The Golden Woman Part 32

"He's gone across ther' now?" he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.

Beasley saw the man's hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.

"Seems like it," he said. "Though course I can't rightly say. I see him ride off down the trail that way----"

"Here, I'll take another drink. I'm goin' after----"

"Say, you ain't goin' to b.u.t.t in with two folks courtin'?" cried Beasley, blandly innocent.

But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the gla.s.s down, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man's name on the slate.

"I'd give somethin' to see it," he muttered. Then he rubbed out the entry he had made. "Guess I'll make it six drinks. He's too rattled to remember."

Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon's events. At the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.

"Say, if they ain't jest like two dogs worritin' a bone you got me plumb beat," he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue: "I'd like to say right here she's jest playin' them fellers for their wads. Oh, she's a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She'll sure have 'em shootin' each other right up. Seems to me a gal like that ain't no right in this yer city. She's a scandal to the place.

An' a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an'

safety of our citizens, an' anything calc'lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to."

Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the role of spectators.

So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could.

But presently a diversion occurred by the advent of Buck. He rode up, his great horse loaded down with the carca.s.ses of three splendid deer.

He had brought them in for sale. Game was a precious thing in this camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled.

The moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them, and Beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom prices before he could secure them for retailing. He paid ungraciously enough. If there was one man more than another in the camp he begrudged anything to it was Buck. Besides, it made him utterly furious to think that he never came up against this man on any debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst.

However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid, mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal animosities to be wiped out at some future date.

But Buck's presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pa.s.s without availing himself of it. Buck's interest in Joan was something to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.

Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.

"Say," Beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the rest, "guess you ain't bin around the farm lately--I mean this afternoon?"

Buck looked him coldly in the eye.

"No--why?"

Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

"Oh, nuthin'! Guess it might be as well if you had."

He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade.

Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away and went out to his horse.

CHAPTER XX

THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD

Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent ugliness of Devil's Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost something of its power to disturb.

It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves with the succulent gra.s.s and dozing the long daylight hours away. The "hired" man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and c.o.c.kerels were amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of effort for the sheer delight of being busy.

It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which very nearly approached her ideal.

Here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to shelter her face from the burning attentions of the summer sun, leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to disturb the general peace. A large hen with a late-hatched brood of chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an absurd-looking pig which had scarcely pa.s.sed its sucking age.

They had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed.

For the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked alarm at her offspring. The pig, squealing in a high treble, was standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of idiotic confusion. Perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and appreciated the young porker's inability. Anyway, she took the initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming.

The porker's mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. His sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail and bolt for safety. He just stood there and continued his helpless baby squealing. This was all the old hen needed to drive her to extremities. Realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring, scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig's nose violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leaving her brood to care for themselves. Thus the pig was left looking after her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about.

Joan stood convulsed with laughter. The pig interested her vastly more than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind.

But she was disappointed. Its momentary confusion had pa.s.sed, and, lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the delights of which its young mind was just awakening to.

She had moved away to pa.s.s on toward the house when she was startled by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. She turned and found herself staring into the grinning face of Montana Ike.

She was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. This man had become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and unexpected moments. And his att.i.tude was such that she thoroughly resented him. In his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had a.s.sumed a sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs.

The moment she faced him, his confident att.i.tude became more p.r.o.nounced.

"Comic, ain't it?" he suggested. Then he added, as though to a.s.sure her of his appreciation: "Nigh as comic as a cirkis."

But all Joan's delight in the scene was gone. Her beautiful eyes were sparkling angrily. She made up her mind then and there to be rude to the man. She would not have him about the place.

"What do you want?" she inquired bluntly.

The boy's grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider.

"Wot do I want? Gee! You're feelin' friendly." Then he put on a manner he intended to be facetious. "An' me left my patch o' pay-dirt, an'

all, to pay a 'party' call. Say, Miss Golden, that ain't sa.s.siety ways in this yer camp."

His attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. Joan, studying the man closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance, she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. She must get rid of him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. However, she took a firm stand.

"Maybe not," she said coldly. "But when people make 'party' calls they generally do it at convenient times. I'm very busy."

The man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared.

"Kind o' seemed busy when I got around. Y' see you was sure that busy you didn't hear my hoss comin' along, you never see me git off him an'

leave him back ther', an' me come along over an' stand watchin' you doin' nuthin' fer nigh fi' minutes. Oh, you're sure busy!"

Joan flushed. She knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was infuriating. She made no attempt to further disguise her feelings.