CHAPTER V
THE EXOTICS
Some men acquire involuntary prominence by being democratic amidaristocratic surroundings. Others, on the contrary, but with the sameresult, continue to live the life to which they were born, even whenplaced amid surroundings that make their actions all but grotesque. Anexample of this latter class was Scotty Baker, whose ranch, as the wildgoose flies, was thirteen miles west of the Box R.
Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn love of finehorse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years before he had fallen intothe hands of a promoter, and had bartered a goodly proportion of hisworldly belongings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possessionof immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up from his home inSussex when the fact was made known. Neighbors were fluent indenunciation, relatives insistent in expostulation; his wife, and insympathy their baby daughter, copious in the argument of tears; but thedie was irrevocably cast. Go he would,--not from voluntary stubbornness,but because he must.
The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the sailing ofColumbus. Probably not one of the friends who saw them off for theirnew home expected ever to see the family again. Indians they wereconfident were rampant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracleescape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, running amuck, hereand there, could not fail to trample the survivors into the dust of theprairie. By comparison, war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingleduntil the sound was as the wailing of winds.
Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encouraging even in theface of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, until, with the few remnantsof civilization they had brought with them, the family arrived at thewind-beaten terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired property.Then for the first time he wilted.
"I've been an ass," he admitted bitterly, as he glanced in impotentcontempt at the handful of weather-stained buildings which on the mapbore the name of a town; "an ass, an egregious, abominable, bletheringass!"
But, notwithstanding his lack of the practical, Scotty was made of goodstuff. It was not an alternative but a necessity that faced him now, andhe arose right manfully to the occasion. Despite his wife's assertionthat she "never, never would go any farther into this God-forsakencountry," he succeeded in getting her into a lumber-wagon and headed forwhat he genially termed "the interior." At last he even succeeded inmaking her smile at his efforts to make the disreputable mule pack-teamhe had secured move faster than a walk.
Once in possession of his own, however, he returned to his customaryeasy manner of life. It took him a very short time to discover that hehad purchased a gold brick. Horses, especially fine horses, were in nodemand there; but this fact did not alter his course in the least. Ahorse-ranch he had bought, a horse-ranch he would run, though every manwest of the Mississippi should smile. He enlarged his tiny shack to acottage of three rooms; put in floor and ceiling, and papered the walls.Out of poles and prairie sod he fashioned a serviceable barn, and builtan admirable horse paddock. Last of all he planted in his dooryard, inartistic irregularity, a wagon-load of small imported trees. The factthat within six months they all died caused him slight misgiving. He atleast had done what he could to beautify the earth; that he failed wasnature's fault, not his.
Once settled, he began to make acquaintances. Methodically, to themembers of one ranch at a time, he sent invitations to dinner, and uponthe appointed date he confronted his guests with a spectacle which madethem all but doubt their identity, the like of which most of them hadnever even seen before. Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel andleather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete evening dress,ushered into a room which contained a carpet and a piano, and had lacecurtains at the windows; seated later at a table covered with pure linenand set with real china and cut-glass. The experience was like a dreamto the visitor. Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening would passwithout conscious volition upon the latter's part; and not until later,when he was at home, would the full significance of the experienceassert itself, and his wonder and admiration find vent in words. Thenindeed would the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daughter,be heard in the land.
Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the impassive Rankin. Hefairly bombarded the big rancher with courtesies and invitations. Noholiday (and Scotty was an assiduous observer of holidays) was completeunless Rankin was present to help celebrate. No improvement about theranch was definitely undertaken until Rankin had expressed a favorableopinion concerning the project. Gradually, so gradually that the big manhimself did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty's influence,and more and more frequently he was to be found headed toward the coseyBaker cottage. Now, for a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passedwithout one or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse thethirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few hours in eachother's company.
It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the secondmorning following Ben Blair's adoption into the Box R Ranch--aSunday--the Englishman hitched a team of his best blooded trotters tothe antiquated phaeton, which was the only vehicle he possessed, andstarted across country at a lively clip. Thus it came to pass that abouttwo hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started for theranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path upon the sunny southdoorstep an object that made him pause and blink his near-sighted eyes.Under the concentration of his vision, the object resolved itself into asmall boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked across hisshins, his chin upon his knees. For an instant the Englishmanhesitated. Courtesy was instinctive with him.
"Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home?" he asked.
The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up.
"You mean the big man, sir?"
Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette. He stared.
"Certainly," he replied at last.
Ben Blair stepped out of the way.
"Yes, sir, he is."
Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair.
"Tell me, Rankin," he began, "who is the new-comer, and where did youget him?" A long leg swung comfortably over its mate. "And, by the way,while you're about it, is he six or sixty? By Jove, I couldn't tell!"
The host looked at his visitor quizzically.
"Ben, I suppose you mean?"
"Ben, or _Tom_, I don't know. I mean the gentleman on the front steps,the one who didn't know your name," and the Englishman related therecent conversation.
The corners of Rankin's eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as helistened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drewupward in sympathy.
"I'm not surprised, Baker," he admitted, "that you're in doubt aboutBen's age. He's eight; but I'd be uncertain myself if I didn'tabsolutely know. As to his not knowing my name--it's just struck me thatI've never introduced myself to the little fellow."
"But how did you come to get him? This isn't a country where one seesmany children roaming around."
"No," the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; "that's a fact.He didn't just drop in. I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, Iasked him to come and live with me, and he accepted." The speaker turnedto his companion directly. "You knew Jennie Blair, did you?"
Scotty looked interested.
"Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an acquaintance. I always--"
"Well," interrupted Rankin impassively, "Ben's her son. She died awhileago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up. Hewouldn't stay here any longer, and didn't want to take the kid with him,so I took the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement willstick."
For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his host shrewdly,almost sceptically.
"That's all of the story, is it?" he asked at last.
"All, as far as I know."
Scotty continued his observation a moment longer.
"But not all the kid knows, I judge."
The host made no comment,
and in a distinctively absent manner theEnglishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail ofhis Sunday frock-coat.
"By the way,"--Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung thebows over his ears with a snap,--"what day was it that Blair left? Didit happen to be Friday?"
"Yes, Friday."
"And he doesn't intend ever to return?"
"I believe not."
The visitor's eyes flashed swiftly around the room. The two men werealone.
"I think, then, I see through it." The voice was lower than before. "Oneof my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven't been ableto get trace of a hoof or hair since."
"What?" Rankin was interested at last.
Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minutesteadily.
"And you just--tell of it?" he said at last.
The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat.
"Yes." Forgetting that he had just polished his glasses, he took themoff and went through the process again.
"Yes, I may as well be honest, I've seen a bit of these Westerners abouthere, and I don't really agree with their scheme of justice. They're aptto put two and two together and make eight where you know it's onlyfour." For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. "Andwhen they find out their beastly mistake--why--oh--it's too late then,perhaps, for some poor devil!"
For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he reached over andgrasped the other man by the hand.
"Baker," he said, "you ain't very practical, but you're dead square."And he shook the hand again.
Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher's eyes and he tore himselfloose with an effort.
"By the way," he said, "I'd like to ask a question for future guidance.What would you have done if you'd been in my place?"
Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red surged beneath thetan of his cheeks; then, as suddenly as his companion had done, hesmiled outright.
"I reckon I'd have done just what you did," he admitted; and the two menlaughed together.
"Seriously, though," said Scotty, after a moment, "and as long as I'vetold you anyway, what ought I to do under the circumstances? Should Ilet Blair off, do you think?"
For a moment Rankin did not answer; then he faced his questionerdirectly, and Scotty knew why the big man's word was so nearly law inthe community.
"Under the circumstances," he repeated, "I'd let him go; for severalreasons. First of all, he's got such a start of you now that youcouldn't catch him, anyway. Then he's a coward by nature, and it'll be amighty long time before he ever shows up here again. And last of all,"the speaker hesitated, "last of all," he repeated slowly, "though Idon't know, I believe you were right when you said the boy could tellmore about it than the rest of us; and if what we suspect is true, Ithink by the time he comes back, if he ever does come, Ben will be oldenough to take care of him." Again the speaker paused, and his greatjowl settled down into his shirt-front. "If he doesn't, I can't readsigns when I see 'em."
For a moment the room was silent; then Scotty sprang to his feet as if aload had been taken off his mind.
"All right," said he, "we'll forget it. And, speaking of forgetting,I've nearly got myself into trouble already. I have an invitation fromMrs. Baker for you to take dinner with us to-day. In fact, I was sent onpurpose to bring you. Not a word, not a word!" he continued, at sight ofobjections gathering on the other's face; "a lady's invitations aresacred, you know. Get your coat!"
Rankin arose with an effort and stood facing his visitor.
"You know I'm always glad to visit you, Baker," he said. "I wasn'tthinking of holding off on my own account, but I've got someone else toconsider now, you know. Ben--"
"Certainly, certainly!" Scotty's voice was eloquent of comprehension."Throw the kiddie in too. He can play with Flossie; they're about of anage, and she'll be tickled to death to have him."
Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly. "I know Ben's goingwould be all right with you, Baker," he explained at last, "but howabout your wife? Considering--everything--she might object."
The smile left the Englishman's face, and a look of perplexity took itsplace.
"By Jove!" he said, "you're right! I never thought of that." He shiftedfrom one foot to the other uneasily. "But, pshaw! What's the use ofsaying anything whatever about the boy's connections? He's nothing but ayoungster,--and, besides, his mother's actions are no fault of his."
Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately.
"All right," he said. "I'll call Ben." At the door he paused, lookingback, the peculiar expression again upon his face. "As you say, thefaults of Ben's mother are not his faults, anyway."