SANDERSON LIES
Sanderson did not sleep. He sat at the window all afternoon, dismally
trying to devise way of escape from the dilemma. He did not succeed.
He had gone too far now to make a confession sound reasonably
convincing; and he could not desert the girl to Dale. That was not to
be thought of. And he was certain that if he admitted the deception,
the girl would banish him as though he were a pestilence.
He was hopelessly entangled. And yet, continuing to ponder the
situation, he saw that he need not completely yield to pessimism. For
though circumstances--and his own lack of foresight--had placed him in
a contemptible position--he need not act the blackguard. On the
contrary, he could admirably assume the rôle of protector.
The position would not be without its difficulties, and the deception
meant that he could never be to Mary Bransford what he wanted to be to
her; but he could at least save the Double A for her. That done, and
his confession made, he could go on his way, satisfied that he had at
least beaten Dale.
His decision made, Sanderson got up, opened the door a trifle, and
looked into the sitting-room. It was almost dusk, and, judging from
the sounds that reached his ears from the direction of the kitchen,
Mary intended to keep her promise regarding "supper."
Feeling guilty, though grimly determined to continue the deception to
the end--whatever the end might be--Sanderson stole through the
sitting-room, out through the door leading to the porch, and made his
way to a shed lean-to back of the kitchen.
There he found a tin washbasin, some water, and a towel, and for ten
minutes he worked with them. Then he discovered a comb, and a broken
bit of mirror fixed to the wall of the lean-to, before which he combed
his hair and studied his reflection. He noted the unusual flush on his
cheeks, but grinned brazenly into the glass.
"I'm sure some flustered," he told his reflection.
Arrayed for a second inspection by Mary Bransford, Sanderson stood for
a long time at the door of the lean-to, trying to screw up his courage
to the point of confronting the girl.
He succeeded finally, and walked slowly to the outside kitchen door,
where he stood, looking in at Mary.
The girl was working over the stove, from which, floating to the
doorway where Sanderson stood, came various delicious odors.
Mary was arrayed in a neat-fitting house dress of some soft print
material, with a huge apron over it. Her sleeves were rolled slightly
above the elbows; her face was flushed, and when she turned and saw
Sanderson her eyes grew very bright.
"Oh," she said; "you are up! I was just thinking of calling you!" She
ran to him, threw her arms around him, and, in spite of his efforts to
evade her, she kissed him first on one cheek and then on the other.
Noting his reluctance she stepped back and looked reprovingly at him.
"You seem so distant, Will. And I am so glad to see you!"
"I ain't used to bein' kissed, I expect."
"But--by your sister!"
He reddened. "I ain't seen you for a long time, you know. Give me
time, an' mebbe I'll get used to it."
"I hope so," she smiled. "I should feel lost if I could not kiss my
brother. You have washed, too!" she added, noting his glowing face and
his freshly combed hair.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mary!" she corrected.
"Mary," grinned Sanderson.
Mary turned to the stove. "You go out and find a chair on the porch,"
she directed, over her shoulder. "I'll have supper ready in a jiffy.
It's too hot for you in here."
Sanderson obeyed. From the deeply crimson hue of his face it was
apparent that the heat of the kitchen had affected him. That, at
least, must have been the reason Mary had ordered him away. His face
_felt_ hot.
He found a chair on the porch, and he sank into it, feeling like a
criminal. There was a certain humor in the situation. Sanderson felt
it, but could not appreciate it, and he sat, hunched forward, staring
glumly into the dusk that had settled over the basin.
He had been sitting on the porch for some minutes when he became aware
of a figure near him, and he turned slowly to see the little, anemic
man standing not far away.
"Cooling off?" suggested the little man.
Sanderson straightened. "How in hell do you know I'm hot?" he demanded
gruffly.
The little man grinned. "There's signs. Your face looks like you'd
had it in an oven. Now, don't lose your temper; I didn't mean to
offend you."
The little man's voice was placative; his manner gravely ingratiating.
Yet Sanderson divined that the other was inwardly laughing at him.
Why? Sanderson did not know. He was aware that he must seem awkward
in the rôle of brother, and he suspected that the little man had
noticed it; possibly the little man was one of those keen-witted and
humorously inclined persons who find amusement in the incongruous.
There was certainly humor in the man's face, in the glint of his eyes,
and in the curve of his lips. His face was seamed and wrinkled; his
ears were big and prominent, the tips bending outward under the brim of
a felt hat that was too large for him; his mouth was large, and
Sanderson's impression of it was that it could not be closed far enough
to conceal all the teeth, but that the lips were continually trying to
stretch far enough to accomplish the feat.
Sanderson was certain it was that continual effort of the muscles of
the lips that gave to his mouth its humorous expression.
The man was not over five feet and two or three inches tall, and
crowning his slender body was a head that was entirely out of
proportion to the rest of him. He was not repulsive-looking, however,
and a glance at his eyes convinced Sanderson that anything Providence
had taken from his body had been added, by way of compensation, to his
intellect.
Sanderson found it hard to resent the man's seeming impertinence. He
grinned reluctantly at him.
"Did I tell you you'd hurt my feelin's?" he inquired. "What oven do
you think I had my head in?"
"I didn't say," grinned the little man. "There's places that are
hotter than an oven. And if a man has never been a wolf with women, it
might be expected that he'd feel sort of warm to be kissed and fussed
over by a sister he's not seen for a good many years. He'd seem like a
stranger to her--almost."
Sanderson's eyes glowed with a new interest in the little man.
"How did you know I wasn't a wolf with women?"
"Shucks," said the other; "you're bashful, and you don't run to vanity.
Any fool could see that."
"I ain't been introduced to you--regular," said Sanderson, "but you
seem to be a heap long on common sense, an' I'd be glad to know you.
What did you say your name was?"
"Barney Owen."
"What you doin' at the Double A? You ought be herd-ridin' scholars in
a district schoolhouse."
"Missed my calling," grinned the other. "I got to know too much to
teach school, but didn't know enough to let John Barleycorn alone. I'm
a drifter, sort of. Been roaming around the north country. Struck the
basin about three weeks ago. Miss Bransford was needing men--her
father--yours, too, of course--having passed out rather sudden. I was
wanting work mighty had, and Miss Bransford took me on because I was
big enough to do the work of half a dozen men."
His face grew grave. Sanderson understood. Miss Bransford had hired
Owen out of pity. Sanderson did not answer.
The little man's face worked strangely, and his eyes glowed.
"If you hadn't come when you did, I would have earned my keep, and Alva
Dale would be where he wouldn't bother Miss Bransford any more," he
said.
Sanderson straightened. "You'd have shot him, you mean?"
Owen did not speak, merely nodding his head.
Sanderson smiled. "Then I'm sort of sorry come when I did. But do you
think shootin' Dale would have ended it?"
"No; Dale has friends." Owen leaned toward Sanderson, his face working
with passion. "I hate Dale," he said hoarsely. "I hate him worse than
I hate any snake that I ever saw. I hadn't been here two days when he
sneered at me and called me a freak. I'll kill him--some day. Your
coming has merely delayed the time. But before he dies I want to see
him beaten at this game he's tryin' to work on Miss Bransford. And
I'll kill any man that tries to give Miss Bransford the worst of it.
"You've got a fight on your hands. I know Dale and his gang, and
they'll make things mighty interesting for you and Miss Bransford. But
I'll help you, if you say the word. I'm not much for looks--as you can
see--but I can sling a gun with any man I've ever met.
"I'd have tried to fight Dale alone--for Miss Bransford's sake--but I
realize that things are against me. I haven't the size, and I haven't
the nerve to take the initiative. Besides, I drink. I get riotously
drunk. I can't help it. I can't depend on myself. But I can help
you, and I will."
The man's earnestness was genuine, and though Sanderson had little
confidence in the other's ability to take a large part in what was to
come, he respected the spirit that had prompted the offer. So he
reached out and took the man's hand.
"Any man that feels as strongly as you do can do a heap--at anything,"
he said. "We'll call it a deal. But you're under my orders."
"Yes," returned Owen, gripping the hand held out to him.
"Will!" came Mary's voice from the kitchen, "supper is ready!"
Owen laughed lowly, dropped Sanderson's hand, and slipped away into the
growing darkness.
Sanderson got up and faced the kitchen door, hesitating, reluctant
again to face the girl and to continue the deception. Necessity drove
him to the door, however, and when he reached it, he saw Mary standing
near the center of the kitchen, waiting for him.
"I don't believe you are hungry at all!" she declared, looking keenly
at him. "And do you know, I think you blush more easily than any man I
ever saw. But don't let that bother you," she added, laughing;
"blushes become you. Will," she went on, tenderly pressing his arm as
she led him through a door into the dining-room, "you are awfully
good-looking!"
"You'll have me gettin' a swelled head if you go to talkin' like that,"
he said, without looking at her.
"Oh, no; you couldn't be vain if you tried. None of the Bransfords
were ever vain--or conceited. But they all have had good appetites,"
she told him, shaking a finger at him. "And if you don't eat heartily
I shall believe your long absence from home has taken some of the
Bransford out of you!"
She pulled a chair out for aim, and took another at the table opposite
him.
Sanderson ate; there was no way out of it, though he felt awkward and
uncomfortable. He kept wondering what she would say to him if she knew
the truth. It seemed to him that had the girl looked closely at him
she might have seen the guilt in his eyes.
But apparently she was not thinking of doubting him--it was that
knowledge which made Sanderson realize how contemptible was the part he
was playing. She had accepted him on trust, without question, with the
implicit and matter-of-fact faith of a child.
He listened in silence while she told him many things about the
Bransfords--incidents that had occurred during his supposed absence,
intimate little happenings that he had no right to hear. And he sat,
silently eating, unable to interrupt, feeling more guilty and
despicable all the time.
But he broke in after a time, gruffly:
"What's the trouble between Dale and the Nylands?"
Instantly she stiffened. "I forgot to tell you about that. Ben Nyland
is a nester. He has a quarter-section of land on the northwestern edge
of the basin. But he hasn't proved on it. The land adjoins Dale's.
Dale wants it--he has always wanted it. And he means to have it. He
also wants Peggy Nyland.
"Dale is a beast! You heard Peggy tell how he has hounded her. It is
true; she has told me about it more than once. Dale hasn't told, of
course; but it is my opinion that Dale put the Double A cattle into
Ben's corral so that he could hang Ben. With Ben out of the way he
could take the Nyland property--and Peggy, too."
"Why did he use Double A cattle?"
Mary paled. "Don't you see the hideous humor of that? He knows Peggy
Nyland and I are friends. Dale is ruthless and subtle. Can't you
understand how a man of that type would enjoy seeing me send my
friend's brother to his death--and the brother innocent?"
"Why didn't you tell Dale the cattle did not belong to you?"
Mary smiled faintly. "I couldn't. To do so would have involved Ben
Nyland in more trouble. Dale would have got one of his friends to
claim them. And then I could have done nothing--having disclaimed the
ownership of the stock. And I--I couldn't lie. And, besides, I kept
hoping that something would happen. I had a premonition that something
_would_ happen. And something did happen--you came!"
"Yes," said Sanderson inanely, "I came."
He drew a large red handkerchief from a pocket and mopped some huge
beads of sweat from his face and forehead. When the handkerchief came
out a sheet of paper, folded and crumpled, fluttered toward the floor,
describing an eccentric circle and landing within a foot of Mary's feet.
The girl saw that Sanderson had not noticed the loss of the paper, and
she stooped and recovered it. She held it in a hand while Sanderson
continued to wipe the perspiration from his face, and noting that he
was busily engaged she smoothed the paper on the table in front of her
and peered mischievously at it. And then, her curiosity conquering
her, she read, for the writing on the paper was strangely familiar.
Sanderson having restored the handkerchief to its pocket, noticed
Mary's start, and saw her look at him, her eyes wide and perplexed.
"Why, Will, where did you get this?" she inquired, sitting very erect.
"Mebbe if you'd tell me what it is I could help you out," he grinned.
"Why, it's a letter father wrote to a man in Tombstone, Arizona. See
here! Father's name is signed to it! I saw father write it. Why, I
rode over to Dry Bottom and mailed it! This man had written to father
a long time before, asking for a job. I have his letter somewhere. It
was the oddest letter! It was positively a gem of formality. I can
remember every word of it, for I must have read it a dozen times. It
ran:
"DEAR SIR:
"The undersigned has been at the location noted below for a term of
years and desires to make a change. If you have an opening for a good
all-around man, the undersigned would be willing to work for you. If
you would want a recommendation, you can address Amos Burroughs, of the
Pig-Pen Ranch, near Tombstone, where the undersigned is employed.
"Yours truly,
"DEAL SANDERSON."
Mary leaned forward in her chair and looked at Sanderson with eager,
questioning eyes. Sanderson stared vacantly back at her.
She held the letter up to him. "This is father's answer, telling the
man to come on. How on earth did you get hold of it?"
Sanderson had slumped down in his chair. He saw discovery and disgrace
in prospect. In the total stoppage of his thoughts no way of escape or
evasion suggested itself. At the outset he was to be exposed as a
miserable impostor.
He groaned, grinned vacuously at Mary, and again produced the
handkerchief, wiping away drops of perspiration that were twice as big
as those he had previously mopped off.
Mary continued to stare at him, repeating the question: "How did you
get it?"
Sanderson's composure began to return; his grin grew wider and more
intelligent, and at the sixth repetition of Mary's question he
answered, boldly:
"I wasn't goin' to tell you about that. You see, ma'am----"
"Mary!"
"You see, Mary, I was goin' to fool Brans--dad. I wrote, askin' him
for the job, an' I was intendin' to come on, to surprise him. But
before I told him who I was, I was goin' to feel him out, an' find out
what he thought of me. Then I got your letter, tellin' me he was dead,
an' so there wasn't any more use of tryin' to fool him."
"But that name, 'Sanderson?' That isn't your name, Will!"
"It was," he grinned. "When I left home I didn't want anybody to be
runnin' into me an' recognizin' me, so I changed it to Sanderson. Deal
Sanderson."
The girl's expression changed to delight; she sat erect and clapped her
hands.
"Oh," she said, "I wish father was here to listen to this! He thought
all along that you were going to turn out bad. If he only knew! Will,
you don't mean to tell me that you are the Sanderson that we all know
of here--that nearly everybody in the country has heard about; the man
who is called 'Square Deal' Sanderson by all his friends--and even by
his enemies--because of his determination to do right--and to make
everyone else do right too!"
Again Sanderson resorted to the handkerchief.
"I don't reckon they've talked about me that strong," he said.
"But they have! Oh, I'm so happy, Will. Why, when Dale hears about it
he'll be positively venomous--and scared. I don't think he will bother
the Double A again--after he hears of it!"
But Sanderson merely smirked mirthlessly; he saw no reason for being
joyful over the lie he had told. He was getting deeper and deeper into
the mire of deceit and prevarication, and there seemed to be no escape.
And now, when he had committed himself, he realized that he might have
evaded it all, this last lie at least, by telling Mary that he had
picked the note up on the desert, or anywhere, for that matter, and she
would have been forced to believe him.
He kept her away from him, fending off her caresses with a pretense of
slight indisposition until suddenly panic-stricken over insistence, he
told her he was going to bed, bolted into the room, locked the door
behind him, and sat long in the darkness and the heat, filling the room
with a profane appreciation of himself as a double-dyed fool who could
not even lie intelligently.