The Ranchman Part 11

Carrington and the governor talked for an hour or more, and when Carrington left for the office he was grinning with pleasurable antic.i.p.ation. For a munic.i.p.ality, already sovereign according to the laws of the people, had been delivered into his hands.

Just at dusk on Tuesday evening Carrington alighted from the train at Dawes. He went to his rooms in the Castle, removed the stains of travel, descended the stairs to the dining-room, and ate heartily; then, stopping at the cigar-counter to light a cigar, he inquired of the clerk where he could find Judge Littlefield.

"He's got a house right next to the courthouse-on your left, from here," the clerk told him.

A few minutes later Carrington was seated opposite Judge Littlefield, with a table between them, in the front room of the judge's residence.

"My name is Carrington-James J.," was Carrington's introduction of himself. "I have just left the governor, and he gave me these, to hand over to you." He shoved over the papers the governor had given him, smiling slightly at the other.

The judge answered the smile with a beaming smirk.

"I've heard of you," he said; "the governor has often spoken of you." He glanced hastily over the papers, and his smirk widened. "The good people of Dawes will be rather shocked over this decision, I suppose. But laymen _will_ confuse things-won't they? Now, if Norton and his friends had come to _me_ before they decided to enter Taylor's name, this thing would not have happened."

"I'm glad it _did_ happen," laughed Carrington. "The chances are that even Norton would have beaten Danforth, and then the governor could not have interfered."

Carrington's gaze became grim as he looked at the judge. "You are prepared to go the limit in this case, I suppose?" he interrogated.

"There is a chance that Taylor and his friends will attempt to make trouble. But any trouble is to be handled firmly, you understand. There is to be no monkey business. If they accept the law's mandates, as all law-abiding citizens should accept it, all well and good. And if they don't-and they want trouble, we'll give them that! Understand?"

"Perfectly," smiled the judge. "The law is not to be a.s.sailed."

Smilingly he bowed Carrington out.

Carrington took a turn down the street, walking until his cigar burned itself out; then he entered the hotel and sat for a time in the lobby.

Then he went to bed, satisfied that he had done a good week's work, and conscious that he had launched a heavy blow at the man for whom he had conceived a great and bitter hatred.

CHAPTER XI-"NO FUN FOOLING HER"

Accompanied by Martha, who rode one of the horses Parsons had bought, Marion Harlan began her trip to the Arrow shortly after dawn.

The girl had said nothing to Parsons regarding her meeting with Taylor the previous day, nor of her intention to pa.s.s the day at the Arrow. For she feared that Parsons might make some objection-and she wanted to go.

That she feared her uncle's deterrent influence argued that she was aware that she was doing wrong in going to the Arrow-even with Martha as chaperon; but that was, perhaps, the very reason the thought of going engaged her interest.

She wondered many times, as she rode, with the negro woman trailing her, if there was not inherent in her some of those undesirable traits concerning which the good people of Westwood had entertained fears.

The thought crimsoned her cheeks and brightened her eyes; but she knew she had no vicious thoughts-that she was going to the Arrow, not because she wanted to see Taylor again, but because she wanted to sit in the room that had been occupied by her father. She wanted to look again at his belongings, to feel his former presence-as she had felt it while gazing out over the vast level beyond the river, where he had ridden many times.

She looked in on Mrs. Mullarky as they pa.s.sed the Mullarky cabin, and when the good woman learned of her proposed visit to the Arrow, she gave her entire approval.

"I don't blame you, darlin'," declared Mrs. Mullarky. "Let the world jabber-if it wants to. If it was me father that had been over there, I'd stay there, takin' Squint Taylor at his word-an' divvle a bit I'd care what the world would say about it!"

So Marion rode on, slightly relieved. But the crimson stain was still on her cheeks when she and Martha dismounted at the porch, and she looked fearfully around, half-expecting that Taylor would appear from somewhere, having tricked her.

But Taylor was nowhere in sight. A fat man appeared from somewhere in the vicinity of the stable, doffed his hat politely, informed her that he was the "stable boss" and would care for the horses; he having been delegated by Taylor to perform whatever service Miss Harlan desired; and ambled off, leading the horses, leaving the girl and Martha standing near the edge of the porch.

Marion entered the house with a strange feeling of guilt and shame.

Standing in the open doorway-where she had seen Taylor standing when she had dismounted the day before-she was afflicted with regret and mortification over her coming. It wasn't right for a girl to do as she was doing; and for an instant she hesitated on the verge of flight.

But Martha's voice directly behind her, rea.s.sured her.

"They ain't a soul here, honey-not a soul. You've got the whole house to yo'self. This am a lark-shuah enough. He, he, he!"

It was the voice of the temptress-and Marion heeded it. With a defiant toss of her head she entered the room, took off her hat, laid it on a convenient table, calmly telling Martha to do the same. Then she went boldly from one room to another, finally coming to a halt in the doorway of the room that had been occupied by her father.

For her that room seemed to hallow the place. It was as though her father were here with her; as though there were no need of Martha being here with her. The thought of it removed any stigma that might have been attached to her coming; it made her heedless of the opinion of the world and its gossip-mongers.

She forgot the world in her interest, and for more than an hour, with Martha sitting in a chair sympathetically watching her, she reveled in the visible proofs of her father's occupancy of the room.

Later she and Martha went out on the porch, where, seated in rocking-chairs-that had not been on the porch the day before-she filled her mental vision with pictures of her father's life at the Arrow. Those pictures were imaginary, but they were intensely satisfying to the girl who had loved her father, for she could almost see him moving about her.

"You shuah does look soft an' dreamy, honey," Martha told her once. "You looks jes' like a delicate ghost. A while ago, lookin' at you, I shuah was scared you was goin' to blow away!"

But Marion was not the ethereal wraith that Martha thought her. She proved that a little later, when, with the negro woman abetting her, she went into the house and prepared dinner. For she ate so heartily that Martha was forced to amend her former statement.

"For a ghost you shuah does eat plenty, honey," she said.

Later they were out on the porch again. The big level on the other side of the river was flooded with a slumberous sunshine, with the glowing, rose haze of early afternoon enveloping it, and the girl was enjoying it when there came an interruption.

A cowboy emerged from a building down near the corral-Marion learned later that the building was the bunkhouse, which meant that it was used as sleeping-quarters for the Arrow outfit-and walked, with the rolling stride so peculiar to his kind, toward the porch.

He was a tall young man, red of face, and just now affected with a mighty embarra.s.sment, which was revealed in the awkward manner in which he removed his hat and shuffled his feet as he came to a halt within a few feet of Marion.

"The boss wants to know how you are gettin' along, ma'am, an' if there's anything you're wantin'?"

"We are enjoying ourselves immensely, thank you; and there is nothing we want-particularly."

The puncher had turned to go before the girl thought of the significance of the "boss."

Her face was a trifle pale as she called to the puncher.

"Who is your boss-if you please?" she asked.

The puncher wheeled, a slow grin on his face.

"Why, Squint Taylor, ma'am."

She sat erect. "Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is here?"

"He's in the bunkhouse, ma'am."

She got up, and, holding her head very erect, began to walk toward the room in which she had left her hat.

But half-way across the porch the puncher's voice halted her: