THE OLD MOUNTAIN LION COMES DOWN FROM THE NORTH
It was perhaps eight o'clock, the morning blue, cloudless, and still.
Packard had conferred briefly with Barbee; the Ranch Number Ten men had
gone about their work. Steve and Bill Royce, riding side by side, had
mounted one of the flat, treeless hills in the upper valley and were
now sitting silent while Royce fumbled with his pipe and Steve sent a
long, eager look down across the open meadow-lands dotted with grazing
cattle.
Suddenly their two horses and the other horses browsing in a lower
field, jerked up their heads, all ears pricked forward. And yet Steve
had heard no sound to mar the perfect serenity of the young day. He
turned his head a little, listening.
Then, from some remote distance there floated to him a sound strangely
incongruous here in the early stillness, a subdued screech or scream, a
wild, clamorous, shrieking noise which for the life of him he could not
catalogue.
It was faint because it came across so great a distance and yet it was
clear; it was not the throbbing cry of a mountain lion, not the scream
of a horse stricken with its death, nothing that he had ever heard, and
yet it suggested both of these sounds.
"Bill!" he began.
"I heard it," Royce muttered. "An' I've heard it before! In a
minute----"
Royce broke off. The sound, stilled a second, came again, seeming
already much closer and more hideous. Steve's horse snorted and
plunged; some of the colts in the pasture flung up their heels and fled
with streaming manes and tails. Royce calmly filled and lighted his
pipe.
Stillness again for perhaps ten or twenty seconds. Steve, about to
demand an explanation from his companion, stared as once more came the
shrieking noise.
"You can hear the blame thing ten miles," grunted Royce. "It's only
about half that far away now. Keep your eye glued on the road across
the valley where it comes out'n Blue Bird Cañon."
And then Steve understood. Into the clear air across the valley rose a
growing cloud of dust; through it, out of the cañon's shadows and into
the sunlight, shot a glistening automobile, hardly more than a bright
streak as it sped along the curving down-grade.
"Terry Temple?" gasped young Packard. Royce merely grunted again.
"Jus' you watch," was all he said.
And, needing no invitation, Packard watched. The motor-car's siren--he
had never heard another like it, knew that such a thing would not be
tolerated in any of the world's traffic centres--sounded again a long,
wailing note which went across the valley in billowing echoes.
Then it grew silent as, with the last of the dangerous curves behind
it, the long-bodied roadster swung into the valley. Packard, an
experienced driver himself, with his own share of reckless blood,
opened his mouth and stared.
It was hard to believe that the big, spinning wheels were on the ground
at all; the machine seemed more like an aeroplane content with skimming
the earth but hungry for speed. Only the way in which it plunged and
lurched and swerved and plunged again testified to highly inflated
tires battling with ruts and chuck-holes.
"The fool!" he cried as the car negotiated a turn on two wheels with
never a sign of lessened speed. "He'll turn turtle. He's doing sixty
miles an hour right now. And on these roads----"
"More likely doin' seventy-five," grunted Royce. "Can do ten better'n
that. Out on the highway he's done a clean hundred. That car, my
boy----"
"He's going into the ditch!" exclaimed Steve excitedly.
The car, racing on, was already near enough for Steve to make out its
two passengers, a man bent over the steering-wheel, another man, or
boy, for the figure was small, clinging wildly to his place on the
running-board, seeming always in imminent danger of being thrown off.
"He's drunk!" snapped Packard angrily. "Of all blind idiots!"
Another strident blast from the horn, that sent staid old cows
scurrying this way and that to get out of the way, and the car swerved
from the road and took to the open field, headed straight toward the
hill where the two horsemen were. Jerking his horse about, Steve rode
down to meet the new arrivals. And then----
"My God! It's my grandfather! He's gone mad, Bill Royce!"
"No madder'n usual," said Royce.
The car came to a sudden stop. The man on the running-board--he had a
man's face, keen and sharp-eyed and eager, and the body of a slight
boy--jumped down from his place and in a flash disappeared under the
engine. The man at the wheel straightened up and got down, stretching
his legs. Steve, swinging down from his saddle, and coming forward,
measured him with wondering eyes.
And he was a man for men to look at, was old man Packard. Full of
years, he was no less full of vigor, hale and stalwart and breathing
power. A great white beard, cut square, fell across his full chest;
his white mustache was curled upward now as fiercely as fifty years ago
when he had been a man for women to look at, too.
He was dressed as Steve had always seen him, in black corduroy
breeches, high black boots, broad black hat--a man standing upward of
six feet, carrying himself as straight as a ramrod, his chest as
powerful as a blacksmith's bellows, the calf of his leg as thick as
many a man's thigh; big, hard hands, the fingers twisted by toil; the
face weatherbeaten like an old sea captain's, with eyes like the frozen
blue of a clear winter sky.
His voice when he spoke boomed out suddenly, deep and rich and hearty.
"Stephen?" he demanded.
Steve said "Yes" and put out his hand, his eyes shining, the surprising
realization upon him that he was tremendously glad to see his father's
father once more. The old man took the proffered hand into a
hard-locked grip and for a moment held it, while, the other hand on his
grandson's shoulder, he looked steadily into Steve's eyes.
"What sort of a man have they made of you, boy?" he asked bluntly.
"There's the makings of fool, crook an' white man in all of us. What
for a man are you?"
Steve flushed a little under the direct, piercing look, but said
steadily--
"Not a crook, I hope."
"That's something, if it ain't everything," snorted the old man as,
withdrawing his hand, he found and lighted a long stogie. "Blenham
tells me you fired him las' night?"
Young Packard nodded, watching his grandfather's face for the first
sign of opposition. But just now the old man's face told nothing.
"Thinking of runnin' the outfit yourself, Stephen?" came the next
question quietly.
"Yes. I had intended looking in on you in a day or so to talk matters
over. I understand that my father left everything to me and that it is
pretty heavily mortgaged to you."
"Uhuh. I let Phil have a right smart bit of money on Number Ten firs'
an' las', my boy. Don't want to pay it off this mornin', do you?"
Steve laughed.
"I'm broke, Grandy," he said lightly, unconsciously adopting the old
title for the man who had made him love him and hate him a score of
times. "My working capital, estimated last night, runs about
seventy-five dollars. That wouldn't quite turn the trick, would it?"
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"You mean that seventy-five dollars is all you've got to show for
twelve years?" he asked sharply.
Again, hardly understanding why, Steve flushed. Was a man to be
ashamed that he had not amassed wealth, especially when there had never
been in him the sustained desire for gold? He owed no man a cent, he
made his own way, he asked no favors--and yet there was a glint of
defiance in his eye, a hint of defiance in his tone, when he replied
briefly.
"That's all. I haven't measured life in dollars and cents."
"Then you've missed a damn' good measure for it, my son! I ain't
sayin' it's the only one, but it'll do firs' class. But you needn't
get scared I've gone into the preaching business. . . . An' with that
seventy-five dollars you're startin' out to run a big cow outfit like
this, are you?"
There was a gleam of mockery in the clear blue eyes which Steve gave no
sign of seeing.
"I've got a big job on my hands and I know it," he said quietly. "But
I'm going to see it through."
"There's no question about the size of the job! It's life-size, man's
size--Number Ten size, if you want to put it that way. It wants a real
man to shove it across. Know just how much you're mortgaged for?"
"No. I was going to ask you."
"Close to fifty thousan' dollars, countin' back interest, unpaid.
More'n you ever saw in a day, I reckon."
Steve shrugged. This to hide his first inclination to whistle. Fifty
thousand--why, he didn't know Number Ten ranch was worth that much
money. But it must be worth a good deal more if his grandfather had
advanced so much on it.
"It is a nice little pile," he admitted carelessly.
The old man grunted, thrust his hands into his pockets, and drew deeply
at his stogie. Steve rolled a cigarette. In the silence falling upon
them they could hear the sound of the mechanician's wrench.
"Anything wrong with the car?" asked Steve for the sake of breaking
unpleasant silence.
"Not that I know of. He's jus' takin' a peek to make sure, I guess.
That's what he's for. He knows I got to get back to my place in a
couple of shakes."
Steve smiled; by wagon road his grandfather's ranch home was fifty
miles to the northward.
"You won't think of going back before noon."
"Won't I? But I will, though, son; Blenham's sticking aroun', waitin'
for my say-so what he'll do nex'." He snapped open a big watch and
stared at it a moment with pursed lips. "I'll be back home in jus' one
hour an' a half. All I got is fifteen minutes to talk with you this
mornin'."
"You mean that you can drive those fifty miles in an hour and a
quarter!"
"Have done it in less; if I was in a hurry I'd do it in an hour flat.
But allowin' for time out I want fifteen minutes more'n that. And now,
if we're goin' to get anywhere----"
He stopped suddenly and stood toying with his big watch passing it back
and forth through the loop he made of its heavy chain, his gaze steady
and earnest and searching upon his grandson.
"Stephen," he said abruptly, "I ain't playin' any favorites in my ol'
age. An' I ain't givin' away big chunks of money hit or miss. You
wasn't countin' on anything like that, was you?"
"No, I wasn't," announced Steve quickly. "I remember your old theory;
that a man should make his own way unaided, that----"
"That whatever he got he's got to get with his one head an' one set of
han's. Now, the things I got to say I'll spit out one at the time:
Firs', I'd like to have you come visit me for a spell at my place.
Will you do it? To-day, to-morrow, any time you feel like it."
"Yes; I'll be glad to."
"That's good. Nex', not even if you was the right man for the job you
can't save this ranch now; it's too late, there's to much to dig up in
too short a time. I've got my hooks in deep an' whenever that happens
I don't let go. I want you to quit before you get started."
Steve looked his surprise.
"Surely," he said wonderingly, "you don't want me to give you the ranch
just because you happen to hold the mortgages on it?"
"Business is business, Stephen," said the old man sternly. "Sometimes,
between Packards, business is hell. It'd be that for you. I've
started out to get this outfit an' I'd get it. An' doin' it I'd be
wastin' my time besides breakin' you all to smithereens. Better drop
it."
Steve had hardly expected this. But he answered calmly, even lightly.
"I think I'd like a try at holding it."
"That's two things," old man Packard said crisply. "Number three is
this here: Blenham tells, me you've put Royce in as foreman under you?"
"I offered him the place. He could have it yet if he wanted it. But
he refused. I've passed the job on to a man named Barbee."
"Barbee!" cried the old man. "Barbee! That yellow canary-bird?
Meaning him?"
"Yes," retorted Steve a trifle stiffly. "Anything wrong with him?"
"I didn't roll them fifty miles to talk about jay-birds an'
canary-birds an' such," growled his grandfather. "But here's one thing
I've got to say: This ranch is goin' to be mine real soon; that's in
the cards, face up. It's as good as mine now. I've been runnin' it
myself for six months. I want it right, hear me? What do you know
about running a big outfit? What does a kid without whiskers like
Barbee know about it? Think I want it all run down in the heel when it
comes to me? No, sir! I don't. Blenham knows the lay of the land,
Blenham knows my ways, Blenham knows how to run things. I want you to
put Blenham back on the job!"
Steve bit his lip, holding back a hot reply.
"Grandfather," he said slowly, "suppose we take a little more time in
getting squared around? I want to do what's right; I know that you
want to do what's fair and square. I am willing to consult you about
ranch matters; I'll come to you for advice, if you'll let me; I'll try
to keep the ranch up to time and"--with a smile--"in my hands and out
of yours. That's a good sporting proposition. But as for Blenham----"
"Put him back as foreman and I'll talk fair with you. I want Blenham
back here, Stephen. Understand that?"
"And," cried Steve a trifle heatedly at last, "I tell you that I am
going to run the ranch myself. And that I don't like Blenham."
"Damn it," cried the old man violently, "hear the boy! Don't like
Blenham, huh? Goin' to run the ranch yourself, huh? Why, I tell you
it's as good as mine right now! How are you goin' to pay your men, how
are you goin' to buy grub for 'em, where are you goin' to find
runnin'-expense money? Go an' tell folks you're mortgaged to me for
fifty thousan' dollars an' see how much they'll stake you for on top of
that. Or come over my way an' try to borrow some more, if you think
I'm an easy guy. Why, Steve Packard, you--you're a tomfool!"
"Thanks," said Steve dryly. "I've heard that before."
"An' you'll hear it again, by the Lord! In ten languages if you'll
find men talkin' that many lingos. Here I come chasin' all this way to
be decent to you, to see if there ain't some way to help you out----"
"Help me out of my property," amended Steve. "I can't remember
anything else you offered to do for me!"
"I said it once," shouted his grandfather, his two big fists suddenly
clinched and lifted threateningly; "you're a howlin' young ass! That's
what for a man you've turned out to be, Stephen Packard. Come here
empty-handed an' try to buck me, would you? Me who has busted better
men than you all my life, me who has got my hooks in you deep already,
me who ain't no pulin' ol' dodderin' softy to turn over to a lazy,
shiftless vagabond all I've piled up year after year. Buck me, would
you? Tuck in an' fire my men, butt on my affairs-- Why, you impudent
young puppy-dog, you: I'll make you stick your tail between your legs
an' howl like a kiote before I'm done with you!"
Steve looked at him hopelessly; he might have expected this all along
though he had hoped for amity at least. If there were to be a conflict
of purpose he could have wished that it be conducted in friendly
fashion. But when did Hell-Fire Packard ever clasp hands with the man
he opposed in anything, when did he ever see a business rival without
cloven hoof, horns, and spiked tail?
"I am sorry you look at it that way, Grandy. It is only natural that I
should seek to hold what is mine."
"Then hold your tongue, you young fool!" blazed out the old man. "But
don't ask me to hold my hand! I'm goin' after you tooth and big
toe-nail! If Ranch Number Ten ain't mine in all partic'lars before
you're a year older I want to know why!"
"I think," said the grandson, fighting with himself for calmness and
quiet speech, "that any further business I can take up with your
lawyer. Past due interest----"
"Lawyer?" thundered Packard senior. "Since when did I ever have call
for law an' lawyers in my play? Think I'm a crook, sir? Mean to
insinuate I'm a crook?"
"I mean nothing of the kind. A mortgage is a legal matter, the payment
of interest and principal----"
"Guy Little!" called the old man. "Guy Little! Goin' to stay under
that car all day?"
The mechanician promptly appeared, hands and face greasy and black and
took his place on the running-board.
"All ready, sir," he announced imperturbably.
With half-a-dozen strides his master reached the car; in as many
seconds the powerful engine was throbbing. The screaming horn gave
warning, the quiet herds in the valley heeded, lifted their heads and
stood at attention, ready to scamper this way or that as need arose.
The wheels turned, the car jolted over the inequalities presented by
the field, swerved sharply, turned, gathered speed and whizzed away
toward the valley road.
Three times before they shot back into the mouth of Blue Bird Cañon the
mechanician fancied that his employer had spoken; each time listening,
he failed to catch any other sound than that made by the engine and
speeding wheels. Once he said, "Sir?" and got only silence for an
answer.
He shook his head and wondered; it was not Packard's way to mumble to
himself. And again, ready to jump for his life as the big car took a
dangerous turn, his eyes glued to the sheer bank a few inches from the
singing tires, he caught a sound through the blast of the sparton which
surely must have come from the driver's lips.
"What say?" yelled Guy Little.
No answer. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a farmer at the head of his
two plunging horses where the man had hurriedly got them out of the way
and up the flank of the mountain. They raced on. And again, surely
Packard had said something.
"Talkin' to me?" called Little.
Then, for just a wee fraction of a second, Packard drew his eyes from
the road and his look met the mechanician's. The old man's eyes were
shining strangely.
"Damn it, Guy Little," he boomed out boisterously, "can't a man laugh
when he feels that-away?"
And it suddenly dawned upon Guy Little that ever since they had left
Ranch Number Ten the old man had been chuckling delightedly.