Chapter 8

Each realized that the inevitable clash had come, that no pretense of friendliness would longer be possible between them, that from now on they would be avowed enemies. As for Ralston, he was glad that the crisis had arrived; glad of anything which would divert him for ever so short a time from his own bitter thoughts; glad of the test which he could meet in the open, like a man.

The corral gate was open, and this led into a lane something like three-quarters of a mile in length, at the end of which was another gate, opening into the pasture where the runaway pony had crawled through the loose wire fence.

The brown mare had responded to Ralston's signal like the loyal, honest little brute she was. The gravel flew behind them, and the rat-a-tat-tat of the horses' hoofs on the hard road was like the roll of a drum. They were running neck and neck, but Ralston had little fear of the result, unless the gray had phenomenal speed.

Ralston knew that whoever reached the gate first must open it. If he could get far enough in the lead, he could afford to do so; if not, he meant to "pull" his horse and leave it to Smith. The real race would be from the gate to the pony.

The gray horse could run--his build showed that, and his stride bore out his appearance. Yet Ralston felt no uneasiness, for the mare had still several links of speed to let out--"and then some," as he phrased it. The pace was furious even to the gate; they ran neck and neck, like a team, and the face of each rider was set in lines of determination. Ralston quickly saw that in the short stretch he would be unable to get sufficiently in the lead to open the gate in safety. So he pulled his horse a little, wondering if Smith would do the same. But he did not. Instead, he spurred viciously, and, to Ralston's amazement, he went at the gate hard. Lifting the gray horse's head, he went over and on without a break!

It was a chance, but Smith had taken it! He never had tried the horse, but it was from the English ranch, where he knew they were bred and trained to jump. His mocking laugh floated back to Ralston while he tore at the fastenings of the gate and hurled it from him.

Ralston measured the gap between them and his heart sank. It looked hopeless. The only thing in his favor was that it was a long run, and the gray might not have the wind or the endurance. The little mare stood still, her nose out, her soft eyes shining. As he lifted the reins, he patted her neck and cried, breathing hard:

"Molly, old girl, if you win, it's oats and a rest all your life!"

He could have sworn the mare shared his humiliation.

The saddle-leathers creaked beneath him at the leap she gave. She lay down to her work like a hound, running low, her neck outstretched, her tail lying out on the breeze. Game, graceful, reaching out with her slim legs and tiny hoofs, she ate up the distance between herself and the gray in a way that made even Ralston gasp. And still she gained--and gained! Her muscles seemed like steel springs, and the unfaltering courage in her brave heart made Ralston choke with pride and tenderness and gratitude. Even if she lost, the race she was making was something to remember always. But she was gaining inch by inch. The sage-brush and cactus swam under her feet. When Ralston thought she had done her best, given all that was in her, she did a little more.

Smith knew, too, that she was gaining, though he would not turn his head to look. When her nose was at his horse's rump, he had it in his heart to turn and shoot her as she ran. She crept up and up, and both Smith and Ralston knew that the straining, pounding gray had done its best. The work was too rough for its feet. There was too much thoroughbred in it for lava-rock and sage-brush hummocks. Blind rage consumed Smith as he felt the increasing effort of each stride and knew that it was going "dead" under him. He used his spurs with savage brutality, but the brown mare's breath was coming hot on his leg. The gray horse stumbled; its breath came and went in sobs. Now they were neck and neck again. Then it was over, the little brown mare swept by, and Ralston's rope, cutting the air, dropped about the neck of the insignificant, white "digger" that had caused it all.

"I guess you're ridin' the best horse to-day," said Smith, as he dropped from the saddle to retie his latigo.

He gave the words a peculiar emphasis and inflection which made the other man look at him.

"Molly and I have a prejudice against taking dust," Ralston answered quietly.

"It happens frequent that a feller has to get over his prejudices out in this country."

"That depends a little upon the fellow;" and he turned Molly's head toward the ranch, with the pony in tow.

Smith said nothing more, but rode off across the hills with all the evil in his nature showing in his lowering countenance.

Dora's eyes were brilliant as they always were under excitement; and when Ralston dismounted she stroked Molly's nose, saying in a voice which was more natural than it had been for days when addressing him, "It was splendid! _She_ is splendid!" and he glowed, feeling that perhaps he was included a little in her praise.

"You want to watch out now," said Susie soberly. "Smith'll never rest till he's 'hunks.'"

Ralston thought the Schoolmarm hesitated, as if she were waiting for him to join them, or were going to ask him to do so; but she did not, and, although it was some satisfaction to feel that he had drawn first blood, he felt his despondency returning as soon as Dora and Susie had ridden away.

He walked aimlessly about, waiting for Molly to cool a bit before he let her drink preparatory to starting on his tiresome ride over the range. Both he and the Colonel believed that the thieves would soon grow bolder, and his strongest hope lay in coming upon them at work. He had noted that there were no fresh hides among those which hung on the fence, and he sauntered down to have another look at the old ones. With his foot he turned over something which lay close against a fence-post, half concealed in a sage-brush. Stooping, he unrolled it and shook it out; then he whistled softly. It was a fresh hide with the brand cut out!

Ralston nodded his head in mingled satisfaction and regret. So the thief was working from the MacDonald ranch! Did the Indian woman know, he wondered. Was it possible that Susie was in ignorance? With all his heart, he hoped she was. He walked leisurely to the house and leaned against the jamb of the kitchen door.

"Have the makings, Ling?" He passed his tobacco-sack and paper to the cook.

"Sure!" said Ling jauntily. "I like 'em cigilette."

And as they smoked fraternally together, they talked of food and its preparation--subjects from which Ling's thoughts seldom wandered far. When the advantages of soda and sour milk over baking powder were thoroughly exhausted as a topic, Ralston asked casually:

"Who killed your last beef, Ling? It's hard to beat."

"Yellow Bird," he replied. "Him good butcher."

"Yes," Ralston agreed; "I should say that Yellow Bird was an uncommonly good butcher."

So, after all, it was the Indians who were killing. Ralston sauntered on to the bunk-house to think it over.

"Tubbs," McArthur was saying, as he eyed that person with an interest which he seldom bestowed upon his hireling, "you really have a most remarkable skull."

Tubbs, visibly flattered, smirked.

"It's claimed that it's double by people what have tried to work me over. Onct I crawled in a winder and et up a batch of 'son-of-a-gun-in-a-sack' that the feller who lived there had jest made. He come in upon me suddent, and the way he hammered me over the head with the stove-lifter didn't trouble _him_, but," declared Tubbs proudly, "he never even knocked me to my knees."

"It is of the type of dolichocephalic," mused McArthur.

"A barber told me that same thing the last time I had a hair-cut," observed Tubbs blandly. "'Tubbs,' says he, 'you ought to have a massaj every week, and lay the b'ar-ile on a-plenty.'"

"It is remarkably suggestive of the skulls found in the ancient paraderos of Patagonia. Very similar in contour--very similar."

"There's no Irish in me," Tubbs declared with a touch of resentment. "I'm pure mungrel--English and Dutch."

"It is an extremely curious skull--most peculiar." He felt of Tubbs's head with growing interest. "This bump behind the ear, if the system of phrenology has any value, would indicate unusual pugnacity."

"That's where a mule kicked me and put his laig out of joint," said Tubbs humorously.

"Ah, that renders the skull pathological; but, even so, it is an interesting skull to an anthropologist--a really valuable skull, it would be to me, illustrating as it does certain features in dispute, for which I have stubbornly contended in controversies with the Preparator of Anthropology at the Ecole des Haute Etudes in Paris."

"Why don't you sell it to him, Tubbs?" suggested Ralston, who had listened in unfeigned amusement.

Tubbs, startled, clasped both hands over the top of his head and backed off.

"Why, I need it myself."

"Certainly--we understand that; but supposing you were to die--supposing something happened to you, as is liable to happen out here--you wouldn't care what became of your skull, once you were good and dead. If it were sold, you'd be just that much in, besides making an invaluable contribution to science," Ralston urged persuasively.

"It not infrequently happens that paupers, and prisoners sentenced to suffer capital punishment, dispose of their bodies for anatomical purposes, for which they are paid in advance. As a matter of fact, Tubbs," declared McArthur earnestly, "my superficial examination of your head has so impressed me that upon the chance of some day adding it to my collection I am willing to offer you a reasonable sum for it."

"It's on bi-products that the money is made," declared Ralston soberly, "and I advise you not to let this chance pass. You can raise money on the rest of your anatomy any time; but selling your head separately like this--don't miss it, Tubbs!"

"Don't I git the money till you git my head?" Tubbs demanded suspiciously.

"I could make a first payment to you, and the remainder could be paid to your heirs."

"My heirs! Say, all that I'll ever git for my head wouldn't be a smell amongst my heirs. A round-up of my heirs would take in the hull of North Dakoty. Not aimin' to brag, I got mavericks runnin' on that range what must be twelve-year-old."

McArthur looked the disgust he felt at Tubbs's ribald humor.

"Your jests are exceedingly distasteful to me, Tubbs."

"That ain't no jest. Onct I----"

"Let's get down to business," interrupted Ralston. "What do you consider your skull worth?"

"It's wuth considerable to me. I don't know as I'm so turrible anxious to sell. I can eat with it, and it gits me around." Tubbs's tone took on the assumed indifference of an astute horse trader. "I've always held my head high, as you might say, and it looks to me like it ought to bring a hunderd dollars in the open market. No, I couldn't think of lettin' it go for less than a hundred--cash."

McArthur considered.

"If you will agree to my conditions, I will give you my check for one hundred dollars," he said at last.

"That sounds reasonable," Tubbs assented.

"I should want you to carry constantly upon your person my name, address, and written instructions as to the care of and disposal of your skull, in the event of your demise. I shall also insist that you do not voluntarily place your head where your skull may be injured; because, as you can readily see, if it were badly crushed, it would be worthless for my purpose, or that of the scientific body to whom I intend to bequeath my interest in it, should I die before yourself."

"I wasn't aimin' to lay it in a vise," remarked Tubbs.

While McArthur was drawing up the agreement between them, Tubbs's face brightened with a unique thought.

"Say," he suggested, "why don't you leave word in them instructions for me to be mounted? I know a taxidermist over there near the Yellowstone Park what can put up a b'ar or a timber wolf so natural you wouldn't know 'twas dead. Wouldn't it be kinda nice to see me settin' around the house with my teeth showin' and an ear of corn in my mouth? I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll sell you my hull hide for a hundred more. It might cost two dollars to have me tanned, and with a nice felt linin' you could have a good rug out of me for a very little money."

McArthur replied ironically:

"I never have regarded you as an ornament, Tubbs."

Tubbs looked at the check McArthur handed him, with satisfaction.

"That's what I call clear velvet!" he declared, and went off chuckling to show it to his friends.

"When you think of it, this is a very singular transaction," observed McArthur, wiping his fountain-pen carefully.

"Yes," and Ralston, no longer able to contain himself, shouted with laughter; "it is."

XII

SMITH GETS "HUNKS"

Smith's ugly mood was still upon him when he picked up his grammar that evening. Jealous, humiliated by the loss of the morning's race, full of revengeful thoughts and evil feelings, he wanted to hurt somebody--something--even Dora. He had a vague, sullen notion that she was to blame because Ralston was in love with her. She could have discouraged him in the beginning, he told himself; she could have stopped it.

Unaccustomed as Smith was to self-restraint, he quickly showed his frame of mind to Dora. He had no _savoir faire_ with which to conceal his mood; besides, he entertained a feeling of proprietorship over her which justified his resentment to himself. Was she not to be his? Would he not eventually control her, her actions, choose her friends?

Dora found him a dense and disagreeable pupil, and one who seemingly had forgotten everything he had learned during previous lessons. His replies at times were so curt as to be uncivil, and a feeling of indignation gradually rose within her. She was at a loss to understand his mood, unless it was due to the result of the morning's race; yet she could scarcely believe that his disappointment, perhaps chagrin, could account for his rudeness to her.

When the useless lesson was finished, she closed the book and asked:

"You are not yourself to-night. What is wrong?"

With an expression upon his face which both startled and shocked her he snarled:

"I'm sick of seein' that lady-killer hangin' around here!"

"You mean----?"

"Ralston!"

Dora had never looked at Smith as she looked at him now.

"I beg to be excused from your criticisms of Mr. Ralston."

Smith had not dreamed that the gentle, girlish voice could take on such a quality. It cut him, stung him, until he felt hot and cold by turns.

"Oh, I didn't know he was such a friend," he sneered.

"Yes"--her eyes did not quail before the look that flamed in his--"he is _just_ such a friend!"

They had risen; and Smith, looking at her as she stood erect, her head high in defiance, could have choked her in his jealous rage.

He stumbled rather than walked toward the door.

"Good-night," he said in a strained, throaty voice.

"Good-night."

She stared at the door as it closed behind him. She had something of the feeling of one who, making a pet of a tiger, feels its claws for the first time, sees the first indication of its ferocious nature. This new phase of Smith's character, while it angered, also filled her with uneasiness.

It was later than usual when Smith came in to say a word to the Indian woman, after Dora and Susie had retired. He did not bring with him the fumes of tobacco, the smoke of which rose in clouds in the bunk-house, making it all but impossible to see the length of the building; he brought, rather, an odor of freshness, a feeling of coolness, as though he had been long in the night air.

The Indian woman sniffed imperceptibly.

"Where you been?"

His look was evil as he answered:

"Me? I've been payin' my debts, me--Smith."

He took her impassive hand in both of his and pressed it against his heart.

"Prairie Flower," he said, "I want you to tell Ralston to go. _I hate him_."

The woman looked at him, but did not answer.

"Will you?"

"Yes, I tell him."

"When?"

She raised her narrowing eyes to his.

"_When you tell de white woman to go_."

* * * * *

Ralston had felt that the old Colonel was growing impatient with his seeming inactivity, so he decided, the next morning, to ride to the Bar C and tell him that he believed he had a clue. It would not be necessary to keep Running Rabbit under close surveillance until the beef in the meat-house was getting low. Then the deputy sheriff meant not to let him out of his sight.

Smith had not spoken to the man whom he had come to regard as his rival since he had ridden away from him the morning before. He had ignored Ralston's conversation at the table and avoided him in the bunk-house. Now, engaged in trimming his horse's fetlocks, Smith did not look up as the other man passed, but his eyes followed him with a triumphant gleam as he went into the stable to saddle Molly.

Ralston backed the mare to turn her in the stall, and she all but fell down. He felt a little surprise at her clumsiness, but did not grasp its meaning until he led her to the door, where she stepped painfully over the low door-sill and all but fell again. He led her a step or two further, and she went almost to her knees. The mare was lame in every leg--she could barely stand; yet there was not a mark on her--not ever so slight a bruise! Her slender legs were as free from swellings as when they had carried her past Smith's gray; her feet looked to be in perfect condition; yet, save for the fact that she could stand up, she was as crippled as if the bones of every leg were shattered.

It is doubtful if any but steel-colored eyes can take on the look which Ralston's contained as they met Smith's. His skin was gray as he straightened himself and drew a hand which shook noticeably the length of his cheek and across his mouth.

In great anger, anger which precedes some quick and desperate act, almost every person has some gesture peculiar to himself, and this was Ralston's.

A less guilty man than Smith might have flinched at that moment. The half-grin on his face faded, and he waited for a torrent of accusations and oaths. But Ralston, in a voice so low that it barely reached him, a voice so ominous, so fraught with meaning, that the dullest could not have misunderstood, said:

"I'll borrow your horse, Smith."

Smith, like one hypnotized, heard himself saying:

"Sure! Take him."

Ralston knew as well as though he had witnessed the act that Smith had hammered the frogs of Molly's feet until they were bruised and sore as boils. Her lameness would not be permanent--she would recover in a week or two; but the abuse of, the cruelty to, the little mare he loved filled Ralston with a hatred for Smith as relentless and deep as Smith's own.

"A man who could do a thing like that," said Ralston through his set teeth, "is no common cur! He's wolf--all wolf! He isn't staying here for love, alone. There's something else. And I swear before the God that made me, I'll find out what it is, and land him, before I quit!"

XIII

SUSIE'S INDIAN BLOOD

Coming leisurely up the path from the corrals, Smith saw Susie sitting on the cottonwood log, wrapped in her mother's blanket. She was huddled in a squaw's attitude. He eyed her; he never had seen her like that before. But, knowing Indians better, possibly, than he knew his own race, Smith understood. He recognized the mood. Her Indian blood was uppermost. It rose in most half-breeds upon occasion. Sometimes under the influence of liquor it cropped out, sometimes anger brought it to the surface. He had seen it often--this heavy, smouldering sullenness.

Smith stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at her. He felt more at ease with her than ever before.

"What are you sullin' about, Susie?"

She did not answer. Her pertness, her Anglo-Saxon vivacity, were gone; her face was wooden, expressionless; her restless eyes slow-moving and dull; her cheek-bones, always noticeably high, looked higher, and her skin was murky and dark.

"You look like a squaw with that sull on," he ventured again, and there was satisfaction in his face.

It was something to know that, after all, Susie was "Injun"--"pure Injun." The scheme which had lain dormant in his brain now took active shape. He had wanted Susie's help, but each time that he had tried to conciliate her, his overtures had ended in a fresh rupture. Now her stinging tongue was dumb, and there was no aggressiveness in her manner.

Smith, laying his hand heavily upon her shoulder, sat down beside her, and a flash, a transitory gleam, shone for an instant in her dull eyes; but she did not move or change expression.

He said in a low voice:

"What you need is stirrin' up, Susie."

He watched her narrowly, and continued:

"You ought to get into a game that has some ginger in it. This here life is too tame for a girl like you."

Without looking at him she asked:

"What kind of a game?" Her voice was lifeless, guttural.

"It's agin my principles to empty my sack to a woman; but you're diff'rent--you're game--you are, Susie." His voice dropped to a whisper, and the weight of his hand made her shoulder sag. "Let's you and me rustle a bunch of horses."

Susie did not betray surprise at the startling proposition by so much as the twitching of an eyelid.

"What for?"

Smith replied:

"Just for the hell of it!"

She grunted, but neither in assent nor dissent; so Smith went on in an eager, persuasive whisper:

"There's Injun enough in you, girl, to make horse-stealin' all the same as breathin'. You jump in with me on this deal and see how easy you lose that sull. Don't you ever have a feelin' take holt of you that you want to do something onery--steal something, mix with somebody? I do. I've had that notorious feelin' workin' on me strong for days now, and I've got to get rid of it. If you'll come in on this, we'll have the excitement and make a stake, too. Talk up, girl--show your sand! Be game!"

"What horses do you aim to steal?"

"Reservation horses. Say, the way I can burn their brands and fan 'em over the line won't trouble _me_. I'll come back with a wad--me, Smith--and I'll whack up even. What do you say?"

"What for a hand do I take in it?"

A smile of triumph lifted the corners of Smith's mouth.

"You gather 'em up and run 'em into a coulee, that's all. I'll do the rest."

"What do you want _me_ to do it for?"

"Nobody'd think anything of it if they saw you runnin' horses, because you're always doin' it; but they'd notice me."

"Where's the coulee?"

"I've picked it. I located my plant long ago. I've found the best spot in the State to make a plant."

"Where are you goin' to sell?"

Smith eyed her inscrutable face suspiciously.

"You're askin' lots of questions, girl. I tips my hand too far to no petticoat. You trusts me or you don't. Will you come in?"

"All right," said Susie after a silence; "I'll come in--'just for the hell of it.'"

"Shake!"

She looked at his extended hand and wrapped her own in her blanket.

"There's no call to shake."

"Is your heart mixed, Susie?" he demanded. "Ain't it right toward me?"

"It'll be right enough when the time comes," she answered.

The reply did not satisfy Smith, but he told himself that, once she was committed, he could manage her, for, after all, Susie was little more than a child. Smith felt uncommonly pleased with himself for his bold stroke.

The new intimacy between Smith and Susie, the sudden cessation of hostilities, caused surprise on the ranch, but the Indian woman was the only one to whom it gave pleasure. She viewed the altered relations with satisfaction, since it removed the only obstacle, as she believed, to a speedy marriage with Smith.

"Didn't I tell you he smart white man?" she asked complacently of Susie.