CHAPTER IX
A MAN-SIZED JOB FOR JEAN
Jean was just returning wet-lashed from burying the little brown birdunder a wild-rose bush near the creek. She had known all along that itwould die; everything that she took any interest in turned out badly,it seemed to her. The wonder was that the bird had lived so long aftershe had taken it under her protection.
All that day her Aunt Ella had worn a wet towel turban-wise upon herhead, and the look of a martyr about to enter a den of lions. Add thatto the habitual atmosphere of injury which she wore, and Aunt Ella wasnot what one might call a cheerful companion. Besides, the appearanceof the wet towel was a danger signal to Jean's conscience, and forbadeany thought of saddling Pard and riding away from the Bar Nothing intoher own dream world and the great outdoors. Jean's conscience commandedher instead to hang her riding-clothes in the closet and wear stripedpercale and a gingham apron, which she hated; and to sweep and dust andremember not to whistle, and to look sympathetic,--which she was not,particularly; and to ask her Aunt Ella frequently if she felt anybetter, and if there was anything Jean could do for her. There neverwas anything she could do, but conscience and custom required her toobserve the ceremony of asking. Aunt Ella found some languidsatisfaction in replying dolorously that there was nothing that anybodycould do, and that her part in life seemed to be to suffer.
You may judge what Jean's mood was that day, when you are told that shecame to the point, not an hour before the bird died, of looking at heraunt with that little smile at the corners of her eyes and just easingher lips. "Well, you certainly play your part in life with a heap ofenthusiasm," she had replied, and had gone out into the kitchen andwhistled when she did not feel in the least like whistling. Herconscience knew Jean pretty well, and did not attempt to reprove herfor what she had done.
Then she found the bird dead in the little nest she had made for it,and things went all wrong.
She was returning from the burial of the bird, and was trying to forceherself back to her normal attitude of philosophic calm, when she sawher Uncle Carl sitting on the edge of the front porch, with his elbowsresting loosely upon his knees, his head bowed, and his boot-heeldigging a rude trench in the hard-packed earth.
The sight of him incensed her suddenly. Once more she wished that shemight get at his brain and squeeze out his thoughts; and it neveroccurred to her that she would probably have found them extremelycommonplace thoughts that strayed no farther than his own littlepersonal business of life, and that they would easily be translated tothe dollar sign. His attitude was one of gloomy meditation, and herown mood supplied the subject. She watched him for a minute or two,and his abstraction was so deep that he did not feel her presence.
"Uncle Carl, just how much did the Lazy A cost you?" she asked soabruptly that she herself was surprised at the question. "Or puttingit another way, just how many dollars and cents did you spend indefending dad?"
Carl started, which was perfectly natural, and glared at her, which wasnatural also, when one considers that Jean had without warning opened asubject tacitly forbidden upon that ranch. His eyes hardened a littlewhile he looked at her, for between these two there was scant affection.
"What do you want to know for?" he countered, when she persisted inlooking at him as though she was waiting for an answer.
"Because I've a right to know. Some time,--within four years,--I meanto buy back the Lazy A. I want to know how much it will take." Untilthat moment Jean had merely dreamed of some day buying it back. Untilshe spoke she would have named the idea a beautiful, impossible desire.
"Where you going to get the money?" Carl looked at her curiously, as ifhe almost doubted her sanity.
"Rob a bank, perhaps. How much will it take to square things with you?Of course, being a relative, I expect to be cheated a little. So I amgoing to adopt sly, sleuth-like methods and find out just how much dadowed you before--it happened, and just how much the lawyers charged,and what was the real market value of the outfit, and all that. Dadtold me--dad told me that there was something left over for me. Hedidn't explain--there wasn't time, and I--couldn't listen todollar-talk then. I've gone along all this time, just drifting andgetting used to facts, and taking it for granted that everything is allright--"
"Well, what's wrong? Everything is all right, far as I know. I cansee what you're driving at--"
"And I'm a pretty fair driver, too," Jean cut in calmly. "I'll reachmy destination, I think,--give me time enough."
"Whatever fool notion you've got in your head, you'd better drop it,"Carl told her harshly. "There ain't anything you can do to bettermatters. I came out with the worst of it, when you come right down tofacts, and all the nagging-"
Jean went toward him as if she would strike him with her uplifted hand."Don't dare say that! How can you say that,--and think of dad? He gotthe worst of it. He's the one that suffers most--and--he's as innocentas you or I. You know it."
Carl rose from the porch and faced her like an enemy. "What do youmean by that? I know it? If I knew anything like that, do you thinkI'd leave a stone unturned to prove it? Do you think--"
"I think we both know dad. And some things were not proved,--to mysatisfaction, at least. And you know how long the jury was out, andwhat a time they had agreeing. Some points were weak. It was simplythat they couldn't point to any one else. You know that was it. If Icould find Art Osgood--"
"What's he got to do with it?" Her uncle leaned a little and peeredinto her face, which the dusk was veiling.
"That is what I want to find out." Jean's voice was quiet, but it hada quality which he had never before noticed.
"You'd better," he advised her tritely, "let sleeping dogs lie."
"That's the trouble with sleeping dogs; they do lie, more often thannot. These particular dogs have lied for nearly three years. I'mgoing to stir them up and see if I can't get a yelp of the truth out ofthem."
"Oh, you are!" Carl laughed ironically. "You'll stir up a lot ofunpleasantness for yourself and the rest of us, is what you'll do. Thething's over and done with. Folks are beginning to forget it. You'vegot a home--"
Jean laughed, and her laugh was extremely unpleasant.
"You get as good as the rest of us get," her uncle reminded hersharply. "I came near going broke myself over the affair, if you wantto know; and you stand there and accuse me of cheating you out ofsomething! I don't know what in heaven's name you expect. The Lazy Adidn't make me rich, I can tell you that. It just barely helped totide things over. You've got a home here, and you can come and go asyou please. What you ain't got," he added bitterly, "is commongratitude."
He turned away from her and went into the house, and Jean sat down uponthe edge of the porch and stared away at the dimming outline of thehills, and wondered what had come over her.
Three years on this ranch, seeing her uncle every day almost, livingunder the same roof with him, talking with him upon the everydaybusiness of life,--and to-night, for the first time, the forbiddensubject had been opened. She had said things that until lately she hadnot realized were in her mind. She had never liked her uncle, who wasso different from her father, but she had never accused him in her mindof unfairness until she had written something of the sort in herledger. She had never thought of quarrelling,--and yet one couldscarcely call this encounter less than a quarrel. And the strange partof it was that she still believed what she had said; she still intendedto do the things she declared she would do. Just how she would do themshe did not know, but her purpose was hardening and coming clean-cutout of the vague background of her mind.
After awhile the dim outline of the high-shouldered hills glowed undera yellowing patch of light. Jean sat with her chin in her palms andwatched the glow brighten swiftly. Then some unseen force seemed to bepushing a bright yellow disk up through a gap in the hills, and the gapwas almost too narrow, so that the disk touched either side as it slidslowly upward. At last it was up, launched fairly upon its leisurely,d
rifting journey across to the farther hills behind her. It was notquite round. That was because one edge had scraped too hard againstthe side of the hill, perhaps. But warped though it was, its light fellsoftly upon Jean's face, and showed it set and still and stern-eyed andsomber.
She sat there awhile longer, until the slopes lay softly revealed toher, their hollows filled with inky shadows. She drew a long breaththen, and looked around her at the familiar details of the Bar Nothingdwelling-place, softened a little by the moonlight, but harsh with hermemories of unhappy days spent there. She rose and went into the houseand to her room, and changed the hated striped percale for herriding-clothes.
A tall, lank form detached itself from the black shade of thebunk-house as she went by, hesitated perceptibly, and then followed herdown to the corral. When she had gone in with a rope and later led outPard, the form stood forth in the white light of the moon.
"Where are you going, Jean?" Lite asked her in a tone that was soothingin its friendliness.
"That you, Lite? I'm going--well, just going. I've got to ride." Shepulled Pard's bridle off the peg where she always hung it, and laid anarm over his neck while she held the bit against his clinched teeth.Pard never did take kindly to the feel of the cold steel in his mouth,and she spoke to him sharply before his jaws slackened.
"Want me to go along with you?" Lite asked, and reached for his saddleand blanket.
"No, I want you to go to bed." Jean's tone was softer than it had beenfor that whole day. "You've had all the riding you need. I've beenshut up with Aunt Ella and her favorite form of torture."
"Got your gun?" Lite gave the latigo a final pull which made Pardgrunt.
"Of course. Why?"
"Nothing,--only it's a good night for coyotes, and you might get a shotat one. Another thing, a gun's no good on earth when you haven't gotit with you."
"Yes, and you've told me so about once a week ever since I was bigenough to pull a trigger," Jean retorted, with something approachingher natural tone. "Maybe I won't come back, Lite. Maybe I'll camp overhome till morning."
Lite did not say anything in reply to that. He leaned his long personagainst a corral post and watched her out of sight on the trail up thehill. Then he caught his own horse, saddled it leisurely, and rodeaway.
Jean rode slowly, leaving the trail and striking out across the opencountry straight for the Lazy A. She had no direct purpose in ridingthis way; she had not intended to ride to the Lazy A until she namedthe place to Lite as her destination, but since she had told him so,she knew that was where she was going. The picture-people would not bethere at night, and she felt the need of coming as close as possible toher father; at the Lazy A, where his thoughts would cling, she feltnear to him,--much nearer than when she was at the Bar Nothing. Andthat the gruesome memory of what had happened there did not make theplace seem utterly horrible merely proves how unshakable was her faithin him.
A coyote trotted up out of a hollow facing her, stiffened withastonishment, dropped nose and tail, and slid away in the shadow of thehill. A couple of minutes later Jean saw him sitting alert upon hishaunches on a moon-bathed slope, watching to see what she would do.She did nothing; and the coyote pointed his nose to the moon,yap-yap-yapped a quavering defiance, and slunk out of sight over thehill crest.
Her mind now was more at ease than it had been since the day of horrorwhen she had first stared black tragedy in the face. She was passingthrough that phase of calm elation which follows close upon the heelsof a great resolve. She had not yet come to the actual surmounting ofthe obstacles that would squeeze hope from the heart of her; she hadnot yet looked upon the possibility of absolute failure.
She was going to buy back the Lazy A from her Uncle Carl, and she wasgoing to tear away that atmosphere of emptiness and desolation which ithad worn so long. She was going to prove to all men that her fathernever had killed Johnny Croft. She was going to do it! Then lifewould begin where it had left off three years ago. And when thisdeadening load of trouble was lifted, then perhaps she could do some ofthe glorious, great things she had all of her life dreamed of doing.Or, if she never did the glorious, great things, she would at leasthave done something to justify her existence. She would be content inher cage if she could go round and round doing things for dad.
A level stretch of country lay at the foot of the long bluff, whichfarther along held the Lazy A coulee close against its rocky side. Thehigh ridges stood out boldly in the moonlight, so that she could seeevery rock and the shadow that it cast upon the ground. Little,soothing night noises fitted themselves into her thoughts and changedthem to waking dreams. Crickets that hushed while she passed them by;the faint hissing of a half-wakened breeze that straightway slept uponthe grasses it had stirred; the sleepy protest of some bird whichPard's footsteps had startled.
She came into Lazy A coulee, half fancying that it was a realhome-coming. But when she reached the gate and found it lying flatupon the ground away from the broad tread of the picture-people'smachine, her mind jarred from dreams back to reality. From sheer habitshe dismounted, picked up the spineless thing of stakes and barbedwire, dragged it into place across the trail, and fastened it securelyto the post. She remounted and went on, and a little of thehopefulness was gone from her face.
"I'll just about have to rob a bank, I guess," she told herself with agrim humor at the tremendous undertaking to which she had so calmlycommitted herself. "This is what dad would call a man-sized job, Ireckon." She pulled up in the white-lighted trail and stared along theempty, sagging-roofed sheds and stables, and at the corral with itsopen gate and warped rails and leaning posts. "I'll just about have torob a bank,--or write a book that will make me famous."
She touched Pard with a rein end and went on slowly. "Robbing a bankwould be the quickest and easiest," she decided whimsically, as sheneared the place where she always sheltered Pard. "But not soladylike. I guess I'll write a book. It should be something realthrilly, so the people will rush madly to all the bookstores to buy it.It should have a beautiful girl, and at least two handsome men,--onewith all the human virtues, and the other with all the arts of thedevil and the cruel strength of the savage. And--I think some Indiansand outlaws would add several dollars' worth of thrills; or else aghost and a haunted house. I wonder which would sell the best?Indians could steal the girl and give her two handsome men a chance todo chapters of stunts, and the wicked one could find her first andcarry her away in front of him on a horse (they do those things inbooks!) and the hero could follow in a mad chase for miles and miles--
"But then, ghosts can be made very creepy, with tantalizing glimpses ofthem now and then in about every other chapter, and mysterious hintshere and there, and characters coming down to breakfast with white,drawn faces and haggard eyes. And the wicked one would look over hisshoulder and then utter a sardonic laugh. Sardonic is such aneffective word; I don't believe Indians would give him any excuse forsardonic laughter."
She swung down from the saddle and led Pard into his stall, that wasvery black next the manger and very light where the moon shone in atthe door. "I must have lots of moonlight and several stormy sunsets,and the wind soughing in the branches. I shall have to buy a newdictionary,--a big, fat, heavy one with the flags of all nations andhow to measure the contents of an empty hogshead, and the deaf and dumbalphabet, and everything but the word you want to know the meaning ofand whether it begins with ph or an f."
She took the saddle off Pard and hung it up by a stirrup on the rustyspike where she kept it, with the bridle hung over the stirrup, and thesaddle blanket folded over the horn. She groped in the manger anddecided that there was hay enough to last him till morning, and wentout and closed the door. Her shadow fell clean cut upon the roughplanks, and she stood for a minute looking at it as if it were aperson. Her Stetson hat tilted a little to one side, her hair fluffedloosely at the sides, leaving her neck daintily slender where it showedabove the turned-back collar of her gray sweater; her shoulders squa
reand capable and yet not too heavy, and the slim contour of her figurereaching down to the ground. She studied it abstractedly, as she wouldstudy herself in her mirror, conscious of the individuality, itslikeness to herself.
"I don't know what kind of a mess you'll make of it," she said to hershadow, "but you're going to tackle it, just the same. You can't do athing till you get some money."
She turned then and went thoughtfully up to the house and into herroom, which had as yet been left undisturbed behind the bars she hadplaced against idle invasion.
The moon shone full into the window that faced the coulee, and she satdown in the old, black wooden rocker and gazed out upon the familiar,open stretch of sand and scant grass-growth that lay between the houseand the corrals. She turned her eyes to the familiar bold outline ofthe bluff that swung round in a crude oval to the point where the trailturned into the coulee from the southwest. Half-way between the baseand the ragged skyline, the boulder that looked like an elephant's headstood out, white of profile, hooded with black shade. Beyond was thefat shelf of ledge that had a small cave beneath, where she had oncefound a nest full of little, hungry birds and upon the slope beneaththe telltale, scattered wing-feathers, to show what fate had fallenupon the mother. Those birds had died also, and she had wept and giventhem Christian burial, and had afterwards spent hours every day withher little rifle hunting the destroyer of that small home. Sheremembered the incident now as a small thread in the memory-pattern shewas weaving.
While the shadows shortened as the moon swung high, she sat and lookedout upon the coulee and the bluff that sheltered it, and she saw thethings that were blended cunningly with the things that were not.After a long while her hands unclasped themselves from behind her headand dropped numbly to her lap. She sighed and moved stiffly, and knewthat she was tired and that she must get some sleep, because she couldnot sit down in one spot and think her way through the problems she hadtaken it upon herself to solve. So she got up and crept under theNavajo blanket upon the couch, tucked it close about her shoulders, andshut her eyes deliberately. Presently she fell asleep.