Dorn Of The Mountains (31 page)

Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his own man. And grim, sardonic, almost scornful indeed were the words of Buck Weaver. This rider had once worked for Al Auchincloss and had deserted to Beasley under Mulvey’s leadership. Mulvey was dead and the situation was vastly changed.

Beasley gave Weaver a dark lowering glance and waved him away. From the door, Weaver sent back a doubtful scrutinizing gaze, then slouched out. That gaze Beasley had not encountered before.

It meant, as Weaver’s cronies meant, as Beasley’s long-faithful riders, and the people of the range, and as the spirit of the West meant, that Beasley was expected to march down into the village to face his single foe.

But Beasley did not go. Instead, he paced to and fro the length of Helen Rayner’s long sitting room with the nervous energy of a man who could not rest. Many times he hesitated and at others he made sudden movements toward the door, only to halt. Not improbably he had not absolutely decided for or against this call for hours. Long after midnight he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn arose, gloomy and irritable.

He cursed the Mexican serving women who showed their displeasure at his authority. And to his amaze and rage not one of his men came to the house. He waited and waited. Then he stalked off to the corrals and stables, carrying a rifle with him. The men were there, in a group that dispersed somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.

Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go down into the village with him. That order was disobeyed. Beasley stormed and raged. His riders sat or lounged with lowered faces. An unspoken hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley roared for his Mexicans.

“Boss, we gotta tell you that every greaser on the ranch has sloped…gone these two hours…on the way to Magdalena,” said Buck Weaver.

Of all these sudden uprising perplexities this latest was the most astonishing. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.

“Boss, they was sure scared of thet gunslingin’ cowboy from Texas,” replied Weaver imperturbably.

Beasley’s dark swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle reflection in Weaver’s slow speech? One of the men came out of a corral leading Beasley’s saddled and bridled horse. This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his comrades without a word. No one spoke. The presence of the horse was significant. With a snarling muttered curse Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the ranch house.

In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had known for hours—that, if he had stood any chance at all for their respect, as well as for his life, the hour was long past.

Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and, when he got there, he nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something in the fiery liquor frightened him for he threw the bottle aside. It was as if that bottle contained a courage that was false.

Again he paced the long sitting room, growing more and more wrought up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular state of affairs. Twice, a pale serving woman called him to dinner.

The dining room was light and pleasant, and the meal, fragrant and steaming, was ready for him. But the women had disappeared. Beasley seated himself…spread out his big hands on the table.

Then a slight rustle—a
clink
of spur—startled him. He twisted his head.

“Howdy, Beasley,” said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by magic.

Beasley’s frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been loosed in his veins. Sweat drops stood out on his pallid face.

“What…you…want?” he asked huskily.

“Wal, now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein’ I am foreman heah, thet it’d be nice an’ proper fer me to drop in an’ eat with you…the
last time
,” replied the cowboy. His drawl was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant. But his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.

Beasley’s reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.

Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.

“Eat or not, it’s shore all the same to me,” said Las Vegas, and he began to load his plate with his left hand. His right hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his vibrating fingers on the edge of the table, and he never for the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes off Beasley.

“Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my blood to see you sittin’ there…thinkin’ you’ve put my boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch,” began Las Vegas softly. And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink. “In my day I’ve shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws, thieves, rustlers, an’ sich like, but fer an’ out an’ out dirty low-down skunk, you shore take the dough! I’m goin’ to kill you in a minnit or so, jest as soon as you move one of them dirty paws of your’n. But I’ll hope you’ll be polite an’ let me say a few words. I’ll never be happy again if you don’t…. Of all the…yaller greaser dogs I ever seen, you’re the wurst! I was thinkin’ last night, mebbe you’d come down an’ meet me like a man, so’s I could wash my hands ever afterward without gettin’ sick to my stummick.…But you didn’t come…. Beasley, I’m so ashamed of myself thet I gotta call you…when I ought to bore you, thet…I ain’t even second cousin to my old self when I rode the Chisholm. It don’t mean nuthin’ to you to call you liar! Robber! Black-leg! A sneakin’ coyote! An’ a cheat that hires others to do his dirty work! By God!”

“Carmichael, gimme a word in,” hoarsely broke out Beasley. “You’re right, it won’t do no good to call me.…But let’s talk…. I’ll buy you off. Ten thousand dollars.…”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!”
roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a strung cord and his face possessed singular pale radiance. His right hand began to quiver more and more.

“I’ll…double…it!” panted Beasley. “I’ll…make over…half the ranch…all the stock….”

“Swaller thet!” yelled Las Vegas with terrible strident ferocity.

“Listen…man! I take…it back! I’ll give up…Auchincloss’s ranch!” Beasley was now a shaking, whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.

Las Vegas’s left fist pounded hard on the table. “Greaser, come on!” he thundered.

Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his gun.

For Helen Rayner that brief dark period of her expulsion from her home had become a thing of the past, almost forgotten.

Two months had flown by on the wings of love and work, and the joy of finding her place there in the West. All her old men had been only too glad of the opportunity to come back to her, and, under Dorn and Roy Beeman, a different and prosperous order marked the life of the ranch.

Helen had made changes in the house, by altering the arrangement of rooms and adding a new section. Only once had she ventured into the old dining room where Las Vegas Carmichael had sat down to that tragic and fatal dinner for Beasley. She made a storeroom of it, and a place she would never again enter.

Helen was happy, almost too happy she thought, and to that end made more than needful of the several bitter drops in her sweet cup of life. Carmichael had ridden out of Pine, ostensibly on the trail of the Mexicans who had executed Beasley’s commands. The last seen of him had been reported from Show Down, where he had appeared, red-eyed and dangerous, like a hound on a scent. Then two months had flown by without a word.

Dorn had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about the cowboy’s absence. It would be just like Las Vegas never to be heard of again. Also it would be more like him to remain away until all trace of his drunken savage spell had departed from him and had been forgotten by his friends. Bo took his disappearance apparently less to heart than Helen. But Bo grew more restless, wilder and more willful than ever. Helen thought she guessed Bo’s secret, and, once, she ventured a hint concerning Carmichael’s return.

“If Tom doesn’t come back pretty soon, I’ll marry Milt Dorn,” retorted Bo tauntingly.

This fired Helen’s cheeks with red. “But, child!” she protested, half angry, half grave. “Milt and I are engaged.”

“Sure. Only you’re so slow. There’s many a slip…you know.”

“Bo, I tell you Tom will come back,” replied Helen earnestly. “I feel it. There was something fine in that cowboy. He understood me better than you or Milt, either…And he was perfectly wild in love with you.”

“Oh!
Was
he?”

“Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner.”

Then occurred one of Bo’s sweet, bewildering, unexpected transformations. Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness vanished from a softly agitated face.

“Oh, Nell. I know that…. You just watch me if I ever get another chance at him! Then…maybe he’d never drink again!”

“Bo, be happy…and be good. Don’t ride off any more…don’t tease the boys.…It’ll all come right in the end.”

Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.

“
Humph!
You can afford to be cheerful. You’ve got a man who can’t live when you’re out of his sight. He’s like a fish on dry land…. And you…why, once you were an old pessimist!”

Bo was not to be consoled or changed. Helen could only sigh and pray that her convictions would be verified.

The first day of July brought an early thunderstorm, just at sunrise. It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a gorgeous golden cloud pageant in the sky, and a fresh, sweetly smelling glistening green range that delighted Helen’s eye.

Birds were
twittering
in the arbors and bees were
humming
in the flowers. From the fields down along the brook came a blended song of swamp blackbird and meadowlark. A clarion-voiced burro split the air with his coarse and homely bray. The sheep were bleating, and a soft
baa
of little lambs came sweetly to Helen’s ears. She went her usual rounds with more than usual zest and thrill. Everywhere was color, activity, life. The wind swept warm and pine-scented down from the mountain heights, now black and bold, and the great green slopes seemed to call her.

At that very moment she came suddenly upon Dorn, in his shirt sleeves, dusty and hot, standing motionlessly, gazing at the distant mountains. Helen’s greeting startled him.

“I…I was just looking away yonder,” he said, smiling.

She thrilled at the clear wonderful light of his eyes. “So was I…a moment ago,” she replied wistfully. “Do you miss the forest…very much?”

“Nell, I miss nothing…. But I’d like to ride with you under the pines once more.”

“We’ll go!” she cried.

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh…soon!” And then with flushed face and downcast eyes she passed on. For long Helen had cherished a fond hope that she might be married in Paradise Park where she had fallen in love with Dorn and had realized herself. But she had kept that hope secret. Dorn’s eager tone, his flashing eyes had made her feel that her secret was there in her telltale face.

As she entered the lane leading to the house, she encountered one of the new stable boys driving a pack mule.

“Jim, whose pack is that?” she asked.

“Ma’am, I dunno, but I heered him tell Roy he reckoned his name was mud,” replied the boy, smiling.

Helen’s heart gave a quick throb. That sounded like Las Vegas. She hurried on, and, upon entering the courtyard, she espied Roy Beeman holding the halter of a beautiful wild-looking mustang. There was another horse with another man, who was in the act of dismounting on the far side. When he stepped into better view, Helen recognized Las Vegas. And he saw her at the same instant.

Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch. She had dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she could have cried aloud.

“Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you,” he said, standing bareheaded before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy she had seen first from the train.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, and offered her hands.

He wrung them hard while he looked at her. The swift woman’s glance Helen flashed in return seemed to shudder something dark and doubtful out of her heart. This was the same boy she had known—who she had liked so well—who had won her sister’s love. Helen imagined facing him thus was like awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt. Carmichael’s face was clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the old glad smile, cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like Dorn’s, penetrating, clear as crystal, without a shadow. What had evil, drink, blood to do with the real inherent nobility of this splendid specimen of Western hardihood? Wherever he had been, what ever he had done during that long absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and savage character she could now forget.

“How’s my girl?” he asked, just as naturally as if he had been gone a few days on some errand of his employers.

“Bo? Oh, she’s well…fine. I…I rather think she’ll be glad to see you,” replied Helen warmly.

“An’ how’s thet big Indian, Dorn?” he drawled.

“Well, too…I’m sure.”

“Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?”

“I…I assure you I…no one around here has been married yet,” replied Helen with a blush.

“Thet shore is fine. Was some worried,” he said lazily. “I’ve been chasin’ wild horses over in New Mexico, an’ I got after this heah blue roan. He kept me chasin’ him fer a spell. I’ve fetched him back for Bo.”

Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly delighted. He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large nor heavy, but powerfully built, clean-limbed and racy, with a long mane and tail, black as coal, and a beautiful head that made Helen love him at once.

“Well, I’m jealous,” declared Helen archly. “I never did see such a pony.”

“I reckoned you’d never ride any hoss but Ranger,” said Las Vegas.

“No, I never will. But I can be jealous anyhow, can’t I?”

“Shore, an’ I reckon if you say you’re goin’ to have him…wal, Bo’d be funny,” he drawled.

“I reckon she would be funny,” retorted Helen. She was so happy that she imitated his speech. She wanted to hug him. It was too good to be true—the return of this cowboy. He understood her. He had come back with nothing that could alienate her. He had apparently forgotten the terrible rôle he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her enemies. That moment was wonderful for Helen in its revelation of the strange significance of the West as embodied in this cowboy. He was great. But he did not know that.

Then the door of the living room opened and a sweet high voice pealed out: “Roy! Oh, what a mustang! Whose is he?”

“Wal, Bo, if all I hear is so, he belongs to you,” replied Roy with a huge grin.

Bo appeared in the door. She stepped out upon the porch. She saw the cowboy. The excited flash of her pretty face vanished as she paled.

“Bo, I shore was glad to see you,” drawled Las Vegas as he stepped forward, sombrero in hand. Helen could not see any sign of confusion in him. But indeed she saw gladness. Then she expected to behold Bo run right into the cowboy’s arms. It appeared, however, that she was doomed to disappointment.

“Tom, I’m glad to see you,” she replied.

They shook hands as old friends.

“You’re lookin’ right fine,” he said.

“Oh, I’m well…. And how have you been these six months?” she queried.

“Reckon I thought it was longer,” he drawled “Wal, I’m pretty tip-top now, but I was laid up with heart trouble for a spell.”

“Heart trouble?” she echoed dubiously.

“Shore…. I ate too much over there in New Mexico.”

“It’s no news to me…where your heart’s located.” Bo laughed. Then she ran off the porch to see the blue mustang. She walked around and around him, clasping her hands in sheer delight.

“Bo, he’s a plumb dandy,” said Roy. “Never seen a prettier hoss. He’ll run like a streak. An’ he’s got good eyes. He’ll be a pet someday. But I reckon he’ll always be spunky.”

Bo ventured to step closer and at last got a hand on the mustang, and then another. She smoothed his quivering neck and called softly to him, until he submitted to her hold.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Blue somethin’ or other,” replied Roy.

“Tom, has my new mustang a name?” asked Bo, turning to the cowboy.

“Shore.”

“What then?”

“Wal, I named him Blue-Bo,” answered Las Vegas, with a smile.

“Blue-Boy?”

“Nope. He’s named after you…an’ I chased him, roped him, broke him all myself.”

“Very well. Blue-Bo he is then…. And he’s a wonderful darling horse…. Oh, Nell, just look at him…. Tom, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Reckon I don’t want any thanks,” drawled the cowboy. “But see heah, Bo, you shore get to live up to conditions before you ride him.”

“What!” exclaimed Bo, who was startled by his slow cool meaning tone of voice.

Helen delighted in looking at Las Vegas then. He had never appeared to better advantage. So cool, careless, and assured! He seemed master of a situation in which his terms must be accepted. Yet as well he might have been actuated by a cowboy motive, beyond the power of Helen to divine.

“Bo Rayner,” drawled Las Vegas, “thet blue mustang will be yours an’ you can ride him…when you’re
Missus Tom Carmichael!
”

Never had he spoken a softer, more drawling speech, nor gazed at Bo more wildly. Roy seemed thunderstruck. Helen endeavored heroically to restrain her delicious bursting glee. Bo’s wide eyes stared at her lover—darkened—dilated. Suddenly she left the mustang to confront the cowboy where he lounged on the porch steps.

“Do you mean that?” she cried.

“Shore do.”

“Bah! It’s only a magnificent bluff,” she retorted. “You’re only in fun. It’s your…your darned nerve!”

“Why, Bo,” began Las Vegas reproachfully, “you shore know I’m not the four-flusher kind.…Never got away with a bluff in my life! An’ I’m jest in daid earnest aboot this heah.”

All the same, signs were not wanting in his mobile face that he was almost unable to restrain his mirth.

Helen realized then that Bo saw through the cowboy—that the ultimatum was only one of his tricks.

“It
is
a bluff and I
call
you!” declared Bo ringingly.

Las Vegas suddenly awoke to direful and doubtful consequences. He assayed to speak, but she was so wonderful then, so white and blazing-eyed and charged with radiant fire, that he was stricken mute.

“I’ll ride Blue-Bo this afternoon,” deliberately stated the girl.

Las Vegas had wit enough to grasp her meaning and he seemed about to collapse.

“Very well, you can make me Missus Tom Carmichael today…this morning…just before dinner…. Go get a preacher to marry us…andmake yourself look a more presentable bridegroom…
unless it was only a bluff!
”

Her imperiousness changed as the tremendous portent of her words seemed to make Las Vegas a blank stone image of a man. With a wild rose color suffusing her face she swiftly bent over him, kissed him, and flashed away into the house. Her laugh pealed back, and it thrilled Helen, so deep and strange was it for the willful sister, so wild and merry and full of joy.

It was then that Roy Beeman recovered from his paralysis to let out such a roar of mirth as to frighten the horses. Helen was laughing and crying, too, but laughing mostly. Las Vegas Carmichael was a sight for the gods to behold. Bo’s kiss had unclamped what had bound him. The sudden truth, undeniable, insupportable, glorious, made him a madman.

“Bluff…she called me…ride Blue-Bo saf’ternoon!” he raved, reaching wildly for Helen. “Missus…Tom…Carmichael…before dinner…preacher…presentable bridegroom!
Aw!
I’m drunk again! I…who swore off…forever!”

“No, Tom, you’re just happy,” said Helen.

Between her and Roy the cowboy was at length persuaded to accept the situation and to see his wonderful opportunity.

“Now…now, Miss Helen…what’d Bo mean by prepresentable bridegroom? Presents? Lord, I’m clean busted flat!”

“She meant you must dress up in your best, of course,” replied Helen.

“Where on earth will I get a preacher? Show Down’s forty miles…. Can’t ride there in time…. Roy, I’ve gotta have a preacher…. Life or death deal fer me.”

“Wal, old man, if you’ll brace up, I’ll marry you to Bo,” said Roy with his glad grin.

“Aw!”
gasped Las Vegas, as if at the fall of a sudden beautiful hope.

“Tom, I’m a preacher,” replied Roy now earnestly. “You didn’t know that, but I am. An’ I can marry you an’ Bo as good as anyone, an’ tighter’n most.”