To Westcott’s secret delight Morgan Anderson, going after dinner to see that his other guest had been properly served, found Gard fast asleep in the long chair.
“We’ll let him have his siesta out,” said his host. “I don’t suppose he got any too much sleep last night, with that foot. Helen, you and I can take Westcott to see the new corrals.”
This arrangement was entirely to Westcott’s pleasure. He knew, from past experience, that the cattleman would promptly become interested in some problem of the range, and leave his entertainment to Helen.
He strolled by her side as they made their way to the corrals, and put from his mind the uneasy thoughts that kept intruding. In spite of his defiance, he was horribly afraid of what Gard and Mrs. Hallard might be able to do. He did not know how they would move to establish the deed, but he was in a position that would make publicity awkward. How he wished he knew where the paper had been found! To get any help from Oliphant he believed was out of the question, and he, himself, had been unable to find Sawyer. He was sure that Gard could not get hold of him; and if he should, he knew how to fix the fellow. He had one more card up his sleeve, and would play it, if Sawyer appeared.
But after this! He stole a glance at the girl walking beside him. He wanted money; he wanted power; he wanted position—to offer her. He was almost where he just now aspired to be on the political ladder. He had not tried for small things; he was after the District Attorneyship, and it was coming his way, now. Another year, and then, ... by Heaven! Everything was going to be straight! There should be nothing that those clear gray eyes might not see!
But this matter must not come out! He would see Mrs. Hallard in the town while Gard was laid up. His career should not be ruined, just as he was getting where he could hold up his head and choose the straight path. He was weary in his soul of the other.
Helen looked up with a glance of inquiry.
“They seem to be long, long thoughts,” she said, with a smile.
“They are,” was the quick response. “I was thinking of my ambitions.”
“If it were so, it were a grievous fault,” she quoted, gaily.
“I don’t think so!” He threw out his chest and looked down at her from his full height. “A man’s bound to have ambitions of some sort,” he said, “They’re a measure of himself. Of course I have mine. I want the things I want when I can get them; but I want them, nevertheless, and I mean to have them.”
“Such as a gold collar for your donkey?” Helen asked, enigmatically.
Westcott looked puzzled, but she did not explain.
“Not exactly that,” he finally said, “If my donkey won’t go without a gold collar I’m sorry for him; because he’s going just the same. He’s got to carry me, ‘For the good of the order.’ This Territory needs men, Miss Anderson: and I mean to be one of the men that it needs.”
“Oh! That is good!” Helen’s sympathetic response quickened what Westcott, if he had characterized it, would have called his good impulse.
“There’s a lot that needs straightening out within our lines,” he said, “And I want the chance to help in the work. At any rate, it’s not an ignoble ambition.”
“Indeed it is not.” Helen had never before seen Westcott in this mood, and she rather reproached herself that she did not feel a keener response. She felt that she had not done him justice.
“I am glad you think about those things,” she told him. “Father talks to me, sometimes, and I know that he is often troubled. It seems as if every man is solely for himself. We need those who can see wrong in high places, as well as low; and who have courage to combat it.”
Westcott felt a pang of wretchedness as he answered her frank glance. He realized that she would despise him if she knew some of the things that he had done, and he winced in the realization. But he meant to leave all that behind. He would do something for Mrs. Hallard, and once he had won this splendid girl he would walk the open way. Heavens! What could a man not do, with such a helpmate!
A sudden sense of his own unworthiness brought unwonted humility into his heart. Ashley Westcott had never before, in his grown-up life, been so near to feeling a noble impulse.
“Miss Anderson,” he said, “I’m afraid I should never come up to any ideal of yours; but I aim to do as near right as I know how.”
They were at the corrals now, where the cattleman, who had drawn ahead, was already talking to Sandy Larch about some young horses that were to be got ready for shipment east, before spring. Polo ponies from the Palo Verde enjoyed a good market back in “The States.”
In one of the corrals the future work-cattle were penned, half a dozen head, lean, leggy brutes, wild-eyed and ugly. They kept together, moving restlessly about in a bunch, watching the visitors sullenly, and occasionally lunging at one another with wide, wicked horns.
“They’re beauts, for fair,” Sandy Larch remarked, “Only they can’t seem to make up their minds to look it in public. They’re that kind o’ modest vi’lets.”
“’Twon’t be exactly a Sunday school picnic to break them in,” Westcott remarked, looking them over.
“Sure it will,” said Sandy, impressively. “Why them cows will be door-yard pets, once they’re handled. Their bad looks is just a yearning for appreciation. That one, now—”
He tossed a little clod into the blazed face of one huge steer that had moved a little apart from the others. It was a vicious-looking brute, and stood lowing, sullenly.
“That there blaze-faced cow’ll be coaxing fer sugar out’n your hand in a week’s time, Miss Helen,” Sandy declared. “Can’t you see it in his eye?”
Helen could not see it, and said so, frankly. A cowboy, minded to reach the further corral, where the young horses were, sprang down into the enclosure with the cattle, and started across.
In an instant the big red steer came charging upon him, with mischief in his eye. The cowboy saw the brute, and dodging, made a rapid sprint for the nearest fence, clambering over it amid the derisive shouts of the spectators. The man’s sudden scramble had brought him within a few feet of Westcott who, turning to look at him, made a gesture of recognition.
“Hullo, Broome!” he said: “I didn’t know you were down here.”
“Looks like I was on the spot,” the fellow answered, “I bin holdin’ it down fer about a week.”
“I heard you went prospecting,” Westcott continued, and Broome swore, under his breath.
“Came mighty near cashin’ in that trip,” he growled, and then he drew nearer, with a quick glance at the others, who were walking on toward the horse corral.
“Say, Mr. Westcott,” he muttered, “Have you seen that there feller up ’t the casa? Him with the hair mattress on his face?”
“Do you mean Gard?” Westcott asked in amazement.
“Yep: that’s his name. Damn him an’ it! I met up with him on my ‘tower.’ He’s some buffalo now; but he was haired up like a bug-house billy-goat then. But say, Mr. Westcott: he’d struck it rich; got a streak o’ color that fair stunk o’ gold, back in the mountains. I want to tell you ’bout it.”
Westcott looked after his companions.
“I can’t stop to hear it now, Broome,” he said. “Shall you be round when I leave here? I’ll talk to you then.”
“I’m goin’ to be workin’ with the horses all the afternoon,” Broome answered. “We’re goin’ to be bustin’ ’em out, an’ that’s one o’ my jobs.”
He added the last with a good deal of pride, and Westcott nodded.
“I’ll see you, then,” he said, moving off.
“Do you know Broome?” Mr. Anderson asked, when Westcott overtook the others.
“Pretty well”; was the reply. “I knew him up north. He was cow-punch for a friend of mine, and I used to be up there a good deal. He’s a good hand with horses.”
“So he claims,” Anderson said. “He blew in the other day, bragging that he’s a first-class bronco-buster. We’re pretty short, so Sandy took him on. I don’t think much of his looks.”
“Oh, he’s all right.” Westcott spoke carelessly. “A good many singed cats look worse.”
Sandy Larch had gone up to the cook’s quarters on an errand, and passing the casa found Gard awake.
“Hullo, Mr. Larch,” the latter called, espying him.
“Mister Larch?” Sandy made a pretense of looking for the person addressed. “Where ’d you keep ’im?” he asked, with elaborate solicitude.
“Keep who?”
“Mister Larch.”
“They ain’t no such party hereabouts,” he went on before Gard could reply. “Leastwise you don’t know ’im. Dudes, an’ Chinks, they nominates me Mister Larch; because the first don’t know no better, an’ the others they has to, er git busted good an’ plenty. But to my friends I’m Sandy.”
“I believe it!” laughed Gard. “I guess your friends find you all sand, when they need the article.”
Sandy looked at him with frank admiration.
“Say: now you’re shouting,” he cried. “I like that there. Speakin’ o’ bouquets, you couldn’t ’a’ handed me a prettier one if you’d set still to think it up fer a week.”
“Glad you like it,” replied Gard. “I meant it to be liked.”
“Like it? Say! you just combed my hair nice, didn’t you? An’ when you need someone to weigh out sand you just buscar me, Mr. Gard.”
“No you don’t; you drop that!” Gard looked stern.
“Drop what?” demanded Sandy, startled.
“Your Mister Gard. That rule of yours has got to work both ways, and my name is Gabriel.”
There was a twinkle in the brown eyes; but Gard’s tone was inflexible.
“Gabriel!” gasped Sandy. “Lord! How do you git off at it? Gabriel”; he repeated, “Shoot me if I can git a rope over that.”
“Glory be!” A gleam of fun crossed his anxious face. “That name’s too long for every day,” he said, “But I can fix it: I’ll call you Angel, if you like. Angel Gabriel. That’s great! That’s how we’ll fix it. Angel on week-days; Gabriel on Sundays, an’ Angel Gabriel on Fourth o’ Julys, an’ when I’m drunk. Angel Gabriel’s a first rate name fer a amachoor sin-buster to sport.”
“You’ll drop that, too.” Gard seized one of the cushions Helen had supplied his chair with, and hurled it at the cow-puncher. “Don’t you go making fun of my name when I’m down,” he cried. “Sandy, you’ve got to call me Gard.”
He held out his hand and Sandy grasped it, cordially.
“I like you, Gard,” said he, with quick seriousness. “We’re partners for fair if you say so. If you need friends, as I expressed a while back, you’ll know where to look fer one of ’em; you won’t fergit it?”
“Never,” Gard said, heartily, and Sandy drew back. The others were coming up from the corrals.
“I never was hard on any man unless I thought he needed it, Gard,” remarked Sandy, looking toward them. “But that there Westcott—well I’ll be damned if I kin ‘go’ him. He can rope ’n hogtie the law, ’n brand it ten different ways while you’re lookin’ one; but I bet he ain’t always goin’ to git away on time.
“Say, Gard: he’s mighty sleek to look at, an’ women like sech; but if I thought he was likely to git a rope over our pretty filly there—damned if I wouldn’t wanter let a little daylight through ’im.”
So Sandy, too, had his fears. Gard’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the approaching group.
“Shucks, Sandy!” he exclaimed. “You want to keep away from the loco patches, man. He couldn’t do it!”
The thought of Helen’s frank, pure eyes put unnecessary emphasis into his speech; but Sandy was pleased.
“Good talk!” he cried, with a long breath of relief. “Guess I’m some of an old fool; but I’ve seen the little gal grow up from that high,” measuring an incredibly short distance above the desert, “An’ you put in a pin where I tell you, Gard: that there Westcott’s a tarantula an’ a side-winder all into one; an’ some day you’ll know it.”
“I guess that’s no lie, Sandy.” Gard’s face was pale, and his eyes wore a strange look. He spoke very low; for the others were coming within earshot.
“Guess I’ll mosey along,” the foreman said. “I come a driftin’ up here after some hog-grease, an’ I’ll have to buscar Chang fer’t.”
He walked off in the direction of the kitchen as the others began talking to Gard. Half an hour afterwards Anderson was waving adios to Westcott, from the great rancho gateway.
The attorney rode out on the desert, glorious in the afternoon light, and taking a wide sweep turned back by way of the corrals. A cow-puncher who had been squatting against one of the fences, waiting, got up as he came in sight, and shuffled out to meet him.
“What did you want of me, Broome?” Westcott asked at once.
Broome lounged up against the fence, his hands in his pockets.
“I been playin’ in a hell o’ luck lately, Mr. Westcott,” he said.
Westcott made a move as if to ride on.
“If it’s nothing but a hard luck story,” he began.
“No, no. It ain’t.” Broome laid a restraining hand on the pony’s mane.
“I want ter know who that feller is up yonder.” He jerked his head toward the casa, at the same time characterizing Gard after a manner entirely to his own mind.
“I don’t know him from a hole in the post,” Westcott said, with great apparent candor. “What makes him get on your nerves so?”
“He give me the double cross an’ the grand throw-down, sure, all in the same shuffle,” Broome said, with a snarl.
“Where was that.”
“Sommers in the mountains. I was lost in the desert; pretty near cashed in, an’ I met up with this feller. He took me inter camp, hell of a outfit. Everything made outer nothing, same ’s a Papago where they ain’t no settlement handy. He was eatin’ tree beans, an’ shootin’ game with a bowarrer, an’ he had all sorts o’ scare-crow Bible verses wrote up round like a Sunday school. Sufferin’ snakes! You never see the beat of it!”
“I don’t know as I ever want to,” Westcott said, impatiently. “Drive on, Broome.”
“I’m a drivin’. Gimme time. Say, Mr. Westcott: the cuss ’d struck it rich up there, like I told you. Got a vein o’ yeller laid open like a roarin’ buttercup.”
“Got it staked and located, too, I suppose,” the lawyer said, with a sneer. “Bite it off, Broome: what are you driving at?”
“I tell you I am bitin’ it off,” was the sullen rejoinder. “I tell you there’s gold to burn up there. It’s the damndest, likeliest place you ever see.”
“Why didn’t you prospect a little too?”
“Prospect!” Broome swore, savagely.
“That there locoed buffalo he tried to kill me, when he found I’d discovered the vein. He’d took me up the trail clean dopy, an’ he brought me down blindfold, with my hands tied, on the back of a damned little she-ass; so I wouldn’t know how to git back there.”
“Oh,” Westcott jeered. “And what you want of me is to take you by the little hand and lead you back there and let you dig?”
“No I don’t neither! I got a good scheme, an’ I want ter let you in on it. You done a lot fer me, once, Mr. Westcott.”
“You bet I did,” was Westcott’s response. “You owe me the price of your own neck, whatever that may be worth to you; but I can’t see where you’re going to pay it out of this scheme.”
“I’d a done it all right by now if that feller hadn’t nearly killed me,” Broome said.
“Why didn’t he quite kill you if he wanted to?” asked Westcott, incredulously.
“Hell! I dunno,” was the frank admission; “I’d a done him good an’ plenty, you bet; but he didn’t, an’ here I am.”
Westcott sat his horse, waiting, with an elaborate assumption of patience.
“Here’s what I’m thinkin’ of,” began Broome, talking fast. “I’m busted, Mr. Westcott: I ain’t got even a bronc o’ my own; but if I c’d git anybody to grub-stake me, I’d go up the railroad to where Gard left that burro—I know the place all right—an’ I’d git ’er; I’d know ’er by a big scar on one shoulder. An’ you bet the hash once she was out on the desert she’d strike fer that there camp in the mountains. She’s that kind. He tamed her out o’ the wild, he said, an’ she never knowed no other place.”
“Then what would you do?”
“Be Johnnie on the spot,” replied Broome. “Git in an’ dig. In the same place, mebby.”
“Do you mean jump it?” The question was put in a low tone.
“I ain’t sayin’ what I mean; but I mean all ’t ’s necessary to git back the rights that feller done me out of.”
Westcott considered, looking thoughtfully out on the desert.
“It’s risky,” was his comment, at length.
“I ain’t askin’ you to risk it,” growled the other. “All I want o’ you ’s a grub-stake, an’ I’ll divvy fair.”
“I should advise you to.” The quiet voice was full of meaning.
“I will, fer fair. Will you do it?”
“I’ll think about it”; Westcott spoke in an ordinary tone. “There may be a fair prospecting chance in it,” he continued. “I’ll see you again. I wouldn’t do any talking if I were you,” he added.
Broome regarded him with sullen scorn.
“Think I’m a damned tenderfoot to go shootin’ off my mouth?” he demanded.
The lawyer made no reply as he rode away, while Broome went back into the shade. Wing Chang, darting around a corner of the fodder-sheds, to make sure which way he turned, came face to face with Sandy Larch, walking in the direction of the horse-corrals, his surprised eyes following Westcott’s vanishing figure.
“Mistlee Westclott,” said Chang, noting the foreman’s interest. “Him an’ Bloome have long talkee-talkee out there, allee samee heap chin-chin.”
“So do you, you heap heathen,” replied the foreman. “What you doin’ down here?”
The Chinaman grinned, full of friendliness.
“Sam Lee kid say you come look see for hog lard when me gone. When come back I bling him.”
He held out a broken bean-pot containing the desired article. Sandy Larch took it, sniffing it critically.
“Good boy, Chang,” he said, in approval. “And you just remember this that I tell you: Broome an’ Mr. Westcott, they’ve most likely bin arrangin’ a series o’ Salvation Army joss meetings, fer to convert all you Chinks. Sabbee dat?”
“Me sabbee.”
“All right, then; you just sashay back an’ git on your cookin’ job. That’s all.”
He put a broad hand on the Chinaman’s shoulder and turned him about.
“Allee lightee,” Wing Chang said, and went his way, smiling, inscrutably.