Where the Trail Divides Part 28

Make Bess happy. There's nothing in the world to prevent your doing so, if you will. If you do not--" a pause of horrible ice-cold menace--"if you do not," repeated, "suicide." Just for the fraction of a second not a civilised man but a savage stared the listener in the face. "I shall know if you fail, and believe me, it were better, a thousand times better, if you do as I say."

Again, as beside the girl, there was a mute, throbbing lapse; then, similarly before there could be an answer, upon the tense silence there broke the swift pat of moccasined feet, and he was gone.

CHAPTER XVIII

REWARD

The month was late September. The time, evening. The place, the ranch house of a rawboned Yankee named Hawkins. Upon the scene at the hour the supper table was spread appeared a traveller in an open road waggon. The vehicle was covered with dust. The team which drew it were dust-stained likewise, and in addition, on belly and legs, were covered with a white powder-like frost where the sweat had oozed to the hair tips and dried.

Without announcing his arrival or deigning the formality of asking permission, the newcomer unhitched and put his team in the barn. From a convenient bin he took out a generous feed, and from a stack beside the eaves he brought them hay for the night. This done, he started for the house. A minute later, again without form of announcement or seeking permission, he opened the ranch house door and stepped inside.

Within the room, beside a table with an oilcloth cover, four men were eating. A fifth, a dark-skinned Mexican, was standing by a stove in one corner baking pancakes. All looked up as the door opened.

Then, curiosity satisfied, the eyes of all save one, the proprietor, Hawkins, returned to their plates, and the rattle of steel on heavy queensware proceeded.

"Good-evening," recognised the Yankee laconically. He hitched along his chair until a s.p.a.ce was clear at his elbow. "Draw up and fall to, stranger. Bring the gentleman a chair, Pete."

In silence the Mexican obeyed, and in equal silence returned to his work.

Appet.i.tes are keen on the prairie, and not until the meal was complete was there further conversation. Then after, one by one, the cowmen had filed out of doors, the host produced two corn-cob pipes from a shelf on the wall and tendered one across the littered table.

"Smoke?" he again invited laconically.

The visitor fumbled in the pockets of his coat and drew out a couple of cigars.

"Better have one of these instead," he suggested.

Hawkins accepted in silence, and thereafter--for cigars were a rarity on the frontier--puffed half the length of the weed in wordless content.

The Mexican went impa.s.sively about his work, cleared the table and washed the dishes methodically. The labour complete, he rolled a cigarette swiftly and, followed by a vanishing trail of blue, disappeared likewise out of doors. Then, and not until then, the visitor introduced himself.

"My name's Manning, Bob Manning," he said. "I run the store over at the Centre."

The host scrutinised his guest, deliberately, reminiscently

"I thought there was something familiar about you," he commented at last. "I haven't seen you for twenty years; but I remember you now.

You're one of the bunch who was with Bill Landor that time he picked up the two kids."

It was the guest's turn to make critical inspection.

"You wouldn't remember me," explained the rancher. "I came in while you were gone, and only saw you the day you returned." The reminiscent look reappeared. "I used to know Landor pretty well when we were on the other side of the river, before the country settled up; but when we came over here we got too far apart and lost track of each other."

The visitor smoked a full minute in meditative silence. At last he glanced up.

"You knew he was dead, didn't you?"

"Yes. And the two youngsters grew up and got married and--" Hawkins laughed peculiarly--"made a fizzle of it."

"Knew them personally, did you?" queried Manning.

"No. I haven't seen the young folks for ten years, and I haven't even heard anything of them for six months now." He twirled the cigar with his fingers in the self-consciousness of unaccustomed gossip. "The girl went East with Landor's nephew, Craig, afterward, I understood."

"Yes."

Hawkins puffed at the cigar fiercely; then blew an avenue in the cloud of smoke obscuring his companion's face.

"I'm not usually so confoundedly curious," he apologised, "but, knowing the circ.u.mstances, I've often wondered how the affair ended. Did they hit it off well together?"

Manning settled farther back in his chair. One of his gnarled old hands fastened of a sudden upon the arm tightly.

"While the money lasted, yes."

"Money! Did they sell the ranch?"

"Mortgaged it, Craig did, until he couldn't get another cent."

"And then--"

"It's the old story."

"They went to pieces?"

"Craig left her--for another woman." The clawlike hands closed tighter and tighter. "He never really cared for Bess. He couldn't. It seems he was supporting the other woman all the time."

Hawkins sat chewing the stump of the cigar in silence. In a lean-to the cowboys were going to bed. m.u.f.fled by the intervening wall came the mocking sound of their intermittent laughter.

"And then what?" asked the rancher at last.

"Bess came back."

"Alone?"

Manning had sunk deeper and deeper into his seat. His face was concealed by the straggling grey beard, but beneath his s.h.a.ggy brows his old eyes were blazing.

"Yes, she was alone," he said.

The cigar had gone dead in Hawkins's lips, and he lit it jerkily. The blaze of the match illumined a face that was not pleasant to look upon.

"And Craig himself," he suggested, "where is he?"

"He's back at the ranch by this time. He went through town yesterday, just before I left, with a man who wants to buy."

The rancher looked at the other meaningly.

"Back at the ranch--with the Indian?"

Equally directly Manning returned the look.