CHAPTER VIII
At the end of a week Farwell told Keeler that he was going to ride overto Talapus. He added unnecessarily that he wanted to see how his horsewas getting on. Whereat his assistant, who had very good ears, grinnedinternally, though outwardly he kept a decorous face. He did not expecthis chief back till late.
But Farwell returned early, and spent a busy half hour in blowing upeverybody from Keeler down. On this occasion he had not seen Sheila atall. She and Casey Dunne, so Mrs. McCrae informed him, were at thelatter's ranch. Mr. Dunne, it appeared, was buying some housefurnishings, and wanted Sheila's advice. Farwell took an abruptdeparture, declining a hospitable invitation. He barely looked at thelame horse.
For another week he sulked in a poisonous temper. He was done withTalapus. He thought that McCrae girl had some sense, but if she wasgoing traipsing all over the country with Dunne, why, that let him out.Maybe she was going to marry Dunne. It looked like it. Anyway, it wasnone of his business. But the end of it was that he went to Talapusagain.
This time he found Sheila alone. The elder McCraes were gone toColdstream in the buckboard. Young Alec was somewhere on the ditch.Sheila, flanked by clothesbasket and workbasket, sat on the verandamending his shirts. The occupation was thoroughly unromantic, littlecalculated to appeal to the imagination. Nevertheless, it appealed toFarwell.
Largely because it is the perverse nature of man to believe that theFates have set him in the wrong groove, Farwell, like many others whoselives have been spent in exclusively masculine surroundings, believedhis tastes to be domestic. Not that he had ever pushed this beliefbeyond the theoretical stage; nor would he have exchanged places withany of his confreres who had taken wives. But he railed inwardly at theintense masculinity of his life, for the same reason that the sailormancurses the sea and the plainsman the plains. Just as the tragedian iscertain in his inmost soul that his proper role is light comedy, whilethe popular comedian is equally positive that he should be starring inthe legitimate; so Farwell, harsh, dominant, impatient, brutal onoccasion, a typical lone male of his species, knowing little of andcaring less for the softer side of life, cherished a firm belief thathis proper place was the exact centre of a family circle.
Although he had never seen a home that he cared beans about--includingthe one of his childhood--the singing of "Home, Sweet Home" invariablyleft him pensive for half an hour. Theoretically--heretofore alwaysstrictly theoretically--he possessed a strong _dulce domum_ impulse.And so the spectacle of Sheila mending her brother's shirts was one ofwhich he thoroughly approved. It gave him a feeling of intimacy, asthough he had been admitted to the performance of a domestic rite.
Sheila picked up a second shirt, inspected it critically, and frowned."Now, isn't that a wreck?" she observed. "Sandy's awfully hard on hisshirts." She nipped a thread recklessly between her teeth, shot the enddeftly through the needle's eye, and sighed. "Oh, well, I suppose Imust just do the best I can with the thing."
"Your brother is lucky," said Farwell. "My things get thrown away. Noone to look after them when they begin to go."
"That's very wasteful," she reproved him. "Why don't you send themsomewhere?"
"Where, for instance?"
"Oh, anywhere. I don't know. There must be women in every town whowould like to earn a little money."
"Well, I haven't time to hunt for them. If you know any one around herewho would undertake the job, I could give her quite a bit of work. Socould the others."
"You don't mean me, do you?" laughed Sheila. "Sandy gives me all I canhandle."
"Of course I never thought of such a thing," said Farwell seriously."Did it sound like that?"
"No, I am joking. I think you take things seriously, Mr. Farwell."
"I suppose so," he admitted. "Yes, I guess I do. I can't help it. I'mno joker; no time for that. Jokers don't get anywhere. Never saw onethat did. It's the fellow who keeps thinking about his job and bangingaway at it who gets there."
"The inference being that I won't get anywhere."
Farwell, puzzled momentarily, endeavoured to remember what he had said.
"I guess I made another break. I wasn't thinking of you. Women don'thave to get anywhere. Men do--that is, men who count. I've seen a lotof fellows in my own profession--smart, clever chaps--but, instead ofbuckling down to work, they were eternally running about having a goodtime. And what did any of them ever amount to? Not that!" He snappedhis fingers contemptuously.
"But wasn't that the fault of the men themselves? I mean that, apartfrom their liking for a good time, perhaps they hadn't the otherqualities to make them successful."
"Yes, they had," said Farwell positively. "Didn't I say they wereclever? It wasn't lack of that--it was their confounded fooling around.Almost every man gets one chance to make good. If he's ready for itwhen it comes, he's made. If he isn't--well, he isn't. That was the waywith these fellows. When they should have been digging into theground-work of their profession they weren't. And so, when good thingswere given them, they fell down hard. They lost money for other people,and that doesn't do. Now they're down and out--lucky to get a job witha level and one rodman to boss. There's no sympathy coming to them. Itwas their own fault."
He spoke positively, with finality, beating the heel of his clenchedfist against his knee to emphasize his words. Evidently he spoke out ofthe faith that was in him. Not a line of his face suggested humour orwhimsicality. Not a twinkle of the eye relieved its hardness. He wasgrave, dour, purposeful, matter-of-fact. He took himself, his life, andthe things of life with exceeding seriousness.
Sheila regarded him thoughtfully. Somehow she was reminded of herfather. There was the same gravity, marching hand in hand with tenacityof purpose, fixity of ideas; the same grim scorn of the tonic wine ofjest and laughter. But in the elder man these were mellowed andsoftened. In Farwell, in the strength of his prime, they were in fulltide, accentuated.
"Every man should have a good chance, and be ready for it," shereplied; "but some men never get it."
"Yes, they do; yes, they do," he asseverated. "They get it, all right.Only some of them don't know it when it comes; and others are ashamedto own up that they've missed it. We all get it, I tell you, sooner orlater."
"It may come too late to some."
"No, no, it comes in time if a man is wide awake. It's about the onlysquare deal creation gives him. And it's about all creation owes him.It's right up to them then. If he's asleep, it's his own fault. I don'tsay it doesn't happen more than once; but it does happen once."
Plainly he was in deep earnest. He had no tolerance of failure, noexcuse for it. According to his theory, every man at some time wasmaster of his fate.
"Have you had your chance?" she asked.
"Not the big chance that I want. I've done some good work, here andthere. But the big thing is coming to me. I feel it. And I'm in shapeto handle it, too. When I do that, I'll quit working for other people.I'll work for myself. Yes, by George! they can come to me."
Sheila laughed at him. His absolute cocksureness was too ridiculous.But in spite of herself she was impressed by the sincerity of hisbelief in himself. And she realized that opportunity was apt to knockat the door of a man who believed in his own capacity for success andlet others know it.
"I probably make you tired," said Farwell. "You asked me, and I toldyou. I'm not worrying about _my_ future. Now, let's talk about yours.You were away when I was here last week."
"Yes, I was over at Chakchak."
"That's Dunne's ranch. Your mother said you were helping him choosesome things from a mail-order catalogue."
"Furniture, linen, dishes, and a lot of other things." There was noembarrassment in her tone.
"Oh!" said Farwell; and as he uttered the word it resembled a growl."Well, when is it to be?"
"When is what to be?"
"Why, the wedding, of course."
"What wedding?" She laid down her work and stared at him. Then shelaughed, though the colour surged to her cheeks. "Oh, I see. You
thinkI was choosing these things for Mr. Dunne's prospective bride?"
"Of course."
"Not a bit of course--unless Casey has deceived me shamefully. Can't aman furnish his house better without having a wedding in view?"
"He can, but usually he doesn't. That's my experience."
"I wasn't aware that you were married."
"Married?" cried Farwell. "Me? I'm not. I'm glad of it. I have enoughto worry me now. I----" He came to an abrupt stop. "Oh, well, laughaway," he added. "I'll tell you what I thought. I thought you weregoing to marry Dunne."
Sheila's laughter closed suddenly. "You haven't the least right tothink that or say it," she said coldly. "It's strange if I can't help afriend choose a few house furnishings without impertinent comment."
"Oh, come!" said Farwell. "I didn't mean to be impertinent, MissMcCrae. I know I'm too outspoken. I'm always putting my foot in it."
"Very well," said Sheila. "I think you said you wanted to speak to meof my future?"
"Yes. I spoke to your father about selling the ranch. He refusedpoint-blank. What can we do about it?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "'We?' If he told you he won't sell, hewon't. I didn't know you had spoken to him."
"Couldn't you persuade him?"
"I wouldn't try. I don't want Talapus sold. What right have you to holdus up? That's what it amounts to."
"There's a woman for you!" cried Farwell to the world at large. "Holdyou up? Great Scott, that's just what I'm not doing! I offered him thevalue he put on the ranch himself, not a holdup price. I mean I offeredto get it for him. I want you to put it up to him, and get your motherto help you. You ought to have some say in this. He ought to think ofyou a little."
"It's his ranch," Sheila returned loyally. "He knows what he's doing.When a man has made up his mind, women shouldn't make things harder forhim by whining."
"That's right enough, too," said Farwell, whose masculinity was inthorough accord with the last sentiment. "But he is just the same asthrowing away a hundred thousand dollars. I don't want to see it. Iknow what he's up against. I want him to get out while he can breakeven."
"What about the rest of the ranchers?"
"I don't care a hang for the rest of the ranchers."
"And why do you make a distinction in our favour?"
Farwell was not prepared with an answer, even to himself. Her bluntnesswas disconcerting. "I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't matter. Themain thing is to make your father get out of the way of the tree, forit's going to fall right where he's standing. He can't dodge once itstarts. And what hits him hits you."
"Then I won't dodge, either," she declared bravely. "He's right not tosell. I wouldn't if I were in his place."
Farwell slid back in his chair and bit his cigar savagely.
"I never saw such a family!" he exclaimed. "You've got nerve a-plenty,but mighty poor judgment. Get it clear now, what's going to happen.You'll have enough water for domestic purposes and stock, but none forthe ranch. Then it won't be worth a dollar an acre. Same way with therest. And now let me tell you another thing: Just as soon as the wateris turned off, every rancher will fall all over himself to sell. That'swhat your father doesn't believe. He'll see when it's too late. It'srank folly."
"It's our own folly, Mr. Farwell!"
"You mean it's none of my business. Well, I make it my business. I buttin on this. I'll put it right up to him. I'll shove the money rightunder his nose. If he turns it down I'm done. I'll quit. And if youdon't do your best to make him take it, you won't be dealing fairlywith him, your mother, or yourself."
Sheila stared at him, quite unused to such a tone. He, an utterstranger, was arrogating to himself the position of friend to thefamily, presuming to criticise her father's wisdom, to tell her whatshe should do and should not do. But withal she was impressed by hisearnestness. His advice, she could not believe, was entirelydisinterested. At the same time, inconsistently, she was angry.
"Well," she said. "I must say you _are_ 'butting in.' You--you--oh, youdon't lack nerve, Mr. Farwell!"
"Don't worry about my nerve," he retorted grimly. "You'll have othertroubles. For Heaven's sake have some sense. Will you do as I tell you,or won't you?" He leaned forward, tapping the arm of her chair withtense fingers.
"No," she answered positively, "I won't."
Young McCrae came around the corner of the house. He was hatless,coatless, muddy from his work in the ditches. A pair of faded blueoveralls were belted to his lean middle by a buckskin thong, and hisfeet were incased in wet moccasins. He came noiselessly but swiftly,not of purpose, but from habit, with a soft, springy step; and he waslevel with them before they were aware of him. He came to an abrupthalt, his eyes on Farwell, every muscle tensing. For an instant heresembled a young tiger about to spring.
"Oh, Sandy," cried his sister, "what a mess! For goodness sake don'tcome up here with those muddy moccasins."
"Just as you say," drawled young McCrae. "I thought you might want me.Anything I can do for you, sis? Want anything carried in--or _thrownout?_" He accented the last words.
Farwell, who had read danger signals in men's eyes before, saw theflare of enmity in the young man's, and raised his shoulders in a faintshrug. He smiled to himself in amusement.
"No, there's nothing, thanks," said Sheila, quite unconscious of thehidden meaning of his words. "Better get cleaned up for supper."
McCrae swung on silently, with his rapid, noiseless step. Farwellturned to Sheila.
"Do this for me, Miss McCrae," he pleaded. "Give me a fair chance withyour father if you won't help me with him. Don't tell your brother ofwhat I'm trying to do. If you do that, his influence will be the otherway."
"If my father has made up his mind, none of us can change it," saidSheila. "But I'll give you a fair field. I won't tell Sandy."
Farwell, in spite of previous virtuous resolutions, remained forsupper. The elder McCraes had not returned. The young people had themeal to themselves; and Sheila and Farwell had the conversation tothemselves, for Sandy paid strict and confined attention to his food,and did not utter half a dozen words. Immediately afterward hevanished; but, when Farwell went to the stable for his horse, he foundthe young man saddling a rangy, speedy-looking black.
"Guess I'll ride with you a piece," he announced.
"All right," Farwell replied carelessly. He did not desire company; butif it was forced on him he could not help it.
The light was failing as they rode from the ranch house. The greenfields lay sombre in the creeping dusk. Nighthawks in search of fooddarted in erratic flight, uttering their peculiar booming notes.Running water murmured coolly in the ditch that flanked the road.Cattle, full of repletion, stood in contented lethargy by the wateringplace, ruminating, switching listlessly at the evening flies whichscarcely annoyed them. The vivid opalescent lights of the western skygrew fainter, faded. Simultaneously the zenith shaded from turquoise tosapphire. In the northeast, low over the plains, gleaming silveragainst the dark velvet background of the heavens, lay the first star.
But Farwell paid no attention to these things. Instead, he was thinkingof Sheila McCrae--reconstructing her pose as she bade him good-bye, thedirect, level gaze of her dark eyes, the contour of her face, thecloudy masses of her brown hair. He was unconsciously engaged in theperilous, artistic work of drawing for his sole and exclusive use amental "portrait of a lady"; and, after the manner of man attracted bywoman, he idealized the picture of his creation. By virtue of thisabsorbing occupation, he quite forgot the presence of the brother ofthe woman. But a mile beyond the ranch young McCrae pulled up.
"I turn off here," he said.
"That so? Good night," said Farwell.
"There's something I came to tell you," McCrae pursued. "I'm not makingany grand-stand play about it; but you'd better be a lot more carefulwhen you're talking to my sister. Understand?"
"No, I don't," said Farwell. "I never said anything to Miss McCrae thather father and mother mightn't hear."
"Oh, _that!_" said young Sandy, and spat in disgust. "No, I guess youdidn't--and you hadn't better. But you told her to do something--fairlyordered her. I heard you, and I heard her tell you she wouldn't.Perhaps you'll tell me what it was?"
"Perhaps I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to, mostly," said Farwell impatiently. "Alsobecause it's none of your business. Your sister and I understand eachother. Our conversation didn't concern you--directly, anyway."
"I'll let it go at that on your say-so," Sandy returned, withsurprising calmness. "I'm not crowding trouble with you, but get thisclear: You know why you're hanging around the ranch, and I don't. Allthe same, if you are up to any monkey business, you'll settle it withme."
Farwell's temper, never reliable, rose at once.
"Quite a Wild West kid, aren't you?" he observed, with sarcasm. "Youmake me tired. It's a good thing for you your people are decent." Hecrowded his horse close to the other. "Now, look here, young fellow, Iwon't stand for any fool boy's talk. You're old enough to know better.Cut it out with me after this, do you hear?"
"Where are you coming with that cayuse?" demanded young McCrae, andsuddenly raked a rowelled heel behind the animal's shoulder.
Ensued five strenuous minutes for Farwell, wherein he sought to soothehis mount's wounded feelings. When at last the quadruped condescendedto allow his four hoofs to remain on the ground simultaneously for morethan a fraction of a second, young McCrae was gone; and Farwell,somewhat shaken, and profane with what breath was left him, had nothingfor it but to resume his homeward way.