the aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air. through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of its golden rays into the wide stoop. the mists were already gathering upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.
two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda. they were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life that was theirs. but then the day was closing, and one of them had come a long saddle journey. whisky stood on a table at the elbow of dug mcfarlane. jeffrey masters had coffee near by.
outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of orrville.
dug mcfarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was in strong contrast to his guest. the american-scot was something of a product of the soil. he was of the type which forces its way up from the smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon a career in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course. he was a man of one idea--cattle.
he knew nothing beyond--cattle. cattle was the sum and substance of his celibate life. he was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else. but jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a roughness which left his own partner, bud, a man of education and refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, jeff, could only hope to count his in the distant years to come.
jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man peters. and while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual interest. the land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was their beginning and end. they discussed every prospect from the overwhelming competition of the argentine, to the rapid transformation of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. their interest seemed endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of peters for their talk to continue until sleep overtook them.
but the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the name of peters. jeff was curious to hear about him.
"who is this peters, anyway?" he demanded. "he's not down in the stock register, and nobody seems to have found him except you."
dug's reply came with a great laugh. his very bright gray eyes were full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.
"peters? why, i guess peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff. you've never seen him? you don't know him? no. sure you wouldn't. nor you wouldn't find him registered. y'see, they don't register mixed farm stock. anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. but he's bright--oh, yep, he's bright, sure. he's a little feller. to git him right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed abnormal. he's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his patch of land. you'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin' things wrong. i'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. i can't stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns o' sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."
"is that the reason of the dispute?" jeff asked with smile.
dug grinned and shook his head.
"no, siree," he cried. "it ain't a thing to do with it. but i guess we'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around. y'see, this arbitration game needs to be played good. i'd hate to get ahead of the little cuss by settin' out my case in private. nope. i hain't got a thing agin that grasshopper. not a thing, and i jest need to get this thing straightened right, even if it goes agin me. that's why we fixed on appealin' to you rather than the law. y'see, i could buy up a decision at law, which peters knows, so we decided on the right judgment of a straight feller. say, what in----!"
dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath. jeff, too, was on his feet. there was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper. a string of hoarse invective in a human voice. the hammering of horses' hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot. dug broke into a great laugh as he thrust his head out.
"well, i be----!" he cried.
jeff joined in his laugh. an absurdly small man was clinging desperately to the saddle of an absurdly large horse, which was rearing and plunging in a wild effort to shed its rider and bolt from the neighborhood of the overturned smudge-fire bucket.
what a wealth of terror reigned. the gray-headed little man's face matched the hue of his hair. his short arms were grabbing frantically at his horse's neck. his eyes were full of a piteous appeal, and his savage-looking spurs were firmly grappling his steed's flanks. the wretched horse was shaking in every limb. its eyes were bulging, and the fierce snorts of his gushing nostrils had the force of escaping steam.
before any assistance could be offered by the onlookers the climax was reached and passed. elias peters rolled slowly out of the saddle and reached the ground with a heavy flop. then, while its recent burden gathered himself up, quite unhurt and smiling amiably in relief, the horse contentedly mouched off toward a patch of inviting grass.
"guess i'm kind o' late, mr. mcfarlane," elias apologized. "an' it seems i've bust up your fire-bucket some," he added ruefully. then with cheery optimism: "it was hustling to get here. i didn't jest see it. still, i got around."
"you sure have," grinned dug. then he indicated his companion. "this is mr. jeffrey masters, president of the western union. if you'll come right along in we ken get things fixed up. meanwhiles i'll jest have a 'hand' round-up your plug an' feed him hay."
* * * * * *
another chair was brought from the house and elias peters was ensconced therein. he was a gray little man. gray from head to foot, it seemed. his hair, his eyes, his skin, his whiskers, his shirt, his loose jacket over it, his trousers. even the top-boots he wore, which, had doubtless once been black. everything about him was gray.
dug pressed whisky on him.
"take your time," he had said, in his easy, cordial fashion. "ther' ain't no sort o' hurry. it's li'ble to shake a boy o' your years foolin' around in the dust when you'd oughter be in the saddle."
"that's just it, mr. mcfarlane," came the prompt, distressed complaint. "what in the nature o' blamed things made me act that way?"
"jest the--nature o' things, i guess."
the little man's eyes twinkled.
"guess you mean ther's folks who ain't in their right element in the saddle, an'--i'm one of 'em." then he turned on jeff, whose whole interest had been quite absorbed in a personality which dug had described as being reminiscent of a "buck louse." "say, mr. masters, guess you ain't never tried any stunt like raisin' kebbiges on a hog ranch? no, sure you ain't. ther's jest one feller runnin' loose on this planet 'ud act that way, an' that's me. guess i bin doin' it all my life," he added, thoughtfully chewing a forefinger. "i was built for, an' raised in a fifth rate city, an' i got the ideas an' ambitions of the president of a republic. ther' ain't a blamed thing i can't do but i want to do. an' the worst of it is ther's a sort o' restless spirit in me jest sets me so crazy to do it i can't resist makin' the jump. that's how i come to buy up a bum homestead up toward the hills here, an' got the notion i could make a pile runnin' a mixed farm that way. that's how i come to get outside a hoss when i'd be safer inside. that's how i come to--'break' a deal more prairie land than i could ever sow or harvest. that's how i bought machinery for a thousand acre farm when i'd only got a half a mile. that's how i come to run a bunch of cows without settin' up fencin' around my crops. that's how i bo't the whole blamed lay-out without verifyin' the darned law feller's statement i'd got grazin' rights on mr. mcfarlane's grass--which is the thing i came right here to yarn about when i got mixed up with that unnatural hell, which i've learned since was only set up to amuse the skitters. kind o' makes me feel if i was to set fer my pictur' i'd sure come out a shipwreck at sea, or some other darn fool kind of unpleasantness."
jeff was forced to echo the laugh which dug indulged in without restraint. it seemed cruel in face of the strange little man's serious distress. but its only effect upon him was to produce an inquiring glance of profound but unresentful astonishment.
"guess i must 'a' said something," he protested mildly. "seems to me i most generly do, with mr. mcfarlane around." then he smiled in his wintry fashion, which was quite powerless to add warmth to his curious aspect of grayness. "guess he must ha' been born laffin'--p'raps," he added thoughtfully. "it's a dandy thing bein' born laffin'. i don't reckon i ever got that luck. it's more likely my moma got lost in a fog the day i was born. can't account noways fer things otherwise."
dug pushed the whisky bottle at him as a set-off to his own uncontrolled mirth, and in a few moments contrived to subdue his paroxysms sufficiently to start the business in hand.
"now, masters," he said, as soon as the diminutive elias had ministered adequately to his glass, "we've got a curious proposition to set before you. it's jest one of them things which crops up in a country like this, where a whole heap o' the laws happens along through custom. an' like all sech customs, ther's li'ble to be a tarnation lot of friction lyin' around if we can't get a right settlement. now, if we go to the courts it's goin' to be a mighty big scrap, eatin' up a hell of a pile of dollars. an' if you're wise to the ways of the law fellers you ken just about figger the verdict is goin' to come along to the feller with the biggest wad. in this case i guess i'm the feller with the biggest wad. now, ther's no sort o' bad blood between peters an' me, 'cep' it is he will sing hymns outrageous on a sunday. still, i ain't goin' to let that cut no ice. i'm out for a square decision between us by a feller that don't know the meanin' of graft. i don't care a cuss who gets it. but i ain't goin' to be bluffed by any fancy legal readings of a position by city lawyers who don't know the north end of a steer goin' south from the cluckin' proposition of a blind hen motherin' a litter o' dormice. peters here'll give you his case, seein' he's plaintiff, in an elegant flow of warm air, an' when he's through i'll sort of hand you a counterblast. an' when we finished you'll hand out your dope on the subject, that is if we ain't talked you into a home for incurable arbitrators. you'll get busy right away, peters."
the rancher's manner was irresistible in its breezy frankness and generosity. jeff wondered at him. any man of modern business methods, he felt, would have jumped at the advantage which his wealth would have given him in the law courts over so insignificant a person as elias peters. the whole situation inspired in him the feeling that he was in the presence of a really big man. a man who deserved every fraction of his success.
nor was there any doubt as to the little gray man's feelings as he took a drink of whisky, and fixed his small eyes upon the weather and years-lined features of his adversary.
"guess you've made me feel 'bout as big as an under-fed skitter," he complained. "you make me sort o' feel i want to tell you to keep your darn grazin' rights till i ken hand you a bunch of bills such as i'd like to pass on to an honest man. but i don't guess i'm goin' to do it. y'see, i just can't afford it. if i can't graze my stock on your grass they got to starve, or i got to get out. an', seein' i doped all my wad into this lay-out, it 'ud well-nigh mean ruin to act that way."
then he turned to jeff, who was almost bewildered at the curious attitude toward each other of these men.
"now, i ain't got a fancy yarn to hand you," he went on, fumbling in his pockets. "i jest got my papers, here, as i got 'em from the law fellers. you best take 'em, an' after we done get a look into 'em." he passed them across. "now these are the fac's of how i bo't, why i bo't, an' who i bo't from. the place is a haf section, an' they asked five thousand odd dollars for it. it was a bum sort o' homestead, an' belonged to a widder woman who'd got her man shot up by some rustlers workin' around this country. they went by the name of whitstone, but their real name, by them papers, was van blooren----"
"what name?" jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man.
"van blooren."
"go on."
jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper. he was no longer regarding the man's unemotional gray features.
"wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clause in them papers. this widder woman owned a right to graze up to two hundred head o' stock on mr. mcfarlane's range. there was no mention o' lease, nor nothin' to talk of payin' fer it. the right was in the deed of sale, clear an' unquestioned. you'll see it right there in them papers. wal, i'm runnin' a hundred of stock, and the half section is under cultivation. now, mr. mcfarlane comes on me with the news that this widder woman had no such rights to sell, an' that she and her man were only allowed to graze their stock on his grass to help them out. he's acted white over it so far, an' ain't taken no sort of action. he's jest let my fool cows an' their calves run around chewin' till their jaws is tired, which is a white way of seein' things. all he's handed me is that i ain't got no right, an' the thing stands pending your decision. he says the whole proposition is jest business. he's got to safeguard the values of his property. now, sir, i claim them rights by right of that deed, an' if ther's any case it's between that van blooren widder an' mr. mcfarlane. you got my papers, an'--wal, how d'you guess i stand?"
the little man's eyes were anxious as he made his final appeal. but no satisfaction was forthcoming at the moment. jeff's head was bent over the papers he had been handed. his eyes were hidden. he seemed wholly engrossed upon the various clauses in the deed. finally he spoke without looking up.
"there's no deed granting grazing rights executed by mr. mcfarlane here," he said.
before peters could reply, dug broke in.
"ther' never was one made," he said easily. "i don't guess you'll find it ther'--'less you use trick eyes. here--say, peters has given you his story right. i ain't no kick comin' to a word of it. but this thing has more sides to it than you'd fancy. now, i don't just care a cuss peters' grazin' two hundred, or five hundred head of stock on my pastures. but if peters bo't rights an' ken prove it, why, he's the right to sell 'em on to any feller who comes along, which kind o' turns my ranch into common land. nothin' doin'. no, siree!"
jeff had abandoned his search of the papers. nor was he regarding either of the men. his eyes were directed through the lacing of creeper, his gaze concentrated upon the purple vista of the hills. his brows were depressed with profound thought. nor were the blue depths of his eyes easy. peters' whole attention was upon the rancher.
"now, see right here, masters," dug went on, after a deeply considering pause. "i got a story to tell you i'd have liked to hold up, an' the reason i hate handin' it you is jest a sort o' fool sense of honor. howsum, when folks git gay i can't see you're right to hold your hand. now, them rights are sold by the law fellers of that widder woman, an', i guess, actin' under her instructions. now, she knows she don't own no rights to sell. wal, i allow she's on the crook."
"crook?" jeff's interrogation came swiftly, in a harsh voice utterly unlike his own. then his eyes came round to the face of the rancher. there was something deadly in the steadiness of their regard. "this widow," he said. "her name is van blooren. what is her first name, and the first name of her--husband?"
before dug could reply peters pointed at the deeds of sale.
"guess her full name's writ ther'," he said. "elvine van blooren. sort of queer name, ain't it? it sort o' hit me that way when i first see it. kind o' good name fer a--crook."
jeff's eyes dropped to the papers again as dug gave the other information required.
"the man's name was robert--bob. called hisself when he was here. y'see, his paw was some swell guy who guessed his son had made some darn fool marriage. an' i allow he was wise. howbe, their names an' sech don't cut no ice."
"no."
jeff's monosyllable brought dug's gaze swiftly in his direction. the next moment they were looking squarely into each other's eyes, and, as far as jeff was concerned, peters was entirely forgotten.
"will you tell me all you know of--this woman?" jeff said, after a moment. "i guess it'll be necessary--before we're through."
"sure. that's how i figgered." a momentary tension seemed to have been relaxed. dug once more settled himself at his ease.
"'tain't a pretty yarn, when you come to think," he said, his brows contracting under his feelings. "men are jest men, an' i guess you don't generly expect more'n a stink from a skunk. but with women it's diff'rent. when a feller thinks of women, he thinks of his mother, or sweetheart, or his wife. an' when he thinks that way, why, i don't guess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good. howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a feller cryin' as laffin' most times. this thing come over that lightfoot gang. we got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped full of lead out of hand they was hanged. sort o' queer, too, the way we got 'em. i'd set up a reward. ten thousand dollars. it was right out o' my own bank roll. wal, i set it up--the notice o' reward--one night, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for. bob whitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me. i hadn't no use fer the feller up to then. he was weak-kneed. and, in a way, had fallen fer ju penrose's rye. he'd come to me once before on the subject o' these all-fired grazin' rights. y'see, he'd been tryin' to git ahead raisin' wheat in a country where ther' was only a market fer cattle an' rye whisky. anyway, he cut most o' the wheat racket, an' guessed he'd travel the same road as other folks, an' asked me for permission to graze. i was kind o' sorry about him, an' his good-lookin' wife--both city-raised folk--an' i did as he ast. i said he could graze up to two hundred head. git a line on that. them rights was verbal between him an' me to help him out. ther' wa'an't no sort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition. wal, when he come along in with his news i set him right through it, an' i allow, before i quit him, i got the notion that fer all his addled ways there was a heap to him i hadn't guessed. he started by sayin' he'd located the rustlers, got their camp set in the hills, an' could hand over the whole blamed bunch right away quick. that was elegant. but i ast him how it come he'd on'y located 'em twelve hours after i'd set up a ten thousand dollar reward. y'see, they'd been rustlin' around fi' years. wal, to cut a long yarn, i got the whole thing out of him in quick time--he was like a kid in my hands. he hadn't located that camp, he wasn't goin' to touch a cent of them ten thousand. he called it 'blood money,' an' cussed it good an' plenty with an elegant flow. it was his wife. yes, siree, it was the woman driving the man. she'd located them rustlers by chance only the day before, while he was around ju's place sousin' rye. when he got home an told her of the reward, she was nigh crazy to git her hands on the dollars. seems to me ther' must have been a mighty scrap-up. i guess she told him of his ways, an' what he'd brought her to--in a way some women-folk can. i didn't git it all clear. y'see, he did his best to screen her. anyways, she made him promise to fix things so she touched those dollars. an' that's why he come to me. ther's jest one thing stuck in my head so i can't lose it. it was his last words to me about it. he says, says he, see here, mr. mcfarlane, i need one favor out o' you. i want to go with you on this racket, an' if ther's any mercy in the god of heaven, he'll let me get my dose when the shootin' starts. effie--that's how he called his wife--wants them dollars, an' you'll see she gets 'em. but for me i just couldn't ever live around a woman who'd handled that blood money! he didn't use them words. they're mine. but it's 'bout how he put it. wal, when the play was over he'd had his wish. he was dropped plumb in his tracks. then i handed his widder the dollars. she ain't around these parts now so it don't matter handin' you the story of it. maybe she's married agin. she was some picture woman. but anyway i'd say right here, the woman who could take the price of men's lives would be low enough to bluff a boy like peters here out of his stock of dollars on a play like these rights. an' that's why i reckon this thing's been done on the crook."
he reached round for his glass and took a deep drink in the silence that followed his story. then, as neither the man who was to arbitrate, nor peters, attempted to break it, he went on:
"guess a reward's jest a reward, an' you can't kick at the feller who comes along an' grabs a holt on it. but when a woman, young, a good-looker, an' eddicated, an' refined, gits grabbin', why, it makes you see sulphur an' brimstone, an' horns an' hoofs when your thoughts are full o' buzzin' white wings an' harps, an' halos an' things. git me? i guess stealin' dollars out o' a citizen's pocket-book wouldn't be a circumstance to a female of that nature. say, i ain't got rid o' the stink of it yet, though it happened four years ago."
the man's contempt and loathing were intense. he had offered the reward, paid it, he had led the vigilantes in the hanging. but these things were simply part of the justice of man as he saw it, and rightly administered.
the silent moments slipped by. jeffrey masters was sitting erect in his chair. a marble coldness seemed to have settled itself upon his keen face. peters was waiting for that decision he desired. dug mcfarlane, with more understanding, realized that something was wrong. he, too, remained silent, however.
at last jeff stirred. his gaze shifted. it turned half vaguely upon the little man peters. then it seemed to drift unmeaningly toward the rancher. a moment later it fell upon the papers he was so tightly gripping. it was then that realization seemed to come upon him. he reached out and handed the deeds to their owner. a moment later he was on his feet, and had moved across to the front of the veranda, where he stood, slim, erect, and with his back turned upon the others.
he cleared his throat and spoke in a steady voice.
"i can only hand you a decision on the intention as apart from the legal aspect of the case," he said judicially. "it's clear to me no saleable rights were given. there was no transaction over them. the widow of this man had no rights to sell. if disinterested advice is acceptable i should urge this. it's in view, i guess, of mcfarlane's expressed indifference to peters' cattle grazing on his land. let peters acknowledge he has no rights. then let mcfarlane enter into an agreement that peters can run his stock on his land, the right being non-transferable. i should put the whole thing in writing."
"an' a darn good an' honest decision, too," cried dug heartily.
the shadow of a beatific smile passed over peters' small features.
"bully!" he murmured. then he added: "but i sort o' feel we both oughter set the law on that--she devil."
jeff turned abruptly. his movement was almost electrical.
"i shouldn't," he said sharply.
dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.
"why not?" there was a dash of resentment in peters' tone.
but jeff was spared a reply. dug anticipated him with an oath.
"gol darn you, because she's--a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth. "hell take it you ken have your rights. that's enough, i guess. i'll have the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow. meanwhile i'm sick to death of the whole blamed thing. i quit right here."
his intention was plain enough. he meant there should be no misunderstanding it. and the little man, peters, took his dismissal without demur.
the moment peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in a cloud of dust, dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest. jeff almost mechanically accepted it. he gulped down a stiff drink of neat spirit. dug watched him.
"guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.
jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.
dug returned to his seat and gazed out at the yellow and purple afterglow of sunset.
"say, maybe you'd feel like handin' me the reason you wouldn't set the law on to that--woman?" he went on presently.
the question was by no means idle. it was inspired by the man's genuinely kindly nature. somehow, he felt that he had been responsible for that which he had seen, still saw, in this man's eyes.
but he was wholly unprepared for the reply forthcoming. it came promptly. each word came distinctly, deliberately, in a voice of bitter coldness. the tragedy of it left the rancher speechless.
"because i married elvine van blooren just over six weeks ago."
