The Ranchman Part 10

Again he mentally quoted from Larry's note to him:

The others were too selfish and sneaking. (That meant Parsons-and one other.) Squint, I want you to take care of her.... Sell-the mine-take my share and for it give Marion a half-interest in your ranch, the Arrow. If there is any left, put it in land in Dawes-that town is going to boom. Guard it for her, and marry her, Squint; she'll make you a good wife.

Since the first meeting with the girl on the train Taylor had felt an entire sympathy with Larry Harlan in his expressed desire to have Taylor marry the girl; in fact, she was the first girl that Taylor had ever wanted to marry, and the pa.s.sion in his heart for her had already pa.s.sed the wistful stage-he was determined to have her. But that pa.s.sion did not lessen his sense of obligation to Larry Harlan. Nor would it-if he could not have the girl himself-prevent him doing what he could to keep her from forming any sort of an alliance with the sort of man Larry had wished to save her from, as expressed in this pa.s.sage of the note: "If Marion is going to fall in with one of that kind, I'd rather she wouldn't get what I leave."

Therefore, since Taylor distrusted Carrington and Parsons, he had decided he would not tell the girl of the money her father had left-the share of the proceeds of the mine. He would hold it for her, as a sacred trust, until the time came-if it ever came-when she would have discovered their faithlessness-or until she needed the money. More, he was determined to expose the men.

He knew, thanks to his eavesdropping on the train, at least something regarding the motives that had brought them to Dawes; Carrington's words, "When we get hold of the reins," had convinced him that they and the interests behind them were to endeavor to rob the people of Dawes.

That was indicated by their attempt to have David Danforth elected mayor of the town.

Taylor had already decided that he could not permit Marion to see the note her father had left, for he did not want her to feel that she was under any obligation-parental or otherwise-to marry him. If he won her at all, he wanted to win her on his merits.

As a matter of fact, since he had decided to lie about the money, he was determined to say nothing about the note at all. He would keep silent, making whatever explanations that seemed to be necessary, trusting to time and the logical sequence of events for the desired outcome.

He was forced to begin to lie at once. When he had finished the story of Larry's untimely death, the girl looked straight at him.

"Then you were with him when he died. Did-did he mention anyone-my mother-or me?"

"He said: 'Squint, there is a daughter'"-Taylor was quoting from the note-"'she was fifteen when I saw her last. She looked just like me-thank G.o.d for that!'" Taylor blushed when he saw the girl's face redden, for he knew what her thoughts were. He should not have quoted that sentence. He resolved to be more careful; and went on: "He told me I was to take care of you, to offer you a home at the Arrow-after I found you. I was to go to Westwood, Illinois, to find you. I suppose he wanted me to bring you here."

The speech was entirely unworthy, and Taylor knew it, and he eased his conscience by adding: "He thought, I suppose, that you would like to be where he had been. I've not touched the room he had. All his effects are there-everything he owned, just as he left them. I had given him a room in the house because I liked him (that was the truth), and I wanted him where I could talk to him."

"I cannot thank you enough for that!" she said earnestly. And then Taylor was forced to lie again, for she immediately asked: "And the mine? It proved to be worthless, I suppose. For," she added, "that would be just father's luck."

"The mine wasn't what we thought it would be," said Taylor. He was looking at his boots when he spoke, and he wondered if his face was as red as it felt.

"I am not surprised." There was no disappointment in her voice, and therefore Taylor knew she was not avaricious-though he knew he had not expected her to be. "Then he left nothing but his personal belongings?"

she added.

Taylor nodded.

The girl sat for a long time, looking out over the river into the vast level that stretched away from it.

"He has ridden there, I suppose," she said wistfully. "He was here for nearly three years, you said. Then he must have been everywhere around here." And she got up, gazing about her, as though she would firmly fix the locality for future reminiscent dreams. Then suddenly she said:

"I should like to see his room-may I?"

"You sure can!"

She followed him into the house, and he stood in the open doorway, watching her as she went from place to place, looking at Larry's effects.

Taylor did not remain long at the door; he went out upon the porch again, leaving her in the room, and after a long time she joined him, her eyes moist, but a smile on her lips.

"You'll leave his things there-a little longer, won't you? I should like to have them, and I shall come for them, some day."

"Sure," he said. "But, look here, Miss Harlan. Why should you take his things? Leave them here-and come yourself. That room is yours, if you say the word. And a half-interest in the ranch. I was going to offer your father an interest in it-if he had lived--"

He realized his mistake when he saw her eyes widen incredulously. And there was a change in her voice-it was full of doubt, of distrust almost.

"What had father done to deserve an interest in your ranch?" she demanded.

"Why," he answered hesitatingly, "it's rather hard to say. But he helped me much; he suggested improvements that made the place more valuable; he was a good man, and he took a great deal of the work off my mind-and I liked him," he finished lamely.

"And do you think I could do his share of the work?" she interrogated, looking at him with an odd smile, the meaning of which Taylor could not fathom.

"I couldn't expect that, of course," he said boldly; "but I owe Harlan something for what he did for me, and I thought--"

"You thought you would be charitable to the daughter," she finished for him, with a smile in which there was grat.i.tude and understanding.

"I am sure I can't thank you enough for feeling that way toward my father and myself. But I can't accept, you know."

Taylor did know, of course. A desperate desire to make amends for his lying, to force upon her gratuitously what he had illegally robbed her of, had been the motive underlying his offer. And he would have been disappointed had she accepted, for that would have revealed a lack of spirit which he had hoped she possessed.

And yet Taylor felt decidedly uncomfortable over the refusal. He wanted her to have what belonged to her, for he divined from the note her father had left that she would have need of it.

He discovered by judicious questioning, by inference, and through crafty suggestion, that she was entirely dependent upon her uncle; that her uncle had bought the Huggins house, and that Carrington had made her a present of the horse she rode.

This last bit of information, volunteered by Marion, provoked Taylor to a rage that made him grit his teeth.

A little while longer they talked, and when the girl mounted her horse to ride away, they had entered into an agreement under which on Tuesdays and Fridays-the first Tuesday falling on the following day-Taylor was to be absent from the ranch. And during his absence the girl was to come and stay at the ranchhouse, there to occupy her father's room and, if she desired, to enter the other rooms at will.

As a concession to propriety, she was to bring Martha, the Huggins housekeeper, with her.

But Taylor, after the girl had left, stood for an hour on the porch, watching the dust-cloud that followed the girl's progress through the big basin, his face red, his soul filled with loathing for the part his judgment was forcing him to play. But arrayed against the loathing was a complacent satisfaction aroused over the thought that Carrington would never get the money that Larry Harlan had left to the girl.

CHAPTER X-THE FRAME-UP

James J. Carrington was unscrupulous, but even his most devout enemy could not have said that he lacked vision and thoroughness. And, while he had been listening to Danforth in his apartment in the Castle Hotel, he had discovered that Neil Norton had made a technical blunder in electing Quinton Taylor mayor of Dawes. Perhaps that was why Carrington had not seemed to be very greatly disturbed over the knowledge that Danforth had been defeated; certainly it was why Carrington had taken the first train to the capital.

Carrington was tingling with elation when he reached the capital; but on making inquiries he found that the governor had left the city the day before, and that he was not expected to return for several days.

Carrington pa.s.sed the interval renewing some acquaintances, and fuming with impatience in the barroom, the billiard-room, and the lobby of his hotel.

But he was the first visitor admitted to the governor's office when the latter returned.

The governor was a big man, flaccid and portly, and he received Carrington with a big Stetson set rakishly on the back of his head and an enormous black cigar in his mouth. That he was not a statesman but a professional politician was quite as apparent from his appearance as was his huge, welcoming smile, a certain indication that he was on terms of intimate friendship with Carrington. Formerly an eastern political worker, and a power in the councils of his party, his appointment as governor of the Territory had come, not because of his ability to fill the position, but as a reward for the delivery of certain votes which had helped to make his party successful at the polls. He would be the last carpetbag governor of the Territory, for the Territory had at last been admitted to the Union; the new Legislature was even then in session; charters were already being issued to munic.i.p.alities that desired self-government-and the governor, soon to quit his position as temporary chief, had no real interest in the new regime, and no desire to aid in eliminating the inevitable confusion.

"Take a seat, Jim," he invited, "and have a cigar. My secretary tells me you've been buzzing around here like a bee lost from the hive, for the past week." He grinned hugely at Carrington, poking the latter playfully in the ribs as Carrington essayed to light the cigar that had been given him.

"Worried about that man Taylor, in Dawes, eh?" he went on, as Carrington smoked. "Well, it _was_ too bad that Danforth didn't trim him, wasn't it? But"-and his eyes narrowed-"I'm still governor, and Taylor isn't mayor yet-and never will be!"

Carrington smiled. "You saw the mistake, too, eh?"

"Saw it!" boomed the governor. "I've been watching that town as a cat watches a mouse. Itching for the clean-up, Jim," he whispered. "Why, I've got the papers all made out-ousting him and appointing Danforth mayor. Right here they are." He reached into a pigeon-hole and drew out some legal papers. "You can serve them yourself. Just hand them to Judge Littlefield-he'll do the rest. It's likely-if Taylor starts a fuss, that you'll have to help Littlefield handle the case-arranging for deputies, and such. If you need any more help, just wire me. I don't pack my carpetbag for a year yet, and we can do a lot of work in that time."