Chapter VIII
Beulah Asks Questions
A slim, wiry youth in high-heeled boots came out of the house with BradCharlton just as the buggy stopped at the porch of the horse ranch. Henodded to Beulah.
"'Lo, sis."
"My brother Ned--Mr. Street." The girl introduced them a littlesulkily.
Ned Rutherford offered Roy a coffee-brown hand and looked at him withfrank curiosity. He had just been hearing a lot about thisgood-looking stranger who had dropped into the park.
"See Jess Tighe? What did he say about the windmill?" asked Charlton.
"Wanted to think it over," answered Beaudry.
Beulah had drawn her brother to one side, but as Roy talked withCharlton he heard what the other two said, though each spoke in a lowvoice.
"Where you going, Ned?" the sister asked.
"Oh, huntin' strays."
"Home to-night?"
"Reckon not."
"What deviltry are you and Brad up to now? This will be the thirdnight you've been away--and before that it was Jeff."
"S-sh!" Ned flashed a warning look in the direction of her guest.
But Beulah was angry. Tighe had warned her to be careful what she toldStreet. She distrusted the cripple profoundly. Half the evil thatwent on in the park was plotted by him. There had been a lot offurtive whispering about the house for a week or more. Her instincttold her that there was in the air some discreditable secret. Morethan once she had wondered whether her people had been the expresscompany robbers for whom a reward was out. She tried to dismiss thesuspicion from her mind, for the fear of it was like a leaden weight ather heart. But many little things contributed to the dread.Rutherford had sent her just at that time to spend the week at BattleButte. Had it been to get her out of the way? She remembered that herfather had made to her no explanation of that scene in which she andDave Dingwell had played the leading parts. There had been manyjourneyings back and forth on the part of the boys and Charlton and heruncle, Buck Rutherford. They had a way of getting off into a corner ofthe corral and talking low for hours at a time. And now Street hadcome into the tangle. Were they watching him for fear he might be adetective?
Her resentment against him and them boiled over into swift wrath."You're a fine lot--all of you. I'd like to wash my hands clean of thewhole outfit." She turned on her heel and strode limping to the house.
Ned laughed as he swung to the back of one of the two broncos waitingwith drooped heads before the porch. He admired this frank, forthrightsister who blazed so handsomely into rage. He would have fought forher, even though he pretended to make a joke of her.
"Boots sure goes some. You see what you may be letting yourself infor, Brad," he scoffed good-naturedly.
Charlton answered with cool aplomb. "Don't you worry about me, Ned. Itravel at a good lick myself. She'll break to double harness fine."
Without touching the stirrup this knight of the _chaparreras_ flunghimself into the saddle, the rowels of his spurs whirring as hevaulted. It was a spectacular but perfect mount. The horse was offinstantly at a canter.
Roy could not deny the fellow admiration, even though he despised himfor what he had just said. It was impossible for him to becontemptuous of Charlton. The man was too virile, too game for that.In the telling Western phrase, he would go through. Whatever he didwas done competently.
Yet there was something detestable in the way he had referred to BeulahRutherford. In the first place, Roy believed it to be a pureassumption that he was going to marry her. Then, too, he had spoken ofthis high-spirited girl as if she were a colt to be broken and he theman to wield the whip. Her rebellion against fate meant nothing moreto him than a tantrum to be curbed. He did not in the least divine thespiritual unrest back of her explosion.
Beaudry shrugged his shoulders. He was lucky for once. It had beenthe place of Ned Rutherford to rebuke Charlton for his slightingremark. A stranger had not the least right to interfere while thebrother of the girl was present. Roy did not pursue the point anyfurther. He did not want to debate with himself whether he had thepluck to throw down the gauntlet to this fighting _vaquero_ if the callhad come to him.
As he walked into the house and up to his room, his mind was busy withanother problem. Where had Ned Rutherford been for three nights andhis brother Jeff before that? Why had Beulah flared into unexpectedanger? He, too, had glimpsed furtive whisperings. Even a fool wouldhave understood that he was not a welcome guest at the horse ranch, andthat his presence was tolerated only because here the boys could keepan eye on him. He was under surveillance. That was plain. He hadstarted out for a little walk before breakfast and Jeff joined him fromnowhere in particular to stroll along. What was it the Huerfano Parksettlers were trying to hide from him? His mind jumped promptly to theanswer. Dave Dingwell, of course.
Meanwhile Miss Rutherford lay weeping in the next room face down uponthe bed. She rarely indulged in tears. It had not happened beforesince she was seventeen. But now she sobbed into a pillow, softly, sothat nobody might hear. Why must she spend her life in suchsurroundings? If the books she read told the truth, the world was fullof gentle, kindly people who lived within the law and respected eachother's rights. Why was it in her horoscope to be an outcast? Whymust she look at everybody with bitterness and push friendship from herlest it turn to poison at her touch? For one hour she had found joy incomradeship with this stranger. Then Tighe had whispered it that hewas probably a spy. She had returned home only to have her doubtsabout her own family stirred to life again. Were there no good, honestfolk in the world at all?
She washed her telltale eyes and ventured downstairs to look aftersupper. The Mexican cook was already peeling the potatoes. She gavehim directions about the meal and went out to the garden to get someradishes and lettuce. On the way she had to pass the corral. Herbrother Hal, Slim Sanders, and Cherokee Street were roping and brandingsome calves. The guest of the house had hung his coat and hat on afence-post to keep them from getting soiled, but the hat had falleninto the dust.
Beulah picked up the hat and brushed it. As she dusted with herhandkerchief the under side of the rim her eyes fell upon two initialsstamped into the sweat pad. The letters were "R.B." The owner of thehat called himself Cherokee Street. Why, then, should he have theseother initials printed on the pad? There could be only one answer tothat question. He was passing under a name that was not his own.
If so, why? Because he was a spy come to get evidence against herpeople for the express company.
The eyes of the girl blazed. The man had come to ruin her father, tosend her brothers to prison, and he was accepting their hospitalitywhile he moled for facts to convict them. To hear the shout of his gaylaughter as a calf upset him in the dust was added fuel to the fire ofher anger. If he had looked as villainous as Dave Meldrum, she couldhave stood it better, but any one would have sworn that he was a clean,decent young fellow just out of college.
She called to him. Roy glanced up and came across the corral. Hissleeves were rolled to the elbows and the shirt open at the throat.Flowing muscles rippled under the white skin of his forearms as hevaulted the fence to stand beside her. He had the graceful poise of anathlete and the beautiful, trim figure of youth.
Yet he was a spy. Beulah hardened her heart.
"I found your hat in the dust, Mr. Street." She held it out to himupside down, the leather pad lifted by her finger so that the lettersstood out.
The rigor of her eyes was a challenge. For a moment, before he caughtsight of the initials, he was puzzled at her stiffness. Then his heartlost a beat and hammered wildly. His brain was in a fog and he couldfind no words of explanation.
"It is your hat, isn't it, Mr.--Street?"
"Yes." He took it from her, put it on, and gulped "Thanks."
She waited to give him a chance to justify himself, but he could findno answer to the charge that she had fixed upon him. Scornfully sheturned from him and went
to the house.
Miss Rutherford found her father reading a week-old newspaper.
"I've got fresher news than that for you, dad," she said. "I can tellyou who this man that calls himself Cherokee Street isn't."
Rutherford looked up quickly. "You mean who he is, Boots."
"No, I mean who he isn't. His name isn't Cherokee Street at all."
"How do you know?"
"Because he is wearing a hat with the initials 'R.B.' stamped in it. Igave him a chance to explain and he only stammered and got white. Hehadn't time to think up a lie that would fit."
"Dad burn it, Jess Tighe is right, then. The man is a spy." Theranchman lit a cigar and narrowed his eyes in thought.
"What is he spying here for?"
"I reckon he's a detective of the express company nosing around aboutthat robbery. Some folks think it was pulled off by a bunch up in thehills somewhere."
"By the Rutherford gang?" she quoted.
He looked at her uneasily. The bitterness in her voice put him on thedefensive. "Sho, Boots! That's just a way folks have of talking.We've got our enemies. Lots of people hate us because we won't let anyone run over us."
She stood straight and slender before him, her eyes fixed in his. "Dothey say we robbed the express company?"
"They don't say it out loud if they do--not where I can hear them," heanswered grimly.
"Did we?" she flung at him.
His smile was forced. The question disturbed him. That had alwaysbeen her way, even when she was a small child, to fling herselfheadlong at difficulties. She had never been the kind to be put offwith anything less than the truth.
"I didn't. Did you?" he retorted.
"How about the boys--and Uncle Buck--and Brad Charlton?" she demanded.
"Better ask them if you want to know." With a flare of temper hecontradicted himself. "No, you'd better mind your own business, girl.Forget your foolishness and 'tend to your knitting."
"I suppose it isn't my business if my kin go to the penitentiary fortrain robbery."
"They're not going any such place. If you want to know, I give you myword that none of us Rutherfords have got the gold stolen from theWestern Express Company."
"And don't know where it is?"
"Haven't the least idea--not one of us."
She drew a deep breath of relief. More than once her father had keptfrom her secrets of the family activities, but he had never lied to her.
"Then it doesn't matter about this detective. He can find out nothingagainst us," she reflected aloud.
"I'm not so sure about that. We've had our troubles and we don't wantthem aired. There was that shooting scrape Hal got into down at BattleButte, for instance. Get a little more evidence and the wrong kind ofa jury would send him up for it. No, we'll keep an eye on Mr. CherokeeStreet, or whatever his name is. Reckon I'll ride over and have a talkwith Jess about it."
"Why not tell this man Street that he is not wanted and so be done withit?"
"Because we wouldn't be done with it. Another man would come in hisplace. We'll keep him here where we can do a little detective work onhim, too."
"I don't like it. The thing is underhanded. I hate the fellow. It'snot decent to sit at table with a man who is betraying ourhospitality," she cried hotly.
"It won't be for long, honey. Just leave him to us. We'll hang up hispelt to dry before we're through with him."
"You don't mean--?"
"No, nothing like that. But he'll crawl out of the park like a whippedcur with its tail between its legs."
The cook stood in the doorway. "Miss Beulah, do you want that meatdone in a pot roast?" he asked.
"Yes. I'll show you." She turned at the door. "By the way, dad, Itook a snapshot of Mr. Tighe on his porch. I'll develop it to-nightand you can take it to him in the morning."
"All right. Don't mention to anybody that matter we were discussing.Act like you've forgotten all about what you found out, Boots."
The girl nodded. "Yes."