CHAPTER EIGHT
"IT TAKES NERVE JUST TO HANG ON"
Brit was smoking his pipe after supper and staring at nothing, thoughhis face was turned toward the closed door. Lorraine had washed thedishes and was tidying the room and looking at her father now and thenin a troubled, questioning way of which Brit was quite oblivious.
"Dad," she said abruptly, "who is the man at Whisper?"
Brit turned his eyes slowly to her face as if he had not grasped hermeaning and was waiting for her to repeat the question. It was evidentthat his thoughts had pulled away from something that meant a good dealto him.
"Why?"
"A man came this morning, and said he was the man at Whisper, and thathe would come again to see you."
Brit took his pipe from his mouth, looked at it and crowded down thetobacco with a forefinger. "He seen me ride away from the ranch, thismorning," he said. "He was coming down the Whisper trail as I was takingthe fork over to Sugar Spring, Frank and me. What did he say he wantedto see me about?"
"He didn't say. He asked for you and Frank." Lorraine sat down andfolded her arms on the oilcloth-covered table. "Dad, what _is_ Whisper?"
"Whisper's a camp up against a cliff, over west of here. It belongs tothe Sawtooth. Is that all he said? Just that he wanted to see me?"
"He--talked a little," Lorraine admitted, her eyebrows pulled down. "Ifhe saw you leave, I shouldn't think he'd come here and ask for you."
"He knowed I was gone," Brit stated briefly.
With a finger nail Lorraine traced the ugly, brown pattern on theoilcloth. It was not easy to talk to this silent man who was her father,but she had done a great deal of thinking during that long, empty day,and she had reached the point where she was afraid not to speak.
"Dad!"
"What do you want, Raine?"
"Dad, was--has any one around here died, lately?"
"Died? Nobody but Fred Thurman, over here on Granite. He was drug with ahorse and killed."
Lorraine caught her breath, saw Brit looking at her curiously and movedcloser to him. She wanted to be near somebody just then, and after all,Brit was her father, and his silence was not the inertia of a dull mind,she knew. He seemed bottled-up, somehow, and bitter. She caught his handand held it, feeling its roughness between her two soft palms.
"Dad, I've got to tell you. I feel trapped, somehow. Did his horse havea white face, dad?"
"Yes, he's a blaze-faced roan. Why?" Brit moved uncomfortably, but hedid not take his hand away from her. "What do you know about it, Raine?"
"I saw a man shoot Fred Thurman and push his foot through the stirrup.And, dad, I believe it was that man at Whisper. The one I saw had on abrown hat, and this man wears a brown hat--and I was advised not to tellany one I had been at that place they call Rock City, when the stormcame. Dad, would an innocent man--one that didn't have anything to dowith a crime--would he try to cover it up afterwards?"
Brit's hand shook when he removed the pipe from his mouth and laid it onthe table. His face had turned gray while Lorraine watched himfearfully. He laid his hand on her shoulder, pressing down hard--and atlast his eyes met her big, searching ones.
"If he wanted to _live_--in this country--he'd have to. Leastways, he'dhave to keep his mouth shut," he said grimly.
"And he'd try to shut the mouths of others----"
"If he cared anything about them, he would. You ain't told anybody whatyou saw, have yuh?"
Lorraine hid her face against his arm. "Just Lone Morgan, and he thoughtI was crazy and imagined it. That was in the morning, when he found me.And he--he wanted me to go on thinking it was just a nightmare--that I'dimagined the whole thing. And I did, for awhile. But this man at Whispertried to find out where I was that night----"
Brit pulled abruptly away from her, got up and opened the door. Hestood there for a time, looking out into the gloom of early nightfall.He seemed to be listening, Lorraine thought. When he came back to herhis voice was lower, his manner intangibly furtive.
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?" he asked, as if there had beenno pause in their talk.
"No--I made him believe I wasn't there. Or I tried to. And dad! As I wasgoing to cross that creek just before you come to Rock City, two mencame along on horseback, and I hid before they saw me. They stopped towater their horses, and they were talking. They said something about theTJ had been here a long time, but they would get theirs, and it was likesitting into a poker game with a nickel. They said the little onesaren't big enough to fight the Sawtooth, and they'd carry lead undertheir hides if they didn't leave. Dad, isn't your brand the TJ? That'swhat it looks like on Yellowjacket."
Brit did not answer, and when Lorraine was sure that he did not mean todo so, she asked another question. "Dad, why didn't you want me to leavethe ranch to-day? I was nervous after that man was here, and I did go."
"I didn't want you riding around the country unless I knew where youwent," Brit said. "My brand is the TJ up-and-down. We never call it justthe TJ."
"Oh," said Lorraine, relieved. "They weren't talking about you, then.But dad--it's horrible! We simply _can't_ let that murder go and not doanything. Because I know that man was shot. I heard the shot fired, andI saw him start to fall off his horse. And the next flash of lightning Isaw----"
"Look here, Raine. I don't want you talking about what you saw. I don'twant you _thinkin'_ about it. What's the use? Thurman's dead and buried.The cor'ner come and held an inquest, and the jury agreed it was anaccident. I was on the jury. The sheriff's took charge of his property.You couldn't prove what you saw, even if you was to try." He looked ather very much as Lone Morgan had looked at her. His next words were verynearly what Lone Morgan had said, Lorraine remembered. "You don't knowthis country like I know it. Folks live in it mainly because they don'tgo around blatting everything they see and hear and think."
"You have laws, don't you, dad? You spoke about the sheriff----"
"The sheriff!" Brit laughed harshly. "Yes, we got a sheriff, and we gota jail, and a judge--all the makin's of law. But we ain't got one thingthat goes with it, and that's justice. You'd best make up your mind likethe cor'ner's jury done, that Fred Thurman was drug to death by hishorse. That's all that'll ever be proved, and if you can't prove nothingelse you better keep your mouth shut."
Lorraine sprang up and stood facing her father, every nerve taut withprotest. "You don't mean to tell me, dad, that you and Frank Johnson andLone Morgan and--everybody in the country are _cowards_, do you?"
Brit looked at her patiently. "No," he said in the tone of acknowledgeddefeat, "we ain't cowards, Raine. A man ain't a coward when he standswith his hands over his head. Most generally it's because some one's gotthe drop on 'im."
Lorraine would not accept that. "You think so, because you don't fight,"she cried hotly. "No one is holding a gun at your head. Dad! I thoughtWesterners never quit. It's fight to the finish, always. Why, I've seenone man fight a whole outfit and win. He couldn't be beaten because hewouldn't give up. Why----"
Brit gave her a tolerant glance. "Where'd you see all that, Raine?" Hemoved to the table picked up his pipe and knocked out the ashes on thestove hearth. His movements were those of an aging man,--yet Brit Hunterwas not old, as age is reckoned.
"Well--in stories--but it was reasonable and logical and possible, justthe same. If you use your brains you can outwit them, and if you haveany nerve----"
Brit made a sound somewhat like a snort. "These days, when politics isplayed by the big fellows, and the law is used to make money for 'em, ittakes nerve just to hang on," he said. "Nobody but a dang fool wouldfight." Slow anger grew within him. He turned upon Lorraine almostfiercely. "D'yuh think me and Frank could fight the Sawtooth and getanything out of it but a coffin apiece, maybe?" he demanded harshly."Don't the Sawtooth _own_ this country? Warfield's got the sheriff inhis pocket, and the cor'ner, and the judge, and the stockinspector--he's _Senator_ Warfield, and what he wants he gets. He getsit through the law that you was talking about a litt
le while ago. Whatyou goin' to do about it? If I had the money and the land and thepolitical pull he's got, mebby I'd have me a sheriff and a judge, too.
"Fred Thurman tried to fight the Sawtooth over a water right he ownedand they wanted. They had the case runnin' in court till they like to oftook the last dollar he had. He got bull-headed. That water right meantthe hull ranch--everything he owned. You can't run a ranch withoutwater. And when he'd took the case up and up till it got to the SupremeCourt, and he stood some show of winnin' out--he had an accident. He wasdrug to death by his horse."
Brit stooped and opened the stove door, seeking a live coal; found noneand turned again to Lorraine, shaking his pipe at her for emphasis.
"We try to prove Fred was murdered, and what's the result? Somethinghappens: to me, mebby, or Frank, or both of us. And you can't say,'Here, I know the Sawtooth had a hand in that.' You got to _prove_ it!And when you've proved it," he added bitterly, "you got to have officersthat'll carry out the law instead of using it to hog-tie yuh."
His futile, dull anger surged up again. "You call us cowards because wedon't git up on our hind legs and fight the Sawtooth. A lot _you_ knowabout courage! You've read stories, and you've saw moving pictures, andyou think that's the West--that's the way they do it. One man hold off ahunderd with his gun--and on the other hand, a hunderd men, mebby,ridin' hell-whoopin' after one. You think that's it--that's the way theydo it. Hunh!" He lifted the lid of the stove, spat into it as if he werespitting in the face of an enemy, and turned again to Lorraine.
"What you seen--what you say you seen--that was done at night when therewasn't no audience. All the fighting the Sawtooth does is done undercover. _You_ won't see none of it--they ain't such fools. And what ussmall fellers do, we do it quiet, too. We ain't ridin' up and down thetrail, flourishin' our six-shooters and yellin' to the Sawtooth to comeon and we'll clean 'em up!"
"But you're fighting just the same, aren't you, dad? You're not lettingthem----"
"We're makin' out to live here--and we've been doin' it for twenty-fiveyear," Brit told her, with a certain grim dignity. "We've still got afew head uh stock left--enough to live on. Playin' poker with a nickel,mebby--but we manage to ante, every hand so fur." His mind returned tothe grisly thing Lorraine had seen.
"We can't run down the man that got Fred Thurman, supposin' he waskilled, as you say. That's what the law is paid to do. If Lone Morgantold you not to talk about it, he told you right. He was talking foryour own good. What about Al--the man from Whisper? You didn't tell_him_, did you?"
His tone, the suppressed violence of his manner, frightened Lorraine.She moved farther away from him.
"I didn't tell him anything. He was curious but--I only said I knew himbecause he was wearing a brown hat, and the man that shot Mr. Thurmanhad a brown hat. I didn't say all that. I just mentioned the hat. And hesaid there were lots of brown hats in the country. He said he had tradedfor that one, just yesterday. He said his own hat was gray."
Brit stared at her, his jaw sagging a little, his eyes growing vacantwith the thoughts he hid deep in his mind. He slumped down into hischair and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, his fingersclasped loosely. After a little he tilted his head and looked up ather.
"You better go to bed," he told her stolidly. "And if you're going tolive at the Quirt, Raine, you'll have to learn to keep your mouth shut.I ain't blaming you--but you told too much to Al Woodruff. Don't talk tohim no more, if he comes here when I'm gone." He put out a hand,beckoning her to him, sorry for his harshness. Lorraine went to him andknelt beside him, slipping an arm around his neck while she hid her faceon his shoulder.
"I won't be a nuisance, dad--really, I won't," she said. "I--I can shoota gun. I never shot one with bullets in, but I could. And I learned todo lots of things when I was working in that play West I thought wasreal. It isn't like I thought. There's no picture stuff in the realWest, I guess; they don't do things that way. But--what I want you toknow is that if they're fighting you they'll have to fight me, too.
"I don't mean movie stuff, honestly I don't. I'm in this thing now, andyou'll have to count me, same as you count Jim and Sorry. Won't youplease feel that I'm one more in the game, dad, and not just anotherresponsibility? I'll herd cattle, or do whatever there is to do. AndI'll keep my mouth shut, too. I can't stay here, day after day, doingnothing but sweep and dust two rooms and fry potatoes and bacon for youat night. Dad, I'll go _crazy_ if you don't let me into your life!
"Dad, if you knew the stunts I've done in the last three years! It wasmake-believe West, but I learned things just the same." She kissed himon the unshaven cheek nearest her,--and thought of the kisses she hadbreathed upon the cheeks of story fathers with due care for the make-upon her lips. Just because this was real, she kissed him again with thefrank vigor of a child.
"Dad," she said wheedlingly, "I think you might scare up something thatI can really ride. Yellowjacket is safe, but--but you have real _live_horses on the ranch, haven't you? You must _not_ go judging me by thepalms and the bay windows of the Casa Grande. That's where I've slept,the last few years when I wasn't off on location--but it's just assensible to think I don't know anything else, as it would be for me tothink you can't do anything but skim milk and fry bacon and makesour-dough bread, just because I've seen you do it!"
Brit laughed and patted her awkwardly on the back. "If you was a boy,I'd set you up as a lawyer," he said with an attempt at playfulness. "Ikinda thought you could ride. I seen how you piled onto old Yellowjacketand the way you held your reins. It runs in the blood, I guess. I'll seewhat I can do in the way of a horse. Ole Yellowjacket used to be a realrim-rider, but he's gitting old; gitting old--same as me."
"You're not! You're just letting yourself _feel_ old. And am I one ofthe outfit, dad?"
"I guess so--only there ain't going to be any of this hell-whoopin'stuff, Raine. You can't travel these trails at a long lope with yorehair flyin' out behind and--and all that damn foolishness. I've saw 'emin the movin' pitchers----"
Lorraine blushed, and was thankful that her dad had not watched her workin that serial. For that matter, she hoped that Lone Morgan would neverstray into a movie where any of her pictures were being shown.
"I'm serious, dad. I don't want to make a show of myself. But if you'llfeel that I can be a help instead of a handicap, that's what I want. Andif it comes to fighting----"
Brit pushed her from him impatiently. "There yuh go--fight--fight--and Itold yuh there ain't any fighting going on. Nothing more'n a fight tohang on and make a living. That means straight, hard work and mindin'your own business. If you want to help at that----"
"I do," said Raine quietly, getting to her feet. Her legacy ofstubbornness set her lips firmly together. "That's exactly what I mean.Good night, dad."
Brit answered her noncommittally, apparently sunk already in his ownmusings. But his lips drew in to suppress a smile when he saw, from thecorner of his eyes, that Lorraine was winding the alarm on the cheapkitchen clock, and that she set the hand carefully and took the clockwith her to bed.