CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE MAN TALKS
Mary Bransford spent the first day of Sanderson's absence in theisolation of the parlor, with the shades drawn, crying. Her brotherhad bitterly disappointed her.
He had sent word by one of the men that he was going to Las Vegas tolook up the title to the property. She thought he might at least havebrought her the message personally.
Mary told herself that she had not been unduly demonstrative, asSanderson had intimated by his actions. She had merely been glad tosee him, as any sister would be glad to see a brother whom she had notseen for many years; and she assured herself that if he loved her asshe loved him he would not have resented her display of affection.
That affection, though, troubled Mary. To be sure, she had never had abrother about, to fuss over, and therefore she could not tell just howdeeply she should be expected to love the one whom Providence had givenher; but she was certain that she did not love him too much.
For Sanderson was worthy of the full measure of any sister's love.Big, handsome, vigorous, with a way about him that any woman mustadmire, Mary felt he deserved all the affection she could bestow.
Her wonder and perplexity came over a contemplation of the quality ofthat love. Was it right that she should thrill so delightfullywhenever he came near her? And was it entirely proper for her to feelthat queer tingle of delight over the strangeness of it all?
And did that strangeness result from the fact that she had not seen himfor years; or was there some truth in Dale's assertion that she wasmerely an adopted daughter, and her love for Sanderson not merely thelove of a sister for a brother, but the love of a woman for a man?
Had Sanderson taken that view of it? She thought he had; for she hadtold him about Dale's assertion, and his constraint had begun shortlyafter.
She did not blame him a great deal--after she had thought it over. Hehad done the manly thing, she divined, in not taking advantage of thesituation, and she believed she loved him more than ever because of hisattitude. But she felt that she had lost something, and the second dayhad gone before she succeeded in resigning herself to the new state ofaffairs.
Nothing happened. Dale did not come near the ranchhouse. Mary rodeover to the Nyland ranch and had a long talk with Peggy, and Peggy toldher that she had not seen Dale.
Ben Nyland had driven the Double A cattle over to their own range, andso far as he was concerned the incident with Dale was closed. But,Peggy told Mary, Ben was bitterly resentful, and had sworn that if Dalebothered Peggy any more he would kill him.
Mary, however, was not greatly interested in Peggy's recital. She saton a chair in the kitchen of the Nyland cabin, listening to Peggy, butmaking no replies. And it was not until she was ready to go that Maryrevealed the real reason for her visit--and then she did not reveal itto Peggy, but to her own heart.
For she reddened when she asked the question: "I wonder if you feelabout Ben as I feel about my brother--that when you kiss him you arekissing a strange man?"
Peggy laughed. "You would feel that way, of course. For your brotheris almost a stranger to you."
"And do you kiss Ben often?" asked Mary.
"Ben doesn't like it," smiled Peggy. "He is like most other men--helikes to kiss the daughters of other men, but he gets sulky and balkywhen I want to kiss him. So I don't try very often. Your brother is afine, big fellow, but you will find before you have been around himvery long that he wants to do his kissing away from home."
Mary laughed, and blushed again. "I have already discovered that," shesaid. "But, Peggy," she added seriously, "I love him so much thatbelieve I should be jealous if I thought he kissed another girl!"
Mary rode homeward, rather comforted over her visit. And during theremaining days of Sanderson's absence she succeeded in convincingherself that Sanderson's attitude toward her was the usual attitude ofbrothers toward sisters, and that she had nothing of which to complain.
On the seventh day Sanderson and Owen returned.
Mary saw them ride in and she ran to the door and waved a hand to them.Owen flourished his hat at her, but Sanderson only grinned.
When Sanderson came in Mary did not attempt to kiss him, but she wantedto when he seized her hand and squeezed it warmly. For it seemed toher that he was troubled over something.
She watched him narrowly for signs that would tell her of the nature ofthe trouble, but when he went to bed she had learned nothing.
At breakfast the next morning she asked him what he had discovered atLas Vegas. He looked straight at her.
"There is no record of your birth," he said.
She paled. "Then Dale has grounds for his suspicion," she said in aweak voice.
"Because your birth was not recorded is no sign you are not aBransford," he said. "I'll tell you this," he added gruffly: "as asister you suit me from the ground up; an' I'll stick to you until hellfreezes over!"
Not until that instant did she realize that she had entertained a fearthat Sanderson would believe as Dale believed, and in an excess of joyover the discovery that he did believe in her she got up, ran aroundthe table, seized Sanderson by the shoulders and laid her cheek againsthis.
"You're a dear," she said, "and I don't care whether you like it ornot, I am going to kiss you!"
"Just once," he said, blushing.
She kissed him, and then leaned back, looking at him reprovingly.
"You haven't returned a kiss I have given you!" she said. "And I wantyou to!"
"All right," he agreed, and this time the warmth of his response madeher draw a long, deep breath.
Sanderson made his escape as soon as he decently could, and walked to acorner of the pasture fence where he stood, one arm resting on the toprail, his gaze on the basin.
At the court in Las Vegas he had discovered that Bransford had made awill, bequeathing the ranch to his son. The document had been recordedonly a few months before Bransford died, showing that he had at lastforgiven the boy.
Sanderson had intended to take possession of the ranch, in an effort toforestall any scheme Dale might have, and while in Las Vegas he hadapplied to the court for permission to have the title transferred. Andthen he had been told it would be necessary for him to file anaffidavit and proof establishing his identity.
With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signingthe affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from youngBransford, bearing the younger Bransford's signature. The letter wasstill in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have itbeside him while he signed Bransford's name to the affidavit in orderto imitate Bransford's handwriting successfully. Therefore he askedpermission to take the affidavit home.
Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission,Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile. He scowled at thelittle man.
"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.
"Curiosity," said the other. "Don't tell me you're too bashful to signyour name in public."
They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, andSanderson grinned coldly at him.
"You're a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends tobe," he said.
"Then I'll cut out gassing promiscuous," grinned the latter.
Sanderson was troubled over the situation. To successfully keep Dalefrom attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit andreturn it to the court. He must imitate Will Bransford's signature toprevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception--for at any timeshe might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.
More, he must practice writing Bransford's signature until he couldimitate it without having to look at the original.
Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returnedto the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, openedthe drawer and took out the package of letters.
The Bransford letter was missing! Half a dozen times he thumbed theletters in the packages over before he would a
dmit that the one forwhich he was seeking was not there.
He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterlyaccusing himself. It was his own fault if the whole structure ofdeception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letterwhen he had had an opportunity.
Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, shecared less for than the one written by her brother.
For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had animpulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing outherself. But, as before, he fought down the impulse.
This time--so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion uponAlva Dale's head--he stood in the center of the room, grinningsaturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a completeconfession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matterwhat Mary thought of him.
He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter.He could have invented some pretext. But he would not; he would nothave her think he had been examining her letters. One thing he coulddo without confessing that he had been prying--and he did it.
At dinner he remarked casually to Mary:
"I reckon you don't think enough of my letters put them away askeepsakes?"
"Sanderson's or Bransford's?" she returned, looking at him with a smile.
"Both," he grinned.
"Well," she said, "I did keep both. But, as I told you before, I hadthe Sanderson letter somewhere. I have been looking for it, but havenot been able to find it."
Sanderson grinned faintly and wondered what she would say if she knewwhat care he had taken to burn the Sanderson letter.
"The letter you wrote as yourself--the Bransford letter--I have. Itwas among a lot of others in the drawer of the dresser in your room. Iwas looking them over while you were gone, and I took it."
Sanderson had a hard time to keep the eagerness out of his voice, buthe did so:
"You got it handy?"
She looked straight at him. "That is the oddest thing," she saidseriously. "I took it from there to keep it safe, and I have mislaidit again, for I can't find it anywhere."
There was no guile in her eyes--Sanderson was certain of that. And hehoped the letter would stay mislaid. He grinned.
"Well, I was only curious," he said. "Don't bother to look for it."
He felt better when he went out of the house and walked toward thecorral fence. He felt more secure and capable. Beginning with thefollowing day, he meant to take charge of the ranch and run it as heknew it should be run.
He had not been at the Double A long, but he had seen signs ofshiftlessness here and there. He had no doubt that since Bransford'sdeath the men had taken advantage of the absence of authority to relax,and the ranch had suffered. He would soon bring them back to a stateof efficiency.
He heard a step behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw thelittle man approaching.
The little man joined Sanderson, not speaking as he climbed the fenceat a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.
Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen. There was something aboutthe little man that invited it. He was little, and manly despite hisbodily defects. But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling withthe manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.
In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting,and Sanderson's first action as owner of the ranch would have been todischarge such a man instantly. But in Sanderson's heart had come aspirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that theeffeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.
He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorousand healthy friends.
"Thinking it over?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.
"Thinkin' what over?"
"Well, just things," grinned the little man. "For one thing, I supposeyou are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name--over in LasVegas."
Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer. He felt more at easenow, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much asformerly. He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly:
"Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's nameto the affidavit?"
Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.
"Tell me," he said evenly.
"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.
Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of thelittle man. He was not conscious of any emotion whatever. For nowthat he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened,discovery did not alarm him. He grinned at the little man,deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail tounderstand.
"You're a wise guy, eh?" he said. "Well, spring it. I'm anxious toknow how you got next to me."
"You ain't sore, then?"
"Not, none."
"I was hoping you wouldn't be," eagerly said the little man, "for Idon't want you to hit the breeze just now. I know you are not WillBransford because I know Bransford intimately. I was his chum forseveral years. He could drink as much as I. He was lazy andshiftless, but I liked him. We were together in Tucson--and in otherplaces in Arizona. Texas, too. We never amounted to much. Do youneed to know any more? I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"More," grinned the other man, "about yourself. You areSanderson--Deal Sanderson--nicknamed Square Deal Sanderson. I saw youone day in Tombstone; you were pointed out to me, and the minute I laidmy eyes on you the day Dale tried to hang Nyland, I knew you."
Sanderson smiled. "Why didn't you tell Mary?"
The little man's face grew grave. "Because I didn't want to queer yourgame. You saved Nyland--an innocent man. Knowing your reputation forfairness, I was convinced that you didn't come here to deceive anybody."
"But I did deceive somebody," said Sanderson. "Not you, accordin' towhat you've been tellin' me, but Mary Bransford. She thinks I am herbrother, an' I've let her go on thinkin' it."
"Why?" asked the little man.
Sanderson gravely appraised the other. "There ain't no use of holdin'out anything on you," he said. His lips straightened and his eyesbored into the little man's. There was a light in his own that madethe little man stiffen. And Sanderson's voice was cold and earnest.
"I'm puttin' you wise to why I've not told her," he went on. "But ifyou ever open your yap far enough to whisper a word of it to her I'mwringin' your neck, _pronto_! That goes!"
He told Owen the story from the beginning--about the Drifter, hisletter to the elder Bransford, how he had killed the two men who hadmurdered Will Bransford, and how, on the impulse of the moment, he hadimpersonated Mary's brother.
"What are you figuring to do now?" questioned the little man whenSanderson finished.
"I'm tellin' her right now," declared Sanderson. "She'll salivate me,most likely, for me lettin' her kiss me an' fuss over me. But I ain'tcarin' a heap. I ain't never been no hand at deceivin' no one--I ain'tfoxy enough. There's been times since I've been here when I've beenscared to open my mouth for fear my damned heart would jump out. Ireckon she'll just naturally kill me when she finds it out, but I don'tseem to care a heap whether she does or not."
The little man narrowed his eyes at Sanderson.
"You're deeply in love with her, I suppose?"
Sanderson flushed; then his gaze grew steady and cold. "Up till nowyou've minded your own business," he said. "If you'll keep on mindin'it, we'll----"
"Of course," grinned Owen. "You couldn't help loving her--I love her,too. You say you're going to tell her. Don't do it. Why should you?Don't you see that if you told her that her brother had been murderedshe'd never get over it? She's that kind. And you know what Dale'sscheme was, don't you? Has she told you?" At Sanderson's nod, Owenwent on:
"If you were to let it be known that you are not Will Bransford, Dalewould get the
property as sure as shooting. I know his plan. Ioverheard him and a man named Dave Silverthorn talking it over onenight when I was prowling around Dale's house. The window of Dale'soffice was wide open, and I was crouching outside.
"They've got a man ready to come on here to impersonate Bransford.They would prove his claim and after he was established he would sellout to them. They have forged papers showing that Mary is an adopteddaughter--though not legally. Don't you see that if you don't go onletting everybody think you are Bransford, Mary will lose the ranch?"
Sanderson shook his head. "I'd be gettin' deeper an' deeper into itall the time--in love an' in trouble. An' when she'd find out how I'dfooled her all the time she'd hate me."
"Not if you save the ranch for her," argued the little man. "She'dfeel badly about her brother, maybe, but she'd forgive you if youstayed and beat Dale at his own game."
Sanderson did not answer. The little man climbed down from the fenceand moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sandersongrinned down at him.
"I'm doing it," he said. "I'll stay. I reckon I was figurin' on itall the time."