MISS-GOING-ON-EIGHTEEN
Time had been when the range was large enough for all, when every man's
cattle might graze at will from horizon to horizon. But with the push of
settlement to the frontier had come a change. The feeding ground became
overstocked. One outfit elbowed another, and lines began to be drawn
between the runs of different owners. Water holes were seized and
fenced, with or without due process of law.
With the establishment of forest reserves a new policy dominated the
government. Sanderson had been one of the first to avail himself of it
by leasing the public demesne for his stock. Later, learning that the
mountain parks were to be thrown open as a pasturage for sheep, he had
bought three thousand and driven them up, having first arranged terms
with the forestry service.
Buck Weaver, fighting the government reserve policy with all his might,
resented fiercely the attitude of Sanderson. A sharp, bitter quarrel had
resulted, and had left a smoldering bad feeling that flamed at times
into open warfare. Upon the wholesome Malpais country had fallen the
bitterness of a sheep and cattle feud.
The riders of the Twin Star outfit had thrice raided the Sanderson
flocks. Lambing sheep had been run cruelly. One herd had been clubbed
over a precipice, another decimated with poison. In return, the herders
shot and hamstrung Twin Star cows. A herder was held up and beaten by
cowboys. Next week a vaquero galloped home to the Twin Star ranch with a
bullet through his leg. This was the situation at the time when the
owner of the big ranch brought Phyllis a prisoner to its hospitality.
Nothing could have been more pat to his liking. He was, in large
measure, the force behind the law in San Miguel county. The sheriff whom
he had elected to office would be conveniently deaf to any illegality
there might be in his holding the girl, would if necessary give him an
order to hold her there until further notice. The attempt to assassinate
him would serve as excuse enough for a proceeding even more highhanded
than this. Her relatives could scarce appeal to the law, since the law
would then step in and send her to the penitentiary. He could use her
position as a hostage to force her stiff-necked father to come to terms.
But it was characteristic of the man that his reason for keeping her
was, after all, less the advantage he might gain by it than the pleasure
he found in tormenting her and her family. To this instinct of the
jungle beast was added the interest she had inspired in him. Untaught of
life she was, no doubt, a child of the desert, in some ways primitive as
Eve; but he perceived in her the capacity for deep feeling, for passion,
for that kind of fierce, dauntless endurance it is given some women to
possess.
Miss Weaver took charge of the comfort of her guest. Her manner showed
severe disapproval of this girl so lost to the feelings of her sex as to
have attempted murder. That she was young and pretty made matters worse.
Alice Weaver always had worshipped her brother, by the law of opposites
perhaps. She was as drab and respectable as Boston. All her tastes ran
to humdrum monotony. But turbulent, lawless Buck, the brother whom she
had brought up after the death of their mother, held her heart in the
hollow of his hard, careless hand.
"Have you had everything you wish?" she would ask Phyllis in a frigid
voice.
"I want to be taken home."
"You should have thought of that before you did the dreadful thing you
did."
"You are holding me here a prisoner, then?"
"An involuntary guest, my brother puts it. Until the sheriff can make
other arrangements."
"You have no right to do it without notifying my father. He is at Noches
with my brother."
"Mr. Weaver will do as he thinks best about that." The spinster shut
her lips tight and walked from the room.
Supper was brought to Phyllis by the Mexican woman. In spite of her
indignation she ate and slept well. Nor did her appetite appear impaired
next morning, when she breakfasted in her bedroom. Noon found her
promoted to the family dining room. Weaver carried his arm in a sling,
but made no reference to the fact. He attempted conversation, but
Phyllis withdrew into herself and had nothing more friendly than a plain
"No" or "Yes" for him. His sister was presently called away to arrange
some household difficulty. At once Phyllis attacked the big man lounging
in his chair at his ease.
"I want to go home. I've got to be at the schoolhouse to-morrow
morning," she announced.
"It won't hurt you any to miss a few days' schooling, my dear. You'll
learn more here than you will there, anyhow," he assured her pleasantly.
Buck was cracking two walnuts in the palm of his hand and let his lazy
smile drift her way only casually.
She stamped her foot. "I tell you I'm the teacher. It is necessary I
should be there."
"You a schoolmarm!" he repeated, in surprise. "How old are you?"
Her dress was scarcely below her shoe tops. She still had the slimness
of immature girlhood, the adorable shy daring of some uncaptured wood
nymph.
"Does that matter to you, sir?"
"How old?" he reiterated.
"Going-on-eighteen," she answered--not because she wanted to, but
because somehow she must. There was something compelling about this
man's will. She would have resisted it had she not wanted to gain her
point about going home.
"So you teach the kids their A B C's, do you? And you just out of them
yourself! How many scholars have you?"
"Fourteen."
"And they all love teacher, of course. Would you take me for a scholar,
Miss Going-On-Eighteen?"
"No!" she flamed.
"You'd find me right teachable. And I would promise to love you, too."
Color came and went in her face beneath the brow. How dared he mock her
so! It humiliated and embarrassed and angered her.
"Are you going to let me go back to my school?" she demanded.
"I reckon your school will have to get along without you for a few days.
Your fourteen scholars will keep right on loving you, I expect. 'To
memory dear, though far from eye.' Or, if you like, I'll send my boys up
into the hills, and round up the whole fourteen here for you. Then
school can keep right here in the house. How about that? Ain't that a
good notion, Miss Going-On-Eighteen?"
She could stand his ironic mockery no longer. She faced him, fearless as
a tiger: "You villain!"
With that, turning on her heel, she passed swiftly into her little
bedroom, and slammed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock.
"She's sure got some devil in her," he laughed appreciatively, and he
cracked another walnut.
Already he had struck the steel of her quality. She would be his
prisoner because she must, but the "no compromise" flag was nailed to
her masthead.
"I wonder why you are so fond of me?" he mused aloud next day when he
found her as unresponsive to his advances as a block of wood.
He was lying in the sand at her feet, his splendid body relaxed full
length at supple ease. Leaning on an elbow, he had been watching her for
some time.
Her gaze was on the distant line of hills; on her face that far-away
expression which told him that he was not on the map for her. Used as he
was to impressing himself upon the imagination of women, this stung his
vanity sharply. He liked better the times when her passion flamed out at
him.
Now he lost his sardonic mockery in a flash of anger.
"Do you hear me? I asked you a question."
She brought her head round until her eyes rested upon him.
"Will you ask it again, please? I wasn't listening."
"I want to know what makes you hate me so," he demanded roughly.
"Do I hate you?"
He laughed irritably. "What else do you call it? You won't hardly eat at
the same table with me. Last night you wouldn't come down to supper.
Same way this morning. If I sit down near you, soon you find an excuse
to leave. When I speak, you don't answer."
"You are my jailer, not my friend."
"I might be both."
"No, thank you!"
She said it with such quick, instinctive certainty that he ground his
teeth in resentment. He was the kind of man that always wanted what he
could not get. He began to covet this girl mightily, even while he told
himself that he was a fool for his pains. What was she but an untaught,
country schoolgirl? It would be a strange irony of fate if Buck Weaver
should fall in love with a sheepman's daughter.
"Many people would go far to get my friendship," he told her.
Quietly she looked at him. "The friends of my people are my friends.
Their enemies are mine."
"Yet you said you didn't hate me."
"I thought I did, but I find I don't."
"Not worth hating, I suppose?"
She neither corrected nor rejected his explanation.
He touched his wounded arm as he went on: "If you don't hate me, why
this compliment to me? I reckon good, genuine hate sent that bullet."
The girl colored, but after a moment's hesitation answered:
"Once I shot a coyote when I saw it making ready to pounce on one of our
lambs. I did not hate that coyote."
"Thank you," he told her ironically.
Her gaze went back to the mountains. She had always had a capacity for
silence. But it was as extraordinary to her as to him how, in the past
few days, she had sloughed the shy timidity of a mountain girl and found
the enduring courage of womanhood. Her wits, too, had taken on the edge
of maturity. He found that her tongue could strike swiftly and sharply.
She was learning to defend herself in all the ways women have acquired
by inheritance.
Weaver's jaw set like a vise. Getting to his feet, he looked down at her
with the hard, relentless eyes that had made his name a terror.
"Good enough, Miss Phyllis Sanderson. You've chosen your way. I'll
choose mine. You've got to learn that I'm master here; and, by God, I'll
teach it to you. Before I get through with you, young woman, you'll
come running when I snap my fingers. From to-day things will be
different. You'll eat your meals with us and not in your room. You'll
speak when you're spoken to. Set yourself up against me, and I'll bring
you to your knees fast enough. There's no law on the Twin Star Ranch but
Buck Weaver's will."
He strode away, almost herculean in figure, and every inch of him
forceful. She had never seen such a man, one so virile and, at the same
time, so wilful and so masterful. Before he was out of her sight, she
got an instance of his recklessness.
A Mexican vaquero was driving some horses into a corral. His master
strode up to him, and dragged him from the saddle.
"Didn't I tell you to take the colts down to the long pasture?"
"_Si, señor,_" answered the trembling native.
Weaver's great fist rose and fell once. The Mexican sank limply down.
Without another glance at him, the cattleman flung him aside, and strode
to the house.
As the owner of the Twin Star had said, so it was. Thereafter Phyllis
sat at the table with him and his sister, while Josephine, the Mexican
woman, waited upon them. The girl came and went at his bidding. But she
held herself with such a quiet aloofness that his victory was a barren
one.
"Do you want to go home?" he taunted her one morning, while at
breakfast.
"Is it likely I would want to stay here?" she retorted.
"Why not? What have you to complain of? Aren't you treated well?"
"Yes."
"What, then? Are you afraid?"
"No!" she answered, with a flash of her fine eyes.
"That's good, because you've got to stay here--or go to the pen. You may
take your choice."
"You're very generous. I suppose you don't expect to keep me here
always," she said scornfully.
"Until my arm gets well. Since you wounded it you ought to nurse it."
"Which I am not doing, even while I am here."
"Anyhow it soothes the temper of the invalid to have you around." He
grinned satirically.
"So I judge, from the effects."
"Meaning that I'm always in a rage when I leave you?"
"I notice your men are marked up a good deal these days."
"I'll tell them to thank you for it," he flung back.
Two days later, he scored on her hard for the first time. She came down
to breakfast just as two of the Twin Star riders brought a boy into the
hall.
She flew instantly into his arms, thereby embarrassing him vastly.
"Phil! How did you come here?"
Her brother nodded toward Curly and Pesky. "They found me outside and
got the drop on me."
"You were here looking for me?"
"Yes. Just got back from Noches. Dad is still there. He don't know."
"But--what are they going to do with you?"
"What would you suggest, Miss Phyllis?" a voice behind her gibed.
The speaker was Weaver. He filled the doorway of the dining room
triumphantly. She had had no fears for herself; he would see if she had
none for her brother.
The boy whirled on the ranchman like a tiger whelp. "I don't care what
you do. Go ahead and do your worst."
Weaver looked him over negligently, much as he might watch a struggling
calf. To him the boy was not an enemy--merely a tool which he could use
for his own ends. Phyllis, watching anxiously the hard, expressionless
face, felt that it was cruel as fate. She knew that somehow she would be
made to suffer through her love for her brother.
"You daren't touch him. He's done nothing," she cried.
"He shot at one of my riders. I can't have dangerous characters around.
I'm a peaceable man, me," grinned Buck.
"You didn't, Phil," his sister reproached.
"Sure I did. He tried to take my gun from me," the boy explained hotly.
"Take him out to the bunk house, boys. I'll attend to him later,"
nodded Buck, turning away indifferently.
Stung to fury by the cavalier manner of his enemy, the boy leaped at him
like a wild cat. Weaver whirled round again, caught him by the shoulder
with his great hand, and shook him as if he had been a puppy. When he
dropped him, he nodded again to his men, who dragged out the struggling
boy.
Phyllis stood straight as an arrow, but white to the lips. "What are you
going to do to him?" she asked.
"How would a good chapping do, to start with? That is always good for an
unlicked cub."
"Don't!" she implored.
"But, my dear, why not--since it's for his good?"
Passion unleashed leaped from her. "You coward!"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm right desolated to have your bad
opinion. But you say it almost as if you did hate me. That's a
compliment, you know. You didn't hate the coyote, you mentioned."
Her eyes flamed. "Hate you! If wishes could kill, you would be a
thousand times dead!"
"You disappoint me, my dear. I expected more than wishes from you.
There's a loaded revolver in that table drawer. It's yours, any time you
want it," he derided.
"Don't tempt me!" she cried wildly. "If you lay a hand on Phil, I'll use
it--I surely will."
His eyes shone with delight. "I wonder. By Jove, I've a mind to flog
the colt and see. I'll do it."
The passion sank in her as suddenly as it had risen. "No--you mustn't!
You don't know him--or us. We are from the South."
"That settles it. I will," he exulted. "You have called me a coward.
Would a coward do this, and defy your whole crew to its revenge?"
"Would a brave man break the pride of a high-spirited boy for such a
mean motive?" she countered.
"His pride will have to look out for itself. He took his chance of it
when he tried to assault me. What he'll get is only what's coming to
him."
"Please don't! I'll--I'll be different to you. Take it out on me," she
begged.
He laughed harshly. "Do you suppose I'm such a fool as not to know that
the way to take it out on you is to take it out of him?"
She had come nearer, a step at a time. Now she threw her hand out in a
gesture of abandon.
"Be generous! Don't punish me that way. Something dreadful will come of
it."
She broke down and struggled with her tears. He watched her for a moment
without speaking.
"Good enough. I'll be generous and let you pay his debt for him, if you
want to do it."
Her eyes were glad with the swift joy that leaped into them.
"That is good of you! And how shall I pay?" she cried.
"With a kiss."
She drew back as if he had struck her, all the sparkling eagerness
driven from her face.
"Oh!" she moaned.
"Just one kiss--I don't ask anything more. Give me that, and I'll turn
him loose. Honor bright."
He held her startled gaze as a snake holds that of a fascinated bird.
"Choose," he told her, in his masterful way.
Her imagination conceived a vision of her young brother being tortured
by this man. She had not the least doubt that he would do what he said,
and probably would think the boy got only what he deserved.
"Take it," she told him, and waited.
Perhaps he might have spared her had it not been for the look of deep
contempt that bit into his vanity.
He kissed her full on the lips.
Instantly she woke to life, struck him on the cheek with her little,
brown fist, and, with a sob of woe, turned and ran from the room.
Weaver cursed himself in a fury of anger. He felt himself to be a hound
because of the thing he had done, and he hated the instinct in him that
drove him to master her. He had insulted and trampled on her. Yet he
knew in his heart that he would have killed another man for doing it.
[Illustration: SHE DREW BACK AS IF HE HAD STRUCK HER, ALL THE SPARKLING
EAGERNESS DRIVEN FROM HER FACE. _Page 116_]