The Night Riders Part 19

And so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover; so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. So he became absorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the serious issues which he felt, that, for his very love's sake, he should have probed deeply. So he rode on impervious to the keen, studious, sidelong glances wise old, drunken old Joe favored him with; impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman had fanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to time and distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered, called his attention to their arrival at the ranch.

"Say, boy," he observed, "that's the barn yonder. 'Fore we git ther'

ther's jest one thing more. Jake's goin' to play his hand by force.

Savee? Mebbe we've a notion o' that force--Miss Dianny an' me----"

"Yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, Joe. Developments must be our cue. We can do nothing but wait and be ready. There's the sheriff----"

"Eh? Sheriff?" Joe swung round, and was peering up into Tresler's face.

"Ah, I forgot." Tresler's expression was very thoughtful. They had arrived at the barn, and were dismounting. "I was following out my own train of thought. I agree with you, Joe, Red Mask and his doings are at the bottom of this business." His voice had dropped now to a low whisper lest any one should chance to be around.

Without a word Joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him, fixed him up for the night. Tresler did the same for his mare. Then they came out together. At the door Joe paused.

"Say," he remarked simply, "I jest didn't know you wus that smart."

"Don't credit me with smartness. It's--poor little girl."

"Ah!" Joe's face twisted into his apish grin. "Say, you'll stick to what you said?"

"Every word of it."

"Good; the rest's doin' itself, sure."

And they went their several ways; Joe to the kitchen of the house, and Tresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse.

CHAPTER IX

TRESLER INVOLVES HIMSELF FURTHER; THE LADY JEZEBEL IN A FREAKISH MOOD

Enthusiasm is the mainspring of a cowboy's life. Without enthusiasm a cowboy inevitably falls to the inglorious level of a "hired man"; a nice distinction in the social conditions of frontier life. The cowboy is sometimes a good man--not meaning a man of religion--and often a bad man. He is rarely indifferent. There are no half measures with him. His pride is in his craft. He will lavish the tenderness of a mother for her child upon his horse; he will play poker till he has had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing his last cent pa.s.s into somebody else's pocket; he will drink on the most generous scale, and is ever ready to quarrel. Even in this last he believes in thoroughness. But he has many good points which often outweigh his baser instincts. They can be left to the imagination; for it is best to know the worst of him at the outset to get a proper, and not a glorified estimate of his true character. The object of this story is to give a veracious, and not a highly gilded picture of the hardy prairie man of days gone by.

Before all things the cowboy is a horseman. His pride in this almost amounts to a craze. His fastidiousness in horse-flesh, in his accoutrements, his boots, his chapps, his jaunty silk handkerchief about his neck, even to the gauntlets he so often wears upon his hands, is an education in dandyism. He is a thorough dandy in his outfit. And the greater the dandy, the more surely is he a capable horseman. He is not a horse-breaker by trade, but he loves "broncho-busting" as a boy loves his recreation. It comes to him as a relief from the tedium of branding, feeding, rounding up, cutting out, mending fences, and all the utility work of the ranch. Every unbroken colt is like a ticket in a lottery; it may be easy, or it may be a tartar. And the tartar is the prize that every cowpuncher wants to draw so that he may demonstrate his horsemans.h.i.+p.

Broncho-busting was the order of the next day at Mosquito Bend, and all hands were agog, and an element of general cheeriness pervaded the bunkhouse whilst breakfast was in preparation. Marbolt had obtained a contract to supply the troops with a large band of remounts, and the terms demanded that each animal must be saddle-broken.

Tresler, with the rest, was up betimes. He, too, was going to take his part in the horse-breaking. While breakfast was in the course of preparation he went out to overhaul his saddle. There must be no doubtful straps in his gear. Each saddle would have a heavy part to play, and his own, being one he had bought second-hand from one of his comrades, needed looking to.

He was very thoughtful as he went about his work. His overnight talk with Joe Nelson had made him realize that he was no longer a looker-on, a pupil, simply one of the hands on the ranch. Hitherto he had felt, in a measure, free in his actions. He could do as it pleased him to do. He could have severed himself from the ranch, and washed his hands of all that was doing there. Now it was different. Whether he would or no he must play out his part. He had taken a certain stand, and that stand involved him with responsibilities which he had no wish to s.h.i.+rk.

His saddle was in order, his mare had been rubbed down and fed, and he was leisurely strolling over to the bunkhouse for breakfast. And as he pa.s.sed the foreman's hut he heard Jake's voice from within hailing him with unwonted cheeriness.

"Mornin', Tresler," he called out. "Late gettin' in last night."

Tresler moved over and stood in the doorway. He was wary of the tone, and answered coolly--

"Yes; the mare bolted this side of the ford, and took me ten miles south. When I got on the Forks trail I met Nelson on his way home."

"Ah, that mare's the very devil. How are you doin' with her now?"

"Oh, so, so. She leads me a dance, but I'd rather have her than any plug you've got on the ranch. She's the finest thing I've ever put a leg over."

"Yes, guess that's so. The boss was always struck on her. I kind of remember when she came. She wasn't bred hereabouts. The old man bought her from some half-breed outfit goin' through the country three years ago--that's how he told me. Then we tried to break her. Say, you've done well with her, boy."

Jake had been lacing up a pair of high field boots; they were ma.s.sive things with heavy, clumped soles, iron tips and heels. Now he straightened up.

"Did Nelson say why he was late?" he went on abruptly.

"No. And I didn't ask him."

"Ah, knew it, I s'pose. Drunk?"

"No."

Tresler felt that the lie was a justifiable one.

"Then what the devil kept the little swine?"

Jake's brows suddenly lowered, and the savage tone was no less than the coa.r.s.e brutality of his words. The other's coolness grew more marked.

"That was none of my concern. He'd delivered the letter, and it was only left for me to hurry him home."

"I'll swear he was loafin' around the saloon all day. Say, I guess I'll see him later."

Tresler shrugged and turned away. He wanted to tell this man what he thought of him. He felt positively murderous toward him. He had never met anybody who could so rouse him. Sooner or later a crisis would come, in spite of his rea.s.surances to Diane, and then--Jake watched him go. Then he turned again to the contemplation of his great boots, and muttered to himself.

"It won't be for long--no, not for long. But not yet. Ther's too much hangin' to it----" He broke off, and his fierce eyes looked after the retreating man.

The unconscious object of these attentions meanwhile reached the bunkhouse. Breakfast was well on, and he had to take his pannikin and plate round to Teddy's cookhouse to get his food. "Slushy," as the cook was familiarly called, dipped him out a liberal measure of pork and beans, and handed him half a loaf of new-made bread. Jinks was no n.i.g.g.ard, and Tresler was always welcome to all he needed.

"Goin' to ride?" the youth demanded, as he filled the pannikin with tea.

"Why, of course." Tresler had almost forgotten the change of work that had been set out for the day. His face brightened now as the cook reminded him of it. "Wouldn't miss it for a lot. That mare of mine has given me a taste for that sort of thing."

"Taste!" Teddy exclaimed, with a scornful wave of his dipper. "Belly full, I tho't, mebbe." He turned to his stove and shook the ashes down. "Say," he went on, over his shoulder, "guess I'm bakin' hash in mine. Ther' ain't so much glory, but ther's a heap more comfort to it."

Tresler pa.s.sed out smiling at the youth's ample philosophy. But the smile died out almost on the instant. A half-smothered cry reached him from somewhere in the direction of the barn. He stood for an instant with his brows knitted.

The next, and his movements became almost electrical.

Now the man's deliberate character flatly contradicted itself. There was no pause for consideration, no thought for what was best to do. He had heard that cry, and had recognized the voice. It was a cry that summoned him, and wrung the depths of his heart. His breakfast was pitched to the ground. And, as though fate had ordained it, he beheld a heavy rawhide quirt lying on the ground where he had halted. He grabbed the cruel weapon up, and set off at a run in the direction whence the cry had come.

His feet were still encased in the soft moccasin slippers he usually wore in exchange for his riding boots, and, as he ran, they gave out no sound. It was a matter of fifty yards to the foreman's hut, and he sprinted this in even time, keeping the building between himself and a direct view of the barn, in the region of which lay his destination.

And as he ran the set expression of his face boded ill for some one.

Jaws and mouth were clenched to a fierce rigidity that said far more than any words could have done.