CONCERNING MARY
"Yes, I've heard tell of sheepmen workin' Swan's dodge on one another,
but I never took no stock in it, because I never believed even a
sheepman was fool enough to let anybody put a thing like that over on
him."
"A sheepman oughtn't to be," Mackenzie said, in the bitterness of
defeat.
"Swan knew you was an easy feller, and green to the ways of them
tricky sheepmen," said Dad. "You let him off in that first fight with
a little crack on the head when you'd ought to 'a' laid him out for
good, and you let Hector Hall go that time you took his guns away from
him. Folks in here never could understand that; they say it was like a
child playin' with a rattlesnake."
"It was," Mackenzie agreed.
"Swan thought he could run them sheep of his over on you and take away
five or six hundred more than he brought, and I guess he'd 'a' done it
if it hadn't been for Reid."
"It looks that way, Dad. I sure was easy, to fall into his trap the
way I did."
Mackenzie was able to get about again, and was gaining strength
rapidly. He and Dad were in the shade of some willows along the creek,
where Mackenzie stretched in the indolent relaxation of convalescence,
Dad smoking his miserable old pipe close at hand.
And miserable is the true word for Dad's pipe, for it was miserable
indeed, and miserable the smell that came out of it, going there full
steam on a hot afternoon of early autumn. Dad always carefully reamed
out the first speck of carbon that formed in his pipe, and kept it
reamed out with boring blade of his pocket knife. He wanted no
insulation against nicotine, and the strength thereof; he was not
satisfied unless the fire burned into the wood, and drew the
infiltrations of strong juice therefrom. When his charge of tobacco
burned out, and the fire came down to this frying, sizzling
abomination of smells at last, Dad beamed, enjoying it as a sort of
dessert to a delightful repast of strong smoke.
Dad was enjoying his domestic felicity to the full these days of
Mackenzie's convalescence. Rabbit was out with the sheep, being needed
no longer to attend the patient, leaving Dad to idle as he pleased.
His regret for the one-eyed widow seemed to have passed, leaving no
scar behind.
"Tim don't take no stock in it that Swan planned before to do you out
of a lot of your sheep. He was by here this morning while you was
wanderin' around somewhere."
"He was by, was he?"
"Yeah; he was over to see Reid--he's sent him a new wagon over there.
Tim says you and Swan must both 'a' been asleep and let the two bands
stray together, and of course it was human for Swan to want to take
away more than he brought. Well, it was sheepman, anyhow, if it wasn't
human."
"Did Sullivan say that?"
"No, that's what I say. I know 'em; I know 'em to the bone. Reid knew
how many sheep him and you had, and he stuck out for 'em like a little
man. More to that feller than I ever thought he had in him."
"Yes," Mackenzie agreed. He lay stretched on his back, squinting at
the calm-weather clouds.
"Yeah; Tim says both of you fellers must 'a' been asleep."
"I suppose he'll fire me when he sees me."
"No, I don't reckon he will. Tim takes it as a kind of a joke, and
he's as proud as all git-out of the way Reid stacked up. If that boy
hadn't happened up when he did, Swan he'd 'a' soaked you another one
with that gun of yourn and put you out for good. They say that kid
waltzed Swan around there and made him step like he was standin' on a
red-hot stove."
"Did anybody see him doing it?"
"No, I don't reckon anybody did. But he must 'a' done it, all right,
Swan didn't git a head of sheep that didn't belong to him."
"It's funny how Reid arrived on the second," Mackenzie said,
reflecting over it as a thing he had pondered before.
"Well, it's natural you'd feel a little jealous of him, John--most any
feller would. But I don't think he had any hand in it with Swan to run
him in on you, if that's what you're drivin' at."
"It never crossed my mind," said Mackenzie, but not with his usual
regard for the truth.
"I don't like him, and I never did like him, but you've got to hand it
to him for grit and nerve."
"Has he got over the lonesomeness?"
"Well, he's got a right to if he ain't."
"Got a right to? What do you mean?"
Dad chuckled, put both hands to the back of his head, smoothed his
long, bright hair.
"I don't reckon you knew when you was teachin' Joan you was goin' to
all that trouble for that feller," he said.
"Sullivan told me him and old man Reid had made an agreement
concerning the young folks," Mackenzie returned, a sickness of dread
over him for what he believed he was about to hear.
"Oh, Tim told you, did he? Never said nothin' to me about it till this
mornin'. He's goin' to send Joan off to the sisters' school down at
Cheyenne."
Mackenzie sat up, saying nothing for a good while. He sat looking at
the ground, buried in his thoughts as deep as a grave. Dad turned
curious eyes upon him, but yet not eyes which probed to the secret of
his heart or weighed his loss.
"I guess I didn't--couldn't teach her enough to keep her here,"
Mackenzie said.
"You could teach her a danged sight more than she could remember. I
think Tim and her had a spat, but I'm only guessin' from what Charley
said. Reid was at the bottom of it, I'll bet a purty. That feller was
afraid you and Joan might git to holdin' hands out here on the range
so much together, heads a touchin' over them books."
Mackenzie heard the old man as the wind. No, he had not taught Joan
enough to keep her in the sheeplands; she had not read deeply enough
into that lesson which he once spoke of as the easiest to learn and
the hardest to forget. Joan's desire for life in the busy places had
overbalanced her affection for him. Spat or no spat, she would have
come to see him more than once in his desperate struggle against death
if she had cared.
He could not blame her. There was not much in a man who had made a
failure of even sheepherding to bind a maid to him against the
allurements of the world that had been beckoning her so long.
"Tim said he'd be around to see you late this evening or tomorrow.
He's went over to see how Mary and Charley're makin' out, keepin' his
eye on 'em like he suspicioned they might kill a lamb once in a while
to go with their canned beans."
"All right," said Mackenzie, abstractedly.
Dad looked at him with something like scorn for his inattention to
such an engrossing subject. Mackenzie was not looking his way; his
thoughts seemed to be a thousand leagues from Tim Sullivan's range and
the lambs on it, let them be alive or slaughtered to go with canned
beans.
But Joan would come back to the sheeplands, as she said everybody came
back to them who once had lived in their silences and breathed their
wide freedom. She would come back, not lost to him, but regained, her
lesson learned, not to go away with that youth who wore the brand of
old sins on his face. So hope came to lift him and assure him, just
when he felt the somber cloud of the lonesomeness beginning to engulf
his soul.
"I know Tim don't like it, but me and Rabbit butcher lambs right
along, and we'll keep on doin' it as long as we run sheep. A man's got
to have something besides the grub he gits out of tin cans. That ain't
no life."
"You're right, Dad. I'd been in a hole on the side of some hill before
now if it hadn't been for the broth and lamb stew Rabbit fed me.
There's nothing like it."
"You right they ain't!" said Dad, forgetting Mackenzie's lapse of a
little while before. "I save the hides and turn 'em over to him, and
he ain't got no kick. If I was them children I'd butcher me a lamb
once a week, anyhow. But maybe they don't like it--I don't know. I've
known sheepmen that couldn't go mutton, never tasted it from one year
to another. May be the smell of sheep when you git a lot of 'em in a
shearin' pen and let 'em stand around for a day or two."
But what had they told Joan that she would go away without a word,
leaving him in a sickness from which he might never have turned again?
Something had been done to alienate her, some crafty libel had been
poured into her ears. Let that be as it might, Joan would come back,
and he would wait in the sheeplands for her, and take her by the hand
and clear away her troubled doubts. The comfort of this thought would
drive the lonesomeness away.
He would wait. If not in Tim Sullivan's hire, then with a little flock
of his own, independent of the lords of sheep. He would rather remain
with Sullivan, having more to prove now of his fitness to become a
flockmaster than at the beginning. Sullivan's doubt of him would have
increased; the scorn which he could not quite cover before would be
open now and expressed. They had no use in the sheeplands for a man
who fought and lost. They would respect him more if he refused to
fight at all.
Dad was still talking, rubbing his fuzzy chin with reflective hand,
looking along the hillside to where Rabbit stood watch over the
sheep.
"Tim wanted to buy that big yellow collie from Rabbit," he said.
"Offered her eighty dollars. Might as well try to buy me from that
woman!"
"I expect she'd sell you quicker than she would the collie, Dad."
"Wish she would sell that dang animal, he never has made friends with
me. The other one and me we git along all right, but that feller he's
been educated on the scent of that old vest, and he'll be my enemy to
my last day."
"You're a lucky man to have a wife like Rabbit, anyhow, dog or no dog.
It's hard for me to believe she ever took a long swig out of a whisky
jug, Dad."
"Well, sir, me and Rabbit was disputin' about that a day or so ago.
Funny how I seem to 'a' got mixed up on that, but I guess it wasn't
Rabbit that used to pull my jug too hard. That must 'a' been a Mexican
woman I was married to one time down by El Paso."
"I'll bet money it was the Mexican woman. How did Rabbit get her face
scalded?"
"She tripped and fell in the hog-scaldin' vat like I told you, John."
Mackenzie looked at him severely, almost ready to take the convalescent's
prerogative and quarrel with his best friend.
"What's the straight of it, you old hide-bound sinner?"
Dad changed hands on his chin, fingering his beard with scraping
noise, eyes downcast as if a little ashamed.
"I guess it was me that took a snort too many out of the jug that day,
John," he confessed.
"Of course it was. And Rabbit tripped and fell into the tub trying to
save you from it, did she?"
"Well, John, them fellers said that was about the straight of it."
"You ought to be hung for running away from her, you old hard-shelled
scoundrel!"
Dad took it in silence, and sat rubbing it into his beard like a
liniment. After a while he rose, squinted his eye up at the sun with a
quick turn of his head like a chicken.
"I reckon every man's done something he ought to be hung for," he
said.
That ended it. Dad went off to begin supper, there being potatoes to
cook. Sullivan had sent a sack of that unusual provender out to camp
to help Mackenzie get his strength back in a hurry, he said.
Tim himself put in his appearance at camp a little later in the day,
when the scent of lamb stew that Dad had in the kettle was streaming
over the hills. Tim could not resist it, for it was seasoned with wild
onions and herbs, and between the four of them they left the pot as
clean as Jack Spratt's platter, the dogs making a dessert on the
bones.
Dad and Rabbit went away presently to assemble the sheep for the
night, and Tim let his Irish tongue wag as it would. He was in lively
and generous mood, making a joke of the mingling of the flocks which
had come so dearly to Mackenzie's account. He bore himself like a man
who had gained something, indeed, and that was the interpretation put
on it by Mackenzie.
Tim led up to what he had come to discuss presently, beaming with stew
and satisfaction when he spoke of Joan.
"Of course you understand, John, I don't want you to think it was any
slam on you that I took Joan off the range and made her stop takin'
her book lessons from you. That girl got too fresh with me, denyin' my
authority to marry her to the man I've picked."
Mackenzie nodded, a great warmth of understanding glowing in his
breast.
"But I don't want you to feel that it was any reflection on your
ability as a teacher, you understand, John; I don't want you to look
at it that way at all."
"Not at all," Mackenzie echoed, quite sincerely.
"You could 'a' had her, for all the difference it was to me, if I
hadn't made that deal with Reid. A man's got to stick to his word, you
know, lad, and not have it thwarted by any little bobbin of a girl.
I'd as soon you'd have one of my girls as any man I know, John."
"Thanks."
"Of course I could see how it might turn out between you and Joan if
she kept on ridin' over to have lessons from you every day. You can't
blame Earl if he saw it the same way, lad."
"She isn't his yet," said Mackenzie confidently.
"Now look here, John"--Sullivan spoke with a certain sharpness, a
certain hardness of dictation in his tone, "you'd just as well stand
out of it and let Earl have her."
Mackenzie's heart swung so high it seemed to brush the early stars. It
was certain now that Joan had not gone home without a fight, and that
she had not remained there throughout his recovery from his wounds
without telling protest. More confidently than before he repeated:
"She isn't his yet!"
"She'll never get a sheep from me if she marries any other man--not
one lone ewe!"
"How much do you value her in sheep?" Mackenzie inquired.
"She'll get half a million dollars or more with Earl. It would take a
lot of sheep to amount to half a million, John."
"Yes," said Mackenzie, with the indifference of a man who did not have
any further interest in the case, seeing himself outbid. "That's
higher than I'll ever be able to go. All right; let him have her." But
beneath his breath he added the condition: "If he can get her."
"That's the spirit I like to see a man show!" Tim commended. "I don't
blame a man for marryin' into a sheep ranch if he can--I call him
smart--and I'd just as soon you as any man'd marry one of my girls, as
I said, John. But you know, lad, a man can't have them that's sealed,
as the Mormons say."
"You're right," Mackenzie agreed, and the more heartily because it was
sincere. If he grinned a little to himself, Tim did not note it in the
dusk.
"Now, there's my Mary; she's seventeen; she'll be a woman in three
years more, and she'll make two of Joan when she fills out. My Mary
would make the fine wife for a lad like you, John, and I'll give you
five thousand sheep the day you marry her."
"All right; the day I marry Mary I'll claim five thousand sheep."
Mackenzie said it so quickly, so positively, that Tim glowed and
beamed as never before. He slapped the simpleton of a schoolmaster who
had come into the sheeplands to be a great sheepman on the back with
hearty hand, believing he had swallowed hook and all.
"Done! The day you marry Mary you'll have your five thousand sheep
along wi' her! I pass you my word, and it goes."
They shook hands on it, Mackenzie as solemn as though making a
covenant in truth.
"The day I marry Mary," said he.
"It'll be three years before she's old enough to take up the weight of
carryin' babies, and of course you understand you'll have to wait on
her, lad. A man can't jump into these things the way he buys a
horse."
"Oh, sure."
"You go right on workin' for me like you are," pursued Tim, drunk on
his bargain as he thought it to be, "drawin' your pay like any hand,
without favors asked or given, takin' the knocks as they come to you,
in weather good and bad. That'll be a better way than goin' in shares
on a band next spring like we talked; it'll be better for you, lad;
better for you and Mary."
"All right," Mackenzie assented.
"I'm thinkin' only of your own interests, you see, lad, the same as if
you was my son."
Tim patted Mackenzie's shoulder again, doubtless warm to the bottom of
his sheep-blind heart over the prospect of a hand to serve him three
years who would go break-neck and hell-for-leather, not counting
consequences in his blind and simple way, or weather or hardships of
any kind. For there was Mary, and there were five thousand sheep. As
for Joan, she was out of Tim's reckoning any longer. He had a new
Jacob on the line, and he was going to play him for all he was worth.
"All right; I've got a lot to learn yet," Mackenzie agreed.
"You have, you have that," said Tim with fatherly tenderness, "and
you'll learn it like a book. I always said from the day you come you
had in you the makin' of a sheepman. Some are quick and some are slow,
but the longer it takes to learn the harder it sticks. It's been that
way wi' me."
"That's the rule of the world, they say."
"It is; it is so. And you can put up a good fight, even though you may
not always hold your own; you'll be the lad to wade through it wi'
your head up and the mornin' light on your face. Sure you will, boy.
I'll be tellin' Mary."
"I'd wait a while," Mackenzie said, gently, as a man who was very soft
in his heart, indeed. "I'd rather we'd grow into it, you know, easy,
by gentle stages."
"Right you are, lad, right you are. Leave young hearts to find their
own way--they can't miss it if there's nobody between them. I'll say
no word to Mary at all, but you have leave to go and see her as often
as you like, lad, and the sooner you begin the better, to catch her
while she's young. How's your hand?"
"Well enough."
"When you think you're able, I'll put you back with the sheep you had.
I'll be takin' Reid over to the ranch to put him in charge of the
hospital band."
"I'm able to handle them now, I think."
"But take your time, take it easy. Reid gets on with Swan, bein' more
experienced with men than you, I guess. Well, a schoolteacher don't
meet men the way other people do; he's shut up with the childer all
the day, and he gets so he measures men by them. That won't do on the
sheep range, lad. But I guess you're findin' it out."
"I'm learning a little, right along."
"Yes, you've got the makin' of a sheepman in you; I said you had it in
you the first time I put my eyes on your face. Well, I'll be leavin'
you now, lad. And remember the bargain about my Mary. You'll be a
sheepman in your own way the day you marry her. When a man's marryin'
a sheep ranch what difference is it to him whether it's a Mary or a
Joan?"
"No difference--when he's marrying a sheep ranch," Mackenzie
returned.