BEASLEY PLAYS THE GAME
Joan lost no time in carrying out the Padre's wishes. Such was her
changed mood, such was the strength of her new-born hope, such was the
wonderful healing his words had administered to her young mind, that,
for the time at least, her every cloud was dispersed, lost in a
perfect sheen of mental calm.
The change occurred from the moment of her return home. So changed
indeed was she that her rough but faithful housekeeper, dull of
perception to all those things outside the narrow focus of her life in
domestic service, caught a faint glimpse of it without anything
approaching a proper understanding. She realized an added energy,
which seriously affected her own methods of performing her duties and
caused her to make a mental note that her young mistress was assuming
"airs" which did not fit in with her inexperience of those things
amidst which she, the farm-wife, had floundered all her life. She
heard her moving about the house, her joy and hope finding outlet in
song such as had never echoed through the place before. And promptly
she set this new phase down to the result of her associations with the
young "scallawag" Buck. She noted, too, an added care in her toilet,
and this inspired the portentous belief that she was "a-carryin' on"
with the same individual. But when it came to a general "turning-out"
of the living-rooms of the house, a matter which added an immense
amount of effort to her own daily duties, her protest found immediate
vent in no uncertain terms.
It came while the midday dinner was in preparation. It rose to
boiling-point amidst the steam from her cooking pots. Finally it
bubbled over, much as might one of her own kettles.
Joan was standing in the kitchen giving her orders preparatory to
departing to the camp, whither she was going to mail her letter to her
aunt at Beasley's store.
"You see," she was saying, "I'll have to make some changes in the
house. I'm expecting my aunt from St. Ellis to come and stay with me.
She won't be able to do with the things which have been sufficient for
me. She will have my room. I shall buy new furniture for it. I shall
get Beasley to order it for me from Leeson Butte. Then I shall use the
little room next yours. And while we're making these changes we'll
have a general housecleaning. You might begin this afternoon on the
room I am going to move into."
The old woman turned with a scarlet face. It may have been the result
of the heat of cooking. Then again it may have had other causes.
"An' when, may I ast, do I make bricks?" she inquired with ponderous
sarcasm.
Joan stood abashed for a moment. So unexpected was the retort, so much
was it at variance with her own mood that she had no answer ready, and
the other was left with the field to herself.
"Now jest look right here, Miss Joan--ma'm," she cried, flourishing a
cooking spoon to point her words. "I ain't a woman of many words by no
means, as you might say, but what I sure says means what I mean, no
more an' no less, as the sayin' is. I've kep' house all my life, an' I
reckon ther's no female from St. Ellis ken show _me_. I've bin a wife
an' a mother, an' raised my offsprings till they died. I did fer a man
as knew wot's wot in my George D. An' if I suffered fer it, it was
jest because I know'd my duty an' did it, no matter the consequences
to me an' mine. I tell you right here, an' I'm a plain-spoken woman
who's honest, as the sayin' is, I turn out no house, nor room, nor
nothin' of an afternoon. I know my duty an' I do it. Ther's a chapter
of the Bible fer every day o' my life, an' it needs digestin'
good--with my dinner. An' I don't throw it up fer nobody."
"But--but----" Joan began to protest, but the other brushed objection
aside with an added flourish of her spoon.
"It ain't no use fer you to persuade, nor cajole, nor argify. What I
says goes fer jest so long as I'm willin' to accept your ter'ble
ordinary wages, which I say right here won't be fer a heap long time
if things don't change some. I'm a respectable woman an' wife that
was, but isn't, more's the pity, an' it ain't my way to chase around
the house a-screechin' at the top o' my voice jest as though I'd come
from a cirkis. You ain't got your mind on your work. You ain't got
your heart in it, singin' all over the house, like--like one o' them
brazen cirkis gals. No, nor wot with scallawags a-comin' around
sparkin' you, an' the boys shootin' theirselves dead over you, an'
folks in the camp a-callin' of you a Jony gal, I don't guess I'll need
to stay an' receive con--contamination, as you might say. That's how
I'm feelin'; an' bein' a plain woman, an' a 'specterble widow of
George D., who was a man every inch of him, mind you, if he had his
failin's, chasin' other folks' cattle, an' not readin' their brands
right, why, out it comes plump like a bad tooth you're mighty glad to
be rid of, as the sayin' is."
The woman turned back to her cooking. Her manner was gravely
disapproving, and she had managed to convey a sting which somehow hurt
Joan far more than she was willing to admit. Her refusal to undertake
the added work was merely churlish and disconcerting, but those other
remarks raised a decided anger not untouched by a feeling of shame and
hurt. But Joan did not give way to any of these feelings in her reply.
She did the only dignified thing possible.
"You need not wait until your dissatisfaction with me overwhelms you,
Mrs. Ransford," she said promptly. "I engaged you by the month, and I
shall be glad if you will leave me to-day month." Then she added with
a shadow of reproach: "Really, I thought you were made of better
stuff."
But her attitude had a far different result to what she had expected.
She turned to go, preferring to avoid a further torrent of abuse from
the harsh old woman, when the spoon flourished in the air as the widow
of George D. swung round from her pots with an amazing alacrity.
"You ain't chasin' me out, Miss Joan--ma'm?" she cried aghast, her
round eyes rolling in sudden distress. "Why, miss--ma'm, I never meant
no harm--that I didn't. Y' see I was jest sore hearin' them sayin'
things 'bout you in the camp, an' you a-singin' made me feel you
didn't care nuthin'. An' these scallawags a-comin' around a-sassin'
you, an' a-kissin' you, sort o' set my blood boilin'. No, miss--ma'm,
you ain't a-goin' to chase me out! You wouldn't now, would you?" she
appealed. "Jest say you won't, an' I'll have the house turned sheer
upside down 'fore you know wher' you are. There, jest think of it. You
may need some un to ke'p that scallawag Buck in his place. How you
goin' to set about him without me around? I ain't quittin' this day
month, am I, miss--ma'm?"
The old woman's abject appeal was too much for Joan's soft heart, and
her smiling eyes swiftly told the waiting penitent that the sentence
was rescinded. Instantly the shadow was lifted from the troubled face.
"It was your own fault, Mrs. Ransford," Joan said, struggling to
conceal her amusement. "However, if you want to stay----Well, I must
drive into the camp before dinner, and we'll see about the little room
when I return."
"That we will, mum--miss. That we will," cried the farm-wife in
cordial relief as Joan hurried out of the room.
* * * * *
Joan drew up at Beasley's store just as that individual was preparing
to adjourn his labors for dinner. The man saw her coming from the door
of his newly-completed barn, and softly whistled to himself at the
sight of the slim, girlish figure sitting in the wagon behind the
heavy team of horses he had so long known as the Padre's.
This was only the third time he had seen the girl abroad in the camp,
and he wondered at the object of her visit now.
Whatever malice he bore her, and his malice was of a nature only to be
understood by his warped mind, his admiration was none the less for
it. Not a detail of her appearance escaped his quick, lustful eyes.
Her dainty white shirt-waist was covered by the lightest of dust
coats, and her pretty face was shadowed by a wide straw hat which
protected it from the sun's desperate rays. Her deeply-fringed eyes
shone out from the shade, and set the blood pulsing through the man's
veins. He saw the perfect oval of her fair face, with its ripe, full
lips and delicate, small nose, so perfect in shape, so regular in its
setting under her broad open brow. Her wonderful hair, that
ruddy-tinted mass of burnished gold which was her most striking
feature, made him suck in a whistling breath of sensual appreciation.
Without a moment's hesitation, hat in hand he went to meet her.
As he came up his foxy eyes were alight with what he intended for a
grin of amiability. Whatever his peculiarly vindictive nature he was
more than ready to admit to himself the girl's charms.
"Say, Miss Golden," he cried, purposely giving her the name the
popular voice had christened her, "it's real pleasant of you to get
around. Guess the camp's a mighty dull show without its lady citizens.
Maybe you'll step right up into my storeroom. I got a big line of new
goods in from Leeson. Y' see the saloon ain't for such as you," he
laughed. "Guess it does for the boys all right. I'm building a slap-up
store next--just dry goods an' notions. Things are booming right now.
They're booming so hard there's no keepin' pace. I'll tie your hosses
to this post."
His manner was perfect in its amiability, but Joan detested it because
of the man. He could never disguise his personality, and Joan was
beginning to understand such personalities as his.
"Thanks," she said coldly, as, taking advantage of his being occupied
with the horses, she jumped quickly from the vehicle. "I came to mail
a letter," she said, as she moved on up to the big barn which was
Beasley's temporary storehouse, "and to give you a rather large order
for furnishing and things."
She produced a paper with her list of requirements, and handed it to
him.
"You see, I'm refurnishing the farm," she went on, while the man
glanced an appreciative eye over the extensive order. "Can you do
those things?" she asked as he looked up from his perusal.
"Why, yes. There's nothing difficult there. What we can't do here we
can send on to Leeson Butte for. I've got some elegant samples of
curtains just come along. Maybe you'll step inside?"
In spite of her dislike of the man Joan had no hesitation in passing
into the storeroom. She had no desire in the world to miss the joy of
inspecting a fresh consignment of dry goods. She felt almost as
excited, and quite as much interested, as though she were visiting one
of the great stores in St. Ellis.
In a few moments she was lost in a close inspection of the display.
Nor had she any thought, or wonder, that here in the wilderness, on
the banks of Yellow Creek, such things should already have found their
way. For a long time the keen man of business expended his arts of
persuasion upon her, and, by the time the girl had exhausted his
stock, he had netted a sound order. His satisfaction was very evident,
and now he was prepared to regard her rather as a woman than a
customer.
"Makes you think some," he observed, with a wave of his hand in the
direction of the piled-up fabrics and unopened cases. Then he laughed
in a way that jarred upon the girl. "Ther's money to burn here. Money!
Whew!" Then his eyes became serious. "If it only lasts!"
"Why shouldn't it?" asked Joan unsuspiciously. She had finished, and
was anxious to get away. But the man seemed to want to talk, and it
seemed churlish to deny him.
Beasley shook his head, while his eyes devoured her appealing beauty.
"It won't," he said decidedly. "It's too big--too rich. Besides----"
"Besides what?"
The man's eyes had lost their grin. They were the eyes of the real
man.
"It's--devil's luck. I've said it all along. Only ther's sech plaguey
knowalls around they won't believe it. Buck now--I got nothing against
Buck. He's a good citizen. But he's got a streak o' yeller in him, an'
don't hold with no devil's luck. Maybe you remember." He grinned
unpleasantly into the girl's eyes.
She remembered well enough. She was not likely to forget the manner in
which Buck had come to her help. She flushed slightly.
"What do you mean by 'a streak of yellow'?" she demanded coldly.
"It don't need a heap of explaining. He's soft on mission talk."
Joan's flush deepened. This man had a mean way of putting things.
"If you mean that he doesn't believe in--in superstitions, and that
sort of thing, if you mean he's just a straightforward,
honest-thinking man--well, I agree with you."
Beasley was enjoying the spectacle of the warmth which prompted her
defense. She was devilish pretty, he admitted to himself.
"Maybe you feel that way," he said, in a tone that jarred. "Say," he
went on shrewdly, "I'm no sucker, I'm not one of these slobs chasin'
gold they're eager to hand on to the first guy holdin' out his hand.
I'm out to make a pile. I had a claim in the ballot. Maybe it's a good
claim. I ain't troubled to see. Why? I'll tell you. Maybe I'd have
taken a few thousand dollars out of it. Maybe a heap. Maybe only a
little. Not good--with all these slobs around." He shook his head. "I
figured I'd git the lot if I traded. I'd get the show of _all_ of the
claims. See? The 'strike' ain't goin' to last. It's a pocket in the
hill, an' it'll peter out just as dead sure as--well as can be. An'
when it's petered out there's going to be jest one feller around here
who's made a profit--an' it ain't one of those who used the
sluice-boxes. No, you can believe what you like. This 'strike' was
jest a devil's laugh at folks who know no better. An' master Buck has
handed you something of devil's luck when he made you take that gold."
There was something very keen about this man, and in another Joan
might have admired it; but Beasley's mind was tainted with such a
vicious meanness that admiration was impossible.
"I don't believe it," said Joan staunchly. "Neither does Buck. He
would never willingly hand me the trouble you suggest."
Her words were the result of an impetuous defense of the absent man.
To hear this man attack Buck was infuriating. But the moment she had
uttered them, the moment she had seen their effect, that meaning laugh
which they brought to the storekeeper's lips, she wished they had
never been spoken.
"Don't guess Buck needs to scrap fer himself with you around, Miss
Golden," he laughed. "Gee! He's in luck. I wonder!"
Joan choked back her swift-rising indignation. The man wasn't worth
it, she told herself, and hurriedly prepared to depart. But Beasley
had no intention of letting her go like that.
"I wonder whether he is in luck, though," he went on quickly, in a
tone he knew the girl would not be able to resist. His estimate was
right. She made no further move to go.
"How?" she asked.
"Oh, nuthin' of consequence," he said aggravatingly. "I was just
thinking of the way folks are talking." Then he laughed right out; and
if Joan had only understood the man she would have known that his
merriment was but the precursor of something still more unpleasant.
But such natures as his were quite foreign to her. She merely
instinctively disliked him.
"What do you mean?" she asked unsuspiciously.
Beasley was serious again, and wore an air of deprecation when he
answered her.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "'tain't nuthin'. Y' see folks are always most
ready to gas around. It's 'bout them two boys. They're hot about 'em.
Y' see Pete was a mighty popular feller, an' Ike had good friends. Y'
see they were always good spenders--an' most folks like good
spenders. But ther'--'tain't nuthin' that needs tellin' you. Guess
it'll only make a dandy gal like you feel mean."
The man's purpose must have been evident to anybody less simple than
Joan. As it was she jumped at the bait so skilfully held out.
"But you must tell me," she said, remembering Mrs. Ransford's remarks.
"I insist on knowing if it is anything concerning me."
Beasley's air was perfect. His eyes were as frankly regretful as he
could make them.
"Wal," he said, "it certainly does concern you--but I'd rather not say
it."
"Go on."
Joan's face was coldly haughty.
"I wouldn't take it too mean," said Beasley warningly. "I sure
wouldn't. You see folks say a heap o' things that is trash. They guess
it's your doin' 'bout them boys. They reckon you played 'em one ag'in
t'other for their wads, an' both o' them ag'in--Buck. Y' see--mind I'm
jest tellin' you cos you asked--they guess you ast 'em both to supper
that evenin'. Pete said he was ast, an' Ike let on the same. You ast
'em both for the fun of the racket. An' you had Buck around to watch
the fun. Yes, they're pretty hot. An' you can't blame 'em, believin'
as they do. One of 'em--I forget who it rightly was--he called you the
camp Jonah. Said just as long as you wer' around ther'd be trouble. He
was all for askin' you to clear right out. He said more than that, but
I don't guess you need to know it all."
"But I do need to know it all. I need to know all they said, and--who
said it."
Joan's eyes were blazing. Beasley made no attempt to conceal his
satisfaction, and went on at once--
"Course I can't give you names. But the facts I don't guess I'm likely
to forget--they made me so riled. They said that farm of yours was
just a blind. It--it was--well, you'd come along here for all you
could get--an' that----"
Joan cut him short.
"That's enough," she cried. "You needn't tell me any more. I--I
understand. Oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! Tell me. Who was it
said these things? I demand to know. I insist on the names. Oh!"
The girl's exasperation was even greater than Beasley had hoped for.
He read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction
was intense. He felt that he was paying her off for some of the
obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it
always pleased him when his mischief went home. But now, having
achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of
consequences, which was ever his method.
"I'd like to give you the names," he said frankly. "But I can't. You
see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don't mean, an' it
wouldn't be fair to give them away. I jest told you so you'd be on
your guard--just to tell you the folks are riled. But it ain't as bad
as it seems. I shut 'em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could
stand an' hear a pretty gal slandered like that. An' I'll tell you
this, Miss Golden, you owe me something for the way I made 'em quit.
Still," he added, with a leer, "I don't need payment. You see, I was
just playin' the game."
Joan was still furious. And somehow his wriggling did not ring true
even in her simple ears.
"Then you won't tell me who it was?" she cried.
Beasley shook his head.
"Nuthin' doin'," he said facetiously.
"Then you--you are a despicable coward," she cried. "You--oh!" And she
almost fled out of the hated creature's storeroom.
Beasley looked after her. The satisfaction had gone from his eyes,
leaving them wholly vindictive.
"Coward, am I, ma'm!" he muttered. Then he looked at the order for
furniture which was still in his hand.
The sight of it made him laugh.