CHAPTER XIV
THE LONESOMENESS
"He's got the lonesomeness," said Dad, "and I tell you, John, whenthat gits a hold of a man he ain't responsible. It's the same asshuttin' a man up in jail to break him off of booze--say, he'll clawthe rocks out of the wall with his finger nails to git out where hecan take a snort."
"I never had the lonesomeness, so I don't know, but there's somethingthe matter with the kid."
"Yes, I see him tearin' around the country ridin' the head off of thathorse, never lookin' where he's goin' any more than a bat. He's beenclean over to Four Corners after the mail twice this week. A fellermust want a letter purty bad when he'll go to all that fuss for it."
"I'm afraid it's going to be hard for him; he hasn't any more thanbitten into his three years yet; he don't really know how theytaste."
"It'll break him; he'll go all to pieces, I tell you John. When thelonesomeness takes a hold of a feller that way something pops in hishead after a while; then he either puts a bullet through his heart orsettles down and gits fat. That feller ain't got it in him to put onloco fat."
Dad had slicked himself up pretty well that day before cutting acrossthe range for a chat with Mackenzie. His operations with thesheep-shears on his fuzzy whiskers had not been uniform, probably dueto the lack of a mirror. Dad trusted to the feel of it when he had nowater by to look into and guide his hand, and this time he had cutclose to the skin in several places, displaying his native colorbeneath the beard. But whatever he lacked in his chin-hedge he made upfor in careful arrangement of his truly beautiful hair.
There was a sniff of perfume about him, a nosegay of wild flowerspinned in the pocket of his shirt. Mackenzie marveled over theserefinements in the old man's everyday appearance, but left it to hisown time and way to tell what plans or expectations prompted them.
"Hector Hall showed up?"
"No."
"Reid wouldn't make any more than a snap and a swaller out of thatfeller, I guess. But it ain't good for a man like him to start outkillin'; it goes to his liver too quick and drives him mooney."
"I don't suppose it's very healthy for any man, Dad."
"You said it! I've went fifty miles around a range to skip a fellerthat was lookin' for my skelp, and I'd go a thousand before I'd crowda fight. I never was much on the fight, and runnin' sheep took whatlittle was in me out a long time ago."
Dad got out his red box of corn-husk cigarettes, offering it silentlyto Mackenzie, who shook his head, knowing very well that Dad did it toobserve conventions rather than out of a desire to have him helphimself. The stock of Mexican smokes was running low; Dad had spokenof it only the day before, and his feet were itching for the road tothe border, he said.
"Well, he's got a name and a fame in this country he can travel on,"said Dad.
Which was true enough. Mackenzie's fight with Swan Carlson had takensecond place, his reputation as a fighting man in the sheeplands hadpaled almost to nothing, after Reid's swift-handed dealing with MattHall. The fame of his exploit ran through the country, fixing hisplace in it at once, for Matt Hall was known as a man who had thestrength of seven in his long, gorilla arms.
Hector Hall, brother of the slain man, seemed to accept the tragedywith a sorrowful resignation in which no shadow of revenge appeared.He let it be known that Matt had been irresponsible at times, given tonight-prowlings and outbreaks of violence of strange and fantasticforms. How much truth there was in this excuse for the dead man,Hector alone knew. But no matter for his passivity, Mackenzie did nottrust him. He made a requisition on Tim Sullivan at once for revolversfor himself and Reid, which Tim delegated the young man to go to FourCorners and buy.
"Well, I come over to see if you'll lend Reid to me three or four dayswhile I make a trip to town," said Dad. "I've got a little businessover there to tend to I've been puttin' off for more than a month."
"Yes, if it's all right with Tim you can have him. What's up, gettingmarried?"
"Kind of arrangin', John, kind of arrangin'. There's a widow-lady overat Four Corners I used to rush that needs a man to help her with hersheep. A man might as well marry a sheep ranch as work on one, Ireckon."
"It's a shorter cut, anyhow. When do you want Reid?"
"I was aimin' to rack out this evenin', John."
"I'll send him over this afternoon. I don't know where he is, buthe'll be back for dinner."
Dad went away well satisfied and full of cheer, Mackenzie marvelingover his marital complexities as he watched him go. Together withRabbit, and the Mexican woman down El Paso way whom John hadmentioned, but of whom Dad never had spoken, and no telling how manymore scattered around the country, Dad seemed to be laying thegroundwork for a lively roundup one of his days. He said he'd beenmarrying women off and on for forty years. His easy plan seemed to bejust to take one that pleased his capricious temper wherever he foundher, without regard to former obligations.
Mackenzie grinned. He did not believe any man was so obscure as to beable to escape many wives. Dad seemed to be a dry-land sailor, with awife in every town he ever had made in his life. Mackenzie understoodabout Mexican marriages. If they were priest marriages, they werecounted good; if they were merely justice of the peace ones they weresubject to wide and elastic infringement on both sides. ProbablyIndian marriages were similar. Surely Dad was old enough to know whathe was about.
Reid came to camp at noontime, and prepared dinner in his quick andhandy way. Mackenzie did not take up the question of his acting asrelief for Dad while the old scout went off to push his arrangementsfor marrying a sheep ranch, seeing that Reid was depressed anddown-spirited and in no pleasant mood.
They were almost independent of the camp-mover, owing to their lightequipment, which they could carry with them from day to day as thesheep ranged. Supplies were all they needed from the wagon, which camearound to them twice a week. After dinner Reid began packing up forthe daily move, moody and silent, cigarette dangling on his lip.
"It's a one-hell of a life!" said he, looking up from the last knot inthe rope about the bundle of tent.
"Have you soured on it already, Earl?"
Reid sat on the bundle of tent, a cloud on his face, hat drawn almostto the bridge of his nose, scowling out over the sheep range as if hewould curse it to a greater barrenness.
"Three years of this, and what'll I be? Hell! I can't even find thatother Hall."
"Have you been out looking for him?"
"That big Swede over there was tellin' me he's put me down in his bookfor a killin'. I thought I'd give him a chance to get it over with ifhe meant it."
"Has Carlson been over?"
"No, I rode over there the other evening. Say, is that the woman youfound chained up when you struck this country?"
"She's the one."
Mackenzie looked at Reid curiously as he answered. There was somethingof quick eagerness in the young man's inquiry, a sudden light of a newinterest in his face, in sharp contrast with the black mood of amoment before.
"She looks like an Ibsen heroine," said Reid. "Take that woman out ofthis country and dress her right, and she'd be a queen."
"You'd better keep away from there," said Mackenzie, dryly.
"Oh, I guess I can take care of Swan if you could," Reid returned,with a certain easy insolence, jerking his hip to hitch his gun aroundin suggestive movement.
Mackenzie dropped the matter without more words, seeing too plainlythe humor of the youth. Maybe Dad had diagnosed his ailment aright,but to Mackenzie it appeared something more than plain lonesomeness.The notoriety attending the killing of Matt Hall had not been good forReid. He wanted more of it, and a bigger audience, a wider field.
If this was a taste of the adventure of the West's past romantictimes, Mackenzie felt that he was lucky he had come too late to shareit. His own affair with Swan Carlson had been sordid enough, but thisunlucky embroilment in which Reid had killed a man was a plainmisfortune to the hero of the fight. He told Reid of Dad's request.
"You go
and run his sheep for him," Reid suggested. "It'll take you alittle nearer Joan."
This he added as with studied sneer, his face flushing darkly, histhin mouth twisted in an ugly grin.
Mackenzie passed it, but not without the hurt of the unkind stabshowing in his face. It was so entirely unjustified as to be cruel,for Mackenzie was not in Reid's way even to the extent of one lurking,selfish thought. Since Reid had saved his life from Matt Hall'smurderous hands, Mackenzie had withdrawn even his most remote hope inregard to Joan. Before that he had spun his thread of dreams, quitehonestly, and with intent that he would not have denied, but since,not at all.
He owed Reid too much to cross him with Joan; he stepped aside,denying himself a thought of her save only in relation of teacher andpupil, trying to convince himself that it was better in the end forJoan. Reid had all the advantage of him in prospects; he could lift upthe curtain on his day and show Joan the splendors of a world that aschoolmaster could point out only from afar. Mackenzie seemed toignore the youth's suggestion that he go and tend Dad's flock.
"If I had a thousand dollars I'd dust it for Mexico tomorrow," saidReid. He turned to Mackenzie, pushing his hat back from his forehead,letting the sun on his savagely knotted face. "I haven't got money tosend a telegram, not even a special delivery letter! Look at me! Amillionaire's son and sole heir, up against a proposition like thisfor three years!"
Mackenzie let him sweat it out, offering neither water for his thirstnor wood for his fire. Reid sat in surly silence, running his thumbalong his cartridge belt.
"A man's friends forget him out here," he complained; "he's the sameto them as dead."
"It's the way everywhere when a man wants to borrow money," Mackenzietold him, not without the shade of a sneer.
"I've let them have enough in my time that they could afford to comeacross with what I asked for!"
"I think you'd better stick to the sheep business with Tim,"Mackenzie advised, not unkindly, ashamed of his momentary weakness andscorn. "A man's prospects don't look very good back home when a bunchof parasites and grafters won't come over with a little loan."
"They can go to the devil! I can live without them."
"And get fat on it, kid. Three years here will be little more to youthan as many days, if you get--interested."
Reid exclaimed impatiently, dismissing such assurance with a testygesture.
"How much will you give me for my chances?" he asked.
"Nobody else can play your hand, kid."
"On the square, Mackenzie. Will you give me a thousand dollars?"
"I'm not sole heir to any millionaire," Mackenzie reminded him, takingthe proposal in the jesting spirit that he supposed it was given.
"On the dead, Mackenzie--I mean it. Will you give me a thousanddollars for my place in the sheep game, girl and all? If you will,I'll hit the breeze tonight for Mexico and kick it all over to you,win or lose."
"If I could buy you out for a dime we couldn't trade," Mackenzie toldhim, a coldness in tone and manner that was more than a reproof.
"Joan ought to be worth that much to you!" Reid sneered.
Mackenzie got up, walked a few steps away, turned back presently, histemper in hand.
"It's not a question open to discussion between gentlemen," he said.
Reid blinked up at him, an odd leer on his sophisticated face, sayingno more. He made a pack on his saddle of the camp outfit, and startedoff along the ridge, leaving Mackenzie to follow as he pleased. A mileor more along Reid pitched upon a suitable camping place. He hadhimself established long before Mackenzie came to where he sat smokingamid his gloomy, impatient thoughts.
"I'm not going over to relieve that old skunk," Reid announced, "notwithout orders from Sullivan. If he gets off you'll have to relievehim yourself. I don't want that Hall guy to get it into his nut thatI'm runnin' away from him."
"All right, Earl," said Mackenzie, good-naturedly, "I'll go."
"You'll be half an hour nearer Joan's camp--she'll have that muchlonger to stay," said Reid, his mean leer creeping into his wide, thinlips again.
Mackenzie turned slowly to look him squarely in the eyes. He stood soa few seconds, Reid coloring in hot resentment of the silent rebuke.
"I've heard enough of that to last me the rest of your three years,"Mackenzie said, something as hard as stones in a cushion under hiscalm voice.
Reid jerked his hip in his peculiar twisting movement to shift hispistol belt, turned, and walked away.
If it was the lonesomeness, Mackenzie thought, it was taking a mightypeculiar turn in that fellow. He was more like a cub that wasbeginning to find itself, and bristle and snarl and turn to bite thehand that had fended it through its helpless stage. Perhaps it wouldpass in a little while, or perhaps it would get worse on him. In thelatter case there would be no living on the range with Reid, for onthe range Mackenzie believed Reid was destined to remain. He had beentrying to borrow money to get away, with what view in his dissatisfiedhead Mackenzie could not guess. He hadn't got it; he wouldn't get it.Those who had fattened on him in his prosperity were strangers to himin his time of penance and disgrace.
Mackenzie put off his start to Dad's camp until dusk, knowing the oldman would prefer to take the road at night, after his mysterious way.He probably would hoof it over to Sullivan's and borrow a buckboard tomake a figure in before the widow-lady upon whom he had anchored hisvariable heart.
Reid was bringing in the sheep when Mackenzie left, too far away for aword. Mackenzie thought of going down to him, for he disliked to partwith anything like a shadow between them, feeling that he owed Reid agreat debt indeed. More than that, he liked the kid, for there seemedto be a streak of good in him that all his ugly moods could not cover.But he went his way over the hills toward Dad's camp, the thoughtpersisting in him that he would, indeed, be thirty minutes nearerJoan. And it was a thought that made his heart jump and a gladnessburn in his eyes, and his feet move onward with a swift eagerness.
But only as a teacher with a lively interest in his pupil, he said;only that, and nothing more. On a hilltop a little way beyond his camphe stopped suddenly, his breath held to listen. Over the calm,far-carrying silence of the early night there came the sound of awoman singing, and this was the manner of her song:
_Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone. He promise na-fer to leafe me, Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_