THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN
Twelve years slipped by. Short as they seemed to those actually living
them, they had brought great material changes. No longer did the ranch
cattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under stress of
competition, they browsed within the confines of miles upon miles of
galvanized fencing. Neighbors, as Rankin said, were near now. There were
four within a radius of twenty miles. To be sure, there was still plenty
of land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri,--open rough land,
gradually rising in elevation, where a traveller could journey for days
and days without seeing a human face. But this was not then a part of
the so-called "cattle ranges." In the parlance of the country, that was
"West,"--a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but as yet giving
no indication of ever becoming of practical use.
The Box R Ranch had evolved along with the others, and always well in
advance. The house now boasted six rooms; the barn and stock-sheds had
at a distance the appearance of a town in themselves; the collection of
haying implements--mowers, loaders, stackers--was almost complete enough
to stock a jobbing house. The herd itself had augmented, despite its
annual reduction, until one artesian well was inadequate to supply
water; and fifteen miles north, at the extreme limit of his home-ranch,
Rankin had sunk another well, making a sort of sub-station of that
point. From it an observer with good eyes could see the outlines of the
modern Big B Ranch property, built on the old site, and ostensibly
operated by a long-legged Yankee, Rob Hoyt by name, but in reality
owned, as had been the remnant of stock Tom Blair left behind him, by
saloon-keeper Mick Kennedy.
The ranch force had changed very little. Rankin, stouter by a
quarter-hundred weight, shaggier of eyebrows and with an accentuated
droop in the upper eyelids, and if possible an increased taciturnity,
still lived his daytime life mainly on wheels. The old buckboard had
finally succumbed, but its counterpart, mud-spattered and
weather-bleached, had taken its place. In the kitchen, Ma Graham still
presided, her accumulated avoirdupois seeming to have been gathered at
the expense of her lord, who in equal ratio thinner and more weazened,
danced attendance as of old. Only one of the former cowboys now
remained. That one, strange to say, was Grannis, the "man from nowhere,"
who had apparently taken root at last. Regularly on the last day of each
month he drew his pay, and without a word of explanation or comment
disappeared upon the back of a cow-pony, to reappear, perhaps in ten
hours, perhaps in sixty, dead broke, with a thirst seemingly
unappeasable, but quite non-committal concerning his experience,
apparently satisfied and ready to take up the dull routine of his life
again.
Last of all, Benjamin Blair. Precisely as the boy had given promise, the
youth had developed. He was now mature in size, in poise, in action.
Long of leg, long of arm, long of face, he stood a half head above
Rankin, who had been the tallest man upon the place. Yet he was not
awkward. Physically he was of the type, but magnified, to which all
cowboys belong; and no one would ever call him awkward or uncouth.
There had been less change upon the Baker ranch. Scotty was not an
expansionist. Scarcely a score more horses grazed in his paddock than of
old. The barn, though often repaired, was still of sod and thatch. The
house contained the original number of rooms. The experiment with trees
had never been repeated. If possible, the man himself had altered even
less than his surroundings. Scrupulously fresh-shaven each day,
fortified beyond the compound lenses of his spectacles, a stranger would
have guessed him anywhere from thirty-five to fifty.
Time had not dealt as kindly with Mrs. Baker. She seemed to have aged
enough for both herself and her husband. Notwithstanding the fact that
for the first eight years of the twelve, the family had spent half their
time in the East, she had grown careless of her appearance. True to his
instincts, Scotty still dressed for dinner in his antiquated evening
clothes; but pathetic as was the example, it had long ceased to
stimulate her. The last four years had been dead years with Mollie
Baker. The future held but one promise. She referred to it daily, almost
hourly; and at such times only would a trace of youth and beauty return
to the one-time winsome face. She looked forward and dreamed of an
event after which she would do certain things upon which she had set her
heart; when, as she said, she would begin to live. It seemed to Scotty
ghastly to speak about that event, for it was the death of his father.
The last member of the family had developed with the child's promise,
and at seventeen Florence was beautiful; not with a conventional
prettiness, but with a vital feminine attraction. All that the mother
had been, with her dark, oval face, her mass of walnut-brown hair, her
great dark eyes, her uptilted chin, the daughter was now; but with added
health and an augmented femininity that the mother had never known.
Moreover, she had an independence, a dominance, born perhaps of the wild
prairie influence, that at times made her parents almost gasp. Except in
the minute details of their daily existence, which habit had made
unchangeable, she ruled them absolutely. Even Rankin had become a
secondary factor. Scotty probably would have denied the assertion
emphatically, yet at the bottom of his consciousness he realized that
had she told him to sell everything he possessed for what he could get
and return to old Sussex he would have complied. Considering Mollie's
daily plaint, it was a constant source of wonder to him that the girl
did not do this; but she seemed wholly satisfied with things as they
were. For exercise and excitement she rode almost every horse upon the
place--rode astride like a man. For amusement she read everything she
could lay hands upon, both from the modest Baker library and from the
larger and more creditable collection which Rankin had imported from
the East. This was the first real library that had ever entered the
State, and, subject for speculation, it had uniformly the front
fly-leaves remaining as mere stubs, as though the pages had been torn
out by a hurried hand. What name was it that had been in those hundreds
of volumes? For what reason had it been so carefully removed? The girl
had often speculated thereon, and fitted theory after theory; but never
yet, wilful as she was, had she had the temerity to ask the only person
who could have given explanation,--Rankin himself.
In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an instinctive love
of a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was not in the least deceived
when, during a lull at the dinner-table one evening late in the Fall,
she broke in with an irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark.
"I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding this morning." The
dark eyes turned upon her father quizzically, humorously. "They seem to
be very plentiful."
"Yes," said Scotty; "they always are in the Fall."
Florence ate for a moment in silence.
"Did you ever think how much sport we could have if we owned a couple of
hounds?" she asked.
Scotty was silent; but Mollie threw up her hands in horror. "You don't
really mean that you want any of those hungry-looking dogs around, do
you, Flossie?" she protested pettishly. "Seems as though you'd be
satisfied with riding the horses tomboy style without going to hunting
rabbits that way."
The daughter's color heightened and the matter dropped; but Scotty knew
the main attack was yet to come. He had learned from experience the
methods of his daughter in attaining an object.
Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shaded
lamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining of
a headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even more
pronounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watching
the door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloom
formed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenly
about his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek was
laid against his own.
"Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice.
For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into the
brown eyes. "Why?" he asked.
"Because,"--her voice was low, her answering look was steady,--"because
it won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away--move back
into civilization."
For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheek
against her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair.
Scotty followed her with his eyes.
"Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked.
Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip of
rice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of a
peace-offering.
"No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can't
change. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got to
take her away--for good."
Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the flame had burned
well along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned it
to a stump.
"Aren't you happy here, Flossie?" he asked gently.
The girl's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked past him
absently.
"Really, for once in my life," she answered seriously, "I spoke quite
unselfishly. I was thinking only of mamma." There was a pause, and a
deeper concentration in the brown eyes. "As for myself, I hardly know.
Yes, I do know. I'm happy now, but I wouldn't be long. The life here is
too narrow; I'd lose interest in it. At last I'd have a frantic desire,
one I couldn't resist, to peep just over the edge of the horizon and
take part in whatever is going on beyond." She smiled. "I might run
away, or marry an Indian, or do something shocking!"
Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger.
"Can't you think of anything that would interest you and broaden your
life enough to make it pleasant?" he ventured.
This time mirth shone upon the girl's face, and a laugh sounded in her
voice.
"Papa, papa," she said, "I didn't think that of you! Are you so anxious
to get rid of your daughter?" As swiftly as it had come, the smile
vanished, leaving in its place a softer and warmer color.
"I'm not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, "to pretend not to
understand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the world
I could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with him
and be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrong
disposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyes
sparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I could
care for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and did
them better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where others
are. No, I never could live here."
Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed a
stray speck of dust from his sleeve.
"In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father," he
remarked quietly.
The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up she
threw her arms impulsively about her father's neck.
"Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world like
you! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek again
and again. But for the first time in her life that Florence could
remember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself.
"Nevertheless," he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could never
marry a man like your father,--one who had no desire to be known of men,
but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make you
happy. You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of his
movements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into the
wrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurt
me, Florence."
The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. She
dropped her face into her hands.
"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed,
there was nothing to be said.
Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid face
downward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to the
floor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to his
sleeping-room he paused.
"You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds,
Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you have
them." He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about our
leaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped it
wouldn't be necessary for a while yet." He paused, fingering the knob
absently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish."
This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, the
girl sobbed as though her heart would break.