It was after nine the next morning when Stamford's eyes opened on a world that seemed out of focus. He examined his watch incredulously; the dink of breakfast dishes and the rumble of lowered voices convinced him that it was wrong, and he dressed without hurry.
As he opened the door, the Professor, Isabel and Mrs. Aikens were rising from the table. The sitting-room clock told him that his watch was right after all.
"These prairie nights seem too much for all of us," said Isabel, in answer to his puzzled look.
"Except our host," corrected her brother. "He's been gone an hour."
"It does affect strangers that way," said Mary Aikens, without looking up from the table she was rearranging for Stamford's breakfast.
"It wasn't that with me," explained Stamford. "I didn't sleep well."
"The drive was too much for you," suggested Mrs. Aikens.
"Perhaps Mr. Stamford had too successful a day in town," laughed Isabel, watching him.
"Yes, it was successful," he replied, looking straight at her.
"Perhaps they're serving stronger stuff than they did a couple of weeks ago," hazarded the Professor. "By a chronometer that never deceives, you've been in bed for the circle of the clock. My limit is eight hours. Simple mathematical progression in comparative physical proportions would grant to Imp here the whole twenty-four hours, and a mosquito would overlap on the week after next and still be the creditor of time. But, lord knows, they never sleep. In the meantime some gently dead but brutally fossilised Trachodon is kept waiting beyond his preconceptions of Doomsday for the resurrective hand of the Smithsonian Institute."
Stamford yawned frankly.
"Really, Professor, I'm not quite up to that so early in the morning."
"Some day," said Isabel, "Amos will have had his say. And the world will be so still then."
"And so will science, and brilliant conversation——"
"Even our hostess is laughing at you," said Stamford.
"Me?" Mary Aikens was colouring. "I—I like this new life about the ranch. I wish I could keep you all—always."
Isabel leaned over and patted her hand, and a tear was behind the smile. Stamford, uncomfortable at the display of emotion, changed the subject.
"And so you've been exposing your sister to that ford while I was away?"
"My dear fellow," replied the Professor, "when did you come to the conclusion that Isabel was here for someone else's amusement than mine? Of course, Mrs. Aikens, if she can be of real service to you here——"
The door had opened.
"Don't worry about Mary," Cockney broke in harshly. "Since Stamford and the Journal let us down in the matter of help, we're getting accustomed to doing our work ourselves. At any rate we haven't fallen to depending on our guests. Mary, where's the large pair of wire-cutters?"
His wife loaded herself with dirty dishes and started for the kitchen. The Professor leaped to her assistance.
"I wouldn't disturb myself so much if I were you," said Cockney in an even tone, so full of meaning that the Professor turned aside through the stair door without a word.
"We'll have to go now." Isabel started to follow her brother. "The ford's perfectly safe, Mr. Stamford," she threw over her shoulder. "Anyway I can swim."
"What can't you do? But you'd drown trying to save that blundering brother of yours."
"But he's a perfectly nice brother, don't you think?"
"No," he snapped. "I don't. I wanted you to come for a ride."
"Thank you," she called back from the stair door. "My next engagement's with Dakota, I believe."
When the buckboard had disappeared round the lower end of the corrals on the way to the ford, Stamford, more than a little uncertain of the wisdom of it, made for the stables in search of some light on the previous night's scene. But no one was about, and he saddled Hobbles and rode for an hour.
As he turned back, a solitary mess-wagon came into sight far along the eastern trail. Stamford's thoughts flew back to the cattle shipping at Dunmore Junction, when the same mess-wagon, at Dakota's command, drifted away into the lonesome northern prairie, leaving a half-dozen of its companions rattling off down the trail for a night in Medicine Hat.
Stamford found himself wondering now, as he had then. He swung Hobbles off to the south, and when the wagon had turned down the slope to the ranch stables, he rode slowly back to the crest of the slope. The wagon had just pulled up before the bunk-house.
The driver was lifting several rifles from the wagon to carry them inside, the other cowboys, who had returned while he was riding, looking on. Stamford's eyes gleamed with a sudden revelation.
That lonesome mess-wagon of the H-Lazy Z on the day of the double tragedy had concealed the rifles the Police could not find. Its puzzling departure—Dakota's objection to feeding Mary Aikens at the ranch mess-wagon—it was all clear now.
Down the slope he could see Dakota, Bean and several strange members of the outfit watching him. Whereupon he promptly fell off, scrambled into the saddle again, and rode in clinging to the horn.
"You're shore conside'ble of a horseman," chaffed Dakota. "If I was you I'd patent that style and sell it to a circus. Barnum's got clowns not half so funny."
"We're always funniest when we don't suspect it," returned Stamford. "I hope nobody will tell you the truth about yourself, Dakota; it would spoil things for the spectators."
Dakota forced the frown from his face with a smile. For some reason he preferred to be friendly.
"You and me should mate up. We could put on a show for the ranch folks some night. But you seem to be having fun without it. We can hear you out here. Say, that Bulkeley gal shore can sing some, eh?"
Stamford resented words and tone.
"It happens that she never sings."
"Then it's the only thing she don't do. You don't mean to tell me it's the missus?"
"Mrs. Aikens has done all the singing you've heard."
"Holy Smoke!" Dakota turned to his companions. "Think of that. It's more'n a year since she's opened that piano. 'Member when she came first, boys? Wasn't them fine concerts she gave us? Then she stopped. Say, d'ye think, Mr. Stamford, they'd mind if I drop around some night and just sit quiet-like where I can hear and see? Us punchers don't get much chance with music, 'cept what we make ourselves."
"I'm not the one to ask, Dakota. But I don't imagine——"
"By Samson! I'll take the chance. I don't think I look so awful raw in them angoras, eh? They cost me a handful of bucks in the days when I was a gayer spark than I have time to be these days. It's about time I got something back for my money."
And so that night, after the singing commenced, Dakota sidled humbly to the open door and stood outside the screen waiting to be invited in. Mary Aikens called to him.
"It sounds purty fine out there," he apologised. "It's a heap sight nicer close."
He carried a chair to the corner of the room, clutching his Stetson nervously. When Stamford thought of him again he discovered him deep in conversation with Isabel Bulkeley, a wide grin on his face. Stamford liked it so little that he looked no more until Dakota rose to leave.
The next day, after his morning ride on Hobbles, Stamford had a lunch put up for him and set out for the river to test the fishing. A few goldeyes fell to his rod in the first half-hour, and after that he grew sleepy and leaned against a rock. Across the river the cliff towered raggedly above him, its strata a confusing repetition of lines that merged into monotonous chaos. Great clefts, gorges and inclines cut the face of it into a less inaccessible wall than it looked at a distance. He became interested. He dropped his pole and sauntered up the bank.
Reward came suddenly. Through a fissure in the cliff, that seemed to open into a wider cleft further back, he caught a glimpse of a familiar grey dress. He was thankful then for the idea that had struck him on his visit to town—that he might find use for his pocket field-glasses.
Isabel Bulkeley was seated on a ledge, her back against a straight wall, her hands folded idly in her lap. Evidently she was dreaming, though slight movements of her feet showed she was not asleep. The tools lay beside her, and, though Stamford watched for almost an hour, she did not use them. Of the Professor he saw nothing. He returned thoughtfully to his fishing, cast his line, and almost immediately hooked a big pickerel. Thereafter he forgot for a time the very existence of the Bulkeleys.
On his way to the ranch-house Imp darted from the cook-house and fell in at his heels.
"At any rate," he said to his hostess, "I've earned my feed to-day. Four gold-eyes, one real pickerel—and Imp."
"For the fish, thanks!" laughed Mary Aikens. "But for Imp I fear we can lay the credit to Dakota's absence more than to your attractions. We're alone again on the ranch, and even Imp, the traitor, finds the ranch house preferable to a deserted cook-house. No," she scolded down at Imp, "I'm not prepared to receive you into my heart on such short notice." She turned suddenly to her husband. "Where have Dakota and the others gone this time?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me. My ignorance of ranching is notorious. Ah—by the way, it's good we have friends with us. I'm going away myself for a few days. I want to see how the Circle-Arrow dogies are standing the gaff. They've been on the ranges for two months now. Next summer I'm thinking of improving the strain from the east.... You'll be all right with such brave companions as the Professor—and Stamford."
A forced smile was scarcely wrinkling his face. Mary Aikens made no reply, but whistled to Imp and went out to frolic on the little patch of dry grass she had once fondly hoped to be able to call a lawn.
Dinner over, Cockney rode away to the east. They stood in the doorway and watched Pink Eye race up the slope and sink out of sight over the ridge.
"A wonderful man on a wonderful horse!" Isabel Bulkeley voiced the thoughts of them all.
"And yet you've seen me on Hobbles!" chided Stamford.
"That's why." The Professor ducked beyond reach.
"Pink Eye is as vicious on occasion as he is powerful," said Mary. "Cockney doesn't ride him much, but when he does I know there's a hard trip ahead."
That evening a strange silence brooded over the valley; even the coyotes failed to greet the falling darkness. The Professor played a little, but his fingers were lifeless, and, after a few bars, he closed the piano and pulled his chair before the door to stare into the night. The women were busy with needlework; Stamford smoked and thought.
Cockney's repeated absences, always coinciding with those of Dakota and the others, puzzled him. His instincts refused still to link the big rancher with the subterranean work in which Stamford suspected the cowboys were engaged, but—— Stamford closed his lips tight; he was there to prove Cockney's innocence in the teeth of suspicion.
When he went to his room. Imp shivered in at his heels and curled up on the foot of the bed. Once during the night Stamford was awakened by the dog's muffled bark, and against the window he could see the ears pointing stiffly out into the night. Far away a big pack of coyotes yelped, and, half-asleep, Stamford followed their rapid passage along the crest of the cliff across the river. Yelps and barks and howls burst out in a score of places over the prairie. Stamford reached down to rub Imp's ears and sank to sleep.
It was three days before Cockney returned. They were at the dinner table when they saw him ride up to the stables, unsaddle, rub Pink Eye down with straw, and lead him away to the lower corral.
"Any of the boys back yet?" he asked, as he joined them.
When they told him only the cookie was about the place:
"Better keep quiet about where I've been. Dakota's sensitive on the dogie question. Every year we fight about it. He considers dogies the blight of the West—that they lack more in stamina and size than they make up in quality of beef. My idea is to improve the quality, not only the bulk."
Stamford was watching him narrowly. That he was weary and hungry was evident, and about his talk was an abstraction that belied the seriousness of his subject.
"You have a few more ideas about ranching than you care to show," he said.
Cockney served himself a third helping of pork and beans and said nothing.
"Large men always wear masks," observed Isabel.
"And small men are as transparent as water, I suppose," complained Stamford indignantly.
Cockney was playing with his knife. "Perhaps Stamford knows he couldn't deceive if he tried. My personal experience of small men is they're seldom up to what they wish to appear. For instance, Stamford is physically broken. Would anyone suspect it? He seems to enjoy the aimless life out here, yet in town he works twelve hours a day with gusto. There's nothing to do about the Red Deer but loaf, yet he's never indolent. I don't try to understand them."
He had resumed his eating, but Stamford was uncomfortably conscious of more than banter in his words. Isabel spoke quickly:
"Anyone can see that Mr. Stamford's job is to sleep—and doze—and sleep again."
"In order not to give offence——"
"You wouldn't willingly give offence," she broke in, with a laugh so indulgent that to accept her words seriously would have been impertinence.
"I wish you'd teach Mary how to say that," said Cockney.
"Perhaps," suggested the Professor merrily, "she knows you better than Isabel does Mr. Stamford."
"Too often guessing is mistaken for knowing," said Cockney, looking at his wife.
Dakota and Bean returned early the next morning, the others following in the afternoon. The Professor greeted them with unaffected pleasure as he returned from his day's work; and after dinner he made his way to the cook-house. Imp was already installed at the foreman's feet. Cockney lit a cigarette and wandered off toward the corrals, and Mary called for Matana and went for a wild ride, leaving Stamford and Isabel to keep the ranch-house. But Dakota drifted across from the cook-house, whereupon Stamford was quite certain that henceforth they were bitter enemies.
Indeed, Dakota developed such an annoying habit of spending the evenings at the ranch-house that Stamford's hatred of him assumed enormous proportions. The cowboy took to daily shaving, and even Stamford was forced to admit hitherto unsuspected traces of an elemental comeliness. When Isabel also seemed conscious of it, he cursed beneath his breath with a small man's jealousy.
Dakota responded to the poorly veiled dislike in the safety of the cook-house, whither Stamford repaired at every opportunity for the purposes of his quest.
"You don't seem to like me, Dakota," smiled Stamford. He knew the memories it recalled.
"I always did hate dwarfs," snorted Dakota.
"You see," said Stamford, with mock humility, "there was so much good left after you were created that it wouldn't have been fair to put it up in big bundles. I must have been turned out just after you were patched together."
Dakota was not soothed by the loud guffaw from his companions.
"Some day," he warned, "I'll get you where we can talk it over real friendly-like. Let me invite you over to Montana, where the shooting's good."
"Thanks! I'm safer here."
"You're dead right there, youngster," agreed Dakota vehemently.
August was hastening to its end. Stamford, in a panic, began to realise how little he had accomplished. He was oppressed with the depth of his inexperience, and at moments considered seriously the wisdom of handing over to the Police all the information he had collected and getting back to his paper. Though, the longer he remained, the more he was impressed with the mysterious undercurrent at the H-Lazy Z, he had arrived no nearer the solution of the murder of Corporal Faircloth. His tentative ventures to direct the conversation to informative channels, whether with the cowboys or with Cockney, were blocked by sullen silences or suspicious glances; and it spurred him on in his most discouraged moments, though it told him nothing of value. He knew he was in the right place, but he was growing less confident that he was the right man.
One day, having wandered far up the bank of the river with fishing tackle in hand but a keener intentness on the opposite cliffs where he knew Isabel Bulkeley was working with her brother, he saw, far to the south-west, a galloping Policeman. He mentioned it at the dinner table. Cockney bit off an oath in time and expended his fury on his meat. Professor Bulkeley did not seem to hear, expressing a regret that he had been denied an opportunity of meeting "these fearless and sparkling guardians of the law."
Cockney gave an audible sneer.
"You don't admire them, Mr. Aikens?"
"I hate them," Cockney exploded. "If I saw them driven into a corral and shot out of hand——"
"Jim, dear," Mary broke in gently.
His anger directed itself against her. "Yes, you've been swallowing the dope, like everyone else. You women! You can't resist the glamour of them. But, for Heaven's sake, keep it from me in my own house! I won't have it!"
He was almost shouting at the last, the very unreasonableness of his outburst increasing his anger. Mary sat cowering a little before it, and Professor Bulkeley rose abruptly and disappeared upstairs. Cockney's eyes followed him in a sudden silence, then he, too, got up and stumbled out.
Mary Aikens, returning in the early darkness that night from a mad gallop on the prairie, brought with her a bundle of papers handed her by a rider from the Double Bar-O. From copies of the Journal Stamford learned that the cattle-thieving was becoming bolder. Evidently Smith was doing good work on the paper, and the advertising was holding its own.
He went across to the cook-house, the Professor strolling in later. The Dude was induced to bring out his guitar, and accompany himself to one of the sentimental ditties of the Montana saloons, the Professor proving himself possessed of a remarkable ear for songs new to Stamford and not in the tenor of Smithsonian Institute circles. There were several mouth-organs among the outfit, and Bean Slade's high tenor was a not unpleasing addition to the part-singing. The Professor was so exuberantly delighted with the entertainment that he went to the door and whistled across to the ranch-house for his sister.
She came immediately, laughing her way into the group with the subtle touch of companionship that always breathed from her. Stamford immediately retired into his shell, resenting her frank friendliness with these rough fellows, resenting their half-shy acceptance of it, resenting more intensely Dakota's assumption that he represented the things she liked about them. Isabel looked at him under her brows two or three times, with a sly smile about her lips that did not add to his good humour. And presently, when she and Dakota were talking and laughing together, while the others went on with the desultory entertainment, Stamford rose to leave.
"Oh, Mr. Stamford," she called. "Don't leave the tenderfeet unprotected. We're going in a minute. I was almost forgetting Mrs. Aikens."
She smiled on Dakota and the others, and Dakota bowed low, hand on heart. In his enthusiasm he shook hands with the Bulkeleys, omitting Stamford. Bean's shy but inevitable "Ta-ta" was quite as full of gratitude, and Imp barked a farewell that, by his snuggling wriggles against Dakota's legs, was meant to say: "I appreciate the friendship of the ranch-house, but it mustn't presume to interfere with my real love."
"What fine fellows those chaps could be!" muttered the Professor, on the way to the ranch-house.
"They're that now," replied Stamford,—"except Dakota."