CHAPTER V
THE HANGING BEE
Dug McFarlane was a picturesque creature. He was big in height andgirth. He was also big in mind. And, which was much more important tothe people of the Orrville ranching world, big in purse. He wasgrizzled and gray, and his eyes beamed out of a setting which wassurely made for such beaming; a setting which possessed no sharp anglesor disfiguring hollows, but only the healthy tissue of a well-nourishedand wholesome-living man in middle life.
As he sat his horse, beside his station foreman, gazing out at thebroken line of foothills which marked the approach to the barrier ofmountains cutting against the blue, he seemed to display in his bearingsomething of that dominating personality which few successful men areentirely without. All about them lay the heavy-railed corrals of adistant out-station. Just behind stood the rough shanty, which was thebunkhouse for the cowhands employed in this region. The doctor wasstill within, tending the grievously injured man who had been so badlywounded in the previous night's raid by the rustlers.
For the time Dug's beaming eyes were shadowed with a concern that washalf angry and wholly depressed. They searched the rolling grass-landuntil the distance was swallowed up by the barrier of hills. He wasseeking one reassuring glimpse of the black, hornless herd whosepastures these were. But only disappointment met him on every side.The beautiful, sleek, Aberdeen-Angus herd, which was his joy and pride,had vanished. They had gone, he knew. They had gone the same waythat, during the last five years, hundreds of head of his stock hadgone. It was the last straw.
"Say, Lew Hank," he said, in a voice of something approaching anemotion he possessed no other means of displaying, "it's beat me bad.It's beat me so bad I don't seem able to think right. We'd a hundredhead running on this station. As fine a bunch as ever were bred fromthe old country's strain. I just feel that mad I could set right in tobreak things."
Then, after a long pause during which the station foreman waited silent:
"And only last night, while these guys was raising the mischief righthere, I was setting around doping out big talk, and raising a mightybig wad for the round-up of the whole darnation gang. Can you beat it?I'm sore. Sore as hell. Say, tell it me again. I don't seem to haveit clear."
He passed one great muscular hand across his moist forehead, and thegesture was rather one of helplessness.
Lew Hank regarded him with measuring eyes. He knew him so well. Inthe ten years and more he had worked for him he had studied his everymood. This phase in the great cattleman's character was something new,something rather startling. Dug's way was usually volcanic. It washot and fierce for a while, generally to hollowed by a hearty laugh,rather like the passing of a summer storm. But this, in Lew's opinion,was a display of weakness. A sign he neither liked nor respected. Thetruth was Dug McFarlane had been hit in a direction of which hissubordinate had no understanding. That herd of Aberdeen-Angus cattlehad been his plaything. His hobby. He had been devoted to it in a waythat would have been absurd to any one but a cattleman. Hank decidedthis unaccustomed weakness must be nipped in the bud.
"Say, boss, it ain't no use in squealin'," he grumbled, in the hardtones of a man who yields to no feelings of sympathy. Hisweather-stained face was set and ugly in its expression. "Wher's theuse in it anyway?" he demanded. "Get a look around. There's miles ofterritory, an' all of it runs into them blamed hills. I got three boyswith me. They're right boys, too. I don't guess there's a thing youor me could tell 'em 'bout their work. Not a thing. Day and night oneof 'em's on grazin' guard. Them beasties ain't never left to trail offinto the hills. Wal, I guess that's all we ken do--sure. Say, youcan't hold up a gang of ten an' more toughs with a single gun in thedead, o' night, 'specially with a hole in your guts same as youngSyme's had bored into his. I ain't ast once, nor twice, to hev thembeasties run into the corrals o' nights, and fed hay, same as inwinter. I've ast it fifty times. It's bin up to you, boss. So I sayit's no use in squealin'."
Hank spat over his horse's shoulder, and his thin lips closed with asnap. He was a lean forceful prairieman who possessed, as he wouldhimself have said, no parlor tricks. Dug McFarlane, for all hiswealth, for all he had been elected president of the Western UnionCattle Breeders' Association three years in succession, was no more tohim than any other employer who paid wages for work loyally performed.
Dug regarded his foreman with close attention. He ignored the man'srough manner. But, nevertheless, it was not without effect.
"And the other boys?"
"Was dead asleep in the bunkhouse--same as me. What 'ud you have?They ain't sheep dogs."
Dug took no umbrage.
"And they're out on the trail--right now?"
"Sure. Same as we should be, 'stead o' wastin' hot air around here.Say, I guess you're feelin' sore. But I don't guess your feelin's is acircumstance to mine, boss. You ain't bin beat to your face by thislousy gang. I have. An' say, I'm yearnin'--jest gaspin'--to wipe outthe score. I don't sort o' care a bit for your loss. That ain't myfuneral. But they've beat me plumb out--same as if I was some suckerwho ain't never roped an' branded a three-year-old steer since I waspupped. Are you comin' along? They struck out northwest. We gotthat, an' the boys is follerin' hard on their trail. It'll be better'nsquealin' around here."
There could be no doubt about the man's feelings. They were displayedin every word he spoke. In every glance of his fierce eyes. Dugapproved him. His manners were nothing. Lew was probably the mostcapable cattleman in his service.
He was about to follow his foreman who had swung his horse about to setoff northward, when he abruptly flung out an arm, pointing.
"That one of your boys--coming in? Maybe----"
Lew screwed up his eyes in the sunlight. His rep came in a moment.
"Maybe--nuthin'. That ain't one of my boys." Then, after a brief,considering pause, in which he narrowly examined the distant horseman'soutfit: "Sort o' rec'nize him, too. Likely he's that bum guy with thedandy wife way up on Butte Creek. Whitstone, ain't it? Feller withswell folks way down east, an' who guesses the on'y sort o' farmin'worth a cuss is done in Ju Penrose's saloon. That's him sure," headded, as the man drew nearer. Then he went on musingly. "I guesshe's got a lot to dope out. Say, them guys must have passed near byhis shanty."
Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk. He was on a mission thatinspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing.And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.
He glanced swiftly from one to the other as he confronted the burlyrancher and his station foreman. The latter he did not know, nor washe interested in him. The man he had come to see was Dug McFarlane,who claimed from him, as he did from every man in the district,something in the nature of respect.
"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones."My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazingrights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember.You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morningbecause--I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see youprivately. It's--important. You've been robbed last night, and--it'sabout them. The gang, I mean."
His pony was still blowing. Bob had ridden hard. He had first riddeninto Orrville, and then followed the rancher out here. He was leaningover in the saddle lounging upon the horn of it. His eyes were gazingcuriously, speculatively at the figure of the man who ruled the localcattle industry. He was calculating in his own way what might be theeffect of the news he had to impart. What estimate this big man--andBob knew him to be a big man--would have of him when he had told hisnews and claimed the--blood money? With each moment he shrank smallerand smaller in his own estimation.
Dug regarded him steadily.
"You've got news of them?"
Bob nodded, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Lew Hank.
"I've seen 'em. But--it's more than that."
The rancher turned quickly upo
n his foreman.
"Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's makingwith young Syme. I need a talk with Whitstone."
It was not without obvious and resentful reluctance that Lew Hankwithdrew. Even his hardihood, however, was unequal to resisting sodirect an order from his chief.
The two men watched him out of earshot. Then Dug, with almostprecipitate haste, turned back to his visitor.
"Now, sir, I'm ready to hear anything you need to tell me."
But Bob was thinking of Ju Penrose as he had thought of him many timessince he had listened and yielded to Effie's appeal. Every man has hisprice. Bob knew now that he, like the rest, had his price. That pricea woman had set for him. Ju was right--hatefully right. Well, hewould now refuse to be robbed of one cent of it.
He looked up sharply as the other made his demand.
"You're offering ten thousand dollars reward for the| capture of theLightfoot gang, Mr. McFarlane?"
"That's so."
The rancher's regard had deepened. There was a curious light shiningin his blue eyes. It was half speculative, half suggestive of growingexcitement. It was wholly full of a burning interest.
"Say, I'd just like to know how I stand." Bob laughed that short hardlaugh which bears no trace of mirth. "You see, I can put you wise. Ican lead you right on to their camp so you can get 'em--while they'resleeping, or any other old way. Oh, yes, I'm ready to play my partright up to the limit. It don't matter a thing. I'm not just here totell you about things. I'm here to lead you to that camp, and take ahand in the hanging when you get busy. You see, I'm a whole hogger.But I want to know how things stand about that ten thousand dollarreward. Do I get it? If I get shot up does my wife get it? And whenit's paid, do you shout about it? Does the gang down Orrville way needto know who it was they forgot to hand the name of Judas to when he waschristened? I don't care a cuss on my own account. It's----"
But Dug McFarlane broke in upon the bitter raillery. He had no thoughtfor the man or his feelings, just for one moment it seemed to him thatsome sort of miracle had happened. And his every thought and feelingwas absorbed in it. Here, after five years of vain effort, here, afterfive years of depredations which had almost threatened the cattleindustry in the district with complete crippling, here was a man whocould lead them to the raiders' hiding-place, could show them how thehanging they all so cordially desired could be brought about. It wasstupendous. It was--yes, it was miraculous.
His first impulse had been to give way to the excitement which stirredhim, but he restrained himself.
"Ten thousand dollars will be paid by me to the man, or his nominee,privately, if his information leads to the hanging of this gang. Say,boy, we ain't goin' to split hairs or play any low games on this layout. I'm a rich man, an' ten thousand dollars ain't a circumstance sowe break up this gang. If we only get one of 'em or part of 'em, theman who shows me their hiding-place, and leads me to it, that man--orhis wife--gets my ten thousand dollars. You can have it in writing.But my word goes any old time. Now you can get busy and hand me theproposition."
The steady eyes, the emphatic tones of this big, straight-dealingrancher silenced the last doubt in Bob's lesser mind. He was out to dothis dirty work with all his might in the interest of the woman who hadinspired it. But he had scarcely been prepared for such simple methodsas this man displayed. He had felt that it was for him to barter, toscheme, to secure the dollars Effie coveted. A deep sigh escaped him.It may have been relief. It may have been of regret that he must standbefore so straight-dealing a personality claiming his thirty pieces ofsilver.
He passed one hand across his perspiring brow and thrust his prairiehat farther back upon his head. He would have preferred, however, tohave drawn it down over his eyes to escape the searching gaze from thehonest depths of the other's. Suddenly, with a gesture of impatience,he began to talk rapidly.
"It's no use, Mr. McFarlane, I hate this rotten work," he cried out."I--I hate it so bad I could just rather bite my tongue out than tellyou the things I've got to. It's rotten. I don't know---- Say, youdon't know me, and I don't guess you care a curse anyway. But I wasbrought up in a city and taught to believe things were a deal betterthan I've lately come to think they are. Psha! These fellers have gotto be hanged when and where we get them. But it hurts me bad to thinkthat I've got to take dollars for handing you their lives. Oh, thatdon't tell you a thing either. You'd say I don't need to take 'em.But I do. I got to take those dollars, if they blister my hands andburn the bones inside 'em. I've got to have 'em, and I'd like to burn'em, every blazing one. But I've got to have 'em. Say, I'll be paidon the nail when the job's done? If I get shot up the money'll be paidto my wife? Will you give me your word, sir? Your word of honor?"
"My word of honor."
"Say, then come right back with me to my shanty no, best not. We'llride back to Orrville, and I'll hand you all I know as we go. I canquit you before we reach the township. Then you can hustle the crowdtogether and I'll be waiting ready at my shack to play my part--thedirty rotten Judas racket."
"Judas betrayed his--Master and Friend. Are these people your friends?Is Lightfoot your master?"
"Heavens! What d'you take me for--a rustler?"
"Then quit your crazy talk of Judas. Your duty's plumb clear. Yourduty's to hand these folks, these bandits, into our hands. The money'sa matter of--choice. I'll just hand my man a word or two, and we'llget back Orrville way."
* * * * * *
It was past midnight when Bob took up a position squatting on the sillof his own doorway. Standing close behind him, leaning against therough casing, Effie looked down upon his huddled figure. Her eyes werealight with a power of suppressed excitement. The blood was surgingthrough her young veins, and every nerve was tense with the strain ofwaiting, of anticipation.
But her emotions were by no means shared by her husband. For all herbeauty and woman's charm she was different, utterly different from him.She had been brought up to the understanding that she would have tomake her own way in the world. All her parents had been able to do forher was to see that she was as fully equipped for the adventure of lifeas their limited means would permit. Those means would die when herchief parent died, and the style in which they had lived left no marginfor saving.
So, with cool calculation, Effie had set about her life's effort. Norhad she considered herself unsuccessful in the first spreading of hermaiden wings. A millionaire's son! It was a splendid match. It hadmet with the entire approval of her family.
Then had come disillusionment. A determined opposition from Bob'sfather. She had been urged to break off the engagement. She evenintended to do so. But some how she had miscalculated the nature whichher education had been powerless to eradicate. She realized at lastwhen the demands of her campaign made themselves heard, that there wassomething she had hitherto completely ignored. There was the woman'sheart of her. She had most absurdly fallen in love with this firststepping-stone toward the goal of her ambition. It was the absurduncalculating love of extreme youth. But it was sufficiently impetuousto flout all the reason which her training and upbringing had beencalculated to inspire her with.
The rest followed in natural sequence, and now, after two years ofmarried penury, she was ready to seize any straw which chance flung inher way as a means of salving that ambition which she now saw, withmore perfectly clear vision, was completely upon the rocks.
Now, in her mind, there were only three matters of concern. Would DugMcFarlane come? Would they succeed in capturing this Lightfoot gang?Would she get those ten thousand dollars, which appeared so vast a sumto eyes only accustomed to dwelling upon cents?
Bob was silent. His whole aspect seemed to have undergone a completechanges. He had returned to her with the story of his interview withDug McFarlane. He had returned to her with the assurance that he hadsold his conscience, his honor, at her bidding, and he hoped she wassatisfi
ed. Since then he had wrapped himself in a moody silence whichhad defied her utmost effort to break down.
The horses stood ready saddled in the barn. Effie was clad in herriding suit. As yet the moon had not risen to reduce the starlitmagnificence of the velvet summer night sky. Nor was there any soundto warn them that the hours of suspense were nearly over.
Finally, Effie could endure the silence no longer. Her dark eyes wereintently gazing down upon the bowed figure of the man. They were hardwith every bitter woman's emotion. She was full of a fierce, hotresentment against the man who could so obstinately resist the spiritof her longing.
"Bob," she cried at last, all restraint completely giving way, "do youknow what I could do just now more willingly than anything else in theworld? I could thrust out my foot and spurn you with it as you mightany surly cur which barred your way. I tell you I'm hot with everyfeeling of contempt for your crazy attitude. You dare to set yourselfand your moral scruples between my welfare and the miserable lifeyou've condemned me to. Your moral scruples. Were there ever suchthings? Morals? Ju Penrose's saloon day and night--for you. Thesluttish drudgery of this wretched place for me. Then you dare toplace your conscience before my--comfort."
"Do I?"
The man did not look up. His brooding eyes were on the sky-line to thesoutheast.
"I've done as you needed. I've arranged everything with the--hangman.You're going to touch those pleasant dollars. What more are you askingme?"
"What more? Yes, you've done these things because I've driven you tothem. You? You'd rather see me sitting around here starving, a wornwreck of a woman, than lend a willing hand to bettering our lot. Oh,yes, you've done these things, and--I hate you for the way you've donethem."
The man sat up. He shifted his position so that he could gaze up atthe splendid creature standing over him.
"You don't hate me worse than I hate myself, Effie," he said with anexasperating lack of emotion. "Say, you feel like kicking me. Youfeel like treating me like a surly cur. Well, I guess you're welcome.I don't guess there's a thing you can do that way can hurt me worsethan you've done already." Then he smiled. And his smile was moremaddening to the woman than his words. "Don't worry a thing. You'regoing to get your dollars if there's anything I can do to help you, andwhen you've got 'em--why, if the merciful God we've both been broughtup to believe in is all we believe Him, I shan't be around to watch youdirtying your hands with them."
Then with a swift, alert movement he raised a warning hand.
"H'sh!"
For some seconds they remained listening. Far away to the southeast alow murmuring note came over the low hills. The girl remained witheyes straining to pierce the starlit monotone. The man rose slowlyfrom his seat. Finally he turned about and faced her, and his eyessmiled into hers.
"The hanging bee," he said.