CHAPTER XXIV
MORE ABOUT MARY
Mackenzie took Tim at his word two days after their interview, andwent visiting Mary. He made the journey across to her range more totry his legs than to satisfy his curiosity concerning the substitutefor Joan so cunningly offered by Tim in his Laban-like way. He waspleased to find that his legs bore him with almost their accustomedvigor, and surprised to see the hills beginning to show the yellowblooms of autumn. His hurts in that last encounter with Swan Carlsonand his dogs had bound him in camp for three weeks.
Mary was a smiling, talkative, fair-haired girl, bearing thefoundation of a generous woman. She had none of the shyness about herthat might be expected in a lass whose world had been the sheep range,and this Mackenzie put down to the fact of her superior socialposition, as fixed by the size of Tim Sullivan's house.
Conscious of this eminence above those who dwelt in sheep-wagons orlog houses by the creek-sides, Tim's girls walked out into their worldwith assurance. Tim had done that much for them in rearing his mansionon the hilltop, no matter what he had denied them of educationalrefinements. Joan had gone hungry on this distinction; she haddeveloped the bitterness that comes from the seeds of loneliness. Thiswas lacking in Mary, who was all smiles, pink and white in spite ofsheeplands winds and suns. Mary was ready to laugh with anybody or atanybody, and hop a horse for a twenty-mile ride to a dance any nightyou might name.
Mackenzie made friends with her in fifteen minutes, and had learned atthe end of half an hour that friend was all he might ever hope to beeven if he had come with any warmer notions in his breast. Mary wasengaged to be married. She told him so, as one friend to another,pledging him to secrecy, showing a little ring on a white ribbon abouther neck. Her Corydon was a sheepman's son who lived beyond theSullivan ranch, and could dance like a butterfly and sing songs to thebanjo in a way to melt the heart of any maid. So Mary said, but in herown way, with blushes, and wide, serious eyes.
Mackenzie liked Mary from the first ingenuous word, and promised tohold her secret and help her to happiness in any way that a man mightlift an honorable hand. And he smiled when he recalled Tim Sullivan'sword about catching them young. Surely a man had to be stirring earlyin the day to catch them in the sheeplands. Youth would look out forits own there, as elsewhere. Tim Sullivan was right about it there. Hewas wiser than he knew.
Mary was dressed as neatly as Joan always dressed for her work withthe sheep. And she wore a little black crucifix about her neck onanother ribbon which she had no need to conceal. When she touched itshe smiled and smiled, and not for the comfort of the little cross,Mackenzie understood, but in tenderness for what lay beneath it, andfor the shepherd lad who gave it. There was a beauty in it for himthat made the glad day brighter.
This fresh, sprightly generation would redeem the sheeplands, andchange the business of growing sheep, he said. The isolation would goout of that life; running sheep would be more like a business than apenance spent in heartache and loneliness. The world could not comethere, of course. It had no business there; it should not come. Butthey would go to it, those young hearts, behold its wonders, read itsweaknesses, and return. And there would be no more straining of theheart in lonesomeness such as Joan had borne, and no more discontentto be away.
"I hoped you'd marry Joan," said Mary, with a sympathetic little sigh."I don't like Earl Reid."
"Mary?" said Mackenzie. Mary looked up inquiringly. "Can you keep asecret for me, Mary?"
"Try me, John."
"I _am_ going to marry Joan."
"Oh, you've got it all settled? Did Joan wear your ring when she wenthome?"
"No, she didn't wear my ring, Mary, but she would have worn it if I'dseen her before she was sent away."
"I thought you were at the bottom of it, John," the wise Mary said."You know, dad's taken her sheep away from her, and she had ahalf-interest in at least a thousand head."
"I didn't know that, but it will not make any difference to Joan andme. But why hasn't she been over to see me, Mary?"
"Oh, dad's sore at her because she put her foot down flat when sheheard it was fixed for her to marry Earl. She told dad to take hissheep and go to the devil--she was going to go away and work somewhereelse. He made her go home and stay there like a rabbit in abox--wouldn't let her have a horse."
"Of course; I might have known it. I wonder if she knows I'm up?"
"She knows, all right. Charley slips word to her."
"Charley's a good fellow, and so are you," Mackenzie said, giving Maryhis hand.
"You'll get her, and it's all right," Mary declared, in greatconfidence. "It'll take more than bread and water to tame Joan."
"Is that all they're giving her?"
"That's dad's idea of punishment--he's put most of us on bread andwater one time or another. But mother has ideas of her own what a kidought to have to eat."
Mary smiled over the recollection, and Mackenzie joined her. Joanwould not grow thin with that mother on the job.
They talked over the prospects ahead of Joan and himself in the mostcomfortable way, leaving nothing unsaid that hope could devise orcourage suggest. A long time Mackenzie remained with his littlesister, who would have been dear to him for her own sweet sake if shehad not been dearer because of her blood-tie to Joan. When he wasleaving, he said:
"If anybody gets curious about my coming over to see you, Mary, youmight let them think I'm making love to you. It would help both ofus."
Mary turned her eyes without moving her head, looking at him acrossher nose in the arch way she had, and smiled with a deep knowingness.
"Not so bad!" said she.
They let it go at that, understanding each other very well indeed.
Mackenzie returned to Dad's camp thinking that the way to becoming aflockmaster was a checkered one, and filled with more adventures,harsh and gentle, than he ever had believed belonged to hisapportionment in life. But he could not blame Tim Sullivan for placingReid above him in rating on account of the encounters they had shared,or for bending down a bit in his manner, or taking him for a soft onewho could be led into long labors on the promise of an uncertainreward.
Truly, he had been only second best all the way through, save for that"lucky blow," as Tim called it, that had laid Swan out in the firstbattle. Now Swan and he were quits, a blow on each side, nobody debtorany more, and Reid was away ahead of anybody who had figured in theviolence that Mackenzie had brought into the sheeplands with him as anunwelcome stranger lets in a gust of wind on a winter night.
In spite of all this, the vocation of sheepman never appeared so fullof attractive possibilities to Mackenzie as it looked that hour. Allhis old calculations were revived, his first determination proved tohim how deeply it had taken root. He had come into the sheep countryto be a flockmaster, and a flockmaster he would be. Because he wasfighting his way up to it only confirmed him in the belief that he wasfollowing a destined course, and that he should cut a better figurein the end, somehow, than he had made at the beginning.
Tim Sullivan thought him simple; he looked at him with undisguisedhumor in his eyes, not taking the trouble to turn his back when helaughed. And they had taken Joan away out of his hands, like agold-piece snatched from a child. But that was more to his credit thanhis disgrace, for it proved that they feared him more than theyscorned him, let them laugh as they might.
But it was time for him to begin putting the credits over on the otherside of the book. Mackenzie took it up with Dad Frazer that evening,Rabbit sitting by in her quiet way with a nod and a smile now and thenwhen directly addressed.
"I don't think you're able to go over there and let that feller off,"Dad objected. "You can't tell about Swan; he may come round lookin'for more trouble, and you not half the man you was before him and thatdog chawed you up that way."
"I think I'll make out, Dad. I'll keep my eyes open this time,anyhow."
"He may not be able to slip up on you any more, but if he crowds afuss where'll you be at, with that hand hardly
able to hold a gun?"
"It will be different this time if he does. I'm going back to thesheep in the morning, Dad. I've got to get busy, and keep busy if Iever make good at this game."
Dad grunted around his pipestem, his charge being burned down to thewood, and the savor too sweet on his tongue to lose even a whiff bygiving room for a word in the door of his mouth. Presently the firefried and blubbered down in the pipe to the last atrocious smell, andthere followed the noise of more strong twist-tobacco being milledbetween the old shepherd's rasping palms. Rabbit toddled off to bedwithout a word; Dad put a match to his new charge, the light makinghim blink, discovering his curiously sheared face with its picturesquefeatures strong, its weakness under the shadows.
"What did you think of Mary?" he inquired, free to discuss the ladies,now Rabbit was gone.
"Mary's a little bit of all right, Dad."
"Yes, and not such a little bit, either. Mary's some chunk of a girl;she'll grow up to a woman that suits my eye. You could do worse thanset your cap for that little lady, it seems to me, John."
"Any man could. She's got a lively eye, and wise head, too, if I'm notaway off."
"She looks soft when you first glance her, but she's as deep as awell. Mary ain't the build of a girl that fools a man and throws himdown. Now, you take Joan, a kind of a high-headed touch-me-not, withthat gingerbread hair and them eyes that don't ever seem to be infifty-five mile of you when you're talkin' to her. I tell you, the manthat marries her's got trouble up his sleeve. He'll wake up somemorning and find her gone off with some other man."
"What makes you think that, Dad?"
"Not satisfied with what she's got, always lookin' off over the hilllike a breachy cow calculatin' on how much better the grazin'd be ifshe could hop the fence and go tearin' off over there. Joan ain't thekind that settles down to nuss babies and make a man a home. Mary is.That's the difference between them two girls."
"Maybe you're right about it, Dad--I expect you are. You ought to knowwomen if any man does."
"Well, neither one of 'em ain't a woman in the full meanin' of theword," Dad reflected, "but they've got the marks on 'em of whatthey'll turn out to be. The man that marries Mary he'll play safe; thefeller that gits Joan takes on a gamble. If she ever does marry Reidhe'll not keep her seven months. Shucks! I married a red-headed womanone time back in Oklahomey, and that blame woman run off with ahorse-doctor inside of three months. I never did hear tell of thatfool woman any more."
"I don't agree with you on the way you've got Joan sized up, nodifference if your wife did run off with a horse-doctor. Her hairain't red, anyway."
"Might as well be. You ain't so much of a hand at readin' people,anyhow, John; before you marry you ought to see a fortune-teller andhave your hand read. You got away off on Reid, holdin' up for himagin' my judgment when he first come here on the range--don't youremember?"
"I didn't want to pass judgment on him in advance; that was all,Dad."
"Course, you couldn't be expected to know men and women like usfellers that's batted around among 'em all our lives, and you shut upwith a houseful of kids teachin' 'em cipherin' and spellin'. I neverdid see a schoolteacher in my life, man or woman, that you couldn'ttake on the blind side and beat out of their teeth, not meanin' anydisrespect to you or any of 'em, John."
"Oh, sure not. I understand what you mean."
"I mean you're too trustful, too easy to take folks at their word.You're kids in your head-works, and you always will be. I advise youstrong, John, to have somebody read your hand."
"Even before marrying Mary?"
"We-el-l, you _might_ be safe in marryin' Mary. If I'd 'a' had my handread last spring before I come up here to this range I bet I'd 'a'missed the trap I stumbled into. I'd 'a' been warned to look out for adark woman, like I was warned once before, and I bet you a dime I'd'a' _looked_ out, too! Oh, well, it's too late now. I guess I wasfated."
"Everybody's fated; we're all branded."
"I've heard it said, and I'm beginnin' to believe it. Well, I don'tknow as I'd 'a' been any better off if I'd 'a' got that widow-lady.Rabbit ain't so bad. She can take care of me when I git old, and maybeshe'll treat me better'n a stranger would."
"Don't you have any doubt about it in the world. It was a lucky dayfor you when Rabbit found you and saved you from the Four Cornerswidow."
"Yes, I expect that woman she'd 'a' worked me purty hard--she had adrivin' eye. But a feller's got one consolation in a case where hiswoman ribs him a little too hard; the road's always open for him toleave, and a woman's nearly always as glad to see a man go as he is togit away."
"There's no reason why it shouldn't work both ways. But fashions arechanging, Dad; they go to the divorce courts now."
"That costs too much, and it's too slow. Walk out and leave the doorstandin' open after you; that's always been my way. They keep alookin' for you to come back for a month or two; then they marry someother man. Well, all of 'em but Rabbit, I reckon."
"She was the one that remembered."
"That woman sure is some on the remember, John. Well, I ought 'a' hadmy hand read. A man's a fool to start anything without havin' itdone."
Dad nursed his regret in silence, his face dim in the starlight.Mackenzie was off with his own thoughts; they might have been milesapart instead of two yards, the quiet of the sheeplands around them.Then Dad:
"So you're thinkin' of Mary, are you, John?"
Mackenzie laughed a little, like an embarrassed lover.
"Well, I've got my eye on her," he said.
"No gamble about Mary," Dad said, in deep earnestness. "Give her acouple of years to fill out and widen in and you'll have a girlthat'll do any man's eyes good to see. I thought for a while you hadsome notions about Joan, and I'm glad to see you've changed your mind.Joan's too sharp for a trustin' feller like you. She'd run off withsome wool-buyer before you'd been married a year."