The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  MOSQUITO BEND

  Forks died away in a shimmering haze of heat as Tresler rode out overthe hard prairie trail. Ten miles they had told him it was to MosquitoBend; a ten-mile continuation of the undulating plains he had nowgrown accustomed to. He allowed his horse to take it leisurely. Therewas no great hurry for an early arrival.

  John Tresler had done what many an enterprising youngster from the NewEngland States has done since. At the age of twenty-five, findinghimself, after his university career at Harvard, with an excellenttraining in all athletics, particularly boxing and wrestling and allthose games pertaining to the noble art of self-defense, but with onlya limited proficiency in matters relating to the earning of anadequate living, he had decided to break new ground for himself on theprairie-lands of the West. Stock-raising was his object, and, to thisend, he had sought out a ranch where he could thoroughly master thecraft before embarking on his own enterprise.

  It was through official channels that he had heard of Mosquito Bend asone of the largest ranches in the country at the time, and he had atonce entered into negotiations with the owner, Julian Marbolt, for aperiod of instruction. His present journey was the result.

  He thought a good deal as his horse ambled over that ten miles. Heweighed the stories he had heard from Shaky, and picked themthreadbare. He reduced his efforts to a few pointed conclusions.Things were decidedly rough at Mosquito Bend. Probably the brutalitywas a case of brute force pitted against brute force--he had takeninto consideration the well-known disposition of the Westerncowpuncher--and, as such, a matter of regretable necessity for thegoverning of the place. Shaky had in some way fallen foul of themaster and foreman and had allowed personal feelings to warp hisjudgment. And, lastly, taking his "greenness" into account, he hadpiled up the agony simply from the native love of the "old hand" forscaring a newcomer.

  Tresler was no weakling or he would never have set out to shape hisown course as he was now doing. He was a man of considerable purpose,self-reliant and reasonable, with sufficient easy good-nature to becompatible with strength. He liked his own experiences too, though henever scorned the experiences of another. Slum had sized him up prettyshrewdly when he said "he'll bob out on top like a cork in a waterbar'l," but he had not altogether done him full justice.

  The southwestern trail headed slantwise for the mountains, which snowybarrier bounded his vision to the west the whole of his journey. Hehad watched the distant white-capped ramparts until their novelty hadworn off, and now he took their presence as a matter of course. Hiseyes came back to the wide, almost limitless plains about him, and helonged for the sight of a tree, a river, even a cultivated patch ofnodding wheat. But there was just nothing but the lank, tawny grassfor miles and miles, and the blazing sunlight that scorched him andbaked gray streaks of dusty sweat on his horse's shoulders and flanks.

  He rode along dreaming, as no doubt hundreds of others have dreamtbefore and since. There was nothing new or original about his dreams,for he was not a man given to romance. He was too direct and practicalfor that. No, his were just the thoughts of a young man who has lefthis home, which thereby gains in beauty as distance lends enchantmentto it, and kindly recollection crowns it with a glory that it couldnever in reality possess.

  Without indication or warning, he came upon one of those strangelyhidden valleys in which the prairie near the Rockies abounds. He foundhimself at the edge of it, gazing down upon a wide woodland-boundriver, which wound away to the east and west like the trail of someprehistoric monster. The murmur of the flowing waters came to him withsuch a suggestion of coolness and shade that, for the first time onhis long journey from Whitewater, he was made to forget the park-likebeauties of his own native land.

  There was a delightful variation of color in the foliage down there.Such a density of shadow, such a brilliancy. And a refreshing breezewas rustling over the tree-tops, a breath he had longed for on theplains but had never felt. The opposite side was lower. He stood on asort of giant step. A wall that divided the country beyond from thecountry he was leaving. A wall that seemed to isolate those who mightlive down there and shut them out as though theirs was another world.

  He touched his horse's flanks, and, with careful, stilted steps, theanimal began the descent. And now he speculated as to the whereaboutsof the ranch, for he knew that this was the Mosquito River, andsomewhere upon its banks stood his future home. As he thought of thishe laughed. His future home; well, judging by what he had been told,it would certainly possess the charm of novelty.

  He was forced to give up further speculation for a while. The traildescended so sharply that his horse had to sidle down it, and theloose shingle under its feet set it sliding and slipping dangerously.

  In a quarter of an hour he drew up on the river bank and looked abouthim. Whither? That was the question. He was at four crossroads. Eastand west, along the river bank; and north and south, the way he hadcome and across the water.

  Along the bank the woods were thick and dark, and the trail split themlike the aisle of an aged Gothic church. The surface of red sand washard, but there were marks of traffic upon it. Then he looked acrossthe river at the distant rolling plains.

  "Of course," he said aloud. "Who's going to build a ranch on thisside? Where could the cattle run?"

  And he put his horse at the water and waded across without furtherhesitation. Beyond the river the road bent away sharply to the right,and cut through a wide avenue of enormous pine trees, and along thishe bustled his horse. Half a mile further on the avenue widened. Thesolemn depths about him lightened, and patches of sunlight shone downinto them and lit up the matted underlay of rotting cones andpine-needles which covered the earth.

  The road bent sharply away from the river, revealing a scrub of lowbush decorated with a collection of white garments, evidently set outto dry. His horse shied at the unusual sight, and furthermore tookexception to the raucous sound of a man's voice chanting a dismalmelody, somewhere away down by the river on his right.

  In this direction he observed a cattle-path. And the sight of itsuggested ascertaining the identity of the doleful minstrel. No doubtthis man could give him the information he needed. He turned off theroad and plunged into scrub. And at the river bank he came upon acurious scene. There was a sandy break in the bush, and the banksloped gradually to the water's edge. Three or four wash-tubs,grouped together in a semicircle, stood on wooden trestles, and aquaint-looking little man was bending over one of them washingclothes, rubbing and beating a handful of garments on a board like anywasherwoman. His back was turned to the path, and he faced the river.On his right stood an iron furnace and boiler, with steam escapingfrom under the lid. And all around him the bushes were hung withdrying clothes.

  "Hello!" cried Tresler, as he slipped to the ground.

  "Holy smoke!"

  The scrubbing and banging had ceased, and the most curiously twistedface Tresler had ever seen glanced back over the man's bowed shoulder.A red, perspiring face, tufted at the point of the chin with a knot ofgray whisker, a pair of keen gray eyes, and a mouth--yes, it was themouth that held Tresler's attention. It went up on one side, and hadsomehow got mixed up with his cheek, while a suggestion of it wascontinued by means of a dark red scar right up to the left eye.

  For a second or two Tresler could not speak, he was so astonished, soinclined to laugh. And all the while the gray eyes took him in fromhead to foot; then another exclamation, even more awestruck, brokefrom the stranger.

  "Gee-whizz!"

  And Tresler sobered at once.

  "Where's Mosquito Bend Ranch?" he asked.

  The little man dropped his washing and turned round, propping himselfagainst the edge of the tub.

  "Skitter Bend Ranch?" he echoed slowly, as though the meaning of thequestion had not penetrated to his intellect. Then a subdued whisperfollowed. "Gee, but I----" And he looked down at his own clothes asthough to reassure himself.

  Tresler broke in; he understood the trend of the other's
thoughts.

  "Yes, Mosquito Bend," he said sharply.

  "Nigh to a mile on. Keep to the trail, an' you'll strike Blind Hell ina few minutes. Say----" He broke off, and looked up into Tresler'sface.

  "Yes, I'm going there. You don't happen to belong to--to Blind Hell?"

  "Happen I do," assured the washerman. "I do the chores around theranch. Joe Nelson, once a stock raiser m'self. Kerrville, Texas.Now----" He broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the dryingclothes.

  "Well, I'm John Tresler, and I'm on my way to Mosquito Bend."

  "So you're the 'tenderfoot,'" observed the choreman, musingly. "You'rethe feller from Noo England as Jake's goin' to lick into shape."

  "Going to teach, you mean."

  "I s'pose I do," murmured the other gently, but without conviction.The twisted side of his face wrinkled hideously, while the other sidesmiled.

  "You mentioned Blind Hell just now?" questioned Tresler, as the otherrelapsed into a quiet survey of him.

  "Blind Hell, did I?" said Nelson, repeating the name, a manner whichseemed to be a habit of his.

  "Yes. What is it? What did you mean?"

  Tresler's questions were a little peremptory. He felt that theriding-breeches that had caused such notice in Forks were likely tobring him further ridicule.

  "Oh, it's jest a name. 'Tain't of no consequence. Say," the choremanbroke out suddenly, "you don't figger to git boostin' steers in thatrig?" He stretched out an abnormally long arm, and pointed a rough butwonderfully clean finger at the flowing corduroys Tresler had nowbecome so sensitive about.

  "Great Scott, man!" he let out testily. "Have you never seenriding-breeches before?--you, a ranchman."

  The tufted beard shot sideways again as the face screwed up and halfof it smiled.

  "I do allow I've seen such things before. Oncet," he drawled slowly,with a slight Southern accent, but in a manner that betokened a speechacquired by association rather than the natural tongue. "He was afeller that came out to shoot big game up in the hills. I ain't seenhim sence, sure. Guess nobody did." He looked away sadly. "We heerdtell of him. Guess he got fossicking after b'ar. The wind was blowin'ter'ble. He'd climbed a mount'n. It was pretty high. Ther' wa'n't noshelter. A gust o' that wind come an'--took him."

  Nelson had turned back to his tubs, and was again banging and rubbing.

  "A mile down the trail, I think you said?" Tresler cried, springinghastily into the saddle.

  "Sure."

  And for the first time Tresler's horse felt the sharp prick of thespurs as he rode off.

  Mosquito Bend Ranch stood in a wide clearing, with the house on arising ground above it. It was lined at the back by a thick pinewood.For the rest the house faced out on to the prairie, and the verandahedfront overlooked the barns, corrals, and outhouses. It stood apart,fully one hundred yards from the nearest outbuildings.

  This was the first impression Tresler obtained on arrival. The secondwas that it was a magnificent ranch and the proprietor must be awealthy man. The third was one of disappointment; everything was soquiet, so still. There was no rush or bustle. No horsemen ridingaround with cracking whips; no shouting, no atmosphere of wildness.And, worst of all, there were no droves of cattle tearing around. Justa few old milch cows near by, peacefully grazing their day away, andphilosophically awaiting milking time. These, and a few dogs, a horseor two loose in the corrals, and a group of men idling outside a low,thatched building, comprised the life he first beheld as he rode intothe clearing.

  "And this is Blind Hell," he said to himself as he came. "It beliesits name. A more peaceful, beautiful picture, I've never clapped eyeson."

  And then his thoughts went back to Forks. That too had looked soinnocent. After all, he remembered, it was the people who made ormarred a place.

  So he rode straight to a small, empty corral, and, off-saddling,turned his horse loose, and deposited his saddle and bridle in theshadow of the walls. Then he moved up toward the buildings where themen were grouped.

  They eyed him steadily as he came, much as they might eye a strangeanimal, and he felt a little uncomfortable as he recollected hisencounter first with Slum and more recently with Joe Nelson. He hadgrown sensitive about his appearance, and a spirit of defiance andretaliation awoke within him.

  But for some reason the men paid little attention to him just then.One man was talking, and the rest were listening with rapt interest.They were cowpunchers, every one. Cowpunchers such as Tresler hadheard of. Some were still wearing their fringed "chapps," their waistsbelted with gun and ammunition; some were in plain overalls and thincotton shirts. All, except one, were tanned a dark, ruddy hue,unshaven, unkempt, but tough-looking and hardy. The pale-facedexception was a thin, sick-looking fellow with deep hollows under hiseyes, and lips as ashen as a corpse. He it was who was talking, andhis recital demanded a great display of dramatic gesture.

  Tresler came up and joined the group. "I never ast to git put upther'," he heard the sick man saying; "never ast, an' didn't want. Itwas her doin's, an' I tell you fellers right here she's jest thetserrupy an' good as don't matter. I'd 'a' rotted down here wi' fliesan' the heat for all they'd 'a' cared. That blind son of a ---- 'ud'a' jest laffed ef I'd handed over, an' Jake--say, we'll level ourscore one day, sure. Next time Red Mask, or any other hoss thief, gitsaround, I'll bear a hand drivin' off the bunch. I ain't scrappin' nomore fer the blind man. Look at me. Guess I ain't no more use'n yon'tenderfoot.'" The speaker pointed scornfully at Tresler, and hisaudience turned and looked. "Guess I've lost quarts o' blood, an' havegot a hole in my chest ye couldn't plug with a corn-sack. An' now,jest when I'm gittin' to mend decent, he comes an' boosts me right outto the bunkhouse 'cause he ketches me yarnin' wi' that bit of a gal o'his. But, say, she just let out on him that neat as you fellers neverheerd. Yes, sir, guess her tongue's like velvet mostly, but when sheturned on that blind hulk of a father of hers--wal, ther', ef I was acat an' had nine lives to give fer her they jest wouldn't be enough bya hund'ed."

  "Say, Arizona," said one of the men quietly, "what was you yarnin''bout? Guess you allus was sweet on Miss Dianny."

  Arizona turned on the speaker fiercely. "That'll do fer you, Raw;mebbe you ain't got savee, an' don't know a leddy when you sees one.I'm a cow-hand, an' good as any man around here, an' ef you've anydoubts about it, why----"

  "Don't take no notice, Arizona," put in a lank youth quickly. He was atall, hungry-looking boy, in that condition of physical developmentwhen nature seems in some doubt as to her original purpose. "'E's onlylaffin' at you."

  "Guess Mister Raw Harris ken quit right here then, Teddy. I ain'ttakin' his slack noways."

  "Git on with the yarn, Arizona," cried another. "Say, wot was yousayin' to the gal?"

  "Y' see, Jacob," the sick man went on, falling back into his drawlingmanner, "it wus this ways. Miss Dianny, she likes a feller to gityarnin', an', seein' as I've been punchin' most all through theStates, she kind o' notioned my yarns. Which I 'lows is reasonable.She'd fixed my chest up, an' got me trussed neat an' all, an' setright down aside me fer a gas. You know her ways, kind o' sad an'saft. Wal, she up an' tells me how she'd like gittin' in to Whitewaternext winter, an' talked o' dances an' sech. Say, she wus jestwhoopin' wi' the pleasure o' the tho't of it. Guess likely she'd bemighty pleased to git a-ways. Wal, I don't jest know how it come, butI got yarnin' of a barbecue as was held down Arizona way. I wastellin' as how I wus ther', an' got winged nasty. It wa'n't much. Y'see I was tellin' her as I wus runnin' a bit of a hog ranch themtimes, an', on o-casions, we used to give parties. The perticklerparty I wus referrin' to wus a pretty wholesome racket. The boys gotgood an' drunk, an' they got slingin' the lead frekent 'fore daylightcome around. Howsum, it wus the cause o' the trouble as I wus gassin''bout. Y' see, Brown was one of them juicy fellers that chawed hunkso' plug till you could nose Virginny ev'ry time you got wi'in gunshotof him. He was a cantankerous cuss was Brown, an' a deal too free wi'his tongue. Y' see he'd a lady with him; leastways she wus thepot-wolloper f
rom the saloon he favored, an' he guessed as she wusmost as han'some as a Bible 'lustration. Wal, 'bout the time therotgut wus flowin' good an' frekent, they started in to pool fer theprettiest wench in the room, as is the custom down ther'. Brown, hewus dead set on his gal winnin', I guess; an' 'Dyke Hole' Bill, he'dgot a pretty tidy filly wi' him hisself, an' didn't reckon as no daisyfrom a bum saloon could gi' her any sort o' start. Wal, to cut itshort, I guess the boys went dead out fer Bill's gal. It wus voted asther' wa'n't no gal around Spawn City as could dec'rate the countrywi' sech beauty. I guess things went kind o' silent when Shaggy Steeleread the ballot. The air o' that place got uneasy. I located the doorin one gulp. Y' see Brown was allus kind o' sudden. But the troublecome diff'rent. The thing jest dropped, an' that party hummed fer awhiles. Brown's gal up an' let go. Sez she, 'Here, guess I'm the dandyo' this run, an' I ain't settin' around while no old hen from DykeHole gits scoopin' prizes. She's goin' to lick me till I can't see, efshe's yearnin' fer that pool. Mebbe you boys won't need more'n half aneye to locate the winner when I'm done.' Wi' that she peels her waistoff'n her, an' I do allow she wus a fine chunk. An' the 'Dyke Hole'daisy, she wa'n't no slouch; guess she wus jest bustin' wi' fight. ButBrown sticks his taller-fat nose in an' shoots his bazzoo an'----

  "An' that's most as fer as I got when along comes that all-fired'dead-eyes' an' points warnin' at me while he ogled me with them gummyred rims o' his. An', sez he, 'You light right out o' here sharp,Arizona; the place fer you scum's down in the bunkhouse. An' I'm notgoin' to have any skulkin' up here, telling disreputable yarns to mygal.' I wus jest beginnin' to argyfy. 'But,' sez I. An' he cut meshort wi' a curse. 'Out of here!' he roared. 'I give you ten minutesto git!' Then she, Miss Dianny, bless her, she turned on him quick,an' dressed him down han'some. Sez she, 'Father, how can you be sounkind after what Arizona has done for you? Remember,' sez she, 'hesaved you a hundred head of cattle, and fought Red Mask's gang untilhelp came and he fell from his horse.' Oh, she was a dandy, and heapedit on like bankin' a furnace. She cried lots an' lots, but it didn'tsignify. Out I wus to git, an' out I got. An' now I'll gamble thatswine Jake'll try and set me to work. But I'll level him--sure."

  One of the men, Lew Cawley, laughed silently, and then put in aremark. Lew was a large specimen of the fraternity, and history saidthat he was the son of an English cleric. But history says similarthings of many ne'er-do-wells in the Northwest. He still used theaccent of his forebears.

  "Old blind-hunks knows something. With all respect, Arizona haswinning ways; but," he added, before the fiery Southerner couldretort, "if I mistake not, here comes Jake to fulfil Arizona'sprophecy."

  Every one swung round as Lew nodded in the direction of the house. Ahuge man of about six feet five was striding rapidly down the slope.Tresler, who had been listening to the story on the outskirts of thegroup, eyed the newcomer with wonder. He came at a gait in which everymovement displayed a vast, monumental strength. He had never seen suchphysique in his life. The foreman was still some distance off, and hecould not see his face, only a great spread of black beard andwhisker. So this was the much-cursed Jake Harnach, and, he thoughtwithout any particular pleasure, his future boss.

  There was no further talk. Jake Harnach looked up and halted. Then hesignaled, and a great shout came to the waiting group.

  "Hi! hi! you there! You with the pants!"

  A snigger went round the gathering, and Tresler knew that it was hewho was being summoned. He turned away to hide his annoyance, but wasgiven no chance of escape.

  "Say, send that guy with the pants along!" roared the foreman. AndTresler was forced into unwilling compliance.

  And thus the two men, chiefly responsible for the telling of thisstory of Mosquito Bend, met. The spirit of the meeting wasantagonistic; a spirit which, in the days to come, was to develop intoa merciless hatred. Nor was the reason far to seek, nor could it havebeen otherwise. Jake looked out upon the world through eyes thatdistorted everything to suit his own brutal nature, while Tresler'ssimple manliness was the result of his youthful training as a publicschoolboy.

  The latter saw before him a man of perhaps thirty-five, a man ofgigantic stature, with a face handsome in its form of features, butdisfigured by the harsh depression of the black brows over a pair ofhard, bold eyes. The lower half of his face was buried beneath a beardso dense and black as to utterly disguise the mould of his mouth andchin, thus leaving only the harsh tones of his voice as a clue to whatlay hidden there.

  His dress was unremarkable but typical--moleskin trousers, a thincotton shirt, a gray tweed jacket, and a silk handkerchief about hisneck. He carried nothing in the shape of weapons, not even the usualleather belt and sheath-knife. And in this he was apart from themethod of his country, where the use of firearms was the practice indisputes.

  On his part, Jake looked upon a well-built man five inches hisinferior in stature, but a man of good proportions, with a pair ofshoulders that suggested possibilities. But it was the steady look inthe steel-blue eyes which told him most. There was a simple directnessin them which told of a man unaccustomed to any browbeating; and, ashe gazed into them, he made a mental note that this newcomer must bereduced to a proper humility at the earliest opportunity.

  There was no pretense of courtesy between them. Neither offered toshake hands. Jake blurted out his greeting in a vicious tone.

  "Say, didn't you hear me callin'?" he asked sharply.

  "I did." And the New Englander looked quietly into the eyes beforehim, but without the least touch of bravado or of yielding.

  "Then why in h---- didn't you come?"

  "I was not to know you were calling me."

  "Not to know?" retorted the other roughly. "I guess there aren't twoguys with pants like yours around the ranch. Now, see right here,young feller, you'll just get a grip on the fact that I'm foreman ofthis layout, and, as far as the 'hands' are concerned, I'm boss. WhenI call, you come--and quick."

  The man towered over Tresler in a bristling attitude. His hands wereaggressively thrust into his jacket pockets, and he emphasized hisfinal words with a scowl. And it was his attitude that roused Tresler;the words were the words of an overweening bully, and might have beenlaughed at, but the attitude said more, and no man likes to bebrowbeaten. His anger leapt, and, though he held himself tightly, itfound expression in the biting emphasis of his reply.

  "When I'm one of the 'hands,' yes," he said incisively.

  Jake stared. Then a curious sort of smile flitted across his features.

  "Hah!" he ejaculated.

  And Tresler went on with cold indifference. "And, in the meantime, Imay as well say that the primary object of my visit is to see Mr.Marbolt, not his foreman. That, I believe," he added, pointing to thebuilding on the hill, "is his house."

  Without waiting for a reply he stepped aside, and would have moved on.But Jake had swung round, and his hand fell heavily upon his shoulder.

  "No, you don't, my dandy cock!" he cried violently, his fingerspainfully gripping the muscle under the Norfolk jacket.

  Springing aside, and with one lithe twist, in a flash Tresler hadreleased himself, and stood confronting the giant with blazing eyesand tense drawn muscles.

  "Lay a hand on me again, and there'll be trouble," he said sharply,and there was an oddly furious burr in his speech.

  The foreman stood for a moment as words failed him. Then his furybroke loose.

  "I told you jest now," he cried, falling back into the twang of thecountry as his rage mastered him, "that I run this layout----"

  "And I tell you," broke in the equally angry Tresler, "that I'venothing to do with you or the ranch either until I have seen yourmaster. And I'll have you know that if there's any bulldozing to bedone, you can keep it until I am one of the 'hands.' You shan't lackopportunity."

  The tone was as scathing as the violence of his anger would permit. Hehad not moved, except to thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket,while he measured the foreman with his eyes and watched his everymovement.

>   He saw Harnach hunch himself as though to spring at him. He saw thegreat hands clench at his sides and his arms draw up convulsively. Hesaw the working face and the black eyes as they half closed andreduced themselves to mere slits beneath the overshadowing brows. Thenthe hoarse, rage-choked voice came.

  "By G----! I'll smash you, you----"

  "I shouldn't say it." Tresler's tone had suddenly changed to one oficy coldness. The flash of a white dress had caught his eye. "There'sa lady present," he added abruptly. And at the same time he releasedhis hold on the smooth butt of a heavy revolver he had been grippingin his pocket.

  What might have happened but for the timely interruption it would beimpossible to say. Jake's arms dropped to his sides, and his attituderelaxed with a suddenness that was almost ludicrous. The white dressfluttered toward him, and Tresler turned and raised his prairie hat.He gave the foreman no heed whatever. The man might never have beenthere. He took a step forward.

  "Miss Marbolt, I believe," he said. "Forgive me, but it seems that,being a stranger, I must introduce myself. I am John Tresler. I havejust been performing the same ceremony for your father's foreman'sbenefit. Can I see Mr. Marbolt?"

  He was looking down into what he thought at the moment was thesweetest, saddest little face he had ever seen. It was dark withsunburn, in contrast with the prim white drill dress the girl wore,and her cheeks were tinged with a healthy color which might have beena reflection of the rosy tint of the ribbon about her neck. But it wasthe quiet, dark brown eyes, half wistful and wholly sad, and theslight droop at the corners of the pretty mouth, that gave him hisfirst striking impression. She was a delightful picture, but one ofgreat melancholy, quite out of keeping with her youth and freshbeauty.

  She looked up at him from under the brim of a wide straw sun-hat,trimmed with a plain silk handkerchief, and pinned to her wealth ofcurling brown hair so as to give her face the utmost shade. Then shefrankly held out her hand in welcome to him, whilst her eyesquestioned his, for she had witnessed the scene between the two menand overheard their words. But Tresler listened to her greeting with adisarming smile on his face.

  "Welcome, Mr. Tresler," she said gravely. "We have been expecting you.But I'm afraid you can't see father just now. He's sleeping. He alwayssleeps in the afternoon. You see, daylight or night, it makes nodifference to him. He's blind. He has drifted into a curious habit ofsleeping in the day as well as at night. Possibly it is a blessing,and helps him to forget his affliction. I am always careful, inconsequence, not to waken him. But come along up to the house; youmust have some lunch, and, later, a cup of tea."

  "You are awfully kind."

  Tresler watched a troubled look that crept into the calm expression ofher eyes. Then he looked on while she turned and dismissed thediscomfited foreman.

  "I shan't ride this afternoon, Jake," she said coldly. "You might haveBessie shod for me instead. Her hoofs are getting very long." Then sheturned again to her guest. "Come, Mr. Tresler."

  And the New Englander readily complied.

  Nor did he even glance again in the direction of the foreman.

  Jake cursed, not audibly, but with such hateful intensity that eventhe mat of beard and moustache parted, and the cruel mouth andclenched teeth beneath were revealed. His eyes, too, shone with adiabolical light. For the moment Tresler was master of the situation,but, as Jake had said, he was "boss" of that ranch. "Boss" with himdid not mean "owner."