CHAPTER III
THE BOX R RANCH
Mr. Rankin moved back from a well-discussed table, and, the room beingconveniently small, tilted his chair back against the wall. Theprotesting creak of the ill-glued joints under the strain of hisponderous figure was a signal for all the diners, and five other menlikewise drew away from around the board. Rankin extracted a match and astout jack-knife from the miscellaneous collection of useful articles inhis capacious pocket, carefully whittled the bit of wood to a point, andpicked his teeth deliberately. The five "hands," sun-browned, unshaven,dissimilar in face as in dress, waited in expectation; but thehousekeeper, a shapeless, stolid-looking woman, wife of the foreman,Graham, went methodically about the work of clearing the table. Rankinwatched her a moment indifferently; then without turning his head, hiseyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets until they rested upon oneof the cowboys.
"What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis?" he asked.
The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a cigarette.
"'Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking of coming in todinner."
The lids met over Rankin's eyes, then the narrow slit opened.
"It was in the no'thwest you say, and seemed to be quite a way off?"
Grannis nodded.
"Yes; I couldn't make out any fire, only the smoke, and that didn't lastlong. I thought at first maybe it was a prairie fire, and started tosee; but it was getting thinner before I'd gone a mile, so I turnedround and by the time I got back to the corral there wasn't nothing atall to see."
Two of the other hands solemnly exchanged a wink.
"Think you must have eaten too many of Ma Graham's pancakes thismorning, and had a blur over your eyes," commented one, slyly. "Prairiefires don't stop that sudden when the grass is like it is now."
The portly housewife paused in her work to cast a look of scorn upon thespeaker, but Grannis rushed into the breach.
"Don't you believe it. There was a fire all right. Somebody stopped it,or it stopped itself, that's all."
Tilting his chair forward with an effort, Rankin got to his feet, and,as usual, his action brought the discussion to an end. The womanreturned to her work; the men put on hats and coats preparatory to goingout of doors. Only the proprietor stood passive a moment absentlydrawing down his vest over his portly figure.
"Graham," he said at last, "hitch the mustangs to the light wagon."
"All right."
"And, Graham--"
The man addressed paused.
"Throw in a couple of extra blankets."
"All right."
Out of doors the men took up the conversation where they had left off.
"You better begin to hope the old man finds something that's been afireup there, Grannis," said the joker of the house. "If he don't, you'vecooked your goose proper."
Grannis was a new-comer, and looked his surprise.
"Why so?" he asked.
"You'll find out why," retorted the other. "Fire here's 'most asuncommon as rain, and the boss don't like them smoky jokes."
"But I saw smoke, I tell you," reiterated Grannis, defensively; "smoke,dead sure!"
"All right, if you're certain sure."
"Marcom knows what he's talking about, Grannis," said Graham. "He triedto ginger things up a bit when he was new here, like you are; found alitter of coyotes one September--thought they were timber wolves, Iguess, and braced up with his story to the old man." The speaker pausedwith a reflective grin.
"Well, what happened?" asked Grannis.
"What happened? The boss sent me dusting about forty miles to get somehounds. Nearly spoiled a good team to get back inside sixteen hours,and--they found out Bill here in the next thirty minutes, that was all!"Once more the story ended in a grin.
"What'd Rankin say?" asked Grannis, with interest.
"How about it, Bill?" suggested Graham.
The big cowboy looked a trifle foolish.
"Oh, he didn't say much; 'tain't his way. He just remarked, sort ofoff-hand, that as far as I was concerned the next year had only aboutfour pay-months in it. That was all."
* * * * *
Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing at once. This was themotto of the master of the Box R Ranch. In ten minutes' time Rankin'sbig shapeless figure, seated in the old buckboard, was moving northwestat the steady jog-trot typical of prairie travel, and which as the hourspass by annihilates distance surprisingly. Simply a fat, an abnormallyfat, man, the casual observer would have said. It remained for those whocame in actual contact with him to learn the force beneath theforbidding exterior,--the relentless bull-dog energy that had made himdictator of the great ranch, and kept subordinate the restless, roving,dissolute men-of-fortune he employed,--the deliberate and impartialjudgment which had made his word as near law as it was possible for anymandate to be among the motley inhabitants within a radius of fiftymiles. Had Rankin chosen he could have attained honor, position, powerin his native Eastern home. No barrier built of convention or ofconservatism could have withstood him. Society reserves her prizeslargely for the man of initiative; and, uncomely block as he was, Rankinwas of the true type. But for some reason, a reason known to none of hisassociates, he had chosen to come to the West. Some consideration orother had caused him to stop at his present abode, and had made himapparently a fixture in the midst of this unconquered country.
There was no road in the direction Rankin was travelling,--only theunbroken prairie sod, eaten close by the herds that grazed its everyfoot. Even under the direct sunlight the air was sharp. The regularbreath of the mustangs shot out like puffs of steam from the exhaust ofan engine, and the moisture frosted about their flanks and nostrils. Butthe big man on the seat did not notice temperature. He had produced apipe from the depths beneath the wagon seat, and tobacco from a jarcunningly fitted into one corner of the box, both without moving fromhis place, the seat being hinged and divided in the centre to facilitatethe operation. More a home to him than the ranch-house itself was thatbattered buckboard. Here, on an average, he spent eight hours out of thetwenty-four, and that seat-box was a veritable storehouse of articlesused in his daily life. As the jog-trot measured off the miles hereplenished the pipe again and again, leaving behind him the odor ofstrong tobacco.
Not until he was within a mile of the "Big B" property, and a rise inthe monotonous roll of the land brought him in range of vision, didRankin show that he felt more than ordinary interest in his expedition;then, shading his eyes, he looked steadily ahead. The sod barn stood inits usual place; the corral, with its posts set close together,stretched by its side; but where the house had stood there could not bedistinguished even a mound. The hand on the reins tightened meaningly,and in sympathy the mustangs moved ahead at a swifter pace, leavingbehind a trail of tobacco-smoke denser than before.
* * * * *
When the little Benjamin Blair, fugitive, had literally taken to theearth, it was with definite knowledge of the territory he was entering.He had often explored its depths with childish curiosity, to thedistress of his mother and the disgust of the rightful owner, themongrel dog. Retreating to the farther end of the cave, the instinct ofself-preservation set hands and feet to work like the claws of a gopher,filling with loose dirt the narrow passage through which he had entered.Panting and perspiring with the effort, choked with the dust he raised,all but suffocated, he dug until his strength gave out; then, curling upin his narrow quarters, he lay listening. At first he heard nothing, noteven a sound from the dog; and he wondered at the fact. He could notbelieve that Tom Blair would leave him in peace, and he breathlesslyawaited the first tap of an instrument against his retreat. A minutepassed, lengthened to five--to ten--and with the quick impatience ofchildhood he started to learn the reason of the delay. His active littlebody revolved in its nest. In the darkness a wiry arm scratched at therecently erected barricade. A head with a tousled mass of hair poked itsway into the
opening, crowded forward a foot--two feet, then stopped,the whole body quivering. He had passed the curve, and of a sudden itwas as though he had opened the door of a furnace and gazed inside.Instead of the familiar room, a great sheet of flame walled him in.Instead of silence, a roar as of a hurricane was in his ears. Never inhis life had he seen a great fire, but instantly he understood.Instantly the instinctive animal terror of fire gripped him; heretreated to the very depths of the kennel, and burying his small headin his arms lay still. But not even then, child though he was, did heutter a cry. The endurance which had made Jennie Blair stare deathimpassively in the face was part and parcel of his nature.
For the space of perhaps a minute Ben lay motionless. Louder than beforecame to his ears the roar of the fire. Occasionally a hot tongue offlame intruded mockingly into the mouth of his retreat. The confined airabout him grew close, narcotic. He expected to die, and with thepremonition of death an abnormal activity came to the child-brain.Whatever knowledge he possessed of death was connected with his mother.It was she who had given him his vague impression of another life. Sheherself, as she lay silent and unresponsive, had been the first concreteexample of it. Inevitably thought of her came to him now,--practical,material thought, crowding from his brain the blind terror that had beenits predecessor. Where was his mother now? He pictured again the furnaceinto which he had gazed from the mouth of the kennel. Though perhaps shewould not feel it, she would be burned--burned to a crisp--destroyedlike the fuel he had tossed into the makeshift stove! Instinctively hefelt the sacrilege, and the desire to do something to prevent it.Something--yes, but what? He was himself helpless; he must seek outsideaid--but where? Suddenly there occurred to the child-mind a suggestionapplicable to his difficulty, an adequate solution, for it involvedeverything he had learned to trust in life. He remembered a Being morepowerful than man, more powerful than fire or cold,--a Being whom hismother had called God. Believing in Him, it was necessary only to askfor whatever one wished. For himself, even to save his life, he wouldnot call upon this Being; but for his mamma! In childish faith he foldedhis hands and closed his eyes in the darkness.
"God," he prayed, "please put out this fire and save my mamma fromburning!"
The small hands loosened and the lips parted to hear the firstdiminution in the growl of the flame. But it roared on.
"God!" The hands were clasped again, the voice vibrant with pleading."God, please put out the fire! Please put it out!"
Silence again within, but without only the steady roaring crackle. Couldit be possible the petition had not been heard? The childish hands metmore tightly than before. The small body fairly writhed.
"God! God!" he implored for the third time. "Listen to me, please! Savemy mamma, my mamma!"
For a moment the little figure lay still. Surely there would be ananswer now. His mamma had said there would be, and whatever his mammahad told him had always come true. The air about him was so close hecould scarcely breathe; but he did not notice it. Reversing head andfeet, he started out of the kennel. It was certainly time to leave. Theroar he had heard must have been of the wind. Assuredly God had actedbefore this. Head first, gasping, he moved on, reached the curve, andlooked out.
Indignation took possession of the little figure. The fingers clincheduntil the nails bit deep into the soft palms. The whole body trembled inimpotent anger and outraged self-respect. Upon the face of the small manwas suddenly written the implacable defiance which one sees in carnivorawhen wounded and cornered--intensified as an expression can only beintensified upon a human face--as, almost unconsciously, he returned tothe hollow he had left, and fairly thrust his tousled head into thekindly earth.
How long he remained there he did not know. The stifling atmosphere ofthe place gradually overcame him. Anger, wonder, the multitude ofthoughts crowding his child-brain, slowly faded away; consciousnesslapsed, and he slept.
When he awoke it was with a start and a vague wonder as to hiswhereabouts. Then memory returned, and he listened intently. Not a soundcould he distinguish save his own breathing, as he slowly made his wayto the mouth of the kennel. Before him was the opposite sod wall of thehouse standing as high as his head; above that, the blue of the sky;upon what had been the earthen floor, a strewing of ashes; over all,calm, glorious, the slanting rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment theboy lay gazing out; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the dirt asa dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes halted. A moisture cameinto them, gathered into drops, and then, breaking over the barrier ofthe long lashes, tears flowed through the accumulated grime, down thethin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was all, for aninstant; then a look--terrible in a mature person and doubly so in achild--came over the long face,--an expression partaking of both hateand vengeance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as that ofBenjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some day, for some one, therewould be a moment of reckoning; for the child was looking at thecharred, unrecognizable corpse of his mother.
* * * * *
A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of the Big B Ranch,came upon a scene that savored much of a play. It was so dramatic thatthe big man paused in contemplation of it. He saw there the sod andashes of what had once been a home. The place must have burned liketinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when Grannis had firstgiven the alarm, not an atom of smoke ascended. At one end of thequadrangular space enclosed by the walls stood the makeshift stove,discolored with the heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near bywas a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one side, coveredby an old gunny-sack and a boy's tattered coat, was another object theform of which the observer could not distinguish.
In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, wasa small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man'sdiscarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-bandpinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a smallpile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he wasmotionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing thenew-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was addedthe background of the unbroken silence of the prairie.
The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagonclumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what hadbeen the door.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work.
"Digging what?"
The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade.
"A grave."
The man glanced about again.
"For some pet?"
The boy shook his head.
"No--sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother hadtaught him that title of respect.
Rankin changed the line of interrogation.
"Where's Tom Blair, young man?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Your mother, then, where is she?"
"My mother is dead."
"Dead?"
The child's blue eyes did not falter.
"I am digging her grave, sir."
For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard thegreat jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. Hiseyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboyGrannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon theworker's shoulder. He understood at last.
"Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you."
The lad looked up.
"How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?"
No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look.
Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly.
Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked himfairly in the eyes.
"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked.
The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer couldhe give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines
of the foursod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, notas one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, hepaced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glancedsidewise at the uncompleted grave.
"You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked.
The lad nodded silently.
"And alone?"
Again the nod.
"Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so."
Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from theboy's hand.
"I'll help you, then."
For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into thedry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Are you cold, son?" he asked directly.
"Not very, sir." But the lad's teeth were chattering.
"A bit, though?"
"Yes, sir," simply.
"All right, you'll find some blankets out in the wagon, Ben. You'dbetter go out and get one and put it around you."
The boy started to obey. "Thank you, sir," he said.
Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun dropped slowly beneaththe horizon, leaving a wonderful golden light behind. The waitinghorses, too well trained to move from their places, shifted uneasilyamid much creaking of harness. Within the grave the digger's head sunklower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher and higher. Thecold increased. Across the prairie, a multitude of black specksadvanced, grew large, whizzed overhead, then retreated, their wingscutting the keen air, and silence returned.
Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface.
"Another blanket, Ben, please."
Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sackround and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it tothe edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gentlyat his feet. The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice;but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boygravely.
"Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?"
The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity.
"I don't know of anything, sir."
The man paused a moment longer.
"Nor I, Ben," he said gently.
Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dullyto its former resting-place. Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look abouthim until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he hadleft the little boy so bravely erect. But the small figure was notstanding now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust andashes.
"Ben!" said Rankin, gently. "Ben!"
No answer.
"Ben!" he repeated.
"Yes, sir."
For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure,and a great sob shook the little frame. Then the head disappeared again.
"I can't help it, sir," wailed a muffled voice. "She was my mamma!"