The Fighting Shepherdess Part 64

Furthermore--he imparted the information in a voice lowered to a confidential pitch--he had it from a reliable source that the bank itself had been caught in a pinch and had been obliged to transfer its stock to a depositor to save itself.

Toomey expatiated upon the merits of the proposition and the subsequent opportunities if it went through, until a feverish spot burned on either cheek-bone. And the burden of his refrain was that never since Noah came out of the ark, "the sole survivor," and all the world his oyster, as it were, had there been such a chance to "glom" everything in sight for a song.

If Prentiss's eyes twinkled occasionally, Toomey was too intent upon presenting his case in the strongest possible light to notice it; nor did he desist until Prentiss displayed signs of restlessness. Then, not to crowd his luck, he let the subject drop and sought to entertain him with a running fire of humorous comments upon the pa.s.sersby.

Toomey excelled at this, forgetting, as is frequently the case, that no one of those whom he lampooned was as fitting a subject for ridicule as himself.

During a pause he observed:

"By the way, there's a woman of your name living about here."

"So I've heard."

"No connection, of course--different spelling, but not apt to be in any case." There was a covert sneer in his voice.

"How's that?" casually.

"She--" with a shrug--"well, she isn't up to much."

Prentiss stirred slightly.

"No?"

Toomey detected interest and lowered his voice.

"In fact, she's no good."

Prentiss sat quite still--the stillness of a man who takes a shock in that way.

"They call her the 'Sheep Queen,' but we Old Timers know her as 'Mormon Joe's Kate.' She shipped a while back, and just come home all dolled up.

Made a little money, no doubt, but any pinhead could do that, the way prices are. She'll never get 'in,' though."

"'In' where?"

"In society. For a little burg," with pride, "you'd be surprised to know how exclusive they are here." The speech showed what, among other things, the years in Prouty had done to Toomey.

A half-inch of cigar burned to ashes between Prentiss's finger-tips before he spoke.

"So--the Sheep Queen is ostracized?"

"Well--rather!" with unctuous emphasis. "My wife tried to take her up--but she couldn't make it stick. Found it would hurt us in our business, socially, and all that."

Prentiss raised his cigar to his lips and looked at Toomey through slightly narrowed lids which might or might not be due to smoke as he asked:

"Just what was her offense?"

Toomey laughed.

"It would be hard to say as to that. She came here under a cloud, and has been under one ever since. She has no antecedents, no blood, and even in a town like Prouty such things count. Her mother was Jezebel of the Sand Coulee, a notorious roadhouse in the southern part of the state; her father was G.o.d-knows-who--some freighter or sheepherder, most like."

"Interesting--quite. Go on."

Toomey did not note the constraint in Prentiss's voice and proceeded with gusto:

"She followed off a fellow called Mormon Joe, and trailed in here in overalls behind the little band of ewes that gave them their start. He took up a homestead back in the hills and they lived on about as near nothing as anybody could, and live at all--like a couple of white Indians sleeping in tents and eating out of a frying pan.

"A chap that was visiting me one summer brought her to a dance here at the Prouty House--did it on a bet that he hadn't sand enough. She came downstairs looking like a Christmas tree. Everybody gave her the frosty mitt and they had to leave."

Prentiss watched a smoke ring rise before he asked:

"Why did they do that?"

"So she wouldn't make the same mistake again."

Toomey laughed, and added:

"They took a 'fall' out of her every time they could after that. There was something about her that invited it," he added reflectively, "the way she held her head up, as if she defied them to do their worst, and,"

chuckling, "they did."

Prentiss thrust a forefinger inside his collar and gave it a tug as though it choked.

"This Mormon Joe--what became of him?"

The gleeful light went out of Toomey's face.

"He was killed in a shack down here."

"How?"

"A trap-gun."

"By whom?"

Toomey recrossed his long legs and sought a new position for his hands with the quick erratic movements of nervousness. He hesitated, then replied:

"They suspected her."

"Why?"

"She was the only one to benefit."

"There was no proof?"

"No."

"What do you think?"

Toomey deliberated a moment: