Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "He was flailing right and left with a huge pine knot in
either hand."]
THE SHE BOSS
A WESTERN STORY
BY
ARTHUR PRESTON HANKINS
AUTHOR OF
THE HERITAGE OF THE HILLS, THE JUBILEE GIRL, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS ---------- NEW YORK
Copyright, 1922
By CHELSEA HOUSE
The She Boss
(Printed In the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. BEAR VALLEY'S DRONE
II. OUT OF THE WOODS
III. SAN FRANCISCO
IV. TWITTER OR TWEET
V. A RIVAL
VI. THE FIRE
VII. HIRAM, THE BUTTERFLY
VIII. LUCY'S AMBITIONS
IX. HIRAM WAKES UP
X. JERKLINE JO
XI. THE RETURN OF JERKLINE JO
XII. SKINNERS FROM FRISCO
XIII. THE START FOR JULIA
XIV. A WIRE TO JULIA
XV. MR. TWEET NEGOTIATES A LOAN
XVI. TEHACHAPI HANK
XVII. IN LETTERS OF BLACK
XVIII. GREATER RAGTOWN
XIX. WHAT MADE THE WILD CAT
XX. DRUMMOND'S PASSENGER
XXI. LUCY SEES A PROSPECT
XXII. JERKLINE JO'S SURPRISE
XXIII. DRUMMOND WEAVES A DREAM
XXIV. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE LAKE
XXV. JO LOSES HER SUPPORT
XXVI. AT THE HAIRPIN CURVE
XXVII. UNDER THE DRIPPING TREES
XXVIII. FOUR-UP FOR HELP
XXIX. THE GENTLE WILD CAT RETURNS
XXX. HIRAM TAKES THE TRAIL
XXXI. A TALE OF THE DESERT'S DEAD
XXXII. LUCY PLANS A COUNTER-ATTACK
XXXIII. POCKETED
XXXIV. WHILE SPRING APPROACHED
XXXV. THE WAY OF LIFE
The She Boss
CHAPTER I
BEAR VALLEY'S DRONE
Spring was manifest in the vast big-timber country of Mendocino County.
"Uncle" Sebastian Burris felt the moist warmth of it oozing from the
slowly drying road as he trudged along. The smell of it emanated from
the white, pale-yellow, and pink fungi that flourished on the soaked
and ancient logs along the way. He heard the voice of it in the soft
murmuring of the South Fork of the Eel, which went twinkling down Bear
Valley through firs and redwoods straight as telegraph poles; in the
caress of the soft south wind soughing in the tree-tops. Chipmunks and
gray squirrels darted across his path.
A quarter of a mile from Wharton Bixler's store he turned off on a
narrow road which led into the deeper forest. He passed through groves
of redwoods which towered three hundred feet above him, and whose girth
was over sixty feet. A half mile more the old man trudged on sturdily,
muttering occasionally to himself. Then he struck a cross trail which
paralleled Ripley Creek, and this he followed into the sunshine of an
open spot.
Across this, through thickets of whitethorn, manzanita, alder, and bay
he limped along, following deer trails. The deeper forest was left
behind in the lowlands. A grass-grown bark road, which he eventually
found, followed the creek, ascending sharply through shade and
sunshine, crossing and recrossing the creek on wooden bridges,
twisting, always climbing.
On one of the bridges Uncle Sebastian Burris halted. A great snarl of
bleached driftwood had collected just above the bridge, and through it
the clear water roared in a dozen tiny cataracts. Beyond the drift
Uncle Sebastian had caught a glimpse of some living, moving object. He
wiped his watery blue eyes with a red handkerchief, looked once more,
then crossed the bridge and wound through a thicket of huckleberry
bushes till abreast the drift.
A little later he was peering down a steep bank into the
boulder-studded bottom of Ripley Creek, where lay a fine young specimen
of the genus homo idly tossing pebbles into the crystal water. A smile
half sardonic grew in the features of Uncle Sebastian as he stood
looking down at him.
The youth, unconscious of the presence of another, kept on idly tossing
the pebbles, recumbent on one elbow. His long sinewy legs were incased
in slick jean trousers of stovepipe lines and stiffness. He wore no
coat. A faded blue shirt covered his barrel of a body, and his slouch
hat was off, exposing long, light, wiry hair and a freckled neck. His
lean jaws were covered by a two weeks' growth of beard. About him
drooped hazels and alders. From one end to the other Ripley Creek was
beautiful; there was no lovelier spot in all of California.
"Hello, Hiram!" Sebastian Burris called at last.
The youth started perceptibly and sat up. He turned his head over his
left shoulder. Big, bulging blue eyes laughed back at Sebastian. The
good-naturedly twisted mouth that grinned at him was suggestive of a
sluggish drawl. The long legs twined themselves, and Hiram Hooker
flopped over on his stomach, facing his friend.
"Why, hello, Uncle Sebastian!" he cried in a tone which bore true
welcome. "What're you doin' 'way up here? Come on down an' look at
the young trout!"
Without remark, Uncle Sebastian, grasping roots and low-hanging
branches, clambered stiffly down the bank. He sat down by the side of
Hiram Hooker and glanced at three old, dirty backless magazines that
lay on the pebbles and smiled.
"Ain't seen ye down to th' store at stage time in I dunno when, Hiram,"
he remarked, surveying the handsome young Hercules with admiration.
Hiram skimmed a flat piece of slate across a riffle.
"I never get any mail, Uncle Sebastian," he drawled.
"They's a heap o' us don't go to Bixler's fer th' mail, Hiram."
"Heaven knows there's nothin' else to take me there," and there was
just a shade of bitterness in the twist of Hiram's good-natured mouth.
In place of tossing pebbles, Uncle Sebastian chose to pick up a redwood
splinter on which to whittle. He took out a slick-handled jackknife,
blew a clot of pocket lint from the springs, opened a whetted pruning
blade, and began shaving the brittle wood. His watery blue eyes were
far-off and thoughtful.
"Jest come from there," he resumed. "We was talkin' about ye down
there, Hiram. Put me in mind to come up an' see ye. Hiram, ye ain't
any too popular in Bear Valley--d'ye know it?"
"You know I do," promptly replied Hiram.
"D'ye know what they're sayin' agin' ye?" Uncle Sebastian continued
after a long pause.
"Don't know as I'm carin'."
"Yes, ye are, Hiram," said Uncle Sebastian positively. "Don't tell me
that. Ye c'n tell yerself ye don't keer, Hiram, but ye're lyin' to
yerself. It ain't in human nature not to keer what folks thinks about
a fella. Gosh! where'd we be if it wasn't so?"
Hiram flipped a pebble. "I reckon you're right, Uncle Sebastian, and I
reckon I know you're aimin' at somethin'. You came 'way up here to
spring somethin' on me, didn't you? Well, le's have it."
"Ye're right, Hiram--I did. In the first place, then, they're sayin'
ye're the laziest fella in Bear Valley."
Hiram laughed mirthlessly. "There's nothin' new in that, Uncle
Sebastian. They've said the same since paw died. I reckon I am,
maybe."
"Hiram," patiently persisted the old man, "I didn't walk 'way up here
to listen to such talk. I tell ye, ye're playin' insincere, Hiram.
Down in yer heart ye know as well as anythin' it makes ye hot to be
talked about an' called th' laziest man in Bear Valley. I'd druther
see ye hoppin' mad ner takin' it that a way.
"Now, Hiram, listen to me: I've known ye sence ye was knee-high to a
duck, ain't I? Yer paw an' me was thicker ner molasses. Yer paw would
'a' made a brilliant man, Hiram, if he'd 'a' had th' chanct. You've
inherited yer paw's brains.
"When ye was a kid ye was a little devil, I'll admit. Still, givin'
myself credit fer a set o' brains a leetle above th' average o' Bear
Valley, I made allowances. Ye was mean because yer head was full o'
ideas; an' in Bear Valley they's so blamed little to use them ideas on
that ye jest naturally had to turn to meanness. Ye wasn't really bad;
ye was jest alive. All yer life ye been hankerin' fer sumpin that Bear
Valley couldn't give, but ye didn't even know what 'twas ye was
hankerin' fer. How could ye? A man's gotta taste olives before he c'n
tell if he likes 'em, ain't he? Yer paw taught ye to read." Uncle
Sebastian glanced once more, half pityingly, half resentfully, at the
backless magazines. "Readin's put notions into yer head an' set ye to
hankerin'.
"Then as ye grew up th' Valley folks begun to shun ye, didn't they?" he
continued. "They called ye queer. Then when yer paw died they dropped
ye altogether. It hurt ye, an' ye jest drew aloof an' went to shakes.
"D'ye know, Hiram, sometimes I find myself not blamin' ye like I
oughta. They called ye no good before ye really was so, an'
practically driv ye to it. Then ye was too proud to brace up an' give
'em th' satisfaction o' thinkin' their treatment o' ye had made ye turn
over a new leaf. If they'd gone on treatin' ye decent ye'd likely come
out all right o' yer own hook. Hiram, pride's put a heap o' men in th'
penitentiary. Pride's stubborn, Hiram. But layin' aside th' root o'
th' trouble, an' lookin' at th' matter through _their_ eyes, it's
really a shame th' way yer paw's place has gone to ruin--th' way you've
gone th' same route. I'd druther see ye plumb bad ern so all-fired
no-good all round. Ye had jobs a number o' times drivin' eight an' ten
on jerkline, freightin' tanbark from Longport. Ye're a good jerkline
skinner, Hiram--no better in the country--but ye won't stick no more'n
a month or two outa each year.
"But I'm makin' allowances fer ye--I always have--I'm th' only one that
ever has. I been watchin' an' waitin' fer ye to right yerself an' get
at sumpin; but this mornin', down to th' store, it come over me that
ye'll never do it in Bear Valley.
"Consequently, Hiram," Uncle Sebastian resumed, "ye've gotta move."
Hiram glanced at him with wide-opened eyes. "Move! Where to?"
"Out into th' world, Hiram, to strike yer gait. Ye gotta hit th' hard
places an' git experience. Ye gotta taste olives to see if ye c'n
stummick 'em. Ye'll get an awful batterin'-up, I reckon, but ye'll
likely learn if they's anything in ye. At first ye'll probably go to
th' bad an' get a heap worse ern ye was in Bear Valley. That's neither
here ner there. Th' point is, if they's a gait in ye ye'll eventually
strike it. If not--well, then, what's th' difference? I'm goin' to
pay up fer ye down to th' store an' give ye enough to land ye in
Frisco. Then th' good Lord an' what He put into that head o' yers must
look after ye. I'm gonta foreclose on ye, Hiram."
Hiram was not looking at Uncle Sebastian, but the old man saw his
slight start and the red creep down his columnar neck as the last
sentence came out. One great toe protruded from the upper of one of
Hiram's shoes. Uncle Sebastian saw it twitching.
"You're foreclosin' on me?" The words came slowly and with a hollow
gulp.
Uncle Sebastian's lips went straight and hard. "Unless ye'll deed th'
place to me, Hiram."
Another pause, while the low wind whined in the treetops and Ripley
Creek went gurgling and sucking through the latticed trunks in the pile
of drift.
"What did you tell me when I gave the mortgage, Uncle Sebastian?"
The reproach in Hiram's voice did not move the arbiter. "I know what I
told ye, Hiram. I told ye, ye needn't worry--that I wouldn't
foreclose--that I wasn't speculatin' when I lent th' money on th'
place. Jest th' same, Hiram, I'm foreclosin' on ye."
Uncle Sebastian eyed the young man keenly. The first shock past, Hiram
seemed now to be turning the matter over with just deliberation.
"I reckon I know what you're up to, Uncle Sebastian," he said at last.
"We've talked the matter over too many times for me to misconstrue your
motives. You're thinkin' that I'll amount to somethin' if I get away
from here."
"I reckon ye've said it, Hiram." Uncle Sebastian voiced this with
great relief.
"And you're foreclosin' on me to force me to go."
"Eggzackly, Hiram. I'm proud that ye interpret my motive."
Hiram was silent another long minute. Then, with a hollow laugh: "I
reckon you'll be tolerably disappointed, Uncle Sebastian. There was a
time when I'd 'a' looked forward to leavin' Mendocino. I've had
hankerin's, and I've got 'em yet--but I'm scared. I've never been outa
the country but once. What c'n I do away from here? What d'ye expect
of me, anyway?"
"Ye c'n certainly do as much out o' here as ye're doin' here, Hiram."
"I don't know about that. It don't take much to live here. I've got
about all I want, I reckon. If I had more books to read I'd be pretty
near content. There was a time, as I said, when it was different; but
now I don't reckon I care. But what particular thing d'ye expect me to
excel in, Uncle Sebastian?"
"Excel's a tol'able big word, Hiram. I can't tell ye any more. Ye've
wanted to be a poet, an' ye've wanted to be an officer in th' army, an'
this an' that an' th' other--ye've wanted to be pretty near everythin'
ye read about last. When ye git in touch with these things, Hiram, ye
may be able to choose--though they's a heap o' 'em ain't that's in
constant touch. I know ye've got imagination. I know it's wasted here
in th' backwoods; an' I know ye gotta git."
Uncle Sebastian had risen to emphasize this ultimatum. Now, standing
and looking down, he finished:
"Whether ye'll bless me or curse me remains to be seen."
Hiram made no reply--he did not even look up.
"So be down to Wharton Bixler's by stage time to-morrow, Hiram, an' be
ready to take th' stage to Brown's Corner. I'll go with ye that far,
an' ye c'n deed me th' prop'ty before a notary, so's I won't be obliged
to foreclose. Then I'll come back an' pay yer bill at Bixler's, an'
ye'll have one hundred dollars to take ye down to Frisco. Will ye be
at th' store at half past nine?"
A wait, then a short nod.
Uncle Sebastian half turned, paused, cleared his throat, and for the
first time lost his high-handed control of the situation.
"Hiram," he said in a lower tone, "I reckon I'm a fool, but I hope ye
ain't holdin' anything agin' me. So help me, boy, I believe I'm doin'
ye a turn. Do--d'ye believe it or not?"
"Wait'll to-morrow, Uncle Sebastian," came Hiram's pleading voice.
"Le'me think it over all to-night. You've plumb knocked the props from
under me."
Without another word, Uncle Sebastian climbed up the bank and strode
off through the huckleberries.