THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD
Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little
farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the
shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the
few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent
ugliness of Devil's Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had
occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack
inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost
something of its power to disturb.
It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing
afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves
with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. The
"hired" man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie
land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were
gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were
amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in
that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of
effort for the sheer delight of being busy.
It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which
very nearly approached her ideal.
Here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to
shelter her face from the burning attentions of the summer sun,
leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the
barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to
disturb the general peace. A large hen with a late-hatched brood of
chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which
her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and
comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an
absurd-looking pig which had scarcely passed its sucking age.
They had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed.
For the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked
alarm at her offspring. The pig, squealing in a high treble, was
standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of
idiotic confusion. Perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine
knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and
appreciated the young porker's inability. Anyway, she took the
initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather
riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for
the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming.
The porker's mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked
vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. His
sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail
and bolt for safety. He just stood there and continued his helpless
baby squealing. This was all the old hen needed to drive her to
extremities. Realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring,
scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig's nose
violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the
ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leaving
her brood to care for themselves. Thus the pig was left looking after
her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl
nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about.
Joan stood convulsed with laughter. The pig interested her vastly more
than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind.
But she was disappointed. Its momentary confusion had passed, and,
lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the
delights of which its young mind was just awakening to.
She had moved away to pass on toward the house when she was startled
by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. She turned and found
herself staring into the grinning face of Montana Ike.
She was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. This man had
become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and
unexpected moments. And his attitude was such that she thoroughly
resented him. In his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had assumed a
sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs.
The moment she faced him, his confident attitude became more
pronounced.
"Comic, ain't it?" he suggested. Then he added, as though to assure
her of his appreciation: "Nigh as comic as a cirkis."
But all Joan's delight in the scene was gone. Her beautiful eyes were
sparkling angrily. She made up her mind then and there to be rude to
the man. She would not have him about the place.
"What do you want?" she inquired bluntly.
The boy's grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider.
"Wot do I want? Gee! You're feelin' friendly." Then he put on a manner
he intended to be facetious. "An' me left my patch o' pay-dirt, an'
all, to pay a 'party' call. Say, Miss Golden, that ain't sassiety ways
in this yer camp."
His attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. Joan, studying the man
closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance,
she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. She must get rid of
him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. However, she took a
firm stand.
"Maybe not," she said coldly. "But when people make 'party' calls they
generally do it at convenient times. I'm very busy."
The man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared.
"Kind o' seemed busy when I got around. Y' see you was sure that busy
you didn't hear my hoss comin' along, you never see me git off him an'
leave him back ther', an' me come along over an' stand watchin' you
doin' nuthin' fer nigh fi' minutes. Oh, you're sure busy!"
Joan flushed. She knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was
infuriating. She made no attempt to further disguise her feelings.
"I said I was busy," she cried deliberately. "Surely that should be
sufficient."
But the man had no intention of accepting his dismissal.
"It jest depends wot a feller's come around for," he said, no whit
disconcerted. "Mebbe you won't find you're busy when you heard what I
got to say." He laughed immoderately. Beasley's whisky was at work,
and he had no fear for the purpose in hand.
Suddenly he dived a hand into his hip-pocket and drew out the bills
the saloon-keeper had paid him.
"Look at them," he cried in a voice that was high-pitched with
elation. "Ther's dollars an' dollars ther', but 'tain't nuthin' to
wot's to come. Say, I got another cache o' gold waitin' back ther' at
my shack, but I ain't handin' it to Beasley," he went on cunningly.
"Oh, no, not me! I'm a business guy, I am. I hold that up, an' all the
rest I git from my patch, an' I'm goin' to cash it in Leeson Butte, at
the bank, fer a proper exchange. See? Oh, I ain't no sucker, I ain't.
An' a feller needs a heap o' dollars, treatin' his gal right."
Joan hardly knew how to deal with such a situation. Besides, the now
obvious condition of the man alarmed her. However, he gave her no
opportunity to reply. For, delighted with his own talk, he went on
promptly--
"Now I tho't a whole heap since I got this wad. A wad like this takes
you thinkin', that is, ef you ain't a low-down rattle-brain like Pete,
or a psalm-smitin' son-of-a-moose like that feller, Buck. Course they
ain't got no sort o' savvee, anyways, so they don't count nuthin'. But
wi' a feller like me things is diff'rent. Now, this is what I got
fixed. Y' see you can't have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but
it's diff'rent in Leeson Butte. Guess we'll get a buggy from the camp
an' drive into Leeson. Ther's dance halls ther', an' they run a decent
faro joint at a place I know. An' they sell elegant rye, too. Wal,
we'll git that buggy, an' git fixed up reg'lar in Leeson, an' have a
bully time, an' git right back to here an' run this yer farm between
us. How's that?"
"I--I don't think I understand."
Joan's alarm grew. This man was deliberately proposing to marry her.
Supported by the nerve his half-drunken condition inspired, his senses
were so inflamed that he took the whole matter for granted. She looked
into his sensual young face, the hard eyes, and at the loose lips that
surrounded his unclean teeth, and something like panic seized her.
However, she knew she must not show her fear.
But he was waiting. And in reality her reply came without any
hesitation. She shook her head.
"You've made a mistake," she said decidedly but gently. "I have no
intention of marrying anybody." Then, taking her courage in both
hands, she permitted something of her dislike and contempt to creep
into her manner. "It seems to me you take a great deal too much for
granted. You come here when you think you will, wholly uninvited, and,
from the first, you hint broadly that you regard me as--as the person
you intend to marry. That is presumption, to put it mildly, and I have
no use for people who--presume."
She moved as though to return to the house. But Ike, all his
confidence suddenly merged into a volcanic heat, reached out a hand to
detain her. His hand came into rough contact with the soft flesh of
her shoulder, and, shaking it off, she faced him with flaming eyes.
"Don't dare to do that again," she cried, with bosom heaving. "Go,
leave this farm instantly. Remember you are trespassing here!"
Her anger had outweighed all her alarm, even, perhaps, all discretion.
For the man was in no mood to accept his dismissal easily.
"So that's it, is it?" he cried with a sudden hoarseness. "Oho, my
lady! We're putting on airs," he sneered. "Not good enough, eh?
Presuming, am I? An' who in blazes are you that you can't be touched?
Seems to me a decent honest citizen's jest as good fer you as fer any
other gal, an' my dollars are clean. What in thunder's amiss?" Then
his heat lessened, and his manner became more ingratiating. "See here,
Golden," he went on persuasively, "you don't mean that, sure! Wot's
the matter with me? I ain't weak-kneed, nor nuthin'. I ain't scared o'
no man. I'd scrap the devil ef you ast me. An' say, just think wot we
ken do with the dollars. You'd make a real upstander in a swell house,
with folks waitin' around on you, an' di'monds an' things. Say, I'm
jest bustin' to make good like that. You can't jest think how much
gold ther' is in my patch--an' you brought it along with you. You give
it to me--your luck."
There was something almost pathetic in his pleading, and for a brief
moment a shade of sympathy softened the girl.
"Please don't persist, Ike," she said almost gently. "Still, I can
never marry you. It's--it's--absurd," she added, with a touch of
impatience she could not wholly keep back.
But that touch of impatience suddenly set fire again to the man's
underlying intolerance of being thwarted.
"Absurd, is it?" He laughed with a curious viciousness which once more
disturbed the girl. "Absurd fer you to marry me," he cried harshly.
"Absurd fer you, cos I ain't got no smarmy eddication, cos I ain't
dressed in swaller tails an' kids, same as city folks. Oh, I know!
You're a leddy--a city-raised leddy, an' I--I'm jest a prairie hog.
That's it. You ain't got no use fer me. You jest come along right here
an' laff, an' laff at us folks. Oh, you needn't to say you hav'n't!"
as she raised a protesting hand. "Think I'm blind, think I'm deaf. Me!
Say, you shown it right along jest so plain ther' wer'n't no need to
tell it in langwidge." He broke off for a moment as though his anger
had robbed him of further speech, and Joan watched the growing purpose
in his hot eyes. Her own face was the color of marble. She was
inwardly trembling, but she stood her ground with eyes stonily cold.
She made no attempt to speak now, or defend herself against his
accusations. She knew it would be useless. Only she longed in her mind
for the presence of Buck to protect her from the insult she felt to be
coming. Nor was she mistaken.
The man's pause gave way before the surge of his anger.
"See here," he suddenly cried, as though he had just arrived at a
decision. "I ain't an easy man to laff at, as the folks around here
knows. Ther' ain't no man around here can laff at Montana Ike, an' I
don't guess no gal wi' red ha'r's goin' to neither. See?" He glanced
swiftly round the farm. There was no one in sight. Suddenly one great
hand shot out and he seized the girl by the arm in a crushing,
powerful grasp and dragged her to him.
"You guess you ken laff at me," he cried, seizing her with both hands
and holding her in spite of her struggles. "Wal, you ken laff after
you kissed me. You ken laff, oh, yes! when I tell the folks you kissed
me. Seems to me the laff'll mostly be with me."
He drew her toward him while she struggled violently. Then she
shrieked for help, but she knew the only help she could hope for was
the wholly inadequate help of her housekeeper. She shrieked Mrs.
Ransford's name with all her power, while the man's face came nearer.
It was quite hopeless; she knew she could not defend herself. And the
half-drunken man was laughing as though he enjoyed her terror.
She felt his hot breath on her cheeks, she closed her eyes to shut out
the sight of his grinning face. He released his hold with one hand and
flung his arm about her waist. She fought with might and main,
shrieking with all the power of her lungs. She suddenly felt the
impress of his hot lips on her cheek, not once, but a dozen times.
Then of a sudden he released her with a bitter oath, as the shrieking
voice of Mrs. Ransford sounded close by, and the thwack of a heavy
broom fell upon his head and shoulders.
"I'll teach you, you miser'ble hoboe!" cried the old woman's strident
voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. "I'll teach
you, you scallawag!" Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the
man sought to protect his head with his arms. "I'll give you a dose
you won't fergit, you scum o' creation!" Thwack went the broom again.
"Wait till the folks hear tell o' this, you miser'ble, miser'ble cur!"
Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. "You'd run, would
you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!" With a surprising rush the fat creature
lunged another smash at the man's head with her favorite weapon.
The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously
enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground
once he was beyond the range of her blows. Perhaps he realized the
immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result
to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it
was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago.
Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping
away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat
farm-wife's avalanche of vituperation.
"Mussy on us!" cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground
as the man passed out of sight. "Mussy me, wot's he done to you, my
pretty?" she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her
great bosom. "There, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a
scallawag like that," she said, as the girl buried her face on her
shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. "There, there,"
she went on, patting the girl's shoulder, "don't 'e demean yerself
weppin' over a miser'ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer!
Him! Wal, he won't kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An'
I'll see they gets it all. You, a 'Merican gal, kissed by a hog like
that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi' this overall; guess they'll sure
fester if you don't. Ther', that's better," she went on as Joan,
choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like
embrace.
"It's my own fault," the girl said tearfully. "I ought never to have
spoken to him at all. I----"
But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.
"Wot did I tell you?" she cried, with a power of self-righteousness.
"Wot did I tell you? You ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin'
with sech scum. They're all scallawags, every one of 'em. Men!--say,
these yer hills is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the
muck. I orter know. Didn't I marry George D. Ransford, an' didn't I
raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't I learn thereby, an'
therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way
o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! Come right into the house,
pretty. You're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore!
Come right in. Guess I'm a match fer any male muck around these hills.
Mussy on us, what's that!"
Both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down
the trail which led to the camp. Two shots had been fired almost
simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more
shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with
ominous threat. After that all was quiet again.
Presently the strained look in the farm-wife's face relaxed, and she
turned to her charge.
"That's him," she cried, with a swift return to her angry,
contemptuous manner. "It's him showin' off--like all them scallawags.
Come right in, missie," she added, holding out her hands to lead the
girl home.
But her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. Joan brushed
her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented.
"No, no," she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. "You don't
understand. You can't understand. Those shots--oh! It is my fate--my
curse. I must go!"
And she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had
proceeded--fled, leaving Mrs. Ransford staring stupidly after her, a
prey to utter bewilderment.