As the significance of his change of fortunes began slowly to dawn on
him, Conniston was at first merely amused. One of the men employed by
John W. Crawford, a man whom Conniston came to know later as Rawhide
Jones, conducted him at the Old Man's orders to the bunk-house. The
man was lean, tall, sunburned, and the _tout ensemble_ of his
attire--his flapping, soiled vest, his turned-up, dingy-blue overalls,
his torn neck-handkerchief, and, above all, the two-weeks' growth upon
his spare face--gave him an unbelievable air of untidiness. He cast
one slow, measuring glance at the young fellow who Mr. Crawford had
said briefly was to go to work in the morning, and then without a
word, without a further look or waiting to see if he was followed,
slouched on ahead toward the gap in the encircling trees into which
Lonesome Pete had disappeared earlier in the afternoon.
Conniston saw that Argyl Crawford was standing at her father's side
and that she was smiling; he saw that Hapgood was laughing openly. And
then he turned and strode on after his guide, conscious that the blood
was creeping up into his face and at the same time that he could not
"back down."
The graveled road wound through the pines for an eighth of a mile,
leaving the bench land and finding its way into a hollow cleared of
trees. Here was a long, low, rambling building--a stable, no doubt.
At each end of the stable was a stock-corral. And at the edge of the
clearing was another building, long and very low, with one single door
and several little square windows. A stove-pipe protruded from the far
end of this house, and from it rose a thin spiral of smoke.
"The Ol' Man said I was to show you your bunk," Rawhide Jones muttered
under his breath. "You're to have the one as was Benny's. Benny got
kilt some time back."
He flung the door open and entered. Conniston, at his heels, paused a
moment, staring about him. A man in dingy-blue undershirt, the sleeves
rolled back upon forearms remarkable for their knotting, swelling
muscles, was frying great thick steaks upon the top of the stove,
enveloped in the smoke and odor of his own cooking. In the middle of
the room was a long table, covered with worn oil-cloth, set out with
plates and cups of heavy white ware and with black wooden-handled
knives and forks. Running up and down each side of the one
unpartitioned room were narrow bunks, a row close to the floor,
another row three feet higher, arranged roughly like berths on board a
steamer.
Sitting on chairs, or on the edges of the bunks with their legs
a-dangle, their eyes interestedly upon the cook's operations, were
half a dozen men, rough of garb, rough of hands, big, brawny, uncouth.
As Conniston came into the room every pair of eyes left the cook to
examine him swiftly, frankly. He paused a moment for the introduction
Rawhide Jones would make. But Rawhide Jones had no idea of doing
anything more than enough to fulfil his orders. He strode on through
the men until he stopped at one of the upper bunks, about the middle
of the room, from which a worn, soiled red quilt trailed half-way to
the floor.
"This here was Benny's. It's yourn now."
He had turned away, and, standing with his big hands resting upon his
hips, was watching the cook. And Conniston saw that all of the other
men, seemingly forgetful of his entrance, were again doing the same
thing. He felt suddenly a deep lonesomeness, greater a thousand times
than when he had been actually alone under the spell of the desert.
For here there were men about him who, having seen him, turned away,
shutting him out from them, with no one word of greeting, not so much
as a nod. He was not in the habit of being received this way. It was,
his sensitive nature told him, as though he had been examined by them,
had been recognized as an alien, and had had the doors of their
fraternity clicked in his face.
He felt a sudden bitterness, a sudden anger. And with it he felt a
deep contempt for them, for their petty, unenlightened lives, their
coarseness, their blackened hands and unshaved faces. He was a
gentleman and a Conniston! He was the son of William Conniston, of
Wall Street! He told himself that when they came to know who he was,
who his father was, their incivility would change fast enough into
servility.
And still he had as much as he could do to keep the little hurt, the
sting of his reception, from showing in his face. He glanced as
disgustedly as Hapgood could have done into the rude bunk with its
tangled pile of coarse blankets, and turned away from it. For one
fleeting second the temptation was strong upon him to turn his back
upon the lot of them, to stalk proudly to the door, to go to Mr.
Crawford and tell him that he was not used to this sort of thing and
did not intend to try to grow accustomed to it. One thing only
restrained him. He knew that even as he closed the door behind him he
would hear their voices in rude laughter, and Greek Conniston did not
like being laughed at. Instead he left the bunk and walked quietly to
one of the farther chairs. The air of the bunk-house was already thick
with smoke from the stove and from cigarettes and pipes. Conniston
took out his own pipe, filled it, and, sitting back, added his smoke
to the rest.
The cook had turned to say something to Rawhide Jones, and, carelessly
putting his hand behind him, blistered it against the red-hot top of
the stove, whereupon he burst into such a volley of curses as
Conniston had never heard. The words which streamed from the big man's
mouth actually made Conniston shiver. He turned questioning eyes to
the other men in the room. They were again talking to one another, no
man of them seeming to have so much as heard. Rawhide Jones laughed at
the cook's discomfiture and went back to the door, where he washed his
face and hands at a little basin, plastered his wet hair down as his
companions had already done, and dropped into easy conversation with
the heavy, round-shouldered, yellow-haired man sitting across the room
from Conniston.
"Looks like the Ol' Man means real business, huh, Spud?"
Spud answered with a joyous oath that it certainly looked like it.
"He's puttin' Brayley in on this en' an' takin' ol' Bat Truxton clean
off'n it to throw him onto the Rattlesnake," Spud went on. "Bat 'll
have nigh on a hundred men down there workin' overtime before the
week's up, he says. I guess he'll have his paws full without tryin' to
run the cow en', too."
"An' I reckon," continued Jones, thoughtfully, "as how Brayley won't
sleep all the time up here. He's got to swing the whole Half Moon an'
the Lone Dog an' the Five Hills an' the Sunk Hole outfit." He shook
his head and spat before he concluded. "What with the Ol' Man buyin'
the Sunk Hole, an' figgerin' on marketin' in Injun Creek, an' crowdin'
work down in the Rattlesnake, Brayley 'll be some busy if he don't
take on another big bunch of punchers. Huh?"
Spud made no answer, for at this juncture the cook put a big platter
of steak, piled high, upon the table, and the men, dragging their
chairs after them, waited no other invitation "to set in." Conniston
for a moment held back. Then, as he saw that there were several vacant
places, he took up his own chair and sat down at the end of the table
nearest him. The man at his left helped himself to meat by harpooning
the largest piece in sight and dragging it, dripping, over the edge of
the platter and to his own plate. Then he shoved the platter toward
Conniston without looking to see whether or not it arrived at its
proper destination, and gave his undivided attention to the dish of
boiled potatoes which the man upon his left had shoved at him.
Conniston, helping himself slowly, found soon that the potatoes, the
rice, and a tray of biscuits were all lodged at his elbow, waiting to
be ferried on around the end of the table.
For a few moments all conversation died utterly. These men had done a
day's work, a day's work calling upon straining muscles and unslacking
energy, and their hunger was an active thing. They plied their knives
and forks, took great draughts of their hot tea and coffee, with
little attention to aught else. But presently, as their hunger began
to be appeased, they broke into conversation again, talking of a
hundred range matters of which Conniston understood almost nothing. He
drew from the fragments which reached him above the general clatter
the same thing that he had got from the few words which had passed
between Rawhide Jones and Spud. Evidently, the cowboys were pressed
with work both on the Half Moon and on the other ranges, and the new
foreman, Brayley, was putting on more men and sparing no one in
carrying out the orders which came from headquarters. Equally
apparently, the man whom they called Bat Truxton was in command of the
reclamation work in Rattlesnake Valley, and now with a force of a
hundred men was working with an activity even more feverish than
Brayley's.
During the meal five more men came in, and with a word of rough
greeting to their fellows dropped into their chairs and helped
themselves deftly. Conniston recognized one of the men as the
half-breed, Joe, whom he had seen meet Miss Crawford in Indian Creek.
Another was Lonesome Pete. Conniston was more gratified than he knew
when the red-headed reader of "Macbeth" nodded to him and said a quiet
"Howdy." The last man to come in was Brayley.
He was a big man, a trifle shorter than Conniston, but heavier, with
broader shoulders, rounded from years in the saddle, with great, deep
chest, and thick, powerful arms. He lurched lightly as he walked, his
left shoulder thrust forward as though he were constantly about to
fling open a door with its solid impact. He was a man of forty,
perhaps, and as active of foot as a boy. His heavy, belligerent jaw,
the sharp, beady blackness of his eyes, the whole alert, confident air
of him bespoke the born foreman.
Conniston was conscious of the piercing black eyes as they swept the
table and rested on him. He noticed that Brayley alone of the men who
had entered late had no word of greeting for the others, received no
single word from them. And he saw further, wondering vaguely what it
meant, that as the big foreman came in the eyes of all the others went
first to him and then to Conniston.
Brayley stopped a moment at the door, washing his face and hands
swiftly, carelessly, satisfied in rubbing a good part of the evidence
of the day's toil upon the towel hanging upon a nail close at hand.
Three strokes with the community comb, dangling from a bit of string,
and jerking his neck-handkerchief into place, he lurched toward the
table. Five feet away he stopped suddenly, his eyes burning into
Conniston's.
"Who might you be, stranger?" he snapped, his words coming with
unpleasant, almost metallic sharpness.
There fell a sudden silence in the bunk-house. Knives and forks ceased
their clatter while the cowboys turned interested eyes upon the
Easterner.
Conniston caught the unveiled threat in the foreman's tones, saw that
he had come in in the mood of a man ready to find fault, and took an
instinctive disliking for the man he was being paid a dollar a day to
take orders from. He returned Brayley's glance steadily, angered more
at knowing that the blood was again creeping up into his cheeks than
because of the curt question. And, staring at him steadily, he made
no further answer.
"Can't you talk?" cried Brayley, angrily. "Are you deef an' dumb? I
said, who might you be?"
"I heard you," replied Conniston, quietly. And to the man upon his
left, "Will you kindly pass me the bread?"
The man grinned in rare enjoyment, and, since he kept his eyes upon
Brayley's glowering face, it was hardly strange that he handed
Conniston a plate of stewed prunes instead.
"Thank you," Conniston said to him, still ignoring Brayley. "But it
was bread I said."
"An' I said something!" cut in Brayley, his voice crisp and incisive.
"Did you get me?"
"I got you, friend." Conniston put out his hand for the bread and
caught a gleam of sparkling amusement in Lonesome Pete's eyes from
across the table. "And maybe after you tell me who you are I might
answer you."
"Me!" thundered the big man, lurching one step nearer, his under jaw
thrust still farther out. "Me! I'm Brayley, that's who I am! An' I'm
the foreman of this here outfit."
"Thank you, Brayley." Conniston's anger was pounding in his temples,
but he strove to keep it back. "I'm Conniston. I was told to report
here by Mr. Crawford to go to work in the morning. I suppose I report
to you?"
"Conniston are you, huh? All right, Conniston. Now who happened to
tell you to slap yourself down in that there chair, huh?"
"Nobody," returned Conniston, calmly. "I didn't suppose that I was to
stand up and eat."
Lonesome Pete's grin overran his eyes, and the ends of his fiery
mustache curved upward. Two or three men laughed outright. Brayley's
brows twitched into a scowling frown.
"Nobody's askin' you to git funny, little rooster! You git out 'n that
chair an' git out 'n it fas'. _Sabe?_"
Calm-blooded by nature and by long habit, Conniston had mastered the
flood of blood to his brain and grown perfectly cool. Brayley, on the
other hand, had come in in a seething rage from a tussle with a colt
in which his stirrup leather had broken and he had rolled in the dust
of the corral, to the boundless glee of two or three of his men who
had seen it, and now there was nothing to restrain his anger.
Conniston was laughing into his face.
"I hear you," he said, lightly. "My ears are good, and your voice is
not bad by any means. Only I'd really like to know why you want me to
get up. Is it custom here for a new man to remain standing until the
foreman is seated? If I am violating any customs--"
Again Brayley took one lurching step forward. Conniston pushed his
chair back so that his feet were clear of the table leg.
"I say, Brayley"--Lonesome Pete had half risen from his chair and was
speaking softly--"Conniston here didn't know. Nobody put him wise as
how you sat in that particular chair. An'," even more softly, "he's a
frien' of Mr. Crawford."
"Who's askin' you to chip in?" challenged Brayley, his eyes flashing
for the moment from Conniston to Lonesome Pete. "An' if he's a frien'
of Crawford's, why ain't he up to the house instead of down here?
Huh?"
Lonesome Pete shrugged his shoulders and settled back into his chair.
"Slip me a sinker, Rawhide," he said, quietly, to the man next to him
as though he had lost all interest in the conversation.
"Frien' of the Ol' Man's or no frien'," blustered Brayley, his eyes
again on Conniston's, "if you're goin' to work I guess you're goin' to
take orders from me like the rest of the boys. An' the first order is,
_git out'n that there chair!_"
"Look here," Conniston replied, quietly, "I didn't know that I was
taking a seat reserved for you, and I didn't mean any offense. You can
take that as a sort of an apology if you like. But at the same time,
even if I am to take orders from you, I am not going to be bulldozed
by you or anybody like you. If you will ask me decently--"
"Ask you!" bellowed Brayley. "Ask you! By the Lord, I don't _ask_ my
men! I _make_ 'em!"
He had leaped forward with his last word, his two big hands
outstretched with clawing fingers. Before Conniston could spring from
his chair to meet the attack the iron hands were upon his shoulders.
He felt himself being lifted bodily from his seat. His weight was
scarcely less than the irate foreman's, and he employed every pound of
it as he staggered to his feet and flung himself against his burly
antagonist. The men about the table sat still, watching, saying no
word.
Conniston's strength was less than the other's, and he knew it, knew
that his endurance would be nothing against the muscles seasoned by
daily physical work until they were like steel. He knew that in two
minutes of battling struggle he would be like a kitten in the big,
powerful hands. And he was of no mind to have Brayley manhandle him
before such an audience as was now sitting quietly watching,
listening to his panting breaths. In one straining effort he jerked
his right shoulder free, swung his clenched fist back, and drove it
smashing into Brayley's face.
Brayley's head snapped back, and the blood from his cut mouth ran
across his white, bared teeth. Conniston sprang forward to follow up
the blow. But Brayley had caught his balance and was leaping to meet
him, snarling. His hard, toil-blackened fist drove through Conniston's
guard, striking him full upon the jaw. Conniston reeled, and before he
could catch himself a second blow caught him under the ear, and with
outflung arms he pitched backward and fell, striking the back of his
head upon the rough boards of the floor.
For one dizzy moment the world went black for him. And then it went
red, flaming, flaring red, as he heard a man's laugh. An anger the
like of which he had never known in the placid days of his easy life
was upon him, an anger which made him forget all things under the arch
of heaven excepting the one man with bloody fists glaring into his
eyes, an anger blind and hot and primitive. Again he knew that he was
on his feet; again he was rushing at the man who stood waiting for
him.
"Stan' back!" roared Brayley. "I ain't goin' to play with you all
day."
Conniston laughed and did not know that he had done so. He only saw
that Brayley had stepped back a pace, and that he had something, black
but glistening in the pale light, tight clenched in his hand. Crying
out hoarsely, inarticulately, he threw himself forward.
Again Brayley met him, this time the revolver in his hand thrust
before him. It was almost in Conniston's face now. Somebody cried out
sharply. Several of the men jumped from their seats and leaped out
from behind Conniston. Two or three of them slipped under the table to
crawl out on the other side. Then Conniston saw what the something was
in Brayley's hand.
"Shoot, you dirty coward!" he yelled, as he swung his arm out toward
the big six-shooter.
For one moment Brayley seemed to hesitate. And then as the two men
came together the barrel of the gun rose and fell swiftly, striking
Conniston full upon the forehead. His arms dropped like lead; the
dizzy blackness came back upon him, growing blacker, blacker; and he
fell silently, unconsciously.
It was very quiet in the bunk-house when he opened his eyes. A sudden
pain through the temples, a rising nausea, blackness and dizziness
again, made him close them, frowning. He knew that he was lying in his
bunk and that he was very weak. There was a cold, wet towel tied tight
about his forehead.
The table had been cleared away, and the cook was finishing his
dish-washing by the stove. A lantern swinging from the beam which ran
across the middle of the room showed him that all the men were in
their bunks with the exception of two who were playing cribbage at the
table. They were Lonesome Pete and Rawhide Jones. When they saw him
leaning out from his bunk Lonesome Pete put down his cards and came to
him.
"How're they comin', stranger?" he asked, with no great expression in
either eyes or voice.
"Where's Brayley?" demanded Conniston, quickly.
"He ain't here none jest now. No, he ain't exac'ly ran away, nuther.
Brayley ain't the kind as runs away. He was sent for to come to the
Lone Dog, where there's some kind of trouble on. Seein' as that's
thirty mile or worse, the chances is he'll ride mos' all night an'
won't be back for a day or two."
Conniston sank back upon his straw pillow. "What I have to say to him
will keep," he said, quietly.
The red-headed man looked at him curiously. "Brayley's the boss on
this outfit, pardner. What he says goes as she lays. It's sure bad
business buckin' your foreman. If you can't hit it up agreeable like,
you better quit."
For a moment Conniston lay silent, plucking with nervous fingers at
the worn red quilt.
"What did he do to me?" he asked, presently. "Hit me over the head
with a revolver?"
Lonesome Pete nodded.
"That's what you call fair play out in the West?"
"What fooled me, Conniston, is that he didn't drill a couple er holes
through you! He ain't used to bein' so careful an' tender-hearted-like,
Brayley ain't."
"Just because I'm to work under him, does that mean that in the eye of
you men he had a right--"
An uplifted hand stopped him. "When two men has onpleasant words it
ain't up to anybody else to say who's right. Us fellers has jest got
to creep lively out'n the line of bullets an' let the two men most
interested settle that theirselves. Only I don't mind sayin', jest
frien'ly like, as it is considered powerful foolish for a man to
prance skallyhutin' into a mixup as is apt to smash things
considerable onless he's heeled."
"Heeled? You mean--"
Lonesome Pete whipped one of the guns from his sagging belt and laid
it close to Conniston's pillow.
"That when a man's got one of them where he can find it easy he ain't
got to take nothin' off'n nobody! An' one man's jest as good as
another, whether he's foreman or a thirty-dollar puncher! An' bein' as
we got to go to work early in the mornin', I reckon you better roll
over an' hit the hay!"
He turned abruptly and went back to his discarded hand. And Greek
Conniston, the son of William Conniston, of Wall Street, lay back upon
his bunk and thought deeply of many things.