CHAPTER VIII
"IT TAKES NERVE JUST TO HANG ON"
Brit was smoking his pipe after supper and staring at nothing, thoughhis face was turned toward the closed door. Lorraine had washed thedishes and was tidying the room and looking at her father now and thenin a troubled, questioning way of which Brit was quite oblivious.
"Dad," she said abruptly, "who is the man at Whisper?"
Brit turned his eyes slowly to her face as if he had not grasped hermeaning and was waiting for her to repeat the question. It was evidentthat his thoughts had pulled away from something that meant a good dealto him.
"Why?"
"A man came this morning, and said he was the man at Whisper, and thathe would come again to see you."
Brit took his pipe from his mouth, looked at it and crowded down thetobacco with a forefinger. "He seen me ride away from the ranch, thismorning," he said. "He was coming down the Whisper trail as I wastaking the fork over to Sugar Spring, Frank and me. What did he say hewanted to see me about?"
"He didn't say. He asked for you and Frank." Lorraine sat down andfolded her arms on the oilcloth-covered table. "Dad, what _is_Whisper?"
"Whisper's a camp up against a cliff, over west of here. It belongs tothe Sawtooth. Is that all he said? Just that he wanted to see me?"
"He--talked a little," Lorraine admitted, her eyebrows pulled down."If he saw you leave, I shouldn't think he'd come here and ask for you."
"He knowed I was gone," Brit stated briefly.
With a finger nail Lorraine traced the ugly, brown pattern on theoilcloth. It was not easy to talk to this silent man who was herfather, but she had done a great deal of thinking during that long,empty day, and she had reached the point where she was afraid not tospeak.
"Dad!"
"What do you want, Raine?"
"Dad, was--has any one around here died, lately?"
"Died? Nobody but Fred Thurman, over here on Granite. He was drugwith a horse and killed."
Lorraine caught her breath, saw Brit looking at her curiously and movedcloser to him. She wanted to be near somebody just then, and afterall, Brit was her father, and his silence was not the inertia of a dullmind, she knew. He seemed bottled-up, somehow, and bitter. She caughthis hand and held it, feeling its roughness between her two soft palms.
"Dad, I've got to tell you. I feel trapped, somehow. Did his horsehave a white face, dad?"
"Yes, he's a blaze-faced roan. Why?" Brit moved uncomfortably, but hedid not take his hand away from her. "What do you know about it,Raine?"
"I saw a man shoot Fred Thurman and push his foot through the stirrup.And, dad, I believe it was that man at Whisper. The one I saw had on abrown hat, and this man wears a brown hat--and I was advised not totell any one I had been at that place they call Rock City, when thestorm came. Dad, would an innocent man--one that didn't have anythingto do with a crime--would he try to cover it up afterwards?"
Brit's hand shook when he removed the pipe from his mouth and laid iton the table. His face had turned gray while Lorraine watched himfearfully. He laid his hand on her shoulder, pressing down hard--andat last his eyes met her big, searching ones.
"If he wanted to live--in this country--he'd have to. Leastways, he'dhave to keep his mouth shut," he said grimly.
"And he'd try to shut the mouths of others----"
"If he cared anything about them, he would. You ain't told anybodywhat you saw, have yuh?"
Lorraine hid her face against his arm. "Just Lone Morgan, and hethought I was crazy and imagined it. That was in the morning, when hefound me. And he--he wanted me to go on thinking it was just anightmare--that I'd imagined the whole thing. And I did, for awhile.But this man at Whisper tried to find out where I was that night----"
Brit pulled abruptly away from her, got up and opened the door. Hestood there for a time, looking out into the gloom of early nightfall.He seemed to be listening, Lorraine thought. When he came back to herhis voice was lower, his manner intangibly furtive.
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?" he asked, as if there had beenno pause in their talk.
"No--I made him believe I wasn't there. Or I tried to. And dad! As Iwas going to cross that creek just before you come to Rock City, twomen came along on horseback, and I hid before they saw me. Theystopped to water their horses, and they were talking. They saidsomething about the TJ had been here a long time, but they would gettheirs, and it was like sitting into a poker game with a nickel. Theysaid the little ones aren't big enough to fight the Sawtooth, andthey'd carry lead under their hides if they didn't leave. Dad, isn'tyour brand the TJ? That's what it looks like on Yellowjacket."
Brit did not answer, and when Lorraine was sure that he did not mean todo so, she asked another question. "Dad, why didn't you want me toleave the ranch to-day? I was nervous after that man was here, and Idid go."
"I didn't want you riding around the country unless I knew where youwent," Brit said. "My brand is the TJ up-and-down. We never call itjust the TJ."
"Oh," said Lorraine, relieved. "They weren't talking about you, then.But dad--it's horrible! We simply _can't_ let that murder go and notdo anything. Because I know that man was shot. I heard the shotfired, and I saw him start to fall off his horse. And the next flashof lightning I saw----"
"Look here, Raine. I don't want you talking about what you saw. Idon't want you _thinkin'_ about it. What's the use? Thurman's deadand buried. The cor'ner come and held an inquest, and the jury agreedit was an accident. I was on the jury. The sheriff's took charge ofhis property. You couldn't prove what you saw, even if you was totry." He looked at her very much as Lone Morgan had looked at her.His next words were very nearly what Lone Morgan had said, Lorraineremembered. "You don't know this country like I know it. Folks livein it mainly because they don't go around blatting everything they seeand hear and think."
"You have laws, don't you, dad? You spoke about the sheriff----"
"The sheriff!" Brit laughed harshly. "Yes, we got a sheriff, and wegot a jail, and a judge--all the makin's of law. But we ain't got onething that goes with it, and that's justice. You'd best make up yourmind like the cor'ner's jury done, that Fred Thurman was drug to deathby his horse. That's all that'll ever be proved, and if you can'tprove nothing else you better keep your mouth shut."
Lorraine sprang up and stood facing her father, every nerve taut withprotest. "You don't mean to tell me, dad, that you and Frank Johnsonand Lone Morgan and--everybody in the country are _cowards_, do you?"
Brit looked at her patiently. "No," he said in the tone ofacknowledged defeat, "we ain't cowards, Raine. A man ain't a cowardwhen he stands with his hands over his head. Most generally it'sbecause some one's got the drop on 'im."
Lorraine would not accept that. "You think so, because you don'tfight," she cried hotly. "No one is holding a gun at your head. Dad!I thought Westerners never quit. It's fight to the finish, always.Why, I've seen one man fight a whole outfit and win. He couldn't bebeaten because he wouldn't give up. Why----"
Brit gave her a tolerant glance. "Where'd you see all that, Raine?"He moved to the table, picked up his pipe and knocked out the ashes onthe stove hearth. His movements were those of an aging man--yet BritHunter was not old, as age is reckoned.
"Well--in stories--but it was reasonable and logical and possible, justthe same. If you use your brains you can outwit them, and if you haveany nerve----"
Brit made a sound somewhat like a snort. "These days, when politics isplayed by the big fellows, and the law is used to make money for 'em,it takes nerve just to hang on," he said. "Nobody but a dang foolwould fight." Slow anger grew within him. He turned upon Lorrainealmost fiercely. "D'yuh think me and Frank could fight the Sawtoothand get anything out of it but a coffin apiece, maybe?" he demandedharshly. "Don't the Sawtooth _own_ this country? Warfield's got thesheriff in his pocket, and the cor'ner, and the judge, and the stockinspector--he's _Senator_ Warfield, and wh
at he wants he gets. He getsthrough the law that you was talking about a little while ago. Whatyou goin' to do about it? If I had the money and the land and thepolitical pull he's got, mebby I'd have me sheriff and a judge, too.
"Fred Thurman tried to fight the Sawtooth over a water right he ownedand they wanted. They had the case runnin' in court till they like toof took the last dollar he had. He got bull-headed. That water rightmeant the hull ranch--everything he owned. You can't run a ranchwithout water. And when he'd took the case up and up till it got tothe Supreme Court, and he stood some show of winnin' out--he had anaccident. He was drug to death by his horse."
Brit stooped and opened the stove door, seeking a live coal; found noneand turned again to Lorraine, shaking his pipe at her for emphasis.
"We try to prove Fred was murdered, and what's the result? Somethinghappens: to me, mebby, or Frank, or both of us. And you can't say,'Here, I know the Sawtooth had a hand in that.' You got to _prove_ it!And when you've proved it," he added bitterly, "you got to haveofficers that'll carry out the law instead of using it to hog-tie yuh."
His futile, dull anger surged up again. "You call us cowards becausewe don't git up on our hind legs and fight the Sawtooth. A lot youknow about courage! You've read stories, and you've saw movingpictures, and you think that's the West--that's the way they do it.One man hold off a hunderd with his gun--and on the other hand, ahunderd men, mebby, ridin' hell-whoopin' after one. You think that'sit--that's the way they do it. Hunh!" He lifted the lid of the stove,spat into it as if he were spitting in the face of an enemy, and turnedagain to Lorraine.
"What you seen--what you say you seen--that was done at night whenthere wasn't no audience. All the fighting the Sawtooth does is doneunder cover. _You_ won't see none of it--they ain't such fools. Andwhat us small fellers do, we do it quiet, too. We ain't ridin' up anddown the trail, flourishin' our six-shooters and yellin' to theSawtooth to come on and we'll clean 'em up!"
"But you're fighting just the same, aren't you, dad? You're notletting them----"
"We're makin' out to live here--and we've been doin' it for twenty-fiveyear," Brit told her, with a certain grim dignity. "We've still got afew head uh stock left--enough to live on. Playin' poker with anickel, mebby--but we manage to ante, every hand so fur." His mindreturned to the grisly thing Lorraine had seen.
"We can't run down the man that got Fred Thurman, supposin' he waskilled, as you say. That's what the law is paid to do. If Lone Morgantold you not to talk about it, he told you right. He was talking foryour own good. What about Al--the man from Whisper? You didn't tell_him_, did you?"
His tone, the suppressed violence of his manner, frightened Lorraine.She moved farther away from him.
"I didn't tell him anything. He was curious but--I only said I knewhim because he was wearing a brown hat, and the man that shot MrThurman had a brown hat. I didn't say all that. I just mentioned thehat. And he said there were lots of brown hats in the country. Hesaid he had traded for that one, just yesterday. He said his own hatwas gray."
Brit stared at her, his jaw sagging a little, his eyes growing vacantwith the thoughts he hid deep in his mind. He slumped down into hischair and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, his fingersclasped loosely. After a little he tilted his head and looked up ather.
"You better go to bed," he told Her stolidly. "And if you're going tolive at the Quirt, Raine, you'll have to learn to keep your mouth shut.I ain't blaming you--but you told too much to Al Woodruff. Don't talkto him no more, if he comes here when I'm gone." He put out a hand,beckoning her to him, sorry for his harshness. Lorraine went to himand knelt beside him, slipping an arm around his neck while she hid herface on his shoulder.
"I won't be a nuisance, dad--really, I won't," she said. "I--I canshoot a gun. I never shot one with bullets in, but I could. And Ilearned to do lots of things when I was working in that play West Ithought was real. It isn't like I thought. There's no picture stuffin the real West, I guess; they don't do things that way. But--what Iwant you to know is that if they're fighting you they'll have to fightme, too.
"I don't mean movie stuff, honestly I don't. I'm in this thing now,and you'll have to count me, same as you count Jim and Sorry. Won'tyou please feel that I'm one more in the game, dad, and not justanother responsibility? I'll herd cattle, or do whatever there is todo. And I'll keep my mouth shut, too. I can't stay here, day afterday, doing nothing but sweep and dust two rooms and fry potatoes andbacon for you at night. Dad, I'll go _crazy_ if you don't let me intoyour life!
"Dad, if you knew the stunts I've done in the last three years! It wasmake-believe West, but I learned things just the same." She kissed himon the unshaven cheek nearest her--and thought of the kisses she hadbreathed upon the cheeks of story fathers with due care for the make-upon her lips. Just because this was real, she kissed him again with thefrank vigour of a child.
"Dad," she said wheedlingly, "I think you might scare up something thatI can really ride. Yellowjacket is safe, but--but you have real livehorses on the ranch, haven't you? You must not go judging me by thepalms and the bay windows of the Casa Grande. That's where I've slept,the last few years when I wasn't off on location--but it's just assensible to think I don't know anything else, as it would be for me tothink you can't do anything but skim milk and fry bacon and makesour-dough bread, just because I've seen you do it!"
Brit laughed and patted her awkwardly on the back. "If you was a boy,I'd set you up as a lawyer," he said with an attempt at playfulness."I kinda thought you could ride. I seen how you piled onto oldYellowjacket and the way you held your reins. It runs in the blood, Iguess. I'll see what I can do in the way of a horse. Ole Yellowjacketused to be a real rim-rider, but he's gitting old; gitting old--same asme."
"You're not! You're just letting yourself _feel_ old. And am I one ofthe outfit, dad?"
"I guess so--only there ain't going to be any of this hell-whoopin'stuff, Raine. You can't travel these trails at a long lope with yorehair flyin' out behind and--and all that damn foolishness. I've saw'em in the movin' pitchers----"
Lorraine blushed, and was thankful that her dad had not watched herwork in that serial. For that matter, she hoped that Lone Morgan wouldnever stray into a movie where any of her pictures were being shown.
"I'm serious, dad. I don't want to make a show of myself. But ifyou'll feel that I can be a help instead of a handicap, that's what Iwant. And if it comes to fighting----"
Brit pushed her from him impatiently. "There yuh go--fight--fight--andI told yuh there ain't any fighting going on. Nothing more'n a fightto hang on and make a living. That means straight, hard work andmindin' your own business. If you want to help at that----"
"I do," said Raine quietly, getting to her feet. Her legacy ofstubbornness set her lips firmly together. "That's exactly what Imean. Good night, dad."
Brit answered her non-committally, apparently sunk already in his ownmusings. But his lips drew in to suppress a smile when he saw, fromthe corner of his eyes, that Lorraine was winding the alarm on thecheap kitchen clock, and that she set the hand carefully and took theclock with her to bed.