THE BOX R RANCH
Mr. Rankin moved back from a well-discussed table, and, the room being
conveniently small, tilted his chair back against the wall. The
protesting creak of the ill-glued joints under the strain of his
ponderous figure was a signal for all the diners, and five other men
likewise drew away from around the board. Rankin extracted a match and a
stout jack-knife from the miscellaneous collection of useful articles in
his capacious pocket, carefully whittled the bit of wood to a point, and
picked his teeth deliberately. The five "hands," sun-browned, unshaven,
dissimilar in face as in dress, waited in expectation; but the
housekeeper, a shapeless, stolid-looking woman, wife of the foreman,
Graham, went methodically about the work of clearing the table. Rankin
watched her a moment indifferently; then without turning his head, his
eyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets until they rested upon one
of the cowboys.
"What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis?" he asked.
The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a cigarette.
"'Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking of coming in to
dinner."
The lids met over Rankin's eyes, then the narrow slit opened.
"It was in the no'thwest you say, and seemed to be quite a way off?"
Grannis nodded.
"Yes; I couldn't make out any fire, only the smoke, and that didn't last
long. I thought at first maybe it was a prairie fire, and started to
see; but it was getting thinner before I'd gone a mile, so I turned
round and by the time I got back to the corral there wasn't nothing at
all to see."
Two of the other hands solemnly exchanged a wink.
"Think you must have eaten too many of Ma Graham's pancakes this
morning, and had a blur over your eyes," commented one, slyly. "Prairie
fires don't stop that sudden when the grass is like it is now."
The portly housewife paused in her work to cast a look of scorn upon the
speaker, but Grannis rushed into the breach.
"Don't you believe it. There was a fire all right. Somebody stopped it,
or it stopped itself, that's all."
Tilting his chair forward with an effort, Rankin got to his feet, and,
as usual, his action brought the discussion to an end. The woman
returned to her work; the men put on hats and coats preparatory to going
out of doors. Only the proprietor stood passive a moment absently
drawing down his vest over his portly figure.
"Graham," he said at last, "hitch the mustangs to the light wagon."
"All right."
"And, Graham--"
The man addressed paused.
"Throw in a couple of extra blankets."
"All right."
Out of doors the men took up the conversation where they had left off.
"You better begin to hope the old man finds something that's been afire
up there, Grannis," said the joker of the house. "If he don't, you've
cooked your goose proper."
Grannis was a new-comer, and looked his surprise.
"Why so?" he asked.
"You'll find out why," retorted the other. "Fire here's 'most as
uncommon as rain, and the boss don't like them smoky jokes."
"But I saw smoke, I tell you," reiterated Grannis, defensively; "smoke,
dead sure!"
"All right, if you're certain sure."
"Marcom knows what he's talking about, Grannis," said Graham. "He tried
to ginger things up a bit when he was new here, like you are; found a
litter of coyotes one September--thought they were timber wolves, I
guess, and braced up with his story to the old man." The speaker paused
with a reflective grin.
"Well, what happened?" asked Grannis.
"What happened? The boss sent me dusting about forty miles to get some
hounds. Nearly spoiled a good team to get back inside sixteen hours,
and--they found out Bill here in the next thirty minutes, that was all!"
Once more the story ended in a grin.
"What'd Rankin say?" asked Grannis, with interest.
"How about it, Bill?" suggested Graham.
The big cowboy looked a trifle foolish.
"Oh, he didn't say much; 'tain't his way. He just remarked, sort of
off-hand, that as far as I was concerned the next year had only about
four pay-months in it. That was all."
* * * * *
Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing at once. This was the
motto of the master of the Box R Ranch. In ten minutes' time Rankin's
big shapeless figure, seated in the old buckboard, was moving northwest
at the steady jog-trot typical of prairie travel, and which as the hours
pass by annihilates distance surprisingly. Simply a fat, an abnormally
fat, man, the casual observer would have said. It remained for those who
came in actual contact with him to learn the force beneath the
forbidding exterior,--the relentless bull-dog energy that had made him
dictator of the great ranch, and kept subordinate the restless, roving,
dissolute men-of-fortune he employed,--the deliberate and impartial
judgment which had made his word as near law as it was possible for any
mandate to be among the motley inhabitants within a radius of fifty
miles. Had Rankin chosen he could have attained honor, position, power
in his native Eastern home. No barrier built of convention or of
conservatism could have withstood him. Society reserves her prizes
largely for the man of initiative; and, uncomely block as he was, Rankin
was of the true type. But for some reason, a reason known to none of his
associates, he had chosen to come to the West. Some consideration or
other had caused him to stop at his present abode, and had made him
apparently a fixture in the midst of this unconquered country.
There was no road in the direction Rankin was travelling,--only the
unbroken prairie sod, eaten close by the herds that grazed its every
foot. Even under the direct sunlight the air was sharp. The regular
breath of the mustangs shot out like puffs of steam from the exhaust of
an engine, and the moisture frosted about their flanks and nostrils. But
the big man on the seat did not notice temperature. He had produced a
pipe from the depths beneath the wagon seat, and tobacco from a jar
cunningly fitted into one corner of the box, both without moving from
his place, the seat being hinged and divided in the centre to facilitate
the operation. More a home to him than the ranch-house itself was that
battered buckboard. Here, on an average, he spent eight hours out of the
twenty-four, and that seat-box was a veritable storehouse of articles
used in his daily life. As the jog-trot measured off the miles he
replenished the pipe again and again, leaving behind him the odor of
strong tobacco.
Not until he was within a mile of the "Big B" property, and a rise in
the monotonous roll of the land brought him in range of vision, did
Rankin show that he felt more than ordinary interest in his expedition;
then, shading his eyes, he looked steadily ahead. The sod barn stood in
its usual place; the corral, with its posts set close together,
stretched by its side; but where the house had stood there could not be
distinguished even a mound. The hand on the reins tightened meaningly,
and in sympathy the mustangs moved ahead at a swifter pace, leaving
behind a trail of tobacco-smoke denser than before.
* * * * *
When the little Benjamin Blair, fugitive, had literally taken to the
earth, it was with definite knowledge of the territory he was entering.
He had often explored its depths with childish curiosity, to the
distress of his mother and the disgust of the rightful owner, the
mongrel dog. Retreating to the farther end of the cave, the instinct of
self-preservation set hands and feet to work like the claws of a gopher,
filling with loose dirt the narrow passage through which he had entered.
Panting and perspiring with the effort, choked with the dust he raised,
all but suffocated, he dug until his strength gave out; then, curling up
in his narrow quarters, he lay listening. At first he heard nothing, not
even a sound from the dog; and he wondered at the fact. He could not
believe that Tom Blair would leave him in peace, and he breathlessly
awaited the first tap of an instrument against his retreat. A minute
passed, lengthened to five--to ten--and with the quick impatience of
childhood he started to learn the reason of the delay. His active little
body revolved in its nest. In the darkness a wiry arm scratched at the
recently erected barricade. A head with a tousled mass of hair poked its
way into the opening, crowded forward a foot--two feet, then stopped,
the whole body quivering. He had passed the curve, and of a sudden it
was as though he had opened the door of a furnace and gazed inside.
Instead of the familiar room, a great sheet of flame walled him in.
Instead of silence, a roar as of a hurricane was in his ears. Never in
his life had he seen a great fire, but instantly he understood.
Instantly the instinctive animal terror of fire gripped him; he
retreated to the very depths of the kennel, and burying his small head
in his arms lay still. But not even then, child though he was, did he
utter a cry. The endurance which had made Jennie Blair stare death
impassively in the face was part and parcel of his nature.
For the space of perhaps a minute Ben lay motionless. Louder than before
came to his ears the roar of the fire. Occasionally a hot tongue of
flame intruded mockingly into the mouth of his retreat. The confined air
about him grew close, narcotic. He expected to die, and with the
premonition of death an abnormal activity came to the child-brain.
Whatever knowledge he possessed of death was connected with his mother.
It was she who had given him his vague impression of another life. She
herself, as she lay silent and unresponsive, had been the first concrete
example of it. Inevitably thought of her came to him now,--practical,
material thought, crowding from his brain the blind terror that had been
its predecessor. Where was his mother now? He pictured again the furnace
into which he had gazed from the mouth of the kennel. Though perhaps she
would not feel it, she would be burned--burned to a crisp--destroyed
like the fuel he had tossed into the makeshift stove! Instinctively he
felt the sacrilege, and the desire to do something to prevent it.
Something--yes, but what? He was himself helpless; he must seek outside
aid--but where? Suddenly there occurred to the child-mind a suggestion
applicable to his difficulty, an adequate solution, for it involved
everything he had learned to trust in life. He remembered a Being more
powerful than man, more powerful than fire or cold,--a Being whom his
mother had called God. Believing in Him, it was necessary only to ask
for whatever one wished. For himself, even to save his life, he would
not call upon this Being; but for his mamma! In childish faith he folded
his hands and closed his eyes in the darkness.
"God," he prayed, "please put out this fire and save my mamma from
burning!"
The small hands loosened and the lips parted to hear the first
diminution in the growl of the flame. But it roared on.
"God!" The hands were clasped again, the voice vibrant with pleading.
"God, please put out the fire! Please put it out!"
Silence again within, but without only the steady roaring crackle. Could
it be possible the petition had not been heard? The childish hands met
more tightly than before. The small body fairly writhed.
"God! God!" he implored for the third time. "Listen to me, please! Save
my mamma, my mamma!"
For a moment the little figure lay still. Surely there would be an
answer now. His mamma had said there would be, and whatever his mamma
had told him had always come true. The air about him was so close he
could scarcely breathe; but he did not notice it. Reversing head and
feet, he started out of the kennel. It was certainly time to leave. The
roar he had heard must have been of the wind. Assuredly God had acted
before this. Head first, gasping, he moved on, reached the curve, and
looked out.
Indignation took possession of the little figure. The fingers clinched
until the nails bit deep into the soft palms. The whole body trembled in
impotent anger and outraged self-respect. Upon the face of the small man
was suddenly written the implacable defiance which one sees in carnivora
when wounded and cornered--intensified as an expression can only be
intensified upon a human face--as, almost unconsciously, he returned to
the hollow he had left, and fairly thrust his tousled head into the
kindly earth.
How long he remained there he did not know. The stifling atmosphere of
the place gradually overcame him. Anger, wonder, the multitude of
thoughts crowding his child-brain, slowly faded away; consciousness
lapsed, and he slept.
When he awoke it was with a start and a vague wonder as to his
whereabouts. Then memory returned, and he listened intently. Not a sound
could he distinguish save his own breathing, as he slowly made his way
to the mouth of the kennel. Before him was the opposite sod wall of the
house standing as high as his head; above that, the blue of the sky;
upon what had been the earthen floor, a strewing of ashes; over all,
calm, glorious, the slanting rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment the
boy lay gazing out; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the dirt as
a dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes halted. A moisture came
into them, gathered into drops, and then, breaking over the barrier of
the long lashes, tears flowed through the accumulated grime, down the
thin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was all, for an
instant; then a look--terrible in a mature person and doubly so in a
child--came over the long face,--an expression partaking of both hate
and vengeance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as that of
Benjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some day, for some one, there
would be a moment of reckoning; for the child was looking at the
charred, unrecognizable corpse of his mother.
* * * * *
A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of the Big B Ranch,
came upon a scene that savored much of a play. It was so dramatic that
the big man paused in contemplation of it. He saw there the sod and
ashes of what had once been a home. The place must have burned like
tinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when Grannis had first
given the alarm, not an atom of smoke ascended. At one end of the
quadrangular space enclosed by the walls stood the makeshift stove,
discolored with the heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near by
was a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one side, covered
by an old gunny-sack and a boy's tattered coat, was another object the
form of which the observer could not distinguish.
In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, was
a small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man's
discarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-band
pinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a small
pile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he was
motionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing the
new-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was added
the background of the unbroken silence of the prairie.
The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagon
clumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what had
been the door.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work.
"Digging what?"
The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade.
"A grave."
The man glanced about again.
"For some pet?"
The boy shook his head.
"No--sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother had
taught him that title of respect.
Rankin changed the line of interrogation.
"Where's Tom Blair, young man?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Your mother, then, where is she?"
"My mother is dead."
"Dead?"
The child's blue eyes did not falter.
"I am digging her grave, sir."
For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard the
great jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. His
eyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboy
Grannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon the
worker's shoulder. He understood at last.
"Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you."
The lad looked up.
"How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?"
No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look.
Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly.
Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked him
fairly in the eyes.
"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked.
The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer could
he give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the four
sod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not
as one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, he
paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glanced
sidewise at the uncompleted grave.
"You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked.
The lad nodded silently.
"And alone?"
Again the nod.
"Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so."
Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from the
boy's hand.
"I'll help you, then."
For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into the
dry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Are you cold, son?" he asked directly.
"Not very, sir." But the lad's teeth were chattering.
"A bit, though?"
"Yes, sir," simply.
"All right, you'll find some blankets out in the wagon, Ben. You'd
better go out and get one and put it around you."
The boy started to obey. "Thank you, sir," he said.
Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun dropped slowly beneath
the horizon, leaving a wonderful golden light behind. The waiting
horses, too well trained to move from their places, shifted uneasily
amid much creaking of harness. Within the grave the digger's head sunk
lower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher and higher. The
cold increased. Across the prairie, a multitude of black specks
advanced, grew large, whizzed overhead, then retreated, their wings
cutting the keen air, and silence returned.
Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface.
"Another blanket, Ben, please."
Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sack
round and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it to
the edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gently
at his feet. The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice;
but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boy
gravely.
"Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?"
The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity.
"I don't know of anything, sir."
The man paused a moment longer.
"Nor I, Ben," he said gently.
Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dully
to its former resting-place. Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look about
him until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he had
left the little boy so bravely erect. But the small figure was not
standing now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust and
ashes.
"Ben!" said Rankin, gently. "Ben!"
No answer.
"Ben!" he repeated.
"Yes, sir."
For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure,
and a great sob shook the little frame. Then the head disappeared again.
"I can't help it, sir," wailed a muffled voice. "She was my mamma!"