The Range Boss, Charles Alden Seltzer [android pdf ebook reader txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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Out on the front porch later in the morning, with Chavis and Pickett standing near, she asked Masten to ride with her.
He seemed annoyed, but spoke persuasively.
“Put it off a day, won’t you, Ruth? There’s a good girl. I’ve promised to go to Lazette with the boys this morning, and I don’t want to disappoint them.” Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he added: “Where did you want to ride?”
“Why,” she said, hoping that, after all, he might change his mind, “I’m only going to the box canyon, down the river. There’s such a pretty stretch of timber there.”
He smiled indulgently. “I’ll try to meet you there, this afternoon about three, if I can make it. But don’t wait longer.” He turned his back to her and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett.
She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near the corral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepson standing near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. She forced a smile and went into the house.
A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river. She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spite of the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face during their talk.
It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, and she made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly two o’clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to a tree. Seating herself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait.
It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch, impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was about to rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofs near her.
With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the direction from which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying to appear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. He did care, after all, enough to part with his companions—for her sake. She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when she heard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands to keep from turning to face him.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips.
Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom Chavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did not fear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at him composedly, for she half suspected that Masten had sent him, fearing that she would wait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up and faced Chavis.
“Mr. Masten couldn’t come, I suppose?” she said.
“That’s right,” he said, looking at her oddly; “he couldn’t come. You see, he’s sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan’s, over in Lazette, an’ he couldn’t very well break away.”
“A biscuit shooter!” she said, uncomprehendingly.
“Sure. I reckon that back East you’d call her a waitress, or somethin’. I ain’t admirin’ his taste none. She ain’t nowheres near as good-lookin’ as you.”
Her first emotion was one of sickening, maddening jealousy. It made her physically weak, and she trembled as she fought it down. But the sensation passed and, though she felt that her face was hot and flushed, the cold calm of righteous resentment was slowly seizing her.
“Did Mr. Masten send you here to tell me this?” she asked icily.
“Why, no. I did it on my own hook. I knowed you’d be waitin’—I heard you makin’ the date with Willard, this mornin’. An’ I figgered that what was fair for one was fair for another. So I sneaked away from Willard an’ come here. I’ve taken quite a shine to you, ma’am; you’ve sure got me some flustered. An’ I reckon—” here he took a step toward her and grinned significantly “that I’ll make a rattlin’ good substitute for Willard.”
She struck at him, blindly, savagely. She felt her open hand strike his cheek, heard him curse, and then, in a daze she was running toward her pony. She did not turn, but furiously raced the animal across the plains toward the ranchhouse.
She was calmer when she reached the house, but went directly to her room, where she changed her clothes and sat for a long time at one of the windows, looking toward the river—and toward Lazette.
Downstairs, Uncle Jepson, who from a window of the bunkhouse had seen her come in, had followed her into the house, to remark grumblingly to Aunt Martha:
“Willard didn’t meet her, drat him!”
Ruth passed a miserable night, thinking over Chavis’ words. The man might have been lying. Obviously, common fairness demanded that she tell Masten of the circumstance. On one thing she was determined: that Chavis should leave the ranch, whether he had lied to her or not. She would have instructed Vickers to attend to that, but Vickers had gone again to Red Rock on business, and would not return for two or three days. She would wait until Vickers returned to discharge Chavis, but she must tell Masten of the insult, for she yearned to see Chavis punished.
She waited until after breakfast the following morning, and then she induced Masten to walk with her, under pretext of examining the flower beds. Reaching them, she faced him fairly.
“Willard,” she said, her lips white and stiff, “there must be no double-dealing between you and me. Tom Chavis told me yesterday that you are interested in a waitress in Lazette. Is that true?”
He started, flushed darkly, and then smiled blandly.
“Tom Chavis is romancing, my dear. If there is a waitress in Lazette I have not seen her.” He seized her by the shoulders and spoke earnestly. “I am interested in Ruth Harkness, my dear. You surely don’t believe such a story, do you, Ruth?”
He looked at her so frankly that her jealousy took wings, and she blushed and lowered her eyes. She raised them again, almost instantly, however; they were glowing vindictively.
“Tom Chavis came to the box canyon at three yesterday afternoon,” she said firmly. “He insulted me. I want you to discharge him; Vickers is not here to do it. And I do not want to see him again.”
He pressed his lips together and avoided her gaze, and a slow red stole into his face. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
“Tom Chavis is a valuable man here, Ruth,” he said. “If the insult was one that can be overlooked, you would do well to let the matter rest. But be assured that I shall have a talk with Chavis, and you may believe that he will not repeat the offense.” He patted her shoulder. “In the meantime,” he said, with a hurt expression in his eyes, “do have some faith in me.”
Reassured, convinced that she had done him an injustice in believing Chavis, she passed the remainder of the day in comparative light-heartedness. But when the awesome darkness of the West settled over the country, and deep, stirring thoughts came to her on her pillow, she found herself thinking of the rider of the river. He grew very vivid in her thoughts, and she found herself wondering,—remembering the stern manliness of his face,—whether he, listening to the story of Chavis’ insult from her lips, would have sought to find excuses for her insulter.
On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson were sitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was reading and thinking—thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap. Masten was smoking a cigar—one of the many that he had brought with him—and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Masten seemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silent during long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed and immaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country, where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication of effeminacy.
Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in the first place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party in Poughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the country gallants at the party as he had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seen since coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he had quite captivated her, and after their engagement—which had been a rather matter-of-fact affair—she had not found it possible to refuse him permission to accompany her to the West.
“Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?” Masten inquired at last.
“Neighbor!” Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing her place. “Why, I didn’t know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond H!”
Masten’s lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant memories.
“A nester,” he said, and then added after a pause—“and his daughter. Only two miles from here, across the river. There’s a trail, through a break in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of the river. The man’s name is Catherson—Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he was something of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to steal Flying W cattle. He’s an old savage.”
“And the daughter?” inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.
“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”
“How old is she, Willard?”
“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”
“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.
“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.
“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:
“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:
“Some one is coming!”
During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind.
It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.
Plainly there was something on Vickers’ mind, for he smiled mechanically as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.
“Well, I’m back,” he said. He looked at
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