Chapter 16

"Fifteen hunderd," mumbled the old man to himself. "Five las' night an' ten to-day. It's a sure shot, that's what it is, a sure shot. I worked him out in fifty-one seconds. Oh, Lord, what a clip! in fifty- one," he repeated with his abominable chuckle, "an' Nal's filly has never done better than fifty-two. Nal didn't buy no pools. He knows better."

By a queer coincidence Mr. Roberts was also indulging in pleasing introspection.

"The old cuss," he mused, "is blooded. I'll allow he's blooded, but he thinks this a dead cert. Lemme see, fifty-one an' two make fifty- three. No clip at all. Gosh! what a game, what a game! Why, there's Mandy a-sittin' up with Mis' Root. I'll jest sashay acrost the track an' give 'em my regards."

Mandy was atop a red-wheeled spring wagon. A sailor hat--price, trimmed, forty-five cents--overshadowed her smiling face, and a new dress cleverly fashioned out of white cheese cloth, embellished her person. She had been watching her lover closely for upwards of an hour, but expressed superlative surprise at seeing him.

"Why, Nal," she said demurely "this ain't you? You are acquainted with Mis' Root, I guess?"

Nal removed his cap with a flourish, and Mrs. Root, a large, lymphatic, prolific female, entreated him to ascend the wagon and sit down.

"You have a horse runnin', Mister Roberts?"

"Yes, marm, By-Jo."

"By what?"

"By Diamond," replied Rinaldo, glibly, "outer Cap Wilson's old Sally. She was by----"

"Mis' Root didn't catch the name right," interrupted Mandy. "It's By- Jo, Mis' Root--that's French."

"Mercy me, ain't that nice--quite toney. I hope he'll win if Mister Bobo's horse don't."

"Nal," whispered Mandy, "you've not been betting against Comet, have you?"

"That's what I have, Mandy. I've got my hull stack o' chips on this yere half-mile dash."

"But, Nal, Comet will win sure. Grandfather's crazy about the colt. He says he can't lose no-way."

"That's all right," said Nal. "I'm glad he feels so well about it. Set his heart on winnin', eh? That's good. Say, I guess I'll sit right here and see the race. It's handy to the judges' stand, and the horses are all on the track."

In fact, for some time the runners had been walking backwards and forwards, and were now grouped together near the starter. Mr. Bobo was in the timer's box, chuckling satanically. Fifteen hundred dollars, according to his own computation, were already added to a plethoric bank account.

"Yer feelin' well, Mister Bobo," said a bystander.

"I'm feelin' mighty well," he replied, "never was feelin' better, never. There's a heap o' fools in this yere world, but I ain't responsible for their mistakes--not much," and he cackled loudly.

After the usual annoying delay the horses were dismissed with an excellent start. Bijou jumped immediately to the front, and Nal threw his hat high into the air.

"Ain't she a cyclone?" he shouted, standing upon the wagon seat and waving his stop-watch.

"Look at her, I say, look at her!"

The people in his vicinity stared, smiled, and finally cheered. Most of them knew Nal and liked him well.

"Yer mare is winnin'," yelled a granger.

"You bet she is," retorted Mr. Roberts. "See her! Ain't she takin' the kinks out of her speed? Ain't that a clip? Sit still, ye fool," he cried lustily, apostrophising the boy who was riding; "if ye git a move on ye I'll kill ye. Oh, my lord! if she ain't a-goin' to distance them! Yes, sir, she's a shuttin' 'em out. Damn it--I ain't a swearin', Mis' Root--damn it, I say, _she's a shuttin' 'em out!_ She's done it!! The race is won!!!"

He jumped from the wagon and plunged into the crowd, which respectfully made way for him.

* * * * *

"I've somethin' to tell ye, Mandy," said Mr. Roberts, some ten months later. I feel kind o' mean, too. But I done it for you; for love o' you, Mandy."

"Yes, Nal; what is it?"

They had been married a fortnight.

"Ye remember when the old man had the fit in the timer's box? Well, that knocked me galley-west. I felt a reg'ler murderer. But when he'd braced up, an began makin' himself hateful over our weddin', I felt glad that I'd done what I done."

"And what had you done, Nal, dear?"

"Hold on, Mandy, I'm tellin' this. Ye see, he promised to sell ye to me for two thousand dollars cash. But when I tendered him the coin, he went back on me. He was the meanest, the ornariest----"

"Hush, Nal, he's dead now."

"You bet he is, or we wouldn't be sittin' here."

They were comfortably installed upon the porch of the old adobe. A smell of paint tainted the air, and some shavings and odds and ends of lumber betrayed a recent visit from the carpenter. The house, in short, had been placed in thorough repair. A young woman with fifty thousand dollars in her own right can afford to spend a little money upon her home.

"He wouldn't take the coin," continued Nal, "he said I'd robbed him of it, an' so I had."

"Oh, Nal!"

"It was this way, Mandy. Ye remember the trial, an' how you give the snap away. Well I studied over it, an' finally I concluded to jest dig up the half-mile post, an' put it one hundred feet nearer home. I took considerable chances but not a soul suspicioned the change. The next night I put it back again. The old man timed the colt an' so did I. _Fifty-one seconds!_ I knew my filly could do the whole half-mile in that. Comet's second dam was a bronco, an' that will tell! But I wanted to make your grandfather bet his wad. He never could resist a sure-shot bet, never. That's all."

Amanda looked deep into his laughing eyes.

"He was willing to sell me, his own flesh and blood," she murmured dreamily. "I think, Nal, you served him just about right, but I wish, don't get mad, Nal, I wish that--er--someone else had pulled up the post!"

XVII

MINTIE

Mintie stood upon the porch of the old adobe, shading her brown eyes from the sun, now declining out of stainless skies into the brush- hills to the west of the ranch. The hand shading the eyes trembled; the red lips were pressed together; faint lines upon the brow and about the mouth indicated anxiety, and possibly fear. A trapper would have recognised in the expression of the face a watchful intensity or apprehension common to all animals who have reason to know themselves to be the prey of others.

Suddenly a shot rang out, repeating itself in echoes from the cañon behind the house. Mintie turned pale, and then laughed derisively.

"Gee!" she exclaimed. "How easy scairt I am!"

She sank, gaspingly, upon a chair, and began to fan herself with the skirt of her gown. Then, as if angry on account of a weakness, physical rather than mental, she stood up and smiled defiantly, showing her small white teeth. She was still trembling; and remarking this, she stamped upon the floor of the porch, and became rigid. Her face charmed because of its irregularity. Her skin was a clear brown, matching the eyes and hair. She had the grace and vigour of an unbroken filly at large upon the range. And, indeed, she had been born in the wilderness, and left it but seldom. Her father's ranch lay forty miles from San Lorenzo, high up in the foothills--a sterile tract of scrub--oak and cedar, of manzanita and chaparral, with here and there good grazing ground, and lower down, where the creek ran, a hundred acres of arable land. Behind the house bubbled a big spring which irrigated the orchard and garden.

Teamsters, hauling grain from the Carisa Plains to the San Lorenzo landing, a distance of nearly a hundred miles, would beguile themselves thinking of the apples which old man Ransom would be sure to offer, and the first big drink from the cold spring.

Mintie was about to enter the house, when she saw down the road a tiny reek of white dust. "Gee!" she exclaimed for the second time.

"Who's this?"

Being summer, the hauling had not yet begun. Mintie, who had the vision of a turkey-buzzard, stared at the reek of dust.

"Smoky Jack, I reckon," she said disdainfully. Nevertheless, she went into the house, and when she reappeared a minute later her hair displayed a slightly more ordered disorder, and she had donned a clean apron.

She expressed surprise rather than pleasure when a young man rode up, shifted in his saddle, and said:--

"How air you folks makin' it?"

"Pretty fair. Goin' to town?"

"I thought, mebbe, of goin' to town nex' week. I come over jest to pass the time o' day with the old man."

"Rode ten miles to pass the time o' day with--Pap?"

"Yas."

"Curiously fond men air of each other!"

"That's so," said Smoky admiringly. "An' livin' alone puts notions o' love and tenderness into my head that never comed thar when Maw was alive an' kickin'. I tell yer, its awful lonesome on my place."

He sat up in his saddle, a handsome young fellow, the vaquero rather than the cowboy, a distinction well understood in California. John Short had been nicknamed Smoky Jack because of his indefatigable efforts to clear his own brush-hills by fire. Across his saddle was a long-barrelled, old-fashioned rifle. Mintie glanced at it.

"Was that you who fired jest now?"

"Nit," said Smoky. "I heard a shot," he added. "'Twas the old man. I'd know the crack of his Sharp anywheres. 'Tis the dead spit o' mine. There'll be buck's liver for supper sure."

"Why are you carryin' a gun?"

"I thought I might run acrost a deer."

"No other reason?"

Beneath her steady glance his blue eyes fell. He replied with restraint--

"I wouldn't trust some o' these squatters any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. Your Pap had any more trouble with 'em?"

Mintie answered savagely:--

"They're a-huntin' trouble. Likely as not they'll find it, too."

Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences, and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the old man's back-pasture.

Smoky stared at Mintie. Then he said abruptly--

"You look kinder peaky-faced. Anything wrong?"

"Nothing," replied Mintie.

"You ain't a-worryin' about your Pap, air ye? I reckon he kin take keer of himself."

"I reckon he kin; so kin his daughter."

"Shall I put my plug into the barn?"

"We're mighty short of hay," said Mintie inhospitably.

Smoky Jack stared at her and laughed. Then he slipped from the saddle, pulled the reins over the horse's head, and threw the ends on the ground. With a deprecating smile he said softly--

"Air you very extry busy, Mints?"

"Not very extry. Why?"

"I've a notion to read ye something. It come to me las' Sunday week in the middle of the night. An' now it's slicked up to the Queen's taste."

"Poetry?"

"I dunno as it's that--after the remarks you passed about that leetle piece I sent to the _Tribune_."

"You sent it? Of all the nerve----! Did they print it?"

Smoky Jack shook his head.

"Never expected they would," he admitted mournfully. "I won't deny that it was kind o'----"

"Slushy?" hazarded Mintie.

"Wal--yes. You'd made all sorts of a dodgasted fool outer me."

"Yer father and mother done that."

"I've said as much to Maw, many's the time. 'Maw' I'd say, 'I ain't a masterpiece--and I know it.' But las' Sunday night I was _in_spired."

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Mintie frowned. With a shy glance and heightened colour the man who had been inspired whispered softly--

"It's entitled, 'To My Own Brown Bird.'"

"And who's your brown bird?" demanded Mintie sharply.

"As if you didn't know."

"Meanin' me?"

"Couldn't naturally be nobody else."

"I'm not yours; and as for bein' brown, why, my skin is white as milk."

"I'll bet my life it is."

"As for bein' a bird, that ain't no compliment. Birds is first cousins to snakes. Never knew that, did ye?"

"Never--s'elp me! Is that really so?"

Covered with mortification, he put the paper back into his pocket.

"Read it," commanded the young lady. "Let's get it over an' done with. Then, mebbe, I'll help ye to rechristen the durned thing."

Emboldened by this gracious speech, Smoky began in a nasal, drawling voice--

"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide----"

"Ananias!" said Mintie. "You was born in these yere foothills, and raised in 'em; and you've never known enough to git out of 'em."

"Git out of 'em?"

"Git out of 'em," she repeated scornfully. "D'ye think if I was a man I'd stop in such a God-forsaken place as yours, with nothing but rattlesnakes and coyotes to keep me company? Go on!"

"I've wandered far--I've wandered wide-- I've dwelt in many a stately tower; And now I turn me back to ride To my own brown bird in her humble bower."

"That'll do," said Mintie. "You ain't improved much. Bill Shakespeare can rest easy in his tomb. I've got my chores to do. 'Bout time you was doin' yours."

Smoky Jack, refusing to budge, said jocosely, "Things air fixed up to home. 'Twouldn't worry me any if I never got back till to-morrer."

Mintie frowned and went into the house. Smoky led his horse to the barn with perplexity and distress writ large upon his face.

"Notice to quit," he muttered. Then he grinned pleasantly. "Reckon a perfect gen'leman 'd take the hint and clear out. But I ain't a perfect gen'leman. What in thunder ails the girl?"

* * * * *

It was nearly seven when Pap Ransom reached his corral. Smoky had milked the cow and fed the pigs. In the kitchen Mintie was frying some potatoes and stirring the big pot full of beans and bacon. From time to time Smoky had caught a glimpse of her white apron as she whisked in and out of the kitchen. Although a singularly modest youth, he conceived the idea that Mintie was interested in his doings, whereas we must admit that she was more concerned about her father. However, when she saw Pap ascend the hill, carrying his rifle over his shoulder, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and from that minute she gave to the simple preparations for supper undivided attention.

"Whar's the liver?" said Smoky, as the old man nodded to him.

"Liver?"

"Heard a shot, jest one, and made certain a good buck was on his back."

"I never fired no shot," said Ransom slowly.

"Wal, I'm hanged! Is there another Sharp besides mine in these yere hills?"

"I dessay. I heard one shot myself, 'bout two hours ago."

"Guess it was one o' them derned squatters."

"Curse 'em!" said Ransom. He spat upon the ground and walked into the abode. Smoky nodded reflectively.

Supper was not a particularly cheery meal. Mintie, usually a nimble talker, held her tongue. Ransom aired his pet grievance--the advent of Easterners, who presumed to take up land which was supposed to belong to, or at least go with, the old Spanish grants. Smoky and Mintie knew well enough that the land was Uncle Sam's; but they knew also that Ransom had run his cattle over it during five-and-twenty years. If that didn't constitute a better title than a United States patent, there was no justice anywhere. Smoky, filled with beans and bacon, exclaimed vehemently--

"Shoot 'em on sight, that's what I say."

Mintie stared at his bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Do you allus mean jest what you say?" she inquired sarcastically.

"Wal," replied Smoky, more cautiously, "they ain't been monkeyin' with me; but if they did----"

"If they did----?" drawled Mintie, with her elbows on the table and her face between her hands.

"If they cut my fence as they've cut yours, and, after doo warnings, kep' on trespassin' and makin' trouble, why then, by Gosh! I'd shoot. Might give 'other feller a show, but there's trouble as only kin be settled with shootin' irons."

"That's so" said Mintie savagely.

After supper Mintie retired to the kitchen to wash up. Ransom put a jar of tobacco on the table, two glasses, and some whisky.

"Any call for ye to ride home to-night?"

"None," said Smoky.

"Reckon ye'd better camp here, then."

Smoky nodded and muttered--

"Don't keer if I do," a polite form of acceptance in the California foothills.

Presently Ransom went out. Smoky was left alone. He filled his corn- cob pipe, stretched out his legs, and smiled, thinking of his own brown bird. Suddenly a glint came into his bright blue eyes. In the corner of the room, against the wall, leaned the two Sharp rifles. Smoky glanced about him, rose, walked to the corner, bent down, and smelt the muzzle of Ransom's rifle. Then he slipped his forefinger into the barrel and smelt that.

"Sufferin' Moses!" he exclaimed.

His mouth was slightly twisted, as he picked up the rifle and opened the breech. He drew out a used cartridge, which he examined with another exclamation.

"Holy Mackinaw!"

He put the cartridge into his pocket and glanced round for the second time. He could hear Mintie washing-up in the kitchen. Ransom was feeding his horses. Smoky took a cleaning-rod, ran it through the rifle, and examined the bit of cloth, which was wet and greasy. Then he replaced the rifle and went back to the table, where Ransom found him when he returned a few minutes later. The two men smoked in silence. Presently Ransom said abruptly:--

"Dead struck on Mints, ain't ye?"

"I am," said Smoky laconically.

"Told her so--hay?"

"'Bout a million times."

"What does she say?"

Smoky blew some rings of smoke before he answered.

"She says--'Shucks!'"

"That don't sound encouragin'."

"It ain't. Fact is, she thinks me a clam."

"A clam?"

"That's right. She'd think a heap more o' me if I was to pull out o' these yere hills and try to strike it somewheres else."

"Wal, squatters have made this no kind o' country for a white man. Ye're white, John."

"I aim ter be."

"You air, sonnie. Say, if anything happened to me, would ye watch out for Mints?"

"I wonder!"

"S'pose, fer the sake of argyment, that one o' these sons o' guns did for me--hay?"

"'Tain't likely," said Smoky scornfully. "I'd bet my boots on you every time."

"They may do fer me," said Ransom slowly, "and, if so----"

"I'll watch out for Mints," said Smoky very fervently.

* * * * *

Presently Mintie joined them and, sitting down, began to darn some stockings. Apparently she was engrossed with her work, but Smoky stared at her, noticing that her fingers trembled. Ransom smoked and said nothing. Smoky talked, trying to challenge Mintie's interest and attention, but sensible of failure. Moreover, he had nothing to talk about except bad times and bad luck. Father and daughter listened grimly, well aware that their friend and neighbour was fighting against lack of water, a sterile soil, and a "plastered" ranch.

"Why don't you quit?" Ransom asked testily.

"I ain't a quitter."

"He don't know enough to let go," said Mintie.

"I could earn good money with my uncle in Los Angeles County. He wants me."

Mintie tossed her head.

"If he wants you, the sooner you skin outer this the better."

"Uncle's well fixed," said Smoky, "and an old bach. He wants a live young man to take aholt with his ranch, and a live young woman to run the shebang. If I was married----!"

"Pity you ain't," said Mintie, without looking up.

Ransom, who had conducted his courting upon Western principles, rose up slowly and disappeared. Left alone with his beloved, the young man blushed and held his tongue.

"You think a heap o' the old man?" he hazarded, after an interminable pause.

"I do. He's a man, is Pap."

"Meanin'?"

"Anything you please."

"You mean that I ain't a man?"

Mintie laughed softly; and at that moment the old dog, lying by the hearth, got up and growled. Rebuked by Mintie, he continued growling, while the hair upon his aged back began to bristle with rage.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mintie.

They could hear voices outside. The dog barked furiously as somebody hammered hard upon the door.

"Who can it be?" said Mintie nervously.

Smoky Jack opened the door; four or five men came in. At the door opposite appeared Ransom.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. "What brings you here at this time o' night?"

The leader of the party, a tall 'Piker,' answered as curtly--

"Business."

"What business?"

"I don't talk business afore wimmenfolks."

Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips were quivering.

"Come you here, child," said her father.

He looked at her steadily.

"You go to bed an' stay there. Not a word! An' don't worry."

Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked quietly out of the room.

"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.

"Murder."

"Murder? Whose murder?"

"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on your land, not a quarter of a mile from this yere house. His widder found him and come to me."

"Wal?"

"She says the shot that killed him must ha' bin fired 'bout six. She heard it, an' happened to look at the clock."

"Wal?"

"She swears that you fired it."

Smoky burst in impetuously--

"At six I kin swear that Pap was a-talkin' to me in his own corral."

The squatters glanced at each other. The 'Piker' laughed derisively.

"In love with his darter, ain't ye?"

"I am--and proud of it!"

"Them your guns?" The spokesman addressed Ransom, indicating the two rifles.

"One of 'em is mine; t'other belongs to Smoky."

The 'Piker' crossed the room, examined the rifles, opened each, and peered down the barrels. He glanced at the other squatters, and said laconically--

"Quite clean--as might be expected."

Ransom betrayed his surprise very slightly. He had just remembered that he had left an empty cartridge in his rifle, and that it was not clean.

The 'Piker' turned to him again.

"You claim that you know nothing o' this job?"

"Not a thing."

"And you?"

The big 'Piker' stared superciliously at Smoky.

"Same here," said Smoky.

The visitors glanced at each other, slightly nonplussed. The big 'Piker' swore in his beard. "We'll arrest the hull outfit," he said decidedly, "and carry 'em in to San Lorenzy."

"You ain't, the sheriff nor his deputy," said Ransom. "What d'ye mean," he continued savagely, "by coming here with this ridic'lous song and dance? There's the door. Git!"

"You threatened to shoot Farge," said the 'Piker.' "An' it's my solid belief you done it in cold blood, too. We're five here, all heeled, and there's more outside. If you're innocent the sheriff'll let you off to-morrer; but, innocent or guilty, by Gosh, you're comin' with us to-night. Hold up yer hands! Quick!"

Ransom and Smoky held up their hands.

"Search 'em," commanded the 'Piker.'

This was done effectively. A Derringer doesn't take up much room in a man's pocket, but it has been known to turn the tables upon larger weapons. Ransom and Smoky, however, were unarmed; but the squatter who ran his hand over Smoky's pockets encountered a small cylinder, which he held up to the public gaze.

It was an empty cartridge.

To understand fully what this meant one must possess a certain knowledge of Western ways and sentiment. Pistols and rifles belonging to the pioneers, for example, often exhibit notches, each of which bears silent witness to the shedding of blood. The writer knew intimately a very mild, kindly old man who had a strop fashioned out of several thicknesses of Apache skins. The Apaches had inflicted unmentionable torments upon him and his, and the strop was his dearest possession. The men and women of the wilderness are primal in their loves and hates.

The big 'Piker' examined the long brass cylinder, small of bore and old-fashioned in shape. He slipped it into the Sharp rifle, and laughed grimly as he said--

"A relic!"

Ransom's face was impassive; Smoky Jack exhibited a derisive defiance. Inwardly he was cursing himself for a fool in having kept the cartridge. He had intended to throw it away as soon as he found himself outside. But from the first he had wanted Mintie's father to know _that he knew!_ Primal again. Pap would not forget to clean his rifle at the first opportunity; and then, without a word on either side, he would realise that the man who wanted his daughter was a true friend.