiment. His way was chosen for
him and he could not go back.
He shook his head and turned away. The bitter, sardonic smile again
rested like a shadow of evil on his good-looking face.