The Forfeit Page 13

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE NEWS

  Nan rode up to the veranda of the ranch house and sprang lightly fromthe saddle. Her pony's flanks were caked with sweat. The days now, asthey approached July, were blistering, and the work of the great ranchwas heavy for everybody. Nan had constituted herself Jeff's substituteduring his absence, and performed his share of the labor with a skilland efficiency which astonished even her father.

  She was a little weary just now. The heat was trying. Four weeks ofcontinuous effort, four weeks of day-long saddle work, superintendingthe distant out-stations, the pasture fencing, the re-branding, whichnever seemed to come to an end, the hundred and one little duties whichalways cropped up unexpectedly; these things, in conjunction with theintense heat and the constant trouble which she held safely screenedbehind her smiling eyes, were not without effect upon her, althoughdisplay was only permitted when no other eyes were present to witnessher weakness.

  It was the ranch house dinner time. Bud was due, as was the return ofthe men who belonged to the home station.

  Nan released the cinchas of her saddle and removed her pony's bridle.Then, with a sharp pat upon the creature's quarters, she sent itstrolling off toward the open pasture, in which the windmill pump keptthe string of watering tubs ready for the thirsty world about it.

  She watched the animal as it flung itself down for a roll. Itsungainly, thrusting legs held her interest. Then, as it scrambled toits feet and shook itself, and headed for the water, she seated herselfin a low wicker chair and wiped the dust from her long riding bootswith the silk handkerchief she wore loosely tied about her neck. A fewmoments later her brown eyes were gazing fixedly out at the shimmer ofheat which hovered low over the distant horizon.

  She was meditating deeply, her tired body yielding to the greateractivity of her thought. The scene was lost to her. Her gaze spedbeyond the maze of corrals, and the more distant patchwork of fencedpastures to the western boundary of her beloved Rainbow Hill Valley.There was nothing but grass, endless grass, until the purple line ofthe wood-clad mountains was reached. And here it was that her regardfound a resting place. But even so she was unaware of it, for herthoughts were miles away in another direction.

  Her courage had reaped its natural harvest. Her labors had yielded hera peace of mind which at one time had seemed impossible. She couldreflect calmly now, if not without a world of regret and sadness. Justnow, in the brief interval of waiting for her father for their middaymeal, her relaxed body permitted her thoughts to wander toward the citywhere Jeff was still held captive by toils she herself had been unableto weave about him.

  She had had her desire. She had pressed her less willing father intoher service, and through him she had obtained the right to see thatJeff's house was made ready. It had been a labor of love in itshighest sense, for not one single detail of her efforts but had been afresh laceration of her loyal soul. In her mind it was never possibleto shut out the memory that everything that was for Jeff was also for awoman who had plucked the only fruit she had ever coveted with herwhole heart. There had been moments of reward, however, a reward whichperhaps a lesser spirit might never have known. It was the passionatesatisfaction that her hands, her love, were able to minister to thewell-being of the man she loved, for all that another woman occupiedher place in his heart.

  Feelings such as these filled her heart now. They had so filled itthat morning during her hour of superintending the work of the buildersengaged upon the reconstruction of Jeff's house. This was nearlycompleted, and somehow she felt when all the preparations were finishedthe last support must be banished forever. Then there would be nothingleft her but to watch, perhaps from afar, the happiness of the otherwoman basking in the love for which she would willingly have given herlife.

  There were moments when her spirit furiously rebelled, when she feltthat the sacrifice was too great, when the limits of human enduranceforbade submission to her lot. They were moments when mad jealousyrose up and threatened her bulwark of spiritual resistance. And atsuch time her battle was furious and hard, and she emerged therefromscarred and suffering, but with a spirit unbroken and even strengthened.

  Then her pride, a small gentle thing, added its quota to her support.No one should pity her, no one should ever, ever know anything of thesufferings she endured. No, not even her beloved father. So hersmile, even her ready laughter, was enlisted in her support, and themanner of her discussion of the work on Jeff's house was an educationin courageous acting.

  But her father remained wholly undeceived. He saw with a visionrendered doubly acute by perfect sympathy. He read through every smileto the tears lying behind it. He noted the change in the tone of thelaugh. He missed nothing of the painful abstraction at odd momentswhen Nan believed she was wholly unobserved. Nor did he misinterpretthe language these things expressed. But for all his heart bled forthe girl--and in his moments of solitude he bitterly cursed the womanwho had robbed him of a son, and heaped every scathing epithet of hisrough vocabulary upon the head of the man himself--he gave no sign thatthe fair world about them concealed shadowed corners, or that the lifewhich was theirs was not one triumph of eternal delight. Thus was Nanhelped, all unconscious of the help so given. So she was able to playthe part her courage and gentleness of spirit had assigned to her.

  Presently a horseman came within sight, out of the northwest. It wasthe direction of Jeff's ranch house. A moment of deliberate scrutinyrevealed the man's identity. It was Lal Hobhouse, second foreman ofthe Obar, the man who, before the amalgamation, was Jeff's foreman.

  Nan wondered what was bringing him in at this hour. Usually his visitsto their headquarters were made in the evening when the work of the daywas completed.

  The man rode up and found Nan interestedly waiting to receive him.There was a touch of anxiety in her tone as she greeted him.

  "No trouble, Lal?" she demanded, as the man reined up his pony. Thedirect manner of the girl was largely the result of her newresponsibilities.

  Lal Hobhouse was a lean-faced specimen of sun-dried manhood. Hisappearance suggested all wires and indifference to the nicenesses oflife. His long moustache drooped mournfully below his square chin.And his fierce black eyes were full of a violent heat, rendered moresavage for its bottling up during his long ride.

  "Trouble?" Then he exploded with a furious oath, and his volcanictemper drowned the sunburn of his cheek under a living heat. "Themrustlers. Them lousy bums," he cried almost choking. "That bunch o'yearlings--Shorthorn yearlings, Miss. Thirty of 'em--picked right outof the bush corrals where we'd got 'em for re-brandin'. Say, Bud--yourfather, Miss," he corrected himself. "He ain't around?"

  But Nan's interest was in the work of the rustlers. Not in his finalinquiry. Her pretty eyes were wide and hard with the anger his newshad inspired.

  "The Shorthorn yearlings, Lal?" she demanded. "Our prize stock?"

  "Sure, Miss. Them. That's them. God blister their filthy carkises!May they stew in hell!"

  He spat over his horse's shoulder as though to emphasize his furiousdisgust But his forcefulness was displeasing.

  "Guess you best off-saddle," Nan said coolly. "Father'll be alongright now. You'll need food. Say, what boys you got out there?" sheinquired as the man slipped out of the saddle and began to unfasten thecinchas.

  "Why, just the same four damn fools, an'--Sikkem."

  "And they're following up the trail?"

  "Sure." The man flung off the saddle and his horse mouched away.

  "Psha!" he cried, turning his fierce eyes upon Nan. "What's the useanyway?" His gesture was one of helpless disgust. "They're out. Binout since daylight. An' I guess they've as much chance roundin' thatcrowd up as they would huntin' bugs in a hundred acre pasture.Sikkem's about the brightest. But he ain't no sort o' good after abunch of rustlers. I wouldn't trust him with a dead mule o' mineanyway. The boss hangs to him as if he was the on'y blamed cowpunchereast o' the mountains because he's handy. I
don't like him, Miss,an'---- Say, how did them rustlers know 'bout them calves? Ther's twohundred head o' beeves out there, an' they passed 'em right over ferthe Shorthorns."

  The man's argument and distrust of the man Sikkem made a deepimpression on Nan. She had listened to some of the latter before. ButJeff's predilection for the dark-faced half Greaser had left hersceptical of Lal's opinion. Now, however, she was seriously impressed.

  At that moment Bud himself rode up at a gallop, and behind him rodefour of the home station boys. The pace at which he came was unusual,and Nan's troubled eyes promptly sought his face.

  Instantly her greeting died upon her lips, which tightened ominously.His usually steady gray eyes were hot and fierce, and his face was set.The comfortable lines about his mouth were drawn hard and deep. Sheneeded no word to tell her that further trouble was abroad.

  He scarcely waited for his horse to come to a halt. He was out of thesaddle in a moment, and his great figure towered before the foreman,whom he took in with an angry stare.

  "What's brought you in?" he demanded, with a dangerous calm. Then thecalm broke before his storm of feeling. "Don't tell me ther's troublearound your layout, too," he cried, without waiting for reply. Then heturned on Nan, who was still on the veranda. "Say, Nan, they done it.The rotten swines have done it. They shot 'Jock' up!"

  "The Highland bull?" Nan gasped.

  "Yes. That's it." Bud laughed furiously. "That bull I imported lastfall for three thousand dollars," he went on, turning back to theforeman. "They shot him up and drove off his twenty-five cows from theCoyote Bluff pastures. Dirty spite an' meanness. The white-liveredscum!" Then with a fierce oath the usually even-tempered Bud hurledhis wrath upon the waiting man. "Gorl darn it, you're standin' aroundlike a barbed wire fence post. What in hell's brought you around now?What they done your way?"

  His manner roused the foreman to a soreness he wasn't slow in showing.

  "Jest thirty Shorthorn yearlings," he said without any attempt tosoften the blow. "Jest thirty--prize stock."

  The announcement had an unlooked-for effect. Where Nan expectedanother furious display Bud remained silent. His eyes were wide asthey stared into the foreman's. But no word came. Then, after a fewmoments, he began to laugh and Nan understood. She felt it was eitherthat, or--her father would break something.

  "Well, I go plumb to hell!" he cried at last. And Nan felt relieved atthe sound of his voice.

  The next moment Lal Hobhouse was pouring out his story with a redundantselection from his choicest vocabulary of abusive epithet, which wasimpartially divided between the rustlers and the cowhands under hischarge. Nan waited patiently, her eyes studying her father's face.But whatever his feelings he permitted them no further display, and, atthe conclusion of the story, instead of offering comment, or revertingto his own discoveries, he turned to his daughter with a smile.

  "Food on, Nan?" he inquired, in his easy way. "Guess I'm needin'food--pretty bad. Maybe we'll feel better after."

  Then he turned to the men who stood around.

  "Git on down to the bunkhouse an' feed, boys. One o' you grab my plug.After, we'll get around out with Lal here. I----"

  He broke off as Nan darted away down the veranda. The mail man hadjust clattered up to the front of the house, and she had gone to meethim.

  Bud passed his horse on to one of the men, and, with heavy strides,clanking with the rattle of his heavy Mexican spurs, his leather chappscreaking as he moved, he mounted the veranda and made his way into thehouse.

  * * * * * *

  Nan entered the parlor with her hands full of mail. The meal was laidready, and a colored girl was setting the chairs in their places.

  "I'll jest get a clean up, Nan," her father said, without a singletrace of his recent display. "Guess I'm full of dust."

  He passed through the little room like some overwhelming mammoth. Heseemed altogether too vast for the small home, which had never grownwith his other worldly possessions. Nan watched him go. Then she laidthe mail down on a side table and began to sort it out.

  There were a number of letters for Jeff. These she set carefully asidein a pile by themselves for redirection. There were several addressedin girlish hands to herself. For Bud there were only a few. Sheglanced over the superscription of each. One or two were easilyrecognized business letters. There was a paper, however, addressed inJeff's hand, and a letter of considerable bulk. These were what shehad been looking for. She pushed the bunkhouse mail aside, andregarded reflectively the outer covering of Jeff's letter to her father.

  It was not the first he had received from Jeff during the four weekssince their return home. But its bulk this time was out of theordinary, and the carefully folded news sheet was more thaninteresting. It awakened every doubt, every fear to which she had beena prey.

  The rapid beating of her heart left her with a choking sensation.Vivid imagination was at work, and she was reading in fancy under thosecovers that which, sooner or later, she knew she must read in fact.

  These were bad moments for the girl, moments which found her againstruggling with that self which left her little enough peace. Perhapsthe struggle lasted five minutes. Perhaps less. At any rate it seemedan eternity to Nan before the hired girl announced the meal.

  Nan sighed as she moved from the side table on which the mail wasspread out.

  "Give father a call," she said, and took up a position at the openFrench window.

  Her back was turned when Bud responded to the summons. The cold sluicehe had just indulged in seemed to have entirely restored hisequanimity. His voice came cheerily.

  "Guess we best set in, little gal," he said, moving to his place at thetable. "We'll need to get busy after."

  Nan turned. She watched Maimie deposit the hot dishes. Then, when thegirl had withdrawn, she took her place opposite her father.

  "There's a deal of mail for Jeff," she said, as she sat down. "There'ssome for you, too, Daddy. There's a letter and--a newspaper. Maybeyou'd feel like reading them right away. Guess there won't be timeafter."

  With all her might she struggled for indifference. With all her mightshe desired that her father should miss the fears which prompted her.But she only succeeded in telling him of them in every word she spoke.

  Bud agreed readily. He rose and fetched his letter--and the newspaperwhich Nan so feared.

  Nan went on with her food. Her father tore open the covering of theletter. She was watching him covertly and silently whilst he read pageafter page. She was searching for confirmation of her worst fears.She was torturing herself.

  Bud's dissimulation was never great. Nan watched the play of hisexpression. There was no smile. As the silent moments passed his browbecame heavier. The furrow deepened between his eyes, and once therecame that rather helpless raising of his hand to his forehead. Then,too, she observed the compression of his lips, and the occasionaldilation of his nostrils. Each observation carried conviction, and theweight upon her heart grew almost insupportable.

  Finally he laid the letter down and went on with his meal. But he didnot even glance at the wrappered newspaper.

  In self-defense Nan was forced to break the silence. If it hadremained she felt she must scream. Instead she smiled over at him, andindicated the newspaper.

  "The _Calthorpe Times_, isn't it?" she said without a tremor.

  "Can't say."

  The harsh tone was intended to convey indifference.

  "Won't you open it?" she asked. "Maybe Jeff's marked a piece."

  Then Bud gave a display such as Nan had never witnessed in him before.

  "Say, ain't we never to get food a feller ken eat?" he cried. "Thatnigger slut needs firin' right away. Guess she couldn't cook a dryhash on a round-up. I'm quittin'. This stew 'ud choke a she-wolf."

  His eyes were hot. He thrust his plate away from him and pushed backhis chair. But Nan's calmness defeated his almost childlike subterfuge
.

  "Say, my Daddy, you don't need to quit. Sure," she added, a patheticsmile lighting her brown eyes, "I guess the stew's pretty good to anyhungry folks, and Maimie's just the dandiest cook anywhere around."

  She paused. Bud stood yearning for five minutes of unrestrainedblasphemy as he read the understanding lying behind her words.

  "I don't guess it's the food worrying, or Maimie's cooking," Nan wenton, almost at once. "It's your letter. Maybe there's a heap of thingsin it you aren't yearning to hand over to me." A sigh escaped her."Will I tell you of them? Maybe one'll be sufficient. It's the oneworrying you most. It's--it's his marriage. It's fixed. The date--Imean."

  Then she pointed at the unopened paper.

  "Likely it's in that. And that's why he's sent it. Shall I see?"

  She reached out and picked up the offending packet, and, with a swiftmovement, ripped the fastening open with one finger. Without a wordshe unfolded the sheet, seeking a marked passage. It was there, as sheknew it would be. It was found in a twinkling. No one could havemissed it. Heavy ink outlined it in the column of "City Chatter," andshe read the paragraph aloud without a tremor of voice. Herdeliberateness nearly drove the ranchman to distraction.

  "The friends of Mrs. John D. Carruthers will be interested to learnthat the marriage of her daughter, Mrs. Elvine van Blooren, widow ofthe late Robert van Blooren, to Jeffrey Masters, of the celebrated'Obar' Ranch, and this year's President of the Western Union CattleBreeders' Association, is to be solemnized at the Church of St. Mary inthis city on August 4th next. The Rev. Claude I. Carston, M. A.,will----"

  There was more of it, much more, referring in the usual localjournalistic fashion to the "happy event," and dwelling upon theimportant "social standing" of the bride and bridegroom. But Nan readno further then. There was no need to. Was not the completeness ofher disaster contained in those lines? The courage of the front shedisplayed before the sympathetic eyes of her father was superlative.

  There was just a pause. It was the tragic pause under a staggeringblow. Then she forced a smile into the brave eyes, which never for amoment fell before the other's regard.

  "There! There, my Daddy," she said, with a studied calm which did notconceal the dry-throated swallow which accompanied the words. "I guessit was how I thought. You were scared. Scared to tell me." She shookher head. "It's--it's not very brave, is it? I wonder why you werescared? You needn't have been. Folks don't need to be scaredof--anything. What you need most is just to--to grit your teethand--die hard."

  Her manner was becoming abstracted. It seemed as if she wereaddressing herself, warning herself, and fighting down a weakness whichwas threatening to overwhelm her.

  Presently she went on, while the man stood by utterly robbed of thepower to comfort her:

  "August the fourth," she murmured. "August--that's six weeks from now.Six weeks of--sunshine and--and warmth. When the harvest's ripening,and all the world's just--glad. And he'll be glad, and--and happy,too. Yes, Jeff will be very, very happy because--she's going to makehim happy."

  Quite suddenly she started up from her chair. A dreadful panic hadleaped to her eyes. The delicious, healthy color had been swept fromher pretty downy cheeks. The corners of her sweet mouth were drooping,and her hands were held out in a gesture of despairing appeal.

  "Daddy, Daddy, he will--he will be happy, won't he?" she cried. "I--Ijust need him to be happy, more--yes, more than anything in the world.Sure, sure, she'll make him happy? Oh, if she doesn't!"

  Still the man looked on, a helpless spectator of the girl's suffering.Nor did it seem that his own was any less. But Nan seemed to realizethe weakness in her momentary display. Her hands dropped to her side.There was even a visible effort in the manner in which she strove forself-mastery. Her smooth brow puckered in an intense frown, and, toBud, it almost seemed that she was literally clenching her teeth tohold back the passionate distress which was seeking to find expression.

  After a moment something of full self-possession seemed to return toher. She smiled. But it was a smile that lacked conviction. A smilethat almost broke her father's heart.

  "Tell me, Daddy," she pleaded. "Do you think--he'd--he'd have me bea--a bridesmaid? Would it sort of help him any?" she hurried on. "Yousee, I--I want him to be real happy. I want him to feel that we justlove him, and that--that--we're just glad for him, and--and nothing inthe world else matters--to anybody. I'm so----"

  There was a little catch of breath. The words she would have spokendied upon her lips. She reeled. Every vestige of color left herpretty face, and her eyes half closed. Just for one weak instant herhands groped behind her for the chair. Then, the next, Bud was at herside, and one strong arm was supporting her.

  "Don't, Nan!" he cried, in his heavy cumbersome way. And the sound ofhis deep voice alone served to ward off the encroachment of that finalweakness which, in spite of all her courage, the girl was at lastcompelled to yield to.

  Bud drew her to him, and one hand smoothed her pretty brown hair withrough tenderness. For a moment her head rested against his broadbosom. Then a deep sigh came, and Nan looked up, smiling into thesteady gray eyes gazing down at her, through a mist of welling tears.

  "My dear--dear old Daddy," she murmured, as the tears finallyoverflowed and slowly rolled down her cheeks.