"But why don't you _do_ something, Bill?" demanded Sam Prescott's
pretty daughter.
Bill Wingo looked at Miss Prescott in injured astonishment. "Do
something?" he repeated. "What do you want me to do?"
"I don't want you to do anything," she denied with unnecessary
emphasis. "Haven't you any ambition?"
"Plenty."
"Then use it, for Heaven's sake!"
"I do. Don't I ask you to marry me every time I get a chance?"
"That's not using your ambition. That's playing the fool."
"Nice opinion of yourself you've got," he grinned.
"Never mind. You make me tired, Bill. Here you've got a little claim
and a little bunch of cows--the makings of a ranch if you'd only work.
But instead of working like a man you loaf like a--like a----"
"Like a loafer," he prompted.
"Exactly. You'd rather hunt and fish and ride the range for monthly
wages when you're broke than scratch gravel and make something of
yourself. You let your cows run with the T-Up-And-Down, and I'll bet
when Tuckleton had his spring round-up you weren't even on the job.
Were you?"
"Well, I--uh--I was busy," shamefacedly.
"Fishing over on Jack's Creek. That's how busy you were, when you
should have been looking after your property."
"Oh, Tuckleton's boys are square. Any calves they found running with
my brand, they'd run the iron on 'em all right."
"They'd run the iron on 'em all right," she repeated. "But what iron?"
"Why--mine. Whose do you suppose?"
"I don't know," she said candidly. "I'm asking you."
"Shucks, Sally Jane, those boys wouldn't do anything crooked.
Tuckleton wouldn't allow it."
"Bill, don't you ever distrust anybody?"
"Not until I'm certain they're crooked."
"I see," said the lady disgustedly. "After you wake up and find your
hide, together with the rest of your worldly possessions, hanging on
the fence, then and not till then do you come alive to the fact that
perhaps all was not right."
"Well----" began Bill.
"Don't you see by that time it's too late?" interrupted the lady.
"Aw, I dunno. I--I suppose so."
"You suppose so, do you? You suppose so. Don't you know, my innocent
William, that there are a sight more criminals outside of jail than
there are in?"
"Why, Sally Jane!" said the innocent William, scraping a fie-fie
forefinger at her. "Shame on you, shame on you, you wicked girl. I am
surprised. Such thoughts in a young maid's mind. No, I ain't either.
I always said if your pa sent you away to school you'd lose your faith
in human nature. He did; and you did. And now look at you, talking
just like a district attorney. And suspicious--I'd tell a man!"
"Oh, darn!" wailed Sally Jane. "I hate a fool!"
"So do I," concurred Bill warmly. "Tell a feller who's the fool you
hate and I'll hate him, too. One pair of haters working together might
do said fool a lot of good."
"Sometimes, Bill, my fingers simply ache to smack your long and silly
ears."
He nodded soberly. "I know. I often have the same feeling about
people. But don't let it worry you. It don't mean anything."
"Bill, can't you understand that I like you, and----"
"Easily," he grinned. "Of course you like me. So do lots of other
people. It comes natural. And that is another thing you mustn't let
worry you, Sally Jane. Just you take that liking for me and tend it
real careful. Put it on the window-sill between the pink geraniums and
water it morning, noon and night, and by and by that li'l liking will
wax strong and great and all that sort of thing, and you won't be able
to do without me. You'll have to marry me, I'm afraid, Sally Jane."
"I will, will I? And you're afraid, are you? You big, overgrown, lazy
lummox! I wouldn't marry you ever."
"I'm not so sure, but you needn't stamp your foot at me anyway. It
ain't being done this season. People slam doors instead. I'm sorry
there isn't a door near at hand. It must have been overlooked when
Linny's Hill was made."
"Bill, don't fool. This is not any joking matter. This
come-day-go-day attitude of yours is bad business. It's ruining you,
really it is."
"Drink and the devil, huh?"
"Oh, you're decent enough far as that goes. You never have been
beastly."
"I thank you, madam, for this good opinion of your humble servant."
"Shut up! I mean to say-- What I'm trying to beat into your thick
head, you simple thing, is that in this world you don't stand still.
You can't. You either go ahead or you slip back. And--you aren't
going ahead."
"If not, why not, huh? I know you mean well, Sally Jane, and----"
"And it's none of my business? Oh, I know you weren't going to say
that but you think it. You're quite right, Bill--but can't you see I'm
talking for your own good?"
"Sure, yes. My pa used to talk just like that before he'd go out
behind the corral with a breeching-strap in one hand and my ear in the
other. I've heard him many's the time. I used to hurt most unpleasant
for two-three days after, special if he'd forget which end of the strap
carried the buckle. Old times, old times. Now, I take it you were
never licked, Sally Jane. That was a mistake. You should have been--
What? You don't mean to say you're going home? And we were getting
along so nicely too. Well, if willful must, she must. I'll hold your
horse for you. Again let me offer my apologies for the lack of a door."
He sagged down on his heel and watched her ride away along the side of
Linny's Hill.
"I've often heard a woman's 'no' doesn't mean what it says," he
muttered, fishing out the makings from a vest pocket. "But Sally Jane
is so persistent with it, I dunno. I wonder if I really love her, or
do I only think I do because I can't have her? I suppose I'd feel
worse'n I do every time she turns me down if I did. Lord! she said, I
said, he said, and may Gawd have mercy on your soul!"
When his cigarette was going well he lazed over on his side, supporting
his head on a crooked arm, and gazed abroad between half-shut lids.
The view from Linny's Hill was all that could be desired. At the base
of the hill the Golden Bar-Hillsville trail, a yellow-gray ribbon
across the green, led the eye across flats and gentle rises through
shady groves of pine and cedar westward to where Golden Bar, a
collection of toy houses, each one startlingly clear and distinct in
that rarefied atmosphere, sprawled along the farther bank of Wagonjack
River.
The stream itself, a roaring river in the spring of the year, was now
but a poor thing. Shrunk to quarter-size, and fordable almost
anywhere, it flowed in sedate and midsummer fashion between its
cut-banks and miniature bluffs. Bordered throughout its length by
willows and cottonwoods, Wagonjack River meandered and wound its way
southward from the blue and hazy tumble of peaks that was the main
range of the Medicine Mountains to where the wide and pleasant reaches
of the Peace Pipe watered the southern section of the territory.
From Golden Bar to the Medicine Mountains was a long two hundred miles.
From Golden Bar to the Peace Pipe was twice that distance.
Crocker County, four hundred miles long by three hundred miles wide,
bounded on the east by the Wagonjack, ran well up into the Medicine
Mountains before giving way to Storey County. Across the river from
Crocker were two counties, of which Tom Read County was the northern
and Piegan County the southern. Shaler County ran the whole length of
the southern side of Crocker, whose western line was the boundary of
the neighboring territory.
There you have Crocker, a county three hundred miles wide by four
hundred miles long, and Golden Bar was its county seat.
Political pickings in Crocker, which pickings the neighbors called by a
much worse name, were consistently good. A small Indian reservation
lay partly in Crocker and partly in Shaler, but somehow the Crocker
citizens always secured the beef contracts. Crocker laws, provided the
suspected person or persons were friendly with the county officials,
were not administered with undue severity. Coarse work was never
tolerated, naturally; but if one were judicious and a good picker, one
could travel far and profitably. Thus it may be seen that Crocker was,
as counties go, fertile ground for easy consciences.
But, like Gallio, Bill Wingo cared for none of these things. He
watched the moving pencil-end that was Miss Prescott and her mount
descend to the trail and ride along it in the direction of Golden Bar.
Another pencil-end was riding the same trail,--away from Golden Bar.
Traveling at their present rate of speed, the riders would meet not far
from the scattering grove of cedars marking the entrance to the
low-walled draw that led to the Prescott ranch house.
Bill Wingo intently scrutinized the way-farer from Golden Bar side.
"Looks like Jack Murray's sorrel," he mused, holding the cigarette in
the corner of his mouth and rocking it up and down. "If they stop,
it's Jack."
The pencil-ends drew together at the lower end of the grove. They
stopped.
"Shucks," Mr. Wingo muttered mildly. "I never did like that man."