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Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation, a novel by Robert Ames Bennet |
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Chapter 10. Coming Events |
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_ CHAPTER X. COMING EVENTS Knowles had gone with Gowan to cut out and drive back the stray cattle belonging to the adjoining range. They returned during the regular supper hour. The cowman washed quickly and hastened in to the table. Gowan, however, loitered just outside the door, fastening and refastening his neckerchief. He entered the dining-room while Isobel was in the midst of telling her father about the snake. "Did you hear, Kid?" she asked, when she finished her vivid account. "Yes, Miss Chuckie. I was slicking-up close 'longside the door. I heard all you told," he replied as he took his seat at the corner next to the animated girl. "We shore have got one mighty lucky tenderfoot on this range." "Indeed, yes!" exclaimed Ashton. "Had not Miss Chuckie chanced to be passing as the monster rattled--You know, she says that she might not have heeded it but for your killing the other snake yesterday. That put her on the alert." The puncher stared across the table at the city man with a coldly speculative gaze. "You shore are a lucky tenderfoot," he repeated. "'Tain't every fellow gets that close to a rattler this time of year and comes out of it as easy as you have. All I can see is you're kind of pale yet around the gills." Ashton held up his bandaged left hand. "Ah, but I have also this memento of the occasion. It is far from a pleasant one, I assure you." "Feels 'most as bad as a bee sting, don't it?" ironically condoled the puncher. "What I can't make out," interposed Knowles, "is how that rattler got up into Mr. Ashton's bunk." Gowan again stared across at the tenderfoot, this time with unblinking solemnity. "Can't say, Mr. Knowles," he replied. "Except it might be that desperado guide of his came around in the night and brought him Mr. Rattler for bedfellow." "Oh, Kid!" remonstrated Isobel. "It's not a joking matter!" "No, you're dead right, Miss Chuckie," he agreed. "There shore ain't any joke about it." "Ah, but perhaps I can make one," gayly dissented Ashton. "Had you not interfered, Miss Chuckie, the poor snake would have taken one bite, and then curled up and died. I'm so charged with nicotine, you know." Neither Isobel nor the puncher smiled at this ancient witticism. But Knowles burst into a hearty laugh, which was caught up and reenforced by the hitherto silent haymakers. "By--James! Ashton, you'll do!" declared the cowman, wiping his eyes. "When a tenderfoot can let off a joke like that on himself it's a sure sign he's getting acclimated. Yes, you'll make a puncher, some day." Ashton smiled with gratification, and looked at Isobel in eager-eyed appeal for the confirmation of the statement. She smiled and nodded. Upon his return from his remarkable ride to town she had assured him that he need not worry. Her present kindly look and the words of her father might have been expected to remove his last doubts. Such in fact was the result for the remainder of the evening. But that night the new employe must have given much anxious thought to the question of his future and his great need to "make good." The liveliness of his concern was shown by his behavior during the next two weeks. His zeal for work astonished Knowles quite as much as his efforts to be agreeable to his fellow employes gratified Miss Isobel. He charmed the Japanese cook with his praise of the cooking, he flattered the haymakers with his interest in their opinions. Towards the girl and her father he was impeccably respectful. Within ten days he was "Lafe" to everybody except Gowan and the Jap. The latter addressed him as "Mistah Lafe"; Gowan kept to the noncommittal "Ashton." The puncher had become more taciturn than ever, but missed none of the home evenings in the parlor. He watched Ashton with catlike closeness when Isobel was present, and seemed puzzled that the interloper refrained from courting her. "Don't savvy that tenderfoot," he remarked one day to Knowles. "All his talk about his dad being a multimillionaire--Acted like it at the start-off. Came down to this candidate-for-office way of comporting himself. It ain't natural." "Not when he's on the same range with Chuckie?" queried the cowman, his eyes twinkling. "Why don't you ever go into Stockchute and paint the town red?" "That's another thing," insisted Gowan. "He started in with Miss Chuckie brash as all hell. Now he acts towards her like I feel." "That's natural. He soon found out she's a lady." "No, it ain't natural, Mr. Knowles--not in him, it ain't. Nor it ain't natural for him to be so all-fired polite to everybody, nor his pestering you to find work for him." "And it's not natural for a tenderfoot to gentle a hawss like Rocket the way he's done already," rallied Knowles. "That crazy hawss follows him about like a dog." "Yes; Ashton feeds him sugar, like he does the rest of you," rejoined the puncher. "It ain't natural in his brand of tenderfoot--Bound to ride out, if there's any riding to do; bound to fuss and stew around the corral; bound to help with the haying; bound to help haul the water; bound to practice with his rope every moment he ain't doing something else. Can't tell me there ain't a nigger in that woodpile." "Now, don't go to hunting out any more mares' nests, Kid," admonished Knowles. "He's just a busted millionaire, that's all; and he's proving he realizes it. Guess the smash scared him. He's afraid he can't make good. Chuckie says he thinks I'll turn him adrift if he doesn't hustle enough to earn his salt." "Why not fire him anyway? You don't need him, and you won't need him," argued the puncher. "Well, he helps keep Chuckie entertained. With you and him both on the place, she might conclude to stay over the winter, this year." Gowan's mouth straightened to a thin slit. "Better send her to Denver right off." "Look here, Kid," reproved the cowman. "You've had your chance, and you've got it yet. I've never interfered with you, and I'm not going to with him. It's for Chuckie to pick the winner. Like as not it'll be some man in town, for all I know. She has the say. Whether he wears a derby or a sombrero, she's to have her own choice. I don't care if he's a millionaire or a busted millionaire or a bronco buster, provided he's a man, and provided I'm sure he'll treat her right." Gowan lapsed into a sullen silence. Mounted as before on Rocket, Ashton had already made a second trip to Stockchute for mail, returning almost as quickly as on his wild first ride. Monday of his third week at the ranch he was sent on his third trip. As before, he started at dawn. But this time he did not come racing back early enough for a belated noon meal as he had on each of the previous occasions. By mid-afternoon Isobel began to grow uneasy. Remarkable as had been the efforts of his new rider's training, there was the not improbable chance that Rocket had reverted to his ugly tricks. She shuddered as she pictured the battered corpse of the city man dragging over the rocks and through the brush, with a foot twisted fast in one of the narrow iron stirrups. Her father and Gowan were off on their usual work of inspecting the bunches of cattle scattered about the range. The other men were as busy as ever mowing more hay and hauling in that which was cured. She was alone at the ranch with the Jap. At four o'clock she saddled her best horse and rode out towards Dry Fork. She hoped to sight Ashton from the divide. But there was no sign of any horseman out on the wide stretch of sagebrush flats. She rode down to Dry Fork, crossed over the sandy channel, and started on at a gallop along the half-beaten road that wound away through the sagebrush towards the distant Split Peak. An hour found her nearing the pinyon clad hills on the far side of Dry Mesa, with still no sign of Ashton. By this time she had worked herself into a fever of excitement and dread. Her relief was correspondingly great when at last she saw him coming towards her around the bend of the nearest hill. But his horse was walking and he was bent over in the saddle as if injured or greatly fatigued. Puzzled and again apprehensive, she urged her pony to sprinting speed. When he heard the approaching hoofs Ashton looked up as if startled. But he did not wave to her or raise his sombrero. As she came racing up she scrutinized his dejected figure for wounds or bruises. There was nothing to indicate that he had been either shot or thrown. His sullen look when she drew up beside him not unnaturally changed her anxiety to vexation. "What made you so slow?" she queried. "You know how eager I am for the mail each time. You might as well have ridden your own hawss." "It--has come," he muttered. "What?" she demanded. "The letter from him." "Him?" echoed the girl, trying hard to cover her confusion with a look of surprise. His dejection deepened as he observed her heightened color and the light in her eyes. "Yes, from him," he mumbled. "Oh, you mean Mr. Blake, I suppose," she replied. Lightly as she spoke, she could not suppress the quiver of eagerness in her voice. "If you will kindly give it to me now." He drew out a letter, not from among the other mail in his pouch, but from his pocket. Her look of surprise showed that she was struck with the oddness of this. She was too excited, however, to consider what might be its meaning. She tore open the letter and read it swiftly. Her sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks when she looked up served only to increase Ashton's gloom. "So the fellow is coming," he groaned. "What else could I have expected?" The girl held out the open letter to him. It was in typewriting, addressed from Chicago, and read:-- Dear Madam: Ashton crumpled the letter in his clenched hand as he had crumpled the letter from his father's lawyers. "He is coming! he really is coming!" he gasped. "Thursday--only three days! Genevieve too!" "And his son!" cried Isobel, too excited to heed the dismay in her companion's look and tone. "He and his family, too, as my guests!" "Yes," said Ashton bitterly. "And what of it when he floods you off your cattle range? By another year or two, the irrigation farmers will be settling all over this mesa, thick as flies." "Oh, no; it is probable that Mr. Blake will find there is no chance to water Dry Mesa," she replied, in a tone strangely nonchalant considering her former expressions of apprehension. She drew the crumpled letter from his relaxing fingers, and smoothed it out for a second reading. "'Wife, son, and self,'" she quoted. "Son? How old is he?" "I don't know. They've been married nearly two years," muttered Ashton. "Then it's a baby!--oh! oh! how lovely!" shrieked the girl. "And its mamma wants to rough it! She shall have every egg and chicken on the place--and gallons of cream! We shall take the skim milk." Still Ashton failed to enthuse. "To them that have, shall be given, and from him who has lost millions shall be taken all that's left!" he gibed. "No, we'll still have the skim milk," she bantered, refusing to notice his cynical bitterness. "I'm a day laborer!" he went on, still more bitterly. "I'm afraid of losing even my skim milk--And two weeks ago I thought myself certain of three times the millions that he will get when her father dies!" "No use crying over spilt milk, or spilt cream, either!" she replied. The note of sympathetic concern under her raillery brought a glimmer of hopefulness into his moody eyes. "If I did not think your father will drive me away!" he murmured. "Why should he?" she asked. "Because when Blake comes--" Ashton paused and shifted to a question. "Will you tell your father about their coming?" "Of course. I did not tell him about writing, because it would only have increased his suspense. But now--Let's hurry back!" A cut of her quirt set her pony into a lope. Rocket needed no urging. He followed and maintained a position close behind the galloping pony without breaking out of his rangy trot. Occasionally Isobel flung back a gay remark over her shoulder. Ashton did not respond. He rode after her, silent and depressed, his eyes fixed longingly on her graceful form, ever fleeing forward before him as he advanced. Once clear of the sagebrush, she drew rein for him to come up. They rode side by side across Dry Fork and over the divide. When they stopped at the corral she would have unsaddled her pony had he not begged leave to do her the service. As reward, she waited until he could accompany her to the house. They found her father and Gowan resting in the cool porch after a particularly hard day's ride. The puncher was strumming soft melodies on a guitar. Knowles was peering at his report of the Reclamation Service, held to windward of a belching cloud of pipe smoke. His daughter darted to him regardless of the offending incense. "Oh, Daddy!" she cried. "What do you think! Mr. Blake is coming to visit us!" "Blake?" repeated the cowman, staring blankly over his pipe. "Yes, Mr. Blake, the engineer--the great Thomas Blake of the Zariba Dam." "By--James!" swore Gowan, dropping his guitar and springing up to confront Ashton with deadly menace in his cold eyes. "This is what comes of nursing scotched rattlers! This here tenderfoot skunk has been foreriding for that engineer! I warned you, Mr. Knowles! I told you he had sent for him to come out here and cut up our range with his damned irrigation schemes!" "I send for Blake--I?" protested Ashton. He burst into a discordant laugh. "Laugh, will you?" said Gowan, dropping his hand to his hip. The girl flung herself before him. "Stop! stop, Kid! Are you locoed? He had nothing to do with it. I myself sent for Mr. Blake." "You!" cried Gowan. The cowman slowly stood up, his eyes fixed on the girl in an incredulous stare. "Chuckie," he half whispered, "you couldn't ha' done it. You're--you're dreaming, honey!" "No. Listen, Daddy! It's been growing on you so--your fear that we'll lose our range. I thought if Mr. Blake came and told you it can't be done--Don't you see?" "What if he finds it can?" huskily demanded Knowles. "He can't. I'm sure he can't. If he builds a reservoir, where could he get enough water to fill it? The watershed above us is too small. He couldn't impound more than three thousand acre feet of flood waters at the utmost." "How about the whole river going to waste, down in Deep Canyon?" queried her father. "Heavens, Mr. Knowles! How would he ever get a drop of water out of that awful chasm?" exclaimed Ashton. "I looked down into it. The river is thousands of feet down. It must be way below the level of Dry Mesa." "I'm not so sure about that," replied the cowman. "Holes are mighty deceiving." "Well, what if it ain't so deep as the mesa?" argued Gowan, for once half in accord with Ashton. "It shore is deep enough, ain't it? Even allowing that this man Blake is the biggest engineer in the U.S., how's he going to pump that water up over the rim of the canyon? The devil himself couldn't do it." "If I am mistaken regarding the depth, that is, if the river really is higher than the mesa," remarked Ashton, "there is the possibility that it might be tapped by a tunnel through the side of High Mesa. But even if it is possible, it still is quite out of the question. The cost would be prohibitive." "You see, Daddy!" exclaimed Isobel. "Lafe knows. He's an engineer himself." "How's that?" growled her father, frowning heavily at Ashton. "You never told me you're an engineer." "I told Miss Chuckie the first day I met her," explained Ashton. "Ever since then I've been so busy trying to be something else--" "Shore you have!" jeered Gowan. "But about Mr. Blake, Daddy?" interposed Isobel. "I'm certain he'll find that no irrigation project is possible; and if he says so, you will be able to give up worrying about it." "So that's your idea," he replied. "Of course, honey, you meant well. But he's a pretty big man, according to all the reports. What if he--" The cowman stopped, unable to state the calamity he dreaded. "Yes, what if?" bravely declared his daughter. "Isn't it best to know the worst, and have it over?" "Well--I don't know but what you're right, honey." "It's your say, Mr. Knowles," put in Gowan. "If you want the tenderfeet on your range, all right. If you don't, I'll engage to head back any bunch of engineers agoing, and I don't care whether they're dogies or longhorns." "There is to be no surveying party," explained Isobel. "Mr. Blake is coming to visit us with his wife and baby. Here is his letter." "Hey?" ejaculated Knowles. He read the letter with frowning deliberation, and passed it on to Gowan. "Well, he seems to be square enough. Guess we'll have to send over for him, honey, long as you asked him to come." "Oh, you will, Daddy!" she cried. She gave him a delicious kiss and cuddled against his shoulder coaxingly. "You'll let me go over in the buckboard for them, won't you?" "Kind of early in the season for you to begin hankering after city folks," he sought to tease her. "But think of the baby!" she exclaimed as excitedly as a little girl over the prospect of a doll. "A baby on our ranch! I simply must see it at the earliest possible moment! Besides, it will look better for our hospitality for me to meet Mrs. Blake at the train, since she--That's something I meant to ask you, Lafe. What does Mr. Blake mean by saying they will leave the servants in the car?" "I presume they are traveling in Mr. Leslie's private car, and will have it sidetracked at Stockchute," answered Ashton. "Whee-ew!" ejaculated Knowles. "Private car! And we're supposed to feed them!" "It is just because of the change we will give them that they are coming out here," surmised Isobel. "Look at the letter again. Mr. Blake expressly writes that his wife wishes to rough-it. Of course she cannot know what real roughing-it means. But if she is coming to us without a maid, we shall like her as much as--as Mr. Blake." _ |
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