THE HAND OF BLENHAM
"Each man's life is what he shapes it for himself."
"A stupid, bare-faced, platitudinous lie!"
Steve Packard, grown irritable here of late, flung the offending book
through an open window and got to his feet.
"A man's life is what the evil little gods of chance make it, curse
them. Or what a fool of a girl tangles and twists it into."
He shook himself viciously and went to his door, staring out across the
hills vaguely moulded under the stars.
Life was just a very unsatisfactory sort of a proposition. It was a
game that wasn't worth the players' serious attention, a game all of
chance and not in the least of skill, and not even interesting! So, in
the sombre depths of his soul Steve Packard admitted freely. And,
until a certain night only some six months ago, he had never divined
this great truth.
That night Blenham had sneered, "Stuck on her yourself, are you?" and
Steve had recognized a vital fact inelegantly expressed; that night
Terry Temple had appeared to him more than just a "good little sport";
that night he had somewhat brusquely considered the sweet femininity of
her under her assumed surface of _diablerie_ and had found her
infinitely desirable; that same night Terry, for no reason in the world
that Steve Packard could discover, had suddenly congealed into a thing
of ice that had never since thawed save only briefly before burning
fits of wrath.
Two hours after he had admitted to himself that he loved her she
informed him with all of the emphasis she could summon for the occasion
that she hated him. And life hadn't been what he had made it at all.
The papers which Temple had signed were still in existence, safely
deposited in a bank in San Juan. Steve had paid off the Temple
mortgage to his grandfather; he had paid Temple a thousand dollars in
cash; thereby he had acquired a half interest in the Temple ranch.
That had all been quite in accordance with Terry's suggestions and
entirely satisfactory.
Not being a thief, Steve counted upon relinquishing his right to his
half at any time that Temple paid back just what had been advanced.
But it became evident very soon that Temple would never pay back
anything. Though Doctor Bridges found nothing very much the matter
with him, nevertheless Temple died less than two weeks later.
During those two weeks Steve had not seen Terry. With word of the
girl's bereavement, however, he had gone immediately to her. She
looked at him curiously, saying quietly that the boys were doing all
that was necessary and had asked him to go.
Then, after another two weeks, he had ridden again to the Temple ranch.
He found it deserted, doors and windows shut, dead leaves thick in the
path. His heart sank and thereafter knocked hard at his ribs; Terry
was gone and had said nothing to him. He turned and went home, bitter
and angry and hurt.
Where had she gone? He didn't know; he told himself he didn't care;
certainly he would bite his tongue out before he would ask any of her
friends. But he knew within himself that he did care as he had cared
about nothing else in the world; and he asked himself a thousand times:
"Where has Terry gone?"
For the world was not right without her; the sunlight was thin; the
season of bursting buds was but a pale, lack-lustre imitation of
spring. And as the long, hot days dragged by and the verdure died on
hill and plain and dusty mountainside, he asked himself "When will she
come back to us?"
Long after every one else had heard and forgotten the story, or at
least had given over all thinking upon it, Steve heard how Terry had
drawn against the last of the inconsiderable legacy left her long ago
by her Spanish mother, and had gone to San Juan.
She had friends there; the banker's wife, Mrs. Engle and her
fluffy-haired daughter, Florrie, had opened their arms to her and made
her tarry with them until the family made their annual trip East. Then
Terry had gone with them.
And never a word to Steve Packard. He cursed himself, tried to curse
her, and found that he couldn't quite make a go of it, and settled down
to good, hard work and the job of forgetting what a pair of gray eyes
looked like and how two certain red lips smiled and the tinkly notes of
a laughing voice.
In the good, hard work of stock ranching he succeeded more than well;
in the other task he set himself he failed utterly. Never, when alone
out on the range a shadow fell across, did he fail to look up quickly
with his lips half forming to the word, "Terry!" And, after all this
time, still no word from her, no word of her.
Eight thousand dollars he had paid to Temple. The remaining two
thousand of his father's heritage he had turned over promptly to his
grandfather to apply on his own indebtedness. He had consulted with
Bill Royce and Barbee and had cut down his crew of men, thereby
curtailing expenses.
He had sold a few head of beef cattle and banked the money for the
men's wages and current expenses. By the same means he had managed to
keep abreast of his interest payments to old man Packard and had even
paid off a little more of the principal. Then, catching the market
right "going and coming," he had bought a lot of young cattle from an
overstocked ranch adjoining, and had made a second profitable sale a
month later.
Finally, to indicate that he was still in the game and playing it to
win, consequently overlooking never a bet, he had cashed in pretty
fortunately on a section of his timber-land.
The Rollston mills were just opening upon the other side of the
mountains; he showed the firm's buyer a stretch of his big timber and
closed the deal to their common satisfaction. And with every deal of
this sort old man Packard felt his grip being pried loose from Ranch
Number Ten.
From the beginning Steve had been puzzled to know what to do with the
Temple outfit. Terry had paid off the men and had let them go; the
stock on the place she had left, and without a word, to Steve's care.
Since the place was well stocked, chiefly with young cattle, there was
enough here to demand the attention which so busy a man as Steve
Packard could not give.
He talked matters over with Bill Royce and in the end sent both Bill
and Barbee to the Temple place, riding over once or twice a week
himself to see how matters went.
And so the months dragged by. Twice, swearing to himself that he was
doing so only because the management of the business made it absolutely
necessary, Steve wrote to Terry. He got no answer. He did not even
know if she had received his notes. The first he had signed, by the
way, "Yours very truly, Steve." The second ended "Respectfully, S.
Packard."
"Terry's havin' the time of her life," Bill Royce startled him by
announcing one day out of a clear sky.
"How do you know?" asked Steve sharply.
"Oh, she writes letters to her frien's," said Royce. "One of the boys
brought word from the Norton place. Terry wrote her an' wrote some
folks in Red Creek an' wrote the Lanes an'----"
"Appears to be quite a letter-writer," remarked Steve stiffly. "And
she's having the time of her life, is she?"
"Sure," said Royce innocently. "Why not? The boys are bettin' she's
dead gone on some young down-East jasper an' that maybe she'll be
married in no time. What do you think, huh, Steve?"
"Where is she?" demanded Steve, very brusque about it.
"Blessed if I know," admitted Royce. "Chicago, I think. Or New York.
Or Pennsylvany. One of them towns. Shucks. She'd ought to come on
home where she belongs."
"Oh, I don't know," said Steve.
But in Royce's ears the voice didn't ring quite true. It was meant to
be careless in the extreme and--no, it didn't ring quite true.
Hot, cloudless skies as the season dragged on, dry, burning fields
under a blazing sun, the cattle seeking shade wherever it was to be
had, crowding at the water-holes, browsing early and late and
frequenting the cooler cañons during the heat of the days. And nights
of stars and a vast silence and emptiness.
A girl had come, had for a little posed laughing outlined against the
window of a man's soul, had flashed her unforgettable gray eyes at him
and had gone. And so, and just because of her, the blistering hills
seemed but ugly, lonely miles, the nights under a full moon were just
the more silent and empty.
But Steve Packard held on, grown grim and determined. He had entered
the game, lightly enough he had demanded his stack of chips, now he
would stay for the show-down. Either he would clear his ranch of its
mortgage and thus make clear to his meddlesome old grandparent that he
was a man grown and no mere boy to be disciplined and badgered
willy-nilly, or else his meddlesome old grandparent would in truth
"smash" him.
In either case there would be the end soon. For, win or lose, Steve,
tired of the game, would draw out and set his back to Ranch Number Ten
and the country about it and go back to the old rudderless life of
vagabondage. Just because a girl had come, had tarried, and then had
gone.
So, though the game had long ago lost its zest, Steve Packard like any
other thoroughbred played on for a finish. Now and then, but seldom,
he saw Blenham. Often, in little, annoying, mean ways Blenham made
himself felt. Early in the season Steve's riders had found three of
his steers dead on the outskirts of the range; a rifle bullet had done
for each one of them.
Since old man Packard had promised to stop at nothing, since Blenham
was full of venom, Steve never for a moment doubted whose hand had
fired the three shots. But he merely called his cowboys together, told
them what had happened, ordered them to keep their eyes open and their
guns oiled, and hoped and longed for the time when he himself could
come upon Blenham busied with some act like this.
There were other episodes which he attributed to Blenham though he must
admit in each case that anything in the vaguest way approaching a proof
was lacking. Just before he closed the deal with the lumber company
that had taken over his timber tract a forest fire had broken out.
Luck and a fortuitous shifting of the wind had saved him from a heavy
loss.
Incidents, these and others of their kind, to fill Steve Packard with
rage; but Blenham's supreme blows--Blenham's and old man
Packard's--were reserved for late in the dry season when they fell
hardest.
A growing shortage of feed and the necessity for cash for the
forthcoming substantial sum to be paid on the mortgage held by his
grandfather, combined with the fact that his lean acres were
overstocked, drove Steve in search of a market late in the summer.
Bill Royce shook his head and raised his objections.
"Everybody else is doin' the same thing an' at the same time," he said
lugubriously. "Which'll mean the market all glutted up so's you won't
get no kind of figger. If you could only hold on till next spring."
But Steve merely said--
"Oh, well, Bill, it's all in a lifetime," and shaped his plans for a
sale.
And within ten days there came an offer which startled him. It was
from the big buyers, Doan, Rockwell, and Haight, who, their
communication said, knew his line of stock thoroughly and were prepared
to pay the top prices for all he had. He estimated swiftly and sent a
man hurrying into town with a message to go by wire; he would round up
between a hundred and fifty and two hundred head and would have them in
San Juan when desired.
"Old Doan's a sport and a wise boy, both," announced Steve triumphantly
when he made the news known to Bill Royce. "He knows high-grade stuff
and he's willing to pay the price." He narrowed his eyes
speculatively. "We'll scare up close to two hundred head, William.
And they'll bring us just about twenty thousand. Maybe a thousand or
so above that. And, Bill, did you ever know the time when twenty
thousand dollars would look more like twenty thousand full moons just
showing up over the skyline?"
Bill's grin reflected Steve's lively satisfaction. Now there would be
the money for old Hell-Fire Packard's next payment, there would be a
long respite from him, there would be ample feed for the rest of the
cattle. Steve might even spend a part of the money for a herd of
calves to be had dirt-cheap just now from the Biddle Morris dairy
outfit, down near San Juan.
The prospect was exceedingly bright; just as though in truth a string
of full moons were shining down upon them. And still there was the
shadow, even at this time, the shadow cast by Terry's absence and
silence. If she were only here to rejoice with them.
Steve snorted his disgust with himself, got on a horse and went
streaking across the fields, riding hard as was a habit here of late,
yelling an order to Barbee as he went. Barbee's innocent blue eyes
followed him thoughtfully: then Barbee shrugged and spat and thereafter
called to his men to "get busy." The round-up began immediately.
Then came a handful of long, hot, feverishly busy days. Strayed steers
carrying the Number Ten brand were hazed back to the big fenced-in
meadows from the mountain slopes, were counted and held, in an
ever-swelling herd. There was little rest for the men, who, shifted
from one sweating horse to another, rode late and early.
Word came from Doan setting the date for the delivery in San Juan.
Steve wired his satisfaction with the arrangement, undertaking to have
the cattle in the stock pens just out of the town two or three days
before Doan's coming. And no one knew better than did Steve Packard
the true size of the job he had on his hands at this time of year and
with a herd of close to two hundred wild steers.
The drive began one morning in the dark long before the dawn. Steve
estimated that he could make the Rio Frio the first night and had
arranged beforehand with the Talbot boys for the night's pasturage.
The second day would find them on the edge of the bad lands; his wagons
hauling baled hay were to push on ahead and be waiting at the only
sufficient water-holes to be found within a number of miles. San Juan
in four days was the schedule.
"We'll lose weight all along the road," he conceded. "But it can't be
helped. And a couple of day's rest and lots of feed and water in San
Juan before Doan shows up will put back a part of the lost weight."
He had made allowances for a hard drive. Nevertheless the actuality
was a sterner matter than he had foreseen. All along the way the feed
was scant. Water was low in the holes, Rio Frio for the first time in
years was a mere series of shallow pools. The blazing heat was such
that men and horses and steers all suffered terribly.
At the end of the second day he ordered a full dozen of the less hardy
of his beasts cut out from the herd and turned into a neighboring
range; it was questionable if they would have been able to drag on the
two remaining days and even had they done so they would have brought no
top price from the buyer.
The drive was made on schedule time. Circumstances not only permitted
but insisted. There were no places for loitering, there were only the
major water-holes upon which Steve had counted, the distances between
them regulating each day's progress. And so the stock was in San Juan
a full two days before the time for Doan's coming.
For Steve the two days dragged heavily. He camped with his herd on the
edge of the settlement, allowing the boys to disport themselves as they
saw fit a large part of the time, himself having little desire for the
bad whiskey and crooked gaming of La Casa Blanca.
Tuesday morning Doan was to arrive. Steve met the stage and one glance
showed him that Doan was not on it. He asked the driver if he knew
anything of Doan and the man shook his head. Steve supposed that he
was coming up from the railroad by auto and so idled about the town all
forenoon, waiting.
By midday, when Doan still failed to put in an appearance, Steve had
grown impatient. By the middle of the afternoon his impatience gave
place to anger. He had kept his appointment bringing his herds over a
hard trail, and Doan with nothing to do but travel luxuriously, had
failed him.
But it was not until the stage came in Wednesday morning and again
brought no Doan and no word of Doan that Steve telephoned a message to
the nearest Western Union office at Bidwell demanding to know what the
trouble was. Not only was he on heavy expenses; his mood never had
been one to take kindly to the long waiting game. And yet he was
forced to wait all that day and all the next day with no word from Doan.
He telegraphed again Wednesday night, a third time Thursday morning.
No answers came. But a little before noon, Thursday, Doan came. Came
by automobile from the railroad, a man with him. Steve saw them as
they drove into town; he noted Doan's thin face and his tall form in
the gray linen duster; then he marked the man with him. The man was
Blenham.
Steve, raw-nerved through these long hours of inaction and uncertainty,
pushed straightway to Doan bent upon demanding an explanation. He got
an inkling of one from an unexpected quarter, Blenham's lips.
"We sure appreciate this, Mr. Doan," Blenham said, getting down and
offering his hand to the cattle-buyer. "Count on me an' ol' man
Packard doin' you a favor any time. So long."
And casting to Steve a look of blended triumph and venom he hurried
down to the stable and his horse.
"Mr. Doan," said Steve bluntly, "what in hell's name do you mean by
treating me this way?"
Doan turned his thin impassive face with the hawk-eyes toward young
Packard.
"Who do you happen to be?" he asked coolly.
"I'm Steve Packard from Ranch Number Ten. And I've got a herd of
steers out here that's been waiting for you some time now."
"Oh, yes," said Doan, still very cool. "Got my wire, didn't you,
saying that I was unavoidably detained?"
"I did not!" snapped Steve. "Detained by what? Blenham?"
"Strange," murmured Doan.
He got down from his car and stretched his long legs.
"I've had a new secretary, Mr. Packard. I found out that he drank. He
has been discharged. Hem. Let me see: you've got about fifty steers,
haven't you?"
"I've got a hundred and eighty-six," Steve said sharply, staring at
Doan's inscrutable face and wondering just what was up.
"A hundred and eighty-six!" Doan shook his head. "I couldn't take that
many on just now; I've made other plans. Unless, of course, you are in
a position to tempt me to buy by making me a very attractive figure!"
Steve came a sudden step nearer, his eyes blazing, his two fists
clenched.
"What's this game of yours?" he demanded. "Out with it. What are you
up to? You wired me an offer of ten to twelve cents, twelve and a half
for the fancy."
"What!" cried Doan. "Why, my dear fellow, you must have lost your
senses! With the market the way it is now I don't have to pay more
than seven and eight cents."
Steve waited for no more. His days of waiting were past. He drew
back, swung from the shoulder and struck with all of his might. His
fist against Doan's chin hurled the lean body of the cattle-buyer half
across the street.
"Barbee," said Steve quietly, "round up the boys. We start our herd
back in ten minutes."
And Barbee, taking stock of Steve's white face, went hastily on his
errand.