The Ranchman Part 9

Mullarky did not attempt to disturb her; he stood, looking glumly at her, reproaching himself for his awkwardness in breaking the news to her.

It was some minutes before she faced him again, and then she was pale and composed, except for the haunting sadness that had come into her eyes.

"Thank you," she said. "Can you tell me where I can find Mr.

Taylor-'Squint,' you called him? Is that the Taylor who was elected mayor-last week?"

"The same, ma'am." He turned and pointed southward, into the big, level country that she admired so much.

"Do you see that big timber grove 'way off there-where the crick doubles to the north-with that big green patch beyond?" She nodded.

"That's Taylor's ranch-the Arrow. You'll find him there. He's a mighty fine man, ma'am. Larry Harlan would tell you that if he was here. Taylor was the best friend that Larry Harlan ever had-out here." He looked at her pityingly. "I'm sorry, ma'am, to be the bearer of ill news; but when I heard you was in town, lookin' for your father, I couldn't help comin'

to see you."

She asked some questions about her father-which Mullarky answered; though he could tell her nothing that would acquaint her with the details of her father's life between the time he had left Westwood and the day of his appearance in this section of the world.

"Mebbe Taylor will know, ma'am," he repeated again and again. And then, when she thanked him once more and mounted her horse, he said:

"You'll be goin' to see Squint right away, ma'am, I suppose. You can ease your horse right down the slope, here, an' strike the level. You'll find a trail right down there. You'll follow it along the crick, an'

it'll take you into the Arrow ranchhouse. It'll take you past me own shack, too; an' if you'll stop in an' tell the ol' woman who you are, she'll be tickled to give you a snack an' a cup of tea. She liked Larry herself."

The girl watched Mullarky ride away. He turned in the saddle, at intervals, to grin at her.

Then, when Mullarky had gone she leaned against Billy and stood for a long time, her shoulders quivering.

At last, though, she mounted the little animal and sent him down the slope.

She found the trail about which Mullarky had spoken, and rode it steadily; though she saw little of the wild, virgin country through which she pa.s.sed, because her br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes blurred it all.

She came at last to Mullarky's shack, and a stout, motherly woman, with an ample bosom and a kindly face, welcomed her.

"So you're Larry Harlan's daughter," said Mrs. Mullarky, when her insistence had brought the girl inside the cabin; "you poor darlin'. An'

Ben told you-the blunderin' idiot. He'll have a piece of my mind when he comes back! An' you're stoppin' at the old Huggins house, eh?" She looked sharply at the girl, and the latter's face reddened. Whereat Mrs.

Mullarky patted her shoulder and murmured:

"It ain't your fault that there's indacint women in the world; an' no taint of them will ever reach you. But the fools in this world is always waggin' their tongues, a.s.sociatin' what's happened with what they think will happen. An' mebbe they'll wonder about you. It's your uncle that's there with you, you say? Well, then, don't you worry. You run right along to see Squint Taylor, now, an' find out what he knows about your father. Taylor's a mighty fine man, darlin'."

And so Marion went on her way again, grateful for Mrs. Mullarky's kindness, but depressed over the knowledge that the atmosphere of suspicion, which had enveloped her in Westwood, had followed her into this new country which, she had hoped, would have been more friendly.

She came in sight of the Arrow ranchhouse presently, and gazed at it admiringly. It was a big building, of adobe brick, with a wide porch-or gallery-entirely surrounding it. It was in the center of a big s.p.a.ce, with timber flanking it on three sides, and at the north was a green stretch of level that reached to the sloping banks of a river.

There were several smaller buildings; a big, fenced enclosure-the corrals, she supposed; a pasture, and a garden. Everything was in perfect order, and had it not been for the aroma of the sage that a.s.sailed her nostrils, the awe-inspiring bigness of it all, the sight of thousands of cattle-which she could see through the trees beyond the clearing, she could have likened the place to a big eastern farmhouse of the better cla.s.s, isolated and prosperous.

She dismounted from her horse at a corner of the house, near a door that opened upon the wide porch, and stood, pale and hesitant, looking at the door, which was closed.

And as she stared at the door, it swung inward and Quinton Taylor appeared in the opening.

CHAPTER IX-A MAN LIES

Taylor was arrayed as Marion had mentally pictured him that day when, in the Pullman, she had a.s.sociated him with ranches and ranges. Evidently he was ready to ride, for leather chaps incased his legs. The chaps were plain, not even adorned with the spangles of the drawings she had seen; and they were well-worn and shiny in spots. A pair of big, Mexican spurs were on the heels of his boots; the inevitable cartridge-belt about his middle, sagging with the heavy pistol; a quirt dangled from his left hand. a.s.suredly he belonged in this environment-he even seemed to dominate it.

She had wondered how he would greet her; but his greeting was not at all what she had feared it would be. For he did not presume upon their meeting on the train; he gave no sign that he had ever seen her before; there was not even a glint in his eyes to tell her that he remembered the scornful look she had given him when she discovered him listening to the conversation carried on between her uncle and Carrington. His manner indicated that if _she_ did not care to mention the matter _he_ would not. His face was grave as he stepped across the porch and stood before her. And he said merely:

"Are you looking for someone, ma'am?"

"I came to see you, Mr. Taylor," she said. (And then he knew that the negro porter on the train had not lied when he said the girl had paid him for certain information.)

But Taylor's face was still grave, for he thought he knew what she had come for. He had overheard a great deal of the conversation between Parsons and Carrington in the dining-car, and he remembered such phrases as: "That fairy tale about her father having been seen in this locality; To get her out here, where there isn't a h.e.l.l of a lot of law, and a man's will is the only thing that governs him;" and, "Then you lied about Lawrence Harlan having been seen in this country." Also, he remembered distinctly another phrase, uttered by Carrington: "That you framed up on her mother, to get her to leave Larry."

All of that conversation was vivid in Taylor's mind, and mingled with the recollection of it now was a grim pity for the girl, for the hypocritical character of her supposed friends.

To be sure, the girl did not know that Parsons had lied about her father having been seen in the vicinity of Dawes; but that did not alter the fact that Larry Harlan had really been here; and Taylor surmised that she had made inquiries, thus discovering that there was truth in Carrington's statement.

He got a chair for her and seated himself on the porch railing.

"You came to see me?" he said, encouragingly.

"I am Marion Harlan, the daughter of Lawrence Harlan," began the girl.

And then she paused to note the effect of her words on Taylor.

So far as she could see, there was no sign of emotion on Taylor's face.

He nodded, looking steadily at her.

"And you are seeking news of your father," he said. "Who told you to come to me?"

"A man named Ben Mullarky. He said my father had worked for you-that you had been his best friend."

She saw his lips come together in straight lines.

"Poor Larry. You knew he died, Miss Harlan?"

"Mullarky told me." The girl's eyes moistened. "And I should like to know something about him-how he lived after-after he left home; whether he was happy-all about him. You see, Mr. Taylor, I loved him!"

"And Larry Harlan loved his daughter," said Taylor softly.

He began to tell her of her father; how several years before Harlan had come to him, seeking employment; how Larry and himself had formed a friendship; how they had gone together in search of the gold that Larry claimed to have discovered in the Sangre de Christo Mountains; of the injury Larry had suffered, and how the man had died while he himself had been taking him toward civilization and a.s.sistance.

During the recital, however, one thought dominated him, reddening his face with visible evidence of the sense of guilt that had seized him. He must deliberately lie to the daughter of the man who had been his friend.

In his pocket at this instant was Larry's note to him, in which the man had expressed his fear of fortune-hunters. Taylor remembered the exact words:

Marion will have considerable money and I don't want no sneak to get hold of it-like the sneak that got hold of the money my wife had, that I saved. There's a lot of them around. If Marion is going to fall in with one of that kind, I'd rather she wouldn't get what I leave; the man would get it away from her. Use your own judgment and I'll be satisfied.

And Taylor's judgment was that Carrington and Parsons were fortune-hunters; that if they discovered the girl to be ent.i.tled to a share of the money that had been received from the sale of the mine, they would endeavor to convert it to their own use. And Taylor was determined they should not have it.

The conversation he had overheard in the dining-car had convinced him of their utter hypocrisy and selfishness; it had aroused in him a feeling of savage resentment and disgust that would not permit him to transfer a cent of the money to the girl as long as they held the slightest influence over her.