The Range Boss

  CHAPTER XVI

  TWO ARE TAUGHT LESSONS

  There was one other thing that Ruth did not know--the rage that dwelt inRanderson's heart against Chavis and Kester. He had shown no indicationof it when she had related to him the story of her adventure with themen, nor did he mention it to any of his associates. There had been atime in his life when he would have brought the men to a quick and finalaccounting, for their offense was one that the laws governing humanconduct in this country would not condone; but he was not the man he hadbeen before the coming of Ruth; her views on the taking of human life--nomatter what the provocation--were barriers that effectively restrainedhis desires.

  Yet he could not permit Kester and Chavis to think they could repeat theoffense with impunity. That would be an indication of impotence, ofservile yielding to the feminine edict that had already gone forth, andbehind which Chavis and his men were even now hiding--the decree of theFlying W owner that there should be no taking of human life. His lipstwisted crookedly as on the morning of the day following his adventurewith Ruth and the recreant pony he mounted his own animal and rode awayfrom the outfit without telling any of them where he was going. Two orthree hours later, in a little basin near the plateau where Ruth hadoverheard the men talking, Chavis and Kester were watching the crookedsmile; their own faces as pale as Randerson's, their breath swellingtheir lungs as the threat of impending violence assailed them; theirmuscles rippling and cringing in momentary expectation of the rapidmovement they expected--and dreaded; their hearts laboring and pounding.For they saw in the face of this man who had brought his pony to a haltwithin ten feet of them a decision to adhere to the principles that hadgoverned him all his days, and they knew that a woman's order would notstay the retributive impulse that was gleaming in his eyes.

  "We'll get to an understandin' before we quit here," he said, his cold,alert eyes roving over them. "You've made one break, an' you're gettin'out of it because my boss ain't dead stuck on attendin' funerals. Ireckon you know I ain't got no such nice scruples, an' a funeral more orless won't set so awful heavy on my conscience. There's goin' to be moremourners requisitioned in this country damned sudden if women ain't goin'to be allowed range rights. I ain't passin' around no more warnin's, an'you two is talkin' mighty sudden or the mourners will be yowlin'. What'sthe verdict?"

  Chavis sighed. "We wasn't meanin' no harm," he apologized, some colorcoming into his face again.

  "An' you?" Randerson's level look confused Kester.

  "I ain't travelin' that trail no more," he promised, his eyes shifting.He knew as well as Chavis that it was the only way. A word, spoken with ahint of belligerence, a single hostile movement, would have precipitatedthe clash they knew Randerson had come to force--a clash which they knewwould end badly for them. For Randerson had chosen his position whenhalting Patches--it was strategic, and they knew his fingers were itchingfor the feel of his guns.

  They saw the crooked smile fade from his lips; they curved with cold,amused contempt.

  "Not runnin' no risks to speak of, eh?" he drawled. "Well, get goin'!" Helounged in the saddle, watching them as they rode away, not looking back.When they reached the far slope of the basin he turned Patches andsniffed disgustedly. Five minutes later he was at the crest of the backslope, riding toward the outfit, miles away.

  It was an hour later that he observed a moving spot on the sky line. Thedistance was great, but something familiar in the lines of thefigure--when he presently got near enough to see that the blot was a ponyand rider--made his blood leap with eager anticipation; and he spokesharply to Patches, sending him forward at a brisk lope.

  He had seen some cattle near the rider; he had passed them earlier in themorning--lean, gaunt range steers that would bother a fast pony in a runif thoroughly aroused.

  He saw that the rider had halted very close to one of the steers, and alook of concern flashed into his eyes.

  "She oughtn't to do that!" he muttered. Unconsciously, his spurs touchedPatches' flanks, and the little animal quickened his pace.

  Randerson did not remove his gaze from the distant horse and rider. Herode for a quarter of a mile in silence, his muscles slowly tensing as hewatched.

  "What's she doin' now?" he demanded of the engulfing space, as he saw therider swing around in the saddle.

  "Hell!" he snapped an instant later; "she's gettin' off her horse!" Heraised his voice in a shout, that fell flat and futile on the dead desertair, and he leaned forward in the saddle and drove the spurs deep as hesaw the range steer nearest the rider raise its head inquiringly and looktoward the rider--for she had dismounted and was walking away from herhorse at an angle that would take her very close to the steer.

  Patches was running now, with the cat-like leaps peculiar to him, and hisrider was urging him on with voice and spur and hand, his teeth set, hiseyes burning with anxiety.

  But the girl had not seen him. She was still moving away from her horse;too far away from it to return if the steer decided to charge her, andRanderson was still fully half a mile distant.

  He groaned audibly as he saw the steer take a few tentative steps towardher, his head raised, tail erect, his long horns glinting in the whitesunlight. Randerson knew the signs.

  "Good God!" he whispered; "can't she see what that steer is up to?"

  It seemed she did, for she had halted and was facing the animal. For aninstant there was no movement in the vast realm of space except theterrific thunder of Patches' hoofs as they spurned the hard alkali levelover which he was running; the squeaking protests of the saddle leather,and Randerson's low voice as he coaxed the pony to greater speed. ButPatches had reached the limit of effort, was giving his rider his lastounce of strength, and he closed the gap between himself and the girlwith whirlwind rapidity.

  But it seemed he would be too late. The girl had sensed her danger. Shehad caught the stealthy movement of the steer; she had glimpsed theunmistakable malignance of his blood-shot eyes, and had stood for aninstant in the grip of a dumb, paralyzing terror. She had dismounted togather some yellow blossoms of soap-weed that had looked particularlyinviting from the saddle, and too late she had become aware of thebelligerent actions of the steer.

  She realized now that she was too far from her pony to reach it in casethe steer attacked her, but in the hope of gaining a few steps before thecharge came she backed slowly, edging sidelong toward the pony.

  She gained a considerable distance in this manner, for during the firstfew seconds of the movement the steer seemed uncertain and stood,swinging its head from side to side, pawing the sand vigorously.

  The girl was thankful for the short respite, and she made the most of it.She had retreated perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet when the steercharged, bolting toward her with lowered head.

  She had gone perhaps thirty or forty feet when Patches reached the scene.The girl saw the blur he made as he flashed past her--he had cut betweenher and the steer--so close to her that the thunder of his hoofs roareddeafening in her ears, and the wind from his passing almost drew her offher balance as amazed, stunned, nerveless, she halted. She caught aglimpse of Randerson's profile as he swept into a circle and threw hisrope. There must be no missing--there was none. The sinuous loop wentout, fell over the steer's head. Thereafter there was a smother of dustin which the girl could see some wildly waving limbs. Outside of thesmother she saw the pony swing off for a short distance and stiffen itslegs. The rope attached to the pommel of the saddle grew taut as a bowstring; there was an instant of strained suspense during which the pony'sback arched until the girl thought it must surely break. It was over inan instant, though every detail was vividly impressed upon the girl'smind. For the cold terror that had seized her had fled with theappearance of Patches--she knew there could be no danger to her afterthat.

  She watched the steer fall. He went down heavily, the impetus of hischarge proving his undoing; he struck heavily on head and shoulder,grunting dismally, his hind quarters
rising in the air, balancing therefor an infinitesimal space and then following his head.

  The rope stretched tighter; the girl saw Patches putting a steady pull onit. The loop had fallen around the steer's neck; she heard the animalcough for breath once, then its breath was cut off.

  In this minute the girl's chief emotion was one of admiration for thepony. How accurate its movements in this crisis! How unerring itsjudgment! For though no word had been spoken--at least the girl heardnone--the pony kept the rope taut, bracing against its burden asRanderson slid out of the saddle.

  The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randersonwas running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed thisoperation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she hadnever watched it with quite the interest with which she watched it now.It was all intensely personal.

  Randerson had drawn a short piece of rope from a loop on the saddle whenhe had dismounted. It dangled from his hand as he ran toward the steer.In an instant he was bending over the beast, working at its hoofs,drawing the forehoofs and one hind hoof together, lashing them fast,twining the rope in a curious knot that, the girl knew from experience,would hold indefinitely.

  Randerson straightened when his work was finished, and looked at Ruth.The girl saw that his face was chalk white. But his voice was sharp, andit rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal:

  "Get on your horse!"

  There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward herpony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreantchild scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when sheturned to watch Randerson.

  He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with muchdeliberation, returned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Thenhe walked slowly back to the steer.

  The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. Witha quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating toPatches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of thesteer.

  The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outwardangles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, loweredalmost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs.

  The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung ather this time:

  "Get away from here--quick!"

  She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom ofexperience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carryingher some distance before she succeeded in halting him.

  When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot wherethe steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, andRanderson. Patches and the steer were running--Patches slightly inadvance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing azig-zag course that kept the steer bothered.

  As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directedagainst the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead ofrunning from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to seeRanderson in that role; it was far from heroic--it flavored of panic; itmade her think of the panic that had gripped her a few minutes before,when she had retreated from the steer.

  She watched the queer race go on for a few minutes, and then she saw anexhibition of roping that made her gasp. From a point fifteen or twentyfeet in advance of the steer, Randerson threw his rope. He had twisted inthe saddle, and he gave the lariat a quick flirt, the loop running outperpendicularly, like a rolling hoop, and not more than a foot from theground, writhing, undulating, the circle constricting quickly, sinuously.The girl saw the loop topple as it neared the steer--it was much like themotion of a hoop falling. It met one of the steer's hoofs as it was flungoutward; it grew taut; the rope straightened and Patches swung off to theright at an acute angle. He did not brace his legs, this time. This was adifferent game. He merely halted, turning his head and watching, with awell-I've-done-it-now expression of the eyes that would have brought asmile to the girl's face at any other time.

  Again it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned asomersault. Again there followed a space during which there was nomovement.

  Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did thisof his own accord. The steer scrambled to its feet, hesitated an instant,and then lunged furiously toward the tormenting horse and rider.

  Patches snorted; Ruth was certain it was with disgust. He leaped--againthe girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement--directly towardthe enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and passing to itsrear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the ponybraced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearlyand distinctly to the girl.

  She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richlydeserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled toface the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer againscrambled to its feet.

  This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of therope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could notbe successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson thesteer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lessonRanderson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. Itexplained Randerson's seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herselfsharply for doubting him.

  She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shakingits head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort ofwork; the fight had all been taken out of it. Again the pony stiffened,and again the steer went down with a thud. This time, while it struggledon the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulationthat ran from his hand to the loop around the steer's leg, loosening it.And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, headand tail in the air, grunting with relief.

  A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope,a grin on his face. He stopped before her, and his grin broadened.

  "Range steers are sort of peculiar, ma'am," he said gently. "They'reraised like that. They don't ever see no man around them unless he'sforkin' his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin' it arounda range steer--it ain't accordin' to the rules. Your range steer ain'tused to seein' a man walkin'. On his pony he's safe--nine times out often. The other time a range steer will tackle a rider that goes tomonkeyin' around him promiscuous. But they have to be taught manners,ma'am--the same as human bein's. That scalawag will recognize the ropenow, ma'am, the same as a human outlaw will recognize the rope--or thelaw. Of course both will be outlaws when there's no rope or no lawaround, but--Why, ma'am," he laughed--"I'm gettin' right clever atworkin' my jaw, ain't I? Are you headin' back to the Flyin' W? Because ifyou are, I'd be sort of glad to go along with you--if you'll promise youwon't go to galivantin' around the country on foot no more. Not that_that_ steer will tackle you again, ma'am--he's been taught _his_ lesson.But there's others."

  She laughed and thanked him. As they rode she considered his subtlereference to the law and the rope, and wondered if it carried anypersonal significance to anyone. Twice she looked at him for evidence ofthat, but could gain nothing from his face--suffused with quietsatisfaction.