THE EXOTICS
Some men acquire involuntary prominence by being democratic amid
aristocratic surroundings. Others, on the contrary, but with the same
result, continue to live the life to which they were born, even when
placed amid surroundings that make their actions all but grotesque. An
example of this latter class was Scotty Baker, whose ranch, as the wild
goose flies, was thirteen miles west of the Box R.
Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn love of fine
horse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years before he had fallen into
the hands of a promoter, and had bartered a goodly proportion of his
worldly belongings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possession
of immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up from his home in
Sussex when the fact was made known. Neighbors were fluent in
denunciation, relatives insistent in expostulation; his wife, and in
sympathy their baby daughter, copious in the argument of tears; but the
die was irrevocably cast. Go he would,--not from voluntary stubbornness,
but because he must.
The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the sailing of
Columbus. Probably not one of the friends who saw them off for their
new home expected ever to see the family again. Indians they were
confident were rampant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracle
escape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, running amuck, here
and there, could not fail to trample the survivors into the dust of the
prairie. By comparison, war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingled
until the sound was as the wailing of winds.
Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encouraging even in the
face of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, until, with the few remnants
of civilization they had brought with them, the family arrived at the
wind-beaten terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired property.
Then for the first time he wilted.
"I've been an ass," he admitted bitterly, as he glanced in impotent
contempt at the handful of weather-stained buildings which on the map
bore the name of a town; "an ass, an egregious, abominable, blethering
ass!"
But, notwithstanding his lack of the practical, Scotty was made of good
stuff. It was not an alternative but a necessity that faced him now, and
he arose right manfully to the occasion. Despite his wife's assertion
that she "never, never would go any farther into this God-forsaken
country," he succeeded in getting her into a lumber-wagon and headed for
what he genially termed "the interior." At last he even succeeded in
making her smile at his efforts to make the disreputable mule pack-team
he had secured move faster than a walk.
Once in possession of his own, however, he returned to his customary
easy manner of life. It took him a very short time to discover that he
had purchased a gold brick. Horses, especially fine horses, were in no
demand there; but this fact did not alter his course in the least. A
horse-ranch he had bought, a horse-ranch he would run, though every man
west of the Mississippi should smile. He enlarged his tiny shack to a
cottage of three rooms; put in floor and ceiling, and papered the walls.
Out of poles and prairie sod he fashioned a serviceable barn, and built
an admirable horse paddock. Last of all he planted in his dooryard, in
artistic irregularity, a wagon-load of small imported trees. The fact
that within six months they all died caused him slight misgiving. He at
least had done what he could to beautify the earth; that he failed was
nature's fault, not his.
Once settled, he began to make acquaintances. Methodically, to the
members of one ranch at a time, he sent invitations to dinner, and upon
the appointed date he confronted his guests with a spectacle which made
them all but doubt their identity, the like of which most of them had
never even seen before. Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel and
leather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete evening dress,
ushered into a room which contained a carpet and a piano, and had lace
curtains at the windows; seated later at a table covered with pure linen
and set with real china and cut-glass. The experience was like a dream
to the visitor. Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening would pass
without conscious volition upon the latter's part; and not until later,
when he was at home, would the full significance of the experience
assert itself, and his wonder and admiration find vent in words. Then
indeed would the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daughter,
be heard in the land.
Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the impassive Rankin. He
fairly bombarded the big rancher with courtesies and invitations. No
holiday (and Scotty was an assiduous observer of holidays) was complete
unless Rankin was present to help celebrate. No improvement about the
ranch was definitely undertaken until Rankin had expressed a favorable
opinion concerning the project. Gradually, so gradually that the big man
himself did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty's influence,
and more and more frequently he was to be found headed toward the cosey
Baker cottage. Now, for a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passed
without one or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse the
thirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few hours in each
other's company.
It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the second
morning following Ben Blair's adoption into the Box R Ranch--a
Sunday--the Englishman hitched a team of his best blooded trotters to
the antiquated phaeton, which was the only vehicle he possessed, and
started across country at a lively clip. Thus it came to pass that about
two hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started for the
ranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path upon the sunny south
doorstep an object that made him pause and blink his near-sighted eyes.
Under the concentration of his vision, the object resolved itself into a
small boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked across his
shins, his chin upon his knees. For an instant the Englishman
hesitated. Courtesy was instinctive with him.
"Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home?" he asked.
The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up.
"You mean the big man, sir?"
Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette. He stared.
"Certainly," he replied at last.
Ben Blair stepped out of the way.
"Yes, sir, he is."
Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair.
"Tell me, Rankin," he began, "who is the new-comer, and where did you
get him?" A long leg swung comfortably over its mate. "And, by the way,
while you're about it, is he six or sixty? By Jove, I couldn't tell!"
The host looked at his visitor quizzically.
"Ben, I suppose you mean?"
"Ben, or _Tom_, I don't know. I mean the gentleman on the front steps,
the one who didn't know your name," and the Englishman related the
recent conversation.
The corners of Rankin's eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as he
listened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drew
upward in sympathy.
"I'm not surprised, Baker," he admitted, "that you're in doubt about
Ben's age. He's eight; but I'd be uncertain myself if I didn't
absolutely know. As to his not knowing my name--it's just struck me that
I've never introduced myself to the little fellow."
"But how did you come to get him? This isn't a country where one sees
many children roaming around."
"No," the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; "that's a fact.
He didn't just drop in. I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, I
asked him to come and live with me, and he accepted." The speaker turned
to his companion directly. "You knew Jennie Blair, did you?"
Scotty looked interested.
"Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an acquaintance. I always--"
"Well," interrupted Rankin impassively, "Ben's her son. She died awhile
ago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up. He
wouldn't stay here any longer, and didn't want to take the kid with him,
so I took the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement will
stick."
For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his host shrewdly,
almost sceptically.
"That's all of the story, is it?" he asked at last.
"All, as far as I know."
Scotty continued his observation a moment longer.
"But not all the kid knows, I judge."
The host made no comment, and in a distinctively absent manner the
Englishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail of
his Sunday frock-coat.
"By the way,"--Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung the
bows over his ears with a snap,--"what day was it that Blair left? Did
it happen to be Friday?"
"Yes, Friday."
"And he doesn't intend ever to return?"
"I believe not."
The visitor's eyes flashed swiftly around the room. The two men were
alone.
"I think, then, I see through it." The voice was lower than before. "One
of my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven't been able
to get trace of a hoof or hair since."
"What?" Rankin was interested at last.
Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minute
steadily.
"And you just--tell of it?" he said at last.
The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat.
"Yes." Forgetting that he had just polished his glasses, he took them
off and went through the process again.
"Yes, I may as well be honest, I've seen a bit of these Westerners about
here, and I don't really agree with their scheme of justice. They're apt
to put two and two together and make eight where you know it's only
four." For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. "And
when they find out their beastly mistake--why--oh--it's too late then,
perhaps, for some poor devil!"
For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he reached over and
grasped the other man by the hand.
"Baker," he said, "you ain't very practical, but you're dead square."
And he shook the hand again.
Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher's eyes and he tore himself
loose with an effort.
"By the way," he said, "I'd like to ask a question for future guidance.
What would you have done if you'd been in my place?"
Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red surged beneath the
tan of his cheeks; then, as suddenly as his companion had done, he
smiled outright.
"I reckon I'd have done just what you did," he admitted; and the two men
laughed together.
"Seriously, though," said Scotty, after a moment, "and as long as I've
told you anyway, what ought I to do under the circumstances? Should I
let Blair off, do you think?"
For a moment Rankin did not answer; then he faced his questioner
directly, and Scotty knew why the big man's word was so nearly law in
the community.
"Under the circumstances," he repeated, "I'd let him go; for several
reasons. First of all, he's got such a start of you now that you
couldn't catch him, anyway. Then he's a coward by nature, and it'll be a
mighty long time before he ever shows up here again. And last of all,"
the speaker hesitated, "last of all," he repeated slowly, "though I
don't know, I believe you were right when you said the boy could tell
more about it than the rest of us; and if what we suspect is true, I
think by the time he comes back, if he ever does come, Ben will be old
enough to take care of him." Again the speaker paused, and his great
jowl settled down into his shirt-front. "If he doesn't, I can't read
signs when I see 'em."
For a moment the room was silent; then Scotty sprang to his feet as if a
load had been taken off his mind.
"All right," said he, "we'll forget it. And, speaking of forgetting,
I've nearly got myself into trouble already. I have an invitation from
Mrs. Baker for you to take dinner with us to-day. In fact, I was sent on
purpose to bring you. Not a word, not a word!" he continued, at sight of
objections gathering on the other's face; "a lady's invitations are
sacred, you know. Get your coat!"
Rankin arose with an effort and stood facing his visitor.
"You know I'm always glad to visit you, Baker," he said. "I wasn't
thinking of holding off on my own account, but I've got someone else to
consider now, you know. Ben--"
"Certainly, certainly!" Scotty's voice was eloquent of comprehension.
"Throw the kiddie in too. He can play with Flossie; they're about of an
age, and she'll be tickled to death to have him."
Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly. "I know Ben's going
would be all right with you, Baker," he explained at last, "but how
about your wife? Considering--everything--she might object."
The smile left the Englishman's face, and a look of perplexity took its
place.
"By Jove!" he said, "you're right! I never thought of that." He shifted
from one foot to the other uneasily. "But, pshaw! What's the use of
saying anything whatever about the boy's connections? He's nothing but a
youngster,--and, besides, his mother's actions are no fault of his."
Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately.
"All right," he said. "I'll call Ben." At the door he paused, looking
back, the peculiar expression again upon his face. "As you say, the
faults of Ben's mother are not his faults, anyway."