CHAPTER V
ANGUS IN LOVE AND WAR
The judge merely told Angus that if he could work the ranch properly itwould not be rented; and thus encouraged he buckled into the work. Theresponsibility thrust on him changed his outlook even more than hehimself realized.
Jean felt her responsibilities as much as he. She was fond of books, butshe grudged the time spent at school, and from before daylight till longafter dark she was as busy as a young hen with a brood of chicks. Theboys helped her with the hard tasks, and on the whole she got along verywell.
But though Angus and Jean felt their responsibilities and endeavored tolive up to them, young Turkey did not. He was a curious combination,with as many moods and shifts as an April day. By turns he washeadstrong and impulsive, and then coldly calculating. If he felt likeit, he would be industrious; but if not, he would be deliberately andprovokingly idle. In the days of Adam Mackay these qualities had beennot so apparent; but with the passing of his father he recognized noauthority and he resented bitterly the least suggestion of control.
He would soon have gotten completely out of hand had Angus permitted it.Matters came to a show-down one morning when Turkey, snug between hisblankets, delivered a flat ultimatum to his brother's command that heget up and help pick potatoes.
"You go plum!" said Turkey. "Saturday's a holiday, and I'm goin'fishin'. Pick spuds yourself!"
The next moment he was yanked out of his nest by the ankle and, fightinglike a young wildcat, was thrown on the floor.
"Will you pick those spuds?" Angus demanded.
"No!" Turkey shouted, and Angus whirled him over on his face andreaching out acquired a leather slipper.
"Get this straight," he said. "You'll pick spuds, or I'll lick you tillyou do."
"You lick me, and I'll kill you," roared Turkey, emphasizing the threatwith language gleaned from certain teamsters of his acquaintance, butwhich was cut short by the slipper.
"Will you come to work now?" Angus asked after a heated interval.
"No!" yelled Turkey, sobbing more with rage than with pain, "no, Iwon't, you big--"
But again the slipper cut him short, and this time his brother put hisfull strength into it. Finally, Turkey recognized the old-time doctrineof force, and gave up. That day he picked potatoes with fair diligence,and though he would not speak to Angus for a week, he did as he wastold.
And so that Fall the young Mackays were very busy, and the threshing wasdone, and the roots dug and got in, and some fall plowing, before thefrosts hardened the earth and the snow came to overlie it.
With winter the work of the ranch lightened--or at least its hoursshortened. But still there was plenty to do.
But there were the long evenings, when all the work was done, and supperover and the lamps lit, and they sat by the big, airtight heater, andAngus at least enjoyed the warmth the more because, well-fed andcomfortable himself, he knew that every head of his stock was alsofull-bellied and contented in pen and stable and stall and shed, and thewind might blow and the snow drift and not matter at all.
A year passed uneventfully. The ranch paid its way, though Angus couldnot meet the mortgage interest. In that year Angus had grown physically.Adam Mackay had been a strong man, and his son was beginning to show hisbreed, and the results of the good plain food and open air and hardexercise which had been his all his life.
He was yet lanky and apparently awkward, being big of bone, but longropes of muscle were beginning to come on his arms and thighs, and bandsand plasters of it lay on his shoulders and along his back and armoredribs. He took pride in the strength that was coming upon him, rejoicingin his ability to shoulder a sack of grain without effort, to lift andset around the end of a wagon, to handle the big breaking plow at theend of a furrow, and he was forever trying new things which called forstrength and activity. At nineteen he could, though he did not know it,have taken the measure of any ordinary man. And about this time anincident occurred which nearly turned out disastrously.
Angus had delivered a load of potatoes at a hotel much frequented bylumberjacks, and, seeking its proprietor, he entered the bar. A loggingcamp had broken up, and its members, paid off, were celebrating in thegood old way. As Angus approached the bar he passed between two youngmen. These, with one telepathic glance, suddenly administered to theunsuspecting youth the rite known as the "Dutch flip." Although thehumor of the "flip" is usually more apparent to perpetrators andonlookers than to the victim, Angus merely grinned as he found himselfon his feet again, and all would have been well if, in his involuntaryparabola, his feet aforesaid had not brushed a huge tie-maker. Thistie-maker was a Swede, "bad," with a reputation as a fighter and thegenial disposition of a bear infested with porcupine quills. Also he waspartly drunk. In this condition he chose to regard the involuntarycontact of Angus' heels as a personal affront. With a ripping blasphemyhe slapped the boy in the face, and as instantly as a reflex actionAngus lashed back with a blow clean and swift as the kick of a colt, andnearly as powerful.
The logger recovered from his surprise, and with a roar sprang andcaught him. Strong for a boy, Angus was as yet no match for such anadversary. The weight of the man, apart from fighting experience, madethe issue undoubted. But suddenly the Swede was twisted, wrenched loose,and sent staggering ten feet. Straight down the length of the room thebig tie-maker shot, landing with a terrific crash, and lay groaning.
"Let the kid alone!" a deep voice commanded.
Angus' rescuer was Gavin French, the eldest of the brothers. The largestof a family of big men, Gavin stood three inches over six feet in hisstockings, and tapered from shoulders to heels. He was long of limb,long of sinew, and so beautifully built that at first sight his realbulk and weight were not apparent. His hair, reddish gold, was so wavythat it almost curled, his eye a clear blue, but as hard as newly-cutice. He nodded to Angus.
"All right, Mackay; I won't let him hurt you."
Gavin French surveyed his handiwork with cold satisfaction.
"Give the boys a drink," he said. And when the drink had been disposedof he walked out without a second glance at his late adversary who wassitting up. Angus followed him.
"Thanks for handling him," he said. "He was too strong for me."
The cold blue eyes rested on him appraisingly.
"You'll be all right when you're older. Better keep out of trouble tillthen."
"He struck me," Angus said, "and no man will ever do that withoutgetting back the best I have, no matter how big he is. That was myfather's way."
Gavin French made no reply. He nodded, and turning abruptly left Angusalone.
This episode, trivial in itself, gave Angus food for thought. For longmonths the sight of the big Swede hurtling through the air was beforehis eyes, and he admired and envied the mighty strength of Gavin French.By contrast his own seemed puny, insignificant. He set himselfdeliberately to increase it.
The second fall after Adam Mackay's death the school which Jean andTurkey attended had a new teacher. Jean fell in love with her from thestart, and even Turkey, who had regarded teachers as his naturalenemies, was inclined to make an exception. Jean brought this paragon tothe ranch over Sunday. Alice Page was a clear-eyed young woman oftwenty-four, brown of hair and eye as Jean herself, full of quiet fun,but with a dignity which forbade familiarity. She was the first personwho had ever given Angus a handle to his name. This was at dinner, andTurkey yelped joyously:
"Ah, there, 'Mister' Mackay!" he cried. "A little more meat, 'Mister'Mackay, and a dose of spuds and gravy, 'Mister' Mackay. I see you missedsome of the feathers by your left ear when you was shavin', 'Mister'Mackay!"
Having just begun the use of the razor, Angus reddened to the earaforesaid. Like most taciturn, reserved people he was keenly sensitiveto ridicule.
"'Meester' Mackay! Haw-haw!" rumbled big Gus through a mouthful of food."He's shave hees viskers! Das ban purty good von. Ho-ho!"
Dave Rennie grinned. Angus' black brows drew down, but just then hechoked on a crumb of b
read which went the wrong way.
"Pat 'Mister' Mackay on the back!" shrieked Turkey.
"I'll pat you, young fellow!" Angus wheezed.
But Alice Page saw how the land lay; saw also that the black-browed,awkward boy was in danger of losing his temper.
"Shall I call you 'Angus'?" she asked, and there was something in hertone and friendly smile which calmed him.
"That would be fine," he said. "And if you would lick Turkey Mondaymorning it would be a great favor."
A month afterward Alice Page came to live at the ranch. Hercompanionship meant much to Jean. It meant more to Angus, who presentlysuffered a severe attack of calf-love.
Being in love, Angus began to suffer the pangs of jealousy, for therewere others who found Alice Page attractive. Chief among these was NickGarland, the young man who had accompanied Mr. Braden on his firstvisit to the ranch. His visits became frequent, and he made himself verymuch at home at the ranch, treating Angus with a careless superiorityand seniority which the latter found intensely irritating.
Now Garland, who esteemed himself a devil of a fellow, was merelyattempting a flirtation with the pretty school teacher. He could not butnotice Angus' attitude toward himself, and in a flash of perceptiondivined the cause. He found it humorous, as no doubt it was. He did notlike Angus, which made it the more amusing. He intended to tell AlicePage the joke, but in the meantime kept it to himself.
He rode up one moonlight night while Angus was in the stable dressing bythe light of a lantern the leg of a horse which had calked himself, puthis mare in a stall and forked down hay as a matter of course. Angus,after a short greeting, maintained silence. Then picking up his lantern,he left the stable. Garland thought his chance had come.
"They tell me you're going to school this winter," he observed.
"No," Angus replied.
"Mighty pretty teacher," Garland insinuated. "If I had the chance, I'dsure go. I think I could learn a lot from her."
"There would be lots of room," Angus retorted.
"What!" Garland demanded, stopping short.
"Ay," Angus said grimly, setting his lantern on the ground and facinghim. "You might learn to mind your own business."
Garland peered at him in the moonlight.
"I'm not used to talk like that, young fellow."
"You need not take it unless you like," Angus said.
Garland laughed contemptuously. "Sore, are you? This is the funniestthing I ever came across. I'm on to you, kid. It's too good to keep.I'll have to tell her."
Angus scowled at him in silence for a moment. Then, deliberately,bitterly, he gave him what is usually regarded as a perfectly good_casus belli_.
Garland began to realize that he had made a mistake. He had anticipatedfun, but found this serious. If he thrashed Angus he could not very wellcontinue to call at the ranch. Also, looking at the tall, raw-bonedyouth confronting him, he had an uneasy feeling that he might have hishands full if he tried. He had not realized till then how much the boyhad grown. At bottom Garland was slightly deficient in sand. And so hetried to avert the break he had brought about.
"That's no way to talk," he said. "You'll have to learn to take a joke,some day."
"Maybe," Angus retorted. "But I will never learn to take what you aretaking."
Garland flushed angrily. The element of truth in the words stung.
"I'd look well, beating up a boy," he said loftily. "I'm not going toquarrel with you. When you're older maybe you'll have more sense."
He left Angus, and marched away to the house. Angus looked after himtill the door closed, and then struck straight away across the barefields for the timber.
These night rambles by moonlight were a habit which fitted well with hisnature. He was taciturn, reserved, with an infinite capacity, developedby circumstance for solitude. But that night, as he covered mile aftermile with a swift, springy stride, his mood was as sinister as the blackshadows the great firs threw across his path. His naturally hard, bittertemper, usually controlled, was in the ascendant. His long dislike ofGarland had come to a head. And yet there was Garland seated in hishouse with Alice Page, while he was forced to walk in the night. Itamounted to that in his estimation.
At last he turned back, in no better temper. It was late, and he wassure that Garland had gone. But as he came to the road leading to thehouse he saw figures black in the moonlight approaching. Just then hewas in no mood to meet any one. An irrigation ditch bordered by willowsparalleled the road. He jumped the ditch and, concealed by the willows,waited till whoever it was should go by.
It was Alice Page, and Garland, leading his horse. Opposite him theyhalted. Snatches of conversation blurred by the gurgle of running watercame to his ears. Garland moved closer to her. Suddenly he caught her inhis arms. She strained back, pushing him away, but he kissed her, and atthat moment Angus leaped the ditch, landing beside them. The suddennessof his appearance startled them. The horse snorted and pulled back.Garland released Alice with an oath and turned to face the intruder.
"It's you, is it?" he said angrily.
"You had better get out of here," Angus told him, "and be quick aboutit."
But Garland, being angry, forgot his prudence. He was not going to beordered off by a boy, especially before Alice Page.
"Be civil, you young fool!" he said. "I've taken enough from youto-night."
"Will you get on your horse and pull out?" Angus demanded between histeeth.
"When I get good and ready, and not before," Garland replied.
Without another word Angus went for him. Garland was older, heavier andpresumably stronger, and furious as Angus was he felt that probably hewas in for a licking. But he went in hard, like a forlorn hope, and likea forlorn hope he intended to do as much damage as he could.
Garland tried to fend him off with a push, and failing, hit. But hisblow glanced from Angus' head and the latter slashed up under the ribswith a vicious right hand, and was amazed at the depth his fist sank inthe body and the rasping gasp it brought forth. Angus' knowledge ofoffensive and defensive was not great. But at school he had engaged invarious rough-and-tumble affairs and one winter a lithe young fellowhired by the elder Mackay had shown him how to hold his hands. But thesethings were quite forgotten for the moment. Like his claymore-wieldingancestors, his one idea was to get to close quarters and settle thematters there. He caught Garland around the middle and was gripped inreturn.
For a moment he thought Garland was not trying, was not doing his best;and then, suddenly and joyfully, he realized that he _was_ doing it, andthat it was not good enough. He was stronger than Garland. He had theback, and the legs, and the arms and the lungs of him, man though hewas. With the knowledge he snarled like a young wolf, and suddenlystrength swelled in him like the bore of a tide. He ran Garland backhalf a dozen paces, and wrenched and twisted him. Getting his righthand free he smashed him again under the ribs, and as Garland, gasping,clinched, he locked his long arms around him, and with his shoulderagainst the stomach, his legs propped and braced, and every muscle fromjaw to heel tautening, he squeezed him like a young python.
Garland tried to hold the walls of his body against the grip, andfailed. Angus heard him pant, and felt the tremors of the man's frame asthe strength oozed out of him. Garland's grip weakened and loosened, andhe tried for Angus' throat and failed, for the boy's chin was tuckedhome on his breast-bone, and he beat him over the back and head wildlywith his fists and caught at his arms; and then his head and body beganto go backward.
Angus heard Alice Page's voice as from a great distance, for that lockedgrip of his was like the blind one of a bulldog.
"Angus! Angus! let him go!"
And he plucked Garland from his footing easily, for the latter was nowlittle more than dead weight, and threw him on his back into the runningditch. He stood above him, his chest heaving, like a young wolf abovehis first kill.
Garland splashed into the chilly water, and drew himself out of itgasping and cursing with returning breath. Angu
s tapped him on the mouthwith the toe of his moccasin.
"That is no talk for a woman to hear," he said. "Get out, or I'll throwyou back in the ditch."
Garland got to his feet unsteadily, and went to his horse.
"I'll fix you for this," he said as he got into the saddle.
"You are a bluff," Angus told him, "and you know it as well as I do. Getout!"
When horse and rider were indistinct, Angus turned to Alice Page.
"You saw him--kiss me, Angus?" she said.
"Yes," he admitted, "but I didn't mean to. I had words with himto-night, and I was waiting till you would go past, but you stoppedright in front of me."
"I'm very glad you were there. I don't want you to think I am the sortof girl who is kissed by moonlight."
"I'd never think that," Angus said. "I think you are the finest girl inthe world."
She stared at him in amazement, as much at his tone as at the words.
"Why, Angus!" she exclaimed.
"I do," he asseverated, "the very finest! I've wanted to tell you so,but I hadn't the nerve. I--I think an awful lot of you."
So there it was at last, blurted out with boyish clumsiness.
"Good heavens!" cried Alice Page. "I never--why, Angus, my dear boy--"She laughed and checked herself, and the laugh turned into a littlehysterical sob, and without any further warning she began to cry.
Utterly dismayed Angus stood helpless. And then, because it alwaysseemed to comfort Jean when in trouble, he put his arm around her. For amoment Alice Page leaned against him, just as Jean did, but somehow thesensation was quite different. Very hesitatingly and awkwardly, butdoing it as well and carefully as he knew how, he kissed her. WhereuponAlice Page jumped as if he had bitten her.
"You, too!" she cried. "O Angus! Oh, good heavens, what a night! Let mego, Angus!"
He let her go, feeling all palpitant and vibrant, for he had neverkissed any girl, save Jean, who naturally did not count, but glad thatat any rate he had stopped her crying. And Alice Page, who had a largestore of common sense, did the very best thing possible. Sitting down onthe bank of the ditch she made him sit beside her, and talked to him sogently and frankly that after a while, though he still consideredhimself to be in love, he felt resigned to its hopelessness, and in factrather proud of his broken heart and blighted life, as boys are apt tobe. Indeed, with his knowledge that he had squared the account withGarland, he was almost happy.