Jean of the Lazy A

  CHAPTER XXII

  JEAN MEETS ONE CRISIS AND CONFRONTS ANOTHER

  "Well, say! This is like seeing you walk out of that picture that'srunning at the Teatro Palacia. You sure are making a hit with thosemoving-pictures; made me feel like I'd met somebody from home to strollin there and see you and Lite come riding up, large as life. How isLite, anyway?"

  If Art Osgood felt any embarrassment over meeting her, he certainlygave no sign of it. He sat down on the railing, pushed back his hat,and looked as though he was preparing for a real soul-feast ofreminiscent gossip. "Just get in?" he asked, by way of opening widerthe channel of talk. He lighted a cigarette and flipped the match downinto the street. "I've been here three or four months. I'm part ofthe Mexican revolution, though I don't reckon I look it. We beenkeeping things pretty well stirred up, down this way. You looking forpicture dope? Lubin folks are copping all kinds of good stuff here.You ain't with them, are you?"

  Jean braced herself against slipping into easy conversation with thisman who seemed so friendly and unsuspicious and so conscience-free.Killing a man, she thought, evidently did not seem to him a matter ofany moment; perhaps because he had since then become a professionalkiller of men. After planning exactly how she should meet anycontingency that might arise, she found herself baffled. She had notexpected to meet this attitude. She was not prepared to meet it. Shehad taken it for granted that Art Osgood would shun a meeting; that shewould have to force him to face her. And here he was, sitting on theporch rail and swinging one spurred and booted foot, smiling at her andtalking, in high spirits over the meeting--or a genius at acting. Sheeyed him uncertainly, trying to adjust herself to this emergency.

  Art came to a pause and looked at her inquiringly. "What's the matter?"he demanded. "You called me up here--and I sure was tickled to deathto come, all right!--and now you stand there looking like I was a kidthat had been caught whispering, and must be kept after school. I knowthe symptoms, believe me! You're sore about something I've said. What,don't you like to have anybody talk about you being a movie-queen? Yousure are all of that. You've got a license to be proud of yourself.Or maybe you didn't know you was speaking to a Mexican soldier, orsomething like that." He made a move to rise. "Ex-cuse ME, if I'vesaid something I hadn't ought. I'll beat it, while the beating's good."

  "No, you won't. You'll stay right where you are." His frank acceptanceof her hostile attitude steadied Jean. "Do you think I came all theway down here just to say hello?"

  "Search me." Art studied her curiously. "I never could keep track ofwhat you thought and what you meant, and I guess you haven't grown anyeasier to read since I saw you last. I'll be darned if I know what youcame for; but it's a cinch you didn't come just to be riding on thecars."

  "No," drawled Jean, watching him. "I didn't. I came after you."

  Art Osgood stared, while his cheeks darkened with the flush ofconfusion. He laughed a little. "I sure wish that was the truth," hesaid. "Jean, you never would have to go very far after any man withtwo eyes in his head. Don't rub it in."

  "I did," said Jean calmly. "I came after you. I'd have found you if Ihad to hunt all through Mexico and fight both armies for you."

  "Jean!" There was a queer, pleading note in Art's voice. "I wish Icould believe that, but I can't. I ain't a fool."

  "Yes, you are." Jean contradicted him pitilessly. "You were a foolwhen you thought you could go away and no one think you knew anythingat all about--Johnny Croft."

  Art's fingers had been picking at a loose splinter on the wooden railwhereon he sat. He looked down at it, jerked it loose with a sharptwist, and began snapping off little bits with his thumb andforefinger. In a minute he looked up at Jean, and his eyes weredifferent. They were not hostile; they were merely cold and watchfuland questioning.

  "Well?"

  "Well, somebody did think so. I've thought so for three years, and soI'm here." Jean found that her breath was coming fast, and that as sheleaned back against a post and gripped the rail on either side, herarms were quivering like the legs of a frightened horse. Still, hervoice had sounded calm enough.

  Art Osgood sat with his shoulders drooped forward a little, andpainstakingly snipped off tiny bits of the splinter. After a shortsilence, he turned his head and looked at her again.

  "I shouldn't think you'd want to stir up that trouble after all thiswhile," he said. "But women are queer. I can't see, myself, why you'dwant to bother hunting me up on account of--that."

  Jean weighed his words, his look, his manner, and got no clue at all towhat was going on back of his eyes. On the surface, he was just atanned, fairly good-looking young man who has been reluctantly drawninto an unpleasant subject.

  "Well, I did consider it worth while bothering to hunt you up," shetold him flatly. "If you don't think it's important, you at leastwon't object to going back with me?"

  Again his glance went to her face, plainly startled. "Go back withyou?" he repeated. "What for?"

  "Well--" Jean still had some trouble with her breath and to keep herquiet, smooth drawl, "let's make it a woman's reason. Because."

  Art's face settled to a certain hardness that still was not hostile."Becauses don't go," he said. "Not with a girl like you; they mightwith some. What do you want me to go back for?"

  "Well, I want you to go because I want to clear things up, about JohnnyCroft. It's time--it was cleared up."

  Art regarded her fixedly. "Well, I don't see yet what's back of thatfirst BECAUSE," he sparred. "There's nothing I can do to clear upanything."

  "Art, don't lie to me about it. I know--"

  "What do you know?" Art's eyes never left her face, now. They seemedto be boring into her brain. Jean began to feel a certain confusion.To be sure, she had never had any experience whatever with fugitivemurderers; but no one would ever expect one to act like this. A littlemore, she thought resentfully, and he would be making her feel as ifshe were the guilty person. She straightened herself and stared backat him.

  "I know you left because you--you didn't want to stay and face-things.I--I have felt as if I could kill you, almost, for what you have done.I--I don't see how you can SIT there and--and look at me that way."She stopped and braced herself. "I don't want to argue about it. Icame here to make you go back and face things. It's--horrible--" Shewas thinking of her father then, and she could not go on.

  "Jean, you're all wrong. I don't know what idea you've got, but youmay as well get one or two things straight. Maybe you do feel likekilling me; but I don't know what for. I haven't the slightest notionof going back; there's nothing I could clear up, if I did go."

  Jean looked at him dumbly. She supposed she should have to force himto go, after all. Of course, you couldn't expect that a man who hadcommitted a crime will admit it to the first questioner; you couldn'texpect him to go back willingly and face the penalty. She would have touse her gun; perhaps even call on Lite, since Lite had followed her.She might have felt easier in her mind had she seen how Lite wasstanding just within the glass-paneled door behind the dimity curtain,listening to every word, and watching every expression on Art Osgood'sface. Lite's hand, also, was close to his gun, to be perfectly sure ofJean's safety. But he had no intention of spoiling her feeling ofindependence if he could help it. He had lots of faith in Jean.

  "What has cropped up, anyway?" Art asked her curiously, as if he hadbeen puzzling over her reasons for being there. "I thought that affairwas settled long ago, when it happened. I thought it was all straightsailing--"

  "To send an innocent man to prison for it? Do you call that straightsailing?" Jean's eyes had in them now a flash of anger that steadiedher.

  "What innocent man?" Art threw away the stub of the splinter and satup straight. "I never knew any innocent man--"

  "Oh! You didn't know?"

  "All I know," said Art, with a certain swiftness of speech that was anew element in his manner, "I'm dead willing to tell you. I knewJohnny had been aro
und knocking the outfit, and making some threats,and saying things he had no business to say. I never did have any usefor him, just because he was so mouthy. I wasn't surprised tohear--how it ended up."

  "To hear! You weren't there, when it happened?" Jean was watching himfor some betraying emotion, some sign that she had struck home. Shegot a quick, sharp glance from him, as if he were trying to guess justhow much she knew.

  "Why should I have been there? The last time I was ever at the LazyA," he stated distinctly, "was the day before I left. I didn't go anyfarther than the gate then. I had a letter for your father, and I methim at the gate and gave it to him."

  "A letter for dad?" It was not much, but it was better than nothing.Jean thought she might lead him on to something more.

  "Yes! A note, or a letter. Carl sent me over with it."

  "Carl? What was it about? I never heard--"

  "I never read it. Ask your dad what it was about, why don't you? Idon't reckon it was anything particular."

  "Maybe it was, though." Jean was turning crafty. She would pretend tobe interested in the letter, and trip Art somehow when he was off hisguard. "Are you sure that it was the day before--you left?"

  "Yes." Some high talk in the street caught his attention, and Artturned and looked down. Jean caught at the chance to study his avertedface, but she could not read innocence or guilt there. Art, shedecided, was not as transparent as she had always believed him to be.He turned back and met her look. "I know it was the day before. Why?"

  "Oh, I wondered. Dad didn't say-- What did he do with it--the letter?"

  "He opened it and read it." A smile of amused understanding of herfinesse curled Art's lips. "And he stuck it in the pocket of his chapsand went on to wherever he was going." His eyes challenged herimpishly.

  "And it was from Uncle Carl, you say?"

  Art hesitated, and the smile left his lips. "It--it was from Carl,yes. Why?"

  "Oh, I just wondered." Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling,all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going tocontradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid shewould ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?

  "Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all aboutit?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was everover there."

  "Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I thinkof dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sitthere and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with hislife and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that youdeny--"

  "What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his facewas hard and hostile, and so were his eyes.

  "Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodgepenitentiary--"

  "Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch herby the throat, he would not have looked much different.

  "My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you--" She didnot attempt to finish the charge.

  Art sat looking at her with a queer intensity. "Your father!" herepeated. "Aleck! I never knew that, Jean. Take my word, I neverknew that!" He seemed to be thinking pretty fast. "Where's Carl at?"he asked irrelevantly.

  "Uncle Carl? He's home, running both ranches. I--I never could makeUncle Carl see that you must have been the one."

  "Been the one that shot Crofty, you mean?" Art gave a short laugh. Hegot up and stood in front of her. "Thanks, awfully. Good reason whyhe couldn't see it! He knows well enough I didn't do it. He knows--whodid." He bit his lips then, as if he feared that he had said too much.

  "Uncle Carl knows? Then why doesn't he tell? It wasn't dad!" Jeantook a defiant step toward him. "Art Osgood, if you dare say it wasdad, I--I'll kill you!"

  Art smiled at her with a brief lightening of his eyes. "I believe youwould, at that," he said soberly. "But it wasn't your dad, Jean."

  "Who was it?"

  "I--don't--know."

  "You do! You do know, Art Osgood! And you ran off; and they gave dadeight years--"

  Art spoke one word under his breath, and that word was profane. "Idon't see how that could be," he said after a minute.

  Jean did not answer. She was biting her lips to keep back the tears.She felt that somehow she had failed; that Art Osgood was slippingthrough her fingers, in spite of the fact that he did not seem to fearher or to oppose her except in the final accusation. It was the lackof opposition, that lack of fear, that baffled her so. Art, she feltdimly, must be very sure of his own position; was it because he was soclose to the Mexican line? Jean glanced desperately that way. It wasvery close. She could see the features of the Mexican soldiers loungingbefore the cantina over there; through the lighted window of thecustomhouse she could see a dark-faced officer bending over a littereddesk. The guard over there spoke to a friend, and she could hear thewords he said.

  Jean thought swiftly. She must not let Art Osgood go back across thatstreet. She could cover him with her gun--Art knew how well she coulduse it!--and she would call for an American officer and have himarrested. Or, Lite was somewhere below; she would call for Lite, andhe could go and get an officer and a warrant.

  "How soon you going back?" Art asked abruptly, as though he had beenpondering a problem and had reached the solution. "I'll have to get aleave of absence, or go down on the books as a deserter; and I wouldn'twant that. I can get it, all right. I'll go back with you andstraighten this thing out, if it's the way you say it is. I suredidn't know they'd pulled your dad for it, Jean."

  This, coming so close upon the heels of her own decision, set Jean allat sea again. She looked at him doubtfully.

  "I thought you said you didn't know, and you wouldn't go back."

  Art grinned sardonically. "I'll lie any time to help a friend," headmitted frankly. "What I do draw the line at is lying to help somecowardly cuss double-cross a man. Your father got the double-cross; Idon't stand for anything like that. Not a-tall!" He heaved a sigh ofnervous relaxation, for the last half hour had been keyed rather highfor them both, and pulled his hat down on his head.

  "Say, Jean! Want to go across with me and meet the general? You canmake my talk a whole lot stronger by telling what you came for. I'llget leave, all right, then. And you'll know for sure that I'm playingstraight. You see that two-story 'dobe about half-way down theblock,--the one with the Mexican flag over it?" He pointed. "There'swhere he is. Want to go over?"

  "Any objections to taking me along with you?" This was Lite, comingnonchalantly toward them from the doorway. Lite was still perfectlywilling to let Jean manage this affair in her own way, but that did notmean that he would not continue to watch over her. Lite was much like aman who lets a small boy believe he is driving a skittish team allalone. Jean believed that she was acting alone in this, as ineverything else. She had yet to learn that Lite had for three yearsbeen always at hand, ready to take the lines if the team proved toofractious for her.

  Art turned and put out his hand. "Why, hello, Lite! Sure, you cancome along; glad to have you." He eyed Lite questioningly. "I'llgamble you've heard all we've been talking about," he said. "Thatwould be you, all right! So you don't need any wising up. Come on; Iwant to catch the chief before he goes off somewhere."

  To see the three of them go down the stairs and out upon the street andacross it into Mexico,--which to Jean seemed very queer,--you wouldnever dream of the quest that had brought them together down here onthe border. Even Jean was smiling, in a tired, anxious way. Shewalked close to Lite and never once asked him how he came to be there,or why. She was glad that he was there. She was glad to shift thewhole matter to his broad shoulders now, and let him take the lead.

  They had a real Mexican dinner in a queer little adobe place where Artadvised them quite seriously never to come alone. They had thick soupwith a strange flavor, and Art talked with the waiter in Mexicandialect that made Jean glad indeed to feel Lite's el
bow touching hers,and to know that although Lite's hand rested idly on his knee, it wasonly one second from his weapon. She had no definite suspicion of ArtOsgood, but all the same she was thankful that she was not there alonewith him among all these dark, sharp-eyed Mexicans with theiratmosphere of latent treachery.

  Lite ate mostly with his left hand. Jean noticed that. It was theonly sign of watchfulness that he betrayed, unless one added the factthat he had chosen a seat which brought his back against an adobe walland his face toward Art and the room, with Jean beside him. That mighthave been pure chance, and it might not. But Art was evidently playingfair.

  A little later they came back to the Casa del Sonora, and Jean went upto her room feeling that a great burden had been lifted from hershoulders. Lite and Art Osgood were out on the veranda, gossiping ofthe range, and in Art's pocket was a month's leave of absence from hisduties. Once she heard Lite laugh, and she stood with one hand full ofhairpins and the other holding the brush and listened, and smiled alittle. It all sounded very companionable, very care-free,--not in theleast as though they were about to clear up an old wrong.

  She got into bed and thumped the hard pillow into a little nest for hertired head, and listened languidly to the familiar voices that came toher mingled with confused noises of the street. Lite was on guard; hewould not lose his caution just because Art seemed friendly andhelpfully inclined, and had meant no treachery over in that queerrestaurant. Lite would not be easily tricked. So she presently fellasleep.