CHAPTER X
ANOTHER SAWTOOTH "ACCIDENT"
Frank Johnson rose from the breakfast table, shaved a splinter off theedge of the water bench for a toothpick and sharpened it carefullywhile he looked at Brit.
"You goin' after them posts, or shall I?" he inquired glumly, which, bythe way, was his normal tone. "Jim and Sorry oughta git the post holesall dug to-day. One erf us better take a look through that young stockin the lower field, too, and see if there's any more sign uh blackleg.Which you ruther do?"
Brit tilted his chair backward so that he could reach the coffeepot onthe stove hearth. "I'll haul down the posts," he decided carelessly."They're easy loaded, and I guess my back's as good as yourn."
"All you got to do is skid 'em down off'n the bank onto the wagon,"Frank said. "I wisht you'd go on up where we cut them last ones andgit my sweater, Brit. I musta left it hanging on a bush right close towhere I was workin'."
Brit's grunt signified assent, and Frank went out. Jim and Sorry, thetwo unpicturesque cowboys of whom Lorraine had complained to the cat,had already departed with pick and shovel to their unromantic task ofdigging post holes. Each carried a most unattractive lunch tied in aflour sack behind the cantle of his saddle. Lorraine had done herconscientious best, but with lumpy, sourdough bread, cold bacon andcurrant jelly of that kind which is packed in wooden kegs, one can't domuch with a cold lunch. Lorraine wondered how much worse it would lookafter it had been tied on the saddle for half a day; wondered too whatthose two silent ones got out of life--what they looked forward to,what was their final goal. For that matter she frequently wonderedwhat there was in life for any of them, shut into that deadly monotonyof sagebrush and rocks interspersed with little, grassy meadows wherethe cattle fed listlessly.
Even the sinister undercurrent of antagonism against the Quirt couldnot whip her emotions into feeling that she was doing anything morethan live the restricted, sordid little life of a poorly equippedranch. She had ridden once with Frank Johnson to look through a bunchof cattle, but it had been nothing more than a hot, thirsty, dull ride,with a wind that blew her hat off in spite of pins and tied veil, andwith a companion who spoke only when he was spoken to and then asbriefly as possible.
Her father would not talk again as he had talked that night. She hadtried to make him tell her more about the Sawtooth and had gottennothing out of him. The man from Whisper, whom Brit had spoken of asAl, had not returned. Nor had the promised saddle horse materialised.The boys were too busy to run in any horses, her father had told hershortly when she reminded him of his promise. When the fence was done,maybe he could rustle her another horse--and then he had added that hedidn't see what ailed Yellowjacket, for all the riding she was likelyto do.
"Straight hard work and minding your own business," her father hadsaid, and it seemed to Lorraine after three or four days of it that hehad summed up the life of a cattleman's daughter in a masterly mannerwhich ought to be recorded among Famous Sayings like "War is hell" and"Don't give up the ship."
On this particular morning Lorraine's spirits were at their lowest ebb.If it were not for the new stepfather, she would return to the CasaGrande, she told herself disgustedly. And if it were not for thebelief among all her acquaintances that she was queening it over thecattle-king's vast domain, she would return and find work again inmotion pictures. But she could not bring herself to the point offacing the curiosity and the petty gossip of the studios. She would beexpected to explain satisfactorily why she had left the real West forthe mimic West of Hollywood. She did not acknowledge to herself thatshe also could not face the admission of failure to carry out what shehad begun.
She had told her dad that she wanted to fight with him, even though"fighting" in this case meant washing the coarse clothing of her fatherand Frank, scrubbing the rough, warped boards of the cabin floor, andfrying ranch-cured bacon for every meal, and in making butter to sell,and counting the eggs every night and being careful to use only thecracked ones for cooking.
She hated every detail of this crude housekeeping, from the chippedenamel dishpan to the broom that was all one-sided, and the pillowslips which were nothing more nor less than sugar sacks. She hated iteven more than she had hated the Casa Grande and her mother's frowsymentality. But because she could see that she made life a little morecomfortable for her dad, because she felt that he needed her, she wouldstay and assure herself over and over that she was staying merelybecause she was too proud to go back to the old life and own the West afailure.
She was sweeping the doorstep with the one-sided broom when Brit droveout through the gate and up the trail which she knew led eventually toSugar Spring. The horses, sleek in their new hair and skittish withthe change from hay to new grass, danced over the rough ground so thatthe running gear of the wagon, with its looped log-chain, which wouldlater do duty as a brake on the long grade down from timber line on theside of Spirit Canyon, rattled and banged over the rocks with theclatter that could be heard for half a mile. Lorraine looked after herfather enviously. If she were a boy she would be riding on that sackof hay tied to the "hounds" for a seat. But, being a girl, it hadnever occurred to Brit that she might like to go--might even be usefulto him on the trip.
"I suppose if I told dad I could drive that team as well as he can,he'd just look at me and think I was crazy," she thought resentfullyand gave the broom a spiteful fling toward a presumptuous hen that hadapproached too closely. "If I'd asked him to let me go along he'd havemade some excuse--oh, I'm beginning to know dad! He thinks a woman'splace is in the house--preferably the kitchen. And here I've thoughtall my life that cowgirls did nothing but ride around and warn peopleabout stage holdups and everything! I'd just like to know how a girlwould ever have a chance to know what was going on in the country,unless she heard the men talking while she poured their coffee. Onlythis bunch don't talk at all. They just gobble and go."
She went in then and shut the door with a slam. Up on the ridge AlWoodruff lowered his small binocular and eased away from the spot wherehe had been crouching behind a bush. Every one on the Quirt ranch wasaccounted for. As well as if he had sat at their breakfast table Alknew where each man's work would take him that day. As for the girl,she was safe at the ranch for the day, probably. If she did take aride later on, it would probably be up the ridge between the Quirt andThurman's ranch, and sit for an hour or so just looking. That ride wasbeginning to be a habit of hers, Al observed, so that he considered heraccounted for also.
He made his way along the side hill to where his horse was tied to abush, mounted and rode away with his mind pretty much at ease. Muchmore at ease than it would have been had he read what was in Lorraine'smind when she slammed that door.
Up above Sugar Spring was timber. By applying to the nearest ForestSupervisor a certain amount could be had for ranch improvements uponpaying a small sum for the "stumpage." The Quirt had permission to cutposts for their new fence which Al Woodruff had reported to his boss.
As he drove up the trail, which was in places barely passable for awagon, Brit was thinking of that fence. The Sawtooth would object toit, he knew, since it cut off one of their stock trails and sent themaround through rougher country. Just what form their objection wouldtake, Brit did not know. Deep in his intrepid soul he hoped that theSawtooth would at last show its hand openly. He had liked FredThurman, and what Lorraine had told him went much deeper than she knew.He wanted to bring them into the open where he could fight with someshow of winning.
"I'll git Bill Warfield yet--and git him right," was the gist of hismusings. "He's bound to show his head, give him time enough. Him andhis killers can't always keep under cover. Let 'em come at me aboutthat fence! It's on my land--the Quirt's got a right to fence everyfoot of land that belong to 'em."
All the way over the ridge and across the flat and up the steep, narrowroad along the edge of Spirit Canyon, Brit dwelt upon the probablemoves of the Sawtooth. They would wait, he thought, until the fencewas complet
ed and they had made a trail around through the lava rocks.They would not risk any move at present; they would wait and tacitlyaccept the fence, or pretend to accept it, as a natural inconvenience.But Brit did not deceive himself that they would remain passive. Thatit had been "hands off the Quirt" he did not know, but attributed theQuirt's immunity to careful habits and the fact that they had nevercome to the point where their interests actually clashed with theSawtooth.
It never occurred to him therefore that he was slated for an accidentthat day if the details could be conveniently arranged.
It was a long trail to Sugar Spring, and from there up Spirit Canyonthe climb was so tedious and steep that Brit took a full hour for thetrip, resting the team often because they were soft from the new grassdiet and sweated easily. They lost none of their spirit, however, andwhen the road was steepest nagged at each other with head-shakings andbared teeth, and ducked against each other in pretended fright at everyunusual rock or bush.
At the top he was forced to drive a full half mile beyond the piledposts to a flat large enough to turn around. All this took time,especially since Caroline, the brown mare, would rather travel tenmiles straight ahead than go backward ten feet. Brit was obliged to"take it out of her" with the rein ends and his full repertoire ofopprobrious epithets before he could cramp the wagon and head them downthe trail again.
At the post pile he unhitched the team for safety's sake and tied themto trees, where he fed them a little grain in nose bags. He wasabsorbed now in his work and thought no more about the Sawtooth. Hefastened the log chain to the rear wheels to brake the wagon on thelong grade down the canyon, loaded the wagon with posts, bound themfast with a lighter chain he had brought for the purpose, ate his ownlunch and decided that, since he had made fair time and would arrivehome too early to do the chores and too late to start any other job, hewould cruise farther up the mountain side and see what was the prospectof getting out logs enough for an addition to the cabin.
Now that Raine was going to live with him, two rooms were not enough.Brit wanted to make her as happy as he could, in his limited fashion.He had for some days been planning a "settin' room and bedroom" forher. She would be having beaux after awhile when she got acquainted,he supposed. He could not deny her the privilege; she was young andshe was, in Brit's opinion, the best looking girl he had ever seen, noteven excepting Minnie, her mother. But he hoped she wouldn't go offand get married the first thing she did,--and one good way to preventthat, he reasoned, was to make her comfortable with him. He hadnoticed how pleased she was that their cabin was of logs. She had evenremarked that she could not understand how a rancher would ever want tobuild a board shack if there was any timber to be had. Well, timberwas to be had, and she should have her log house, though the haulingwas not going to be any sunshine, in Brit's opinion. With his axe hewalked through the timber, craning upward for straight tree trunks andlightly blazing the ones he would want, the occasional axe strokessounding distinctly in the quiet air.
Lorraine heard them as she rode old Yellowjacket puffing up the grade,following the wagon marks, and knew that she was nearing the end of herjourney,--for which Yellowjacket, she supposed, would be thankful. Shehad started not more than an hour later than her father, but the teamhad trotted along more briskly than her poor old nag would travel, sothat she did not overtake her dad as she had hoped.
She was topping the last climb when she saw the team tied to the trees,and at the same moment she caught a glimpse of a man who crawled outfrom under the load of posts and climbed the slope farther on. She wason the point of calling out to him, thinking that he was her dad, whenhe disappeared into the brush. At the same moment she heard the strokeof an axe over to the right of where the man was climbing.
She was riding past the team when Caroline humped her back and kickedviciously at Yellowjacket, who plunged straight down off the trailwithout waiting to see whether Caroline's aim was exact. He slid intoa juniper thicket and sat down looking very perplexed and verypermanently placed there. Lorraine stepped off on the uphill side ofhim, thanked her lucky stars she had not broken a leg, and tried toreassure Yellowjacket and to persuade him that no real harm had beendone him. Straightway she discovered that Yellowjacket had a mind ofhis own and that a pessimistic mind. He refused to scramble back intothe trail, preferring to sit where he was, or since Lorraine made thattoo uncomfortable, to stand where he had been sitting. Yellowjacket, Imay explain, owned a Roman nose, a pendulous lower lip and droopingeyelids. Those who know horses will understand.
By the time Lorraine had bullied and cajoled him into making a somewhatcircuitous route to the road, where he finally appeared some distanceabove the point of his descent, Brit was there, hitching the team tothe wagon.
"What yuh doing up there?" he wanted to know, looking up with someastonishment.
Lorraine furnished him with details and her opinion of both Carolineand Yellowjacket. "I simply refuse to ride this comedy animal anothermile," she declared with some heat. "I'll drive the team and you canride him home, or he can be tied on behind the wagon."
"He won't lead," Brit objected. "Yeller's all right if you make upyour mind to a few failin's. You go ahead and ride him home. You surecan't drive this team."
"I can!" Lorraine contended. "I've driven four horses--I guess I candrive two, all right."
"Well, you ain't going to," Brit stated with a flat finality thatabruptly ended the argument.
Lorraine had never before been really angry with her father. Shestruck Yellowjacket with her quirt and sent him sidling past the wagonand the tricky Caroline, too stubborn to answer her dad when he calledafter her that she had better ride behind the load. She went on,making Yellowjacket trot when he did not want to trot down hill.
Behind her she heard the chuck-chuck of the loaded wagon. Far aheadshe heard some one whistling a high, sweet melody which had the queer,minor strains of some old folk song. For just a few bars she heard it,and then it was stilled, and the road dipping steeply before her seemedvery lonely, its emptiness cooling her brief anger to a depression thathad held her too often in its grip since that terrible night of thestorm. For the first time she looked back at her father lurching alongon the load and at the team looking so funny with the collars pushed upon their necks with the weight of the load behind.
With a quick impulse of penitence she waved her hand to Brit, who wavedback at her. Then she went on, feeling a bit less alone in the world.After all, he was her dad, and his life had been hard. If he failed tounderstand her and her mental hunger for real companionship, perhapsshe also failed to understand him.
They had left the timber line now and had come to the lip of the canyonitself. Lorraine looked down its steep, rock-roughened sides andthought how her old director would have raved over its possibilities inthe way of "stunts." Yellowjacket, she noticed, kept circumspectly tothe centre of the trail and eyed the canyon with frank disfavour.
She did not know at just what moment she became aware of trouble behindher. It may have been Yellowjacket, turning his head sidewise andabruptly quickening his pace that warned her. It may have been thedifference in the sound of the wagon and the impact of the horses'hoofs on the rock trail. She turned and saw that something had gonewrong. They were coming down upon her at a sharp trot, stepping high,the wagon tongue thrust up between their heads as they tried to holdback the load.
Brit yelled to her then to get out of the way, and his voice was harshand insistent. Lorraine looked at the steep bank to the right, knewinstinctively that Yellowjacket would never have time to climb itbefore the team was upon them, and urged him to a lope. She glancedback again, saw that the team was not running away, that they weretrying to hold the wagon, and that it was gaining momentum in spite ofthem.
"Jump, dad!" she called and got no answer. Brit was sitting bracedwith his feet far apart, holding and guiding the team. "He won'tjump--he wouldn't jump--any more than I would," she chattered toherself, sick with fear for him, while
she lashed her own horse to keepout of their way.
The next she knew, the team was running, their eyeballs staring, theirfront feet flung high as they lunged panic-stricken down the trail.The load was rocking along behind them. Brit was still braced andclinging to the reins.
Panic seized Yellowjacket. He, too, went lunging down that trail, hishead thrown from side to side that he might watch the thing thatmenaced him, heedless of the fact that danger might lie ahead of himalso. Lorraine knew that he was running senselessly, that he mightleave the trail at any bend and go rolling into the canyon.
A sense of unreality seized her. It could not be deadly earnest, shethought. It was so exactly like some movie thrill, planned carefullyin advance, rehearsed perhaps under the critical eye of the director,and done now with the camera man turning calmly the little crank andcounting the number of film feet the scene would take. A littlefarther and she would be out of the scene, and men stationed aheadwould ride up and stop her horse for her and tell her how well she had"put it over."
She looked over her shoulder and saw them still coming. It was real.It was terribly real, the way that team was fleeing down the grade.She had never seen anything like that before, never seen horses sofrantically trying to run from the swaying load behind them. Always,she had been accustomed to moderation in the pace and a slowed camerato speed up the action on the screen. Yellowjacket, too--she had neverridden at that terrific speed down hill. Twice she lost a stirrup andgrabbed the saddle horn to save herself from going over his head.
They neared a sharp turn, and it took all her strength to pull herhorse to the inside and save him from plunging off down the canyon'sside. The nose of the hill hid for a moment her dad, and in thatmoment she heard a crash and knew what had happened. But she could notstop; Yellowjacket had his ears laid back flat on his senseless head,and the bit clamped tight in his teeth.
She heard the crash repeated in diminuendo farther down in the canyon.There was no longer the rattle of the wagon coming down the trail, thesharp staccato of pounding hoofs.