THE LITTLE MAN TALKS
Mary Bransford spent the first day of Sanderson's absence in the
isolation of the parlor, with the shades drawn, crying. Her brother
had bitterly disappointed her.
He had sent word by one of the men that he was going to Las Vegas to
look up the title to the property. She thought he might at least have
brought her the message personally.
Mary told herself that she had not been unduly demonstrative, as
Sanderson had intimated by his actions. She had merely been glad to
see him, as any sister would be glad to see a brother whom she had not
seen for many years; and she assured herself that if he loved her as
she loved him he would not have resented her display of affection.
That affection, though, troubled Mary. To be sure, she had never had a
brother about, to fuss over, and therefore she could not tell just how
deeply she should be expected to love the one whom Providence had given
her; but she was certain that she did not love him too much.
For Sanderson was worthy of the full measure of any sister's love.
Big, handsome, vigorous, with a way about him that any woman must
admire, Mary felt he deserved all the affection she could bestow.
Her wonder and perplexity came over a contemplation of the quality of
that love. Was it right that she should thrill so delightfully
whenever he came near her? And was it entirely proper for her to feel
that queer tingle of delight over the strangeness of it all?
And did that strangeness result from the fact that she had not seen him
for years; or was there some truth in Dale's assertion that she was
merely an adopted daughter, and her love for Sanderson not merely the
love of a sister for a brother, but the love of a woman for a man?
Had Sanderson taken that view of it? She thought he had; for she had
told him about Dale's assertion, and his constraint had begun shortly
after.
She did not blame him a great deal--after she had thought it over. He
had done the manly thing, she divined, in not taking advantage of the
situation, and she believed she loved him more than ever because of his
attitude. But she felt that she had lost something, and the second day
had gone before she succeeded in resigning herself to the new state of
affairs.
Nothing happened. Dale did not come near the ranchhouse. Mary rode
over to the Nyland ranch and had a long talk with Peggy, and Peggy told
her that she had not seen Dale.
Ben Nyland had driven the Double A cattle over to their own range, and
so far as he was concerned the incident with Dale was closed. But,
Peggy told Mary, Ben was bitterly resentful, and had sworn that if Dale
bothered Peggy any more he would kill him.
Mary, however, was not greatly interested in Peggy's recital. She sat
on a chair in the kitchen of the Nyland cabin, listening to Peggy, but
making no replies. And it was not until she was ready to go that Mary
revealed the real reason for her visit--and then she did not reveal it
to Peggy, but to her own heart.
For she reddened when she asked the question: "I wonder if you feel
about Ben as I feel about my brother--that when you kiss him you are
kissing a strange man?"
Peggy laughed. "You would feel that way, of course. For your brother
is almost a stranger to you."
"And do you kiss Ben often?" asked Mary.
"Ben doesn't like it," smiled Peggy. "He is like most other men--he
likes to kiss the daughters of other men, but he gets sulky and balky
when I want to kiss him. So I don't try very often. Your brother is a
fine, big fellow, but you will find before you have been around him
very long that he wants to do his kissing away from home."
Mary laughed, and blushed again. "I have already discovered that," she
said. "But, Peggy," she added seriously, "I love him so much that
believe I should be jealous if I thought he kissed another girl!"
Mary rode homeward, rather comforted over her visit. And during the
remaining days of Sanderson's absence she succeeded in convincing
herself that Sanderson's attitude toward her was the usual attitude of
brothers toward sisters, and that she had nothing of which to complain.
On the seventh day Sanderson and Owen returned.
Mary saw them ride in and she ran to the door and waved a hand to them.
Owen flourished his hat at her, but Sanderson only grinned.
When Sanderson came in Mary did not attempt to kiss him, but she wanted
to when he seized her hand and squeezed it warmly. For it seemed to
her that he was troubled over something.
She watched him narrowly for signs that would tell her of the nature of
the trouble, but when he went to bed she had learned nothing.
At breakfast the next morning she asked him what he had discovered at
Las Vegas. He looked straight at her.
"There is no record of your birth," he said.
She paled. "Then Dale has grounds for his suspicion," she said in a
weak voice.
"Because your birth was not recorded is no sign you are not a
Bransford," he said. "I'll tell you this," he added gruffly: "as a
sister you suit me from the ground up; an' I'll stick to you until hell
freezes over!"
Not until that instant did she realize that she had entertained a fear
that Sanderson would believe as Dale believed, and in an excess of joy
over the discovery that he did believe in her she got up, ran around
the table, seized Sanderson by the shoulders and laid her cheek against
his.
"You're a dear," she said, "and I don't care whether you like it or
not, I am going to kiss you!"
"Just once," he said, blushing.
She kissed him, and then leaned back, looking at him reprovingly.
"You haven't returned a kiss I have given you!" she said. "And I want
you to!"
"All right," he agreed, and this time the warmth of his response made
her draw a long, deep breath.
Sanderson made his escape as soon as he decently could, and walked to a
corner of the pasture fence where he stood, one arm resting on the top
rail, his gaze on the basin.
At the court in Las Vegas he had discovered that Bransford had made a
will, bequeathing the ranch to his son. The document had been recorded
only a few months before Bransford died, showing that he had at last
forgiven the boy.
Sanderson had intended to take possession of the ranch, in an effort to
forestall any scheme Dale might have, and while in Las Vegas he had
applied to the court for permission to have the title transferred. And
then he had been told it would be necessary for him to file an
affidavit and proof establishing his identity.
With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signing
the affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from young
Bransford, bearing the younger Bransford's signature. The letter was
still in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have it
beside him while he signed Bransford's name to the affidavit in order
to imitate Bransford's handwriting successfully. Therefore he asked
permission to take the affidavit home.
Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission,
Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile. He scowled at the
little man.
"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.
"Curiosity," said the other. "Don't tell me you're too bashful to sign
your name in public."
They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, and
Sanderson grinned coldly at him.
"You're a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends to
be," he said.
"Then I'll cut out gassing promiscuous," grinned the latter.
Sanderson was troubled over the situation. To successfully keep Dale
from attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit and
return it to the court. He must imitate Will Bransford's signature to
prevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception--for at any time
she might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.
More, he must practice writing Bransford's signature until he could
imitate it without having to look at the original.
Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returned
to the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, opened
the drawer and took out the package of letters.
The Bransford letter was missing! Half a dozen times he thumbed the
letters in the packages over before he would admit that the one for
which he was seeking was not there.
He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterly
accusing himself. It was his own fault if the whole structure of
deception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letter
when he had had an opportunity.
Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, she
cared less for than the one written by her brother.
For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an
impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out
herself. But, as before, he fought down the impulse.
This time--so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion upon
Alva Dale's head--he stood in the center of the room, grinning
saturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a complete
confession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matter
what Mary thought of him.
He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter.
He could have invented some pretext. But he would not; he would not
have her think he had been examining her letters. One thing he could
do without confessing that he had been prying--and he did it.
At dinner he remarked casually to Mary:
"I reckon you don't think enough of my letters put them away as
keepsakes?"
"Sanderson's or Bransford's?" she returned, looking at him with a smile.
"Both," he grinned.
"Well," she said, "I did keep both. But, as I told you before, I had
the Sanderson letter somewhere. I have been looking for it, but have
not been able to find it."
Sanderson grinned faintly and wondered what she would say if she knew
what care he had taken to burn the Sanderson letter.
"The letter you wrote as yourself--the Bransford letter--I have. It
was among a lot of others in the drawer of the dresser in your room. I
was looking them over while you were gone, and I took it."
Sanderson had a hard time to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but
he did so:
"You got it handy?"
She looked straight at him. "That is the oddest thing," she said
seriously. "I took it from there to keep it safe, and I have mislaid
it again, for I can't find it anywhere."
There was no guile in her eyes--Sanderson was certain of that. And he
hoped the letter would stay mislaid. He grinned.
"Well, I was only curious," he said. "Don't bother to look for it."
He felt better when he went out of the house and walked toward the
corral fence. He felt more secure and capable. Beginning with the
following day, he meant to take charge of the ranch and run it as he
knew it should be run.
He had not been at the Double A long, but he had seen signs of
shiftlessness here and there. He had no doubt that since Bransford's
death the men had taken advantage of the absence of authority to relax,
and the ranch had suffered. He would soon bring them back to a state
of efficiency.
He heard a step behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw the
little man approaching.
The little man joined Sanderson, not speaking as he climbed the fence
at a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.
Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen. There was something about
the little man that invited it. He was little, and manly despite his
bodily defects. But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling with
the manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.
In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting,
and Sanderson's first action as owner of the ranch would have been to
discharge such a man instantly. But in Sanderson's heart had come a
spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the
effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.
He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous
and healthy friends.
"Thinking it over?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.
"Thinkin' what over?"
"Well, just things," grinned the little man. "For one thing, I suppose
you are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name--over in Las
Vegas."
Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer. He felt more at ease
now, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much as
formerly. He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly:
"Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's name
to the affidavit?"
Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.
"Tell me," he said evenly.
"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.
Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the
little man. He was not conscious of any emotion whatever. For now
that he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened,
discovery did not alarm him. He grinned at the little man,
deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail to
understand.
"You're a wise guy, eh?" he said. "Well, spring it. I'm anxious to
know how you got next to me."
"You ain't sore, then?"
"Not, none."
"I was hoping you wouldn't be," eagerly said the little man, "for I
don't want you to hit the breeze just now. I know you are not Will
Bransford because I know Bransford intimately. I was his chum for
several years. He could drink as much as I. He was lazy and
shiftless, but I liked him. We were together in Tucson--and in other
places in Arizona. Texas, too. We never amounted to much. Do you
need to know any more? I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"More," grinned the other man, "about yourself. You are
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson--nicknamed Square Deal Sanderson. I saw you
one day in Tombstone; you were pointed out to me, and the minute I laid
my eyes on you the day Dale tried to hang Nyland, I knew you."
Sanderson smiled. "Why didn't you tell Mary?"
The little man's face grew grave. "Because I didn't want to queer your
game. You saved Nyland--an innocent man. Knowing your reputation for
fairness, I was convinced that you didn't come here to deceive anybody."
"But I did deceive somebody," said Sanderson. "Not you, accordin' to
what you've been tellin' me, but Mary Bransford. She thinks I am her
brother, an' I've let her go on thinkin' it."
"Why?" asked the little man.
Sanderson gravely appraised the other. "There ain't no use of holdin'
out anything on you," he said. His lips straightened and his eyes
bored into the little man's. There was a light in his own that made
the little man stiffen. And Sanderson's voice was cold and earnest.
"I'm puttin' you wise to why I've not told her," he went on. "But if
you ever open your yap far enough to whisper a word of it to her I'm
wringin' your neck, _pronto_! That goes!"
He told Owen the story from the beginning--about the Drifter, his
letter to the elder Bransford, how he had killed the two men who had
murdered Will Bransford, and how, on the impulse of the moment, he had
impersonated Mary's brother.
"What are you figuring to do now?" questioned the little man when
Sanderson finished.
"I'm tellin' her right now," declared Sanderson. "She'll salivate me,
most likely, for me lettin' her kiss me an' fuss over me. But I ain't
carin' a heap. I ain't never been no hand at deceivin' no one--I ain't
foxy enough. There's been times since I've been here when I've been
scared to open my mouth for fear my damned heart would jump out. I
reckon she'll just naturally kill me when she finds it out, but I don't
seem to care a heap whether she does or not."
The little man narrowed his eyes at Sanderson.
"You're deeply in love with her, I suppose?"
Sanderson flushed; then his gaze grew steady and cold. "Up till now
you've minded your own business," he said. "If you'll keep on mindin'
it, we'll----"
"Of course," grinned Owen. "You couldn't help loving her--I love her,
too. You say you're going to tell her. Don't do it. Why should you?
Don't you see that if you told her that her brother had been murdered
she'd never get over it? She's that kind. And you know what Dale's
scheme was, don't you? Has she told you?" At Sanderson's nod, Owen
went on:
"If you were to let it be known that you are not Will Bransford, Dale
would get the property as sure as shooting. I know his plan. I
overheard him and a man named Dave Silverthorn talking it over one
night when I was prowling around Dale's house. The window of Dale's
office was wide open, and I was crouching outside.
"They've got a man ready to come on here to impersonate Bransford.
They would prove his claim and after he was established he would sell
out to them. They have forged papers showing that Mary is an adopted
daughter--though not legally. Don't you see that if you don't go on
letting everybody think you are Bransford, Mary will lose the ranch?"
Sanderson shook his head. "I'd be gettin' deeper an' deeper into it
all the time--in love an' in trouble. An' when she'd find out how I'd
fooled her all the time she'd hate me."
"Not if you save the ranch for her," argued the little man. "She'd
feel badly about her brother, maybe, but she'd forgive you if you
stayed and beat Dale at his own game."
Sanderson did not answer. The little man climbed down from the fence
and moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sanderson
grinned down at him.
"I'm doing it," he said. "I'll stay. I reckon I was figurin' on it
all the time."