They of the High Trails Page 3

  II

  THE COW-BOSS

  I

  The post-office at Eagle River was so small that McCoy and his herdersalways spoke of the official within as "the Badger," saying that he mustsurely back into his den for lack of room to turn round. His presentmentat the arched loophole in his stockade was formidable. His head waslarge, his brow high and seamed, his beard long and tangled, and thelook of his hazel-gray eyes remote with cold abstraction.

  "He's not a man to monkey with," said McCoy when the boys complainedthat the old seed had put up a sign, "NO SPITTING IN THIS OFFICE." "I'dadvise you to act accordingly. I reckon he's boss of that thing whilehe's in there. He's a Populist, but he's regularly appointed by thePresident, and I don't see that we're in any position to presume to spitif he objects. No, there ain't a thing to do but get up a petition andhave him removed--and I won't agree to sign it when you do."

  Eagle River was only a cattle-yard station, a shipping-point for themighty spread of rolling hills which make up the Bear Valley range tothe north and the Grampa to the south. Aside from the post-office, itpossessed two saloons, a store, a boarding-house or two, and a low,brown station-house. That was all, except during the autumn, when therewas nearly always an outfit of cowboys camped about the corrals, loadingcattle or waiting for cars.

  On the day when this story opens, McCoy had packed away his last steer,and, being about to take the train for Kansas City, called his foremanaside.

  "See here, Roy, seems to me the boys are extra boozed already. It's upto you to pull right out for the ranch."

  "That's what I'm going to try to do," answered Roy. "We'll camp at thehead of Jack Rabbit to-night."

  "Good idea. Get 'em out of town before dark--every mother's son of 'em.I'll be back on Saturday."

  Roy Pierce was a dependable young fellow, and honestly meant to carryout the orders of his boss; but there was so little by way of diversionin Eagle, the boys had to get drunk in order to punctuate a paragraph intheir life. There was not a disengaged woman in the burg, and bad whiskywas merely a sad substitute for romance. Therefore the settlers whochanced to meet this bunch of herders in the outskirts of Eagle Riverthat night walked wide of them, for they gave out the sounds of battle.

  They could all ride like Cossacks, notwithstanding their dizzy heads,and though they waved about in their saddles like men of rubber, theirfaithful feet clung to their stirrups like those of a bat to its perch.In camp they scuffled, argued, ran foot-races, and howled derisiveepithets at the cook, who was getting supper with drunken gravity, usingpepper and salt with lavish hand.

  Into the midst of this hullabaloo Roy, the cow-boss, rode, white withrage and quite sober.

  "I'll kill that old son of a gun one of these days," said he to HenryRing.

  "Kill who?"

  "That postmaster. If he wasn't a United States officer, I'd do it now."

  "What's the matter? Wouldn't he shuffle the mail fer you?"

  "Never lifted a finger. '_Nothing_,' he barked out at me. Didn't evenlook up till I let loose on him."

  "What did he do then?"

  "Poked an old Civil War pistol out of the window and told me to hike."

  "Which you did?"

  "Which I did, after passing him a few compliments. 'Lay down yourbadge,' I says, 'come out o' your den, and I'll pepper you so full ofholes that your hide won't hold blue-joint hay.' And I'll do it, too,the old hound!"

  "But you got out," persisted Ring, maliciously.

  "I got out, but I tell you right now he's got something coming to him.No mail-sifter of a little two-for-a-cent town like Eagle is goin' toput it all over me that way and not repent of it. I've figured out ascheme to get even with him, and you have got to help."

  This staggered Henry, who began to side-step and limp. "Count me out onthat," said he. "The old skunk treated me just about the same way. Idon't blame you; a feller sure has a right to have his postmaster make abluff at shuffling the deck. But, after all--"

  However, in the end the boss won his most trusted fellows to his plan,for he was a youth of power, and besides they had all been roiled by thegrizzled, crusty old official, and were quite ready to take a hand inhis punishment.

  Roy developed his plot. "We'll pull out of camp about midnight, and rideround to the east, sneak in, and surround the old man's shack, shoutingand yelling and raising Cain. He'll come out of his hole to order usoff, and I'll rope him before he knows where he's at; then we'll toywith him for a few minutes--long enough to learn him a lesson inpoliteness--and let him go."

  No one in the gang seemed to see anything specially humorous in thismethod of inculcating urbanity of manner, and at last five of themagreed to stand their share of the riot, although Henry Ring mutteredsomething about the man's being old and not looking very strong.

  "He's strong enough to wave a two-foot gun," retorted Roy, and sosilenced all objection.

  One night as soon as the camp was quiet Pierce rose and, touching hismarauders into activity, saddled and rode away as stealthily as theleader of a band of Indian scouts. He made straightway over the divideto the east, then turned, and, crossing the river, entered the town fromthe south, in order to deceive any chance observer.

  Just below the station, in a little gully, he halted his war-party andissued final orders. "Now I'll ride ahead and locate myself right nearthe back door; then when I strike a light you fellows come in and swirlround the shack like a gust o' hell. The old devil will come out theback door to see what's doin', and I'll jerk him end-wise before he cantouch trigger. I won't hurt him any more than he needs. Now don't stirtill I'm in position."

  Silently, swiftly, his pony shuffled along the sandy road and over therailway-crossing. The town was soundless and unlighted, save for a dimglow in the telegraph office, and the air was keen and crisp withfrost. As he approached the Badger's shack Pierce detected a gleam oflight beneath the curtain of the side windows. "If he's awake, so muchthe better," he thought, but his nerves thrilled as he softly enteredthe shadow.

  Suddenly the pony trod upon something which made a prodigious crash. Thedoor opened, a tall young girl appeared in a wide flare of yellow lightwhich ran out upon the grass like a golden carpet. With eager, anxiousvoice she called out:

  "Is that you, Doctor?"

  The raider stiffened in his saddle with surprise. His first impulse wasto set spurs to his horse and vanish. His next was to tear off hisdisguise and wait, for the voice was sweeter than any he had ever heard,and the girl's form a vision of beauty.

  Alarmed at his silence, she again called out: "Who are you? What do youwant?"

  "A neighbor, miss," he answered, dismounting and stepping into thelight. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  At this moment hell seemed to have let loose the wildest of itswarriors. With shrill whoopings, with flare of popping guns, Roy'sfaithful herders came swirling round the cabin, intent to do their duty,frenzied with delight of it.

  Horrified, furious at this breach of discipline, Pierce ran to meetthem, waving his hat and raising the wild yell, "Whoo-ee!" with which hewas wont to head off and turn a bunch of steers. "Stop it! Get out!" heshouted as he succeeded in reaching the ears of one or two of theraiders. "It's all off--there's a girl here. Somebody sick! Skeedoo!"

  The shooting and the tumult died away. The horsemen vanished as swiftly,as abruptly, as they came, leaving their leader in panting, breathlesspossession of the field. He was sober enough now, and repentant, too.

  Slowly he returned to the door of the shack with vague intent toapologize. Something very sudden and very terrible must have fallen uponthe postmaster.

  After some hesitation he knocked timidly on the door.

  "Have they gone?" the girl asked.

  "Yes; I've scared 'em away. They didn't mean no harm, I reckon. I wantto know can't I be of some kind of use?"

  The door opened cautiously and the girl again appeared. She was verypale and held a pistol in her hand, but her voice was calm. "You're verygood," she said, "and I'm
much obliged. Who are you?"

  "I am Roy Pierce, foreman for McCoy, a cattleman north of here."

  "Was it really a band of Indians?"

  "Naw. Only a bunch of cow-punchers on a bat."

  "You mean cowboys?"

  "That's what. It's their little way of havin' fun. I reckon they didn'tknow you was here. I didn't. Who's sick?"

  "My uncle."

  "You mean the postmaster?"

  "Yes."

  "When was he took?"

  "Last night. They telegraphed me about six o'clock. I didn't get heretill this morning--I mean yesterday morning."

  "What's the ail of him?"

  "A stroke, I'm afraid. He can't talk, and he's stiff as a stake. Oh, Iwish the doctor would come!"

  Her anxiety was moving. "I'll try to find him for you."

  "I wish you would."

  "You aren't all alone?"

  "Yes; Mrs. Gilfoyle had to go home to her baby. She said she'd comeback, but she hasn't."

  Roy's heart swept a wide arc as he stood looking into the pale, awed,lovely face of the girl.

  "I'll bring help," he said, and vanished into the darkness, shiveringwith a sense of guilt. "The poor old cuss! Probably he was sick the veryminute I was bullyragging him."

  The local doctor had gone down the valley on a serious case, and wouldnot be back till morning, his wife said, thereupon Roy wired toClaywall, the county-seat, for another physician. He also secured theaid of Mrs. James, the landlady of the Palace Hotel, and hastened backto the relief of the girl, whom he found walking the floor of the littlekitchen, tremulous with dread.

  "I'm afraid he's dying," she said. "His teeth are set and he'sunconscious."

  Without knowing what to say in way of comfort, the herder passed on intothe little office, where the postmaster lay on a low couch with faceupturned, in rigid, inflexible pose, his hands clenched, his mouthfoam-lined. Roy, unused to sickness and death, experienced both pity andawe as he looked down upon the prostrate form of the man he had expectedto punish. And yet these emotions were rendered vague and slight by theburning admiration which the niece had excited in his susceptible andchivalrous heart.

  She was tall and very fair, with a face that seemed plain in repose, butwhich bewitched him when she smiled. Her erect and powerful body wasglowing with health, and her lips and eyes were deliciously young andsweet. Her anxious expression passed away as Roy confidently assured herthat these seizures were seldom fatal. He didn't know a thing about it,but his tone was convincing.

  "I knew a man once who had these fits four or five times a year. Didn'tseem to hurt him a bit. One funny thing--he never had 'em while in thesaddle. They 'most always come on just after a heavy meal. I reckon theold man must of over-et."

  Mrs. James came in soon--all too soon to please him--but he reported toher his message to Claywall. "A doctor will be down on 'the Cannonball'about five o'clock," he added.

  "That's very kind and thoughtful of you," said the girl. Then sheexplained to Mrs. James that Mr. Pierce had just driven off a horridband of cowboys who were attacking the town.

  The landlady snorted with contempt. "I'm so used to boozy cowboyshowlin' round, I don't bat an eye when they shoot up the street. They'reall a lot of cheap skates, anyway. You want to swat 'em with the mop ifthey come round; that's the way I do."

  Roy was nettled by her tone, for he was now very anxious to pose as avalorous defender of the innocent; but agreed with her that "the boyswere just having a little 'whiz' as they started home; they didn't meanno harm."

  "Ought I to sit in there?" the girl asked the woman, with a glancetoward the inner room.

  "No; I don't think you can do any good. I'll just keep an eye on him andlet you know if they's any change."

  The girl apologized for the looks of the kitchen. "Poor uncle has beenso feeble lately he couldn't keep things in order, and I haven't hadany chance since I came. If you don't mind, I'll rid things up now;it'll keep my mind occupied."

  "YOU'RE PRETTY SWIFT, AREN'T YOU?" SHE SAID, CUTTINGLY]

  "Good idea!" exclaimed Roy. "I'll help."

  He had been in a good many exciting mix-ups with steers, bears, cayuses,sheriffs' posses, and Indians, but this was easily the most stirring andamazing hour of his life. While his pony slowly slid away up the hill tofeed, he, with flapping gun and rattling spurs, swept, polished, andlifted things for Lida--that was her name--Lida Converse.

  "My folks live in Colorado Springs," she explained in answer to hisquestions. "My mother is not very well, and father is East, so I had tocome. Uncle Dan was pretty bad when I got here, only not like he is now.This fit came on after the doctor went away at nine."

  "I'm glad your father was East," declared the raider, who was unable tohold to a serious view of the matter, now that he was in the midst of acharming and intimate conversation. "Just think--if he had 'a' come, I'dnever have seen _you_!"

  She faced him in surprise and disapproval of his boldness. "You'repretty swift, aren't you?" she said, cuttingly.

  "A feller's got to be in this country," he replied, jauntily.

  She was prepared to be angry with him, but his candid, humorous,admiring gaze disarmed her. "You've been very nice," she said, "and Ifeel very grateful; but I guess you better not say any more such thingsto me--to-night."

  "You mustn't forget I chased off them redskins."

  "You said they were cowboys."

  "Of course I did; I wanted to calm your mind."

  She was a little puzzled by his bluffing. "I don't believe there are anyIndians over here."

  "Well, if they were cowboys, they were a fierce lot."

  She considered. "I've told you I feel grateful. What more can I do?"

  "A good deal; but, as you say, that can go over till to-morrow. Did Itell you that I had a bunch of cattle of my own?"

  "I don't remember of it."

  "Well, I have. I'm not one of these crazy cowboys who blows in all hiswad on faro and drink--not on your life! I've got some ready chinkstacked away in a Claywall bank. Want to see my bank-book?"

  She answered, curtly: "Please take that kettle of slop out and empty it.And what time did you say the express was due?"

  Roy was absorbed, ecstatic. He virtually forgot all the rest of theworld. His herders could ride to the north pole, his pony might starve,the Cannonball Express go over the cliff, the postmaster die, so long ashe was left in service to this princess.

  "Lord A'mighty! wasn't I in luck?" he repeated to himself. "Suppose I'd'a' roped _her_ instead of the old man!"

  When he returned from listening for the train he found her washing herhands at the end of her task, and the room in such order as it had neverknown before. The sight of her standing there, flushed and very womanly,rolling down her sleeves, was more than the young fellow could silentlyobserve.

  "I hope the old man'll be a long time getting well," he said, abruptly.

  "That's a nice thing to say! What do you mean by such a cruel wish?"

  "I see my finish when you go away. No more lonely ranch-life for me."

  "If you start in on that talk again I will not speak to you," shedeclared, and she meant it.

  "All right, I'll shut up; but I want to tell you I'm a trailer forkeeps, and you can't lose me, no matter where you go. From this time onI forget everything in the world but you."

  With a look of resolute reproof she rose and joined Mrs. James in theinner room, leaving Roy cowed and a good deal alarmed.

  "I reckon I'm a little _too_ swift," he admitted; "but, oh, my soul!she's a peach!"

  When the train whistled, Lida came out again. "Will you please go tomeet the doctor?" she asked, with no trace of resentment in her manner.

  "Sure thing; I was just about starting," he replied, instantly.

  While he was gone she asked Mrs. James if she knew the young man, andwas much pleased to find that the sharp-tongued landlady had only goodwords to say of Roy Pierce.

  "He's no ordinary cowboy," she explained. "If he makes up to you
youneedn't shy."

  "Who said he was making up to me? I never saw him before."

  "I want to know! Well, anybody could see with half an eye that he wasnaturally rustlin' round you. _I_ thought you'd known each other foryears."

  This brought tears of mortification to the girl's eyes. "I didn't meanto be taken that way. Of course I couldn't help being grateful, afterall he'd done; but I think it's a shame to be so misunderstood. It'smean and low down of him--and poor uncle so sick."

  "Now don't make a hill out of an ant-heap," said the old woman,vigorously. "No harm's done. You're a mighty slick girl, and these boysdon't see many like you out here in the sage-brush and pinyons. Factsare, you're kind o' upsettin' to a feller like Roy. You make him kind o'drunk-like. He don't mean to be sassy."

  "Well, I wish you'd tell him not to do anything more for me. I don'twant to get any deeper in debt to him."

  The Claywall physician came into the little room as silently as a Piute.He was a plump, dark little man of impassive mien, but seemed to knowhis business. He drove the girl out of the room, but drafted Mrs. Jamesand Roy into service.

  "It's merely a case of indigestion," said he; "but it's plenty seriousenough. You see, the distended stomach pressing against the heart--"

  The girl, sitting in the kitchen and hearing the swift and vigorousmovement within, experienced a revulsion to the awe and terror of themidnight. For the second time in her life death had come very close toher, but in this case her terror was shot through with the ruddysympathy of a handsome, picturesque young cavalier. She could not bereally angry with him, though she was genuinely shocked by his recklessdisregard of the proprieties; for he came at such a dark and lonely andhelpless hour, and his prompt and fearless action in silencing thosedreadful cowboys was heroic. Therefore, when the doctor sent Roy out tosay that her uncle would live, a part of her relief and joy shone uponthe young rancher, who was correspondingly exalted.

  "Now you must let me hang round till he gets well," he said, forgetfulof all other duties.

  "That reminds me. You'll need some breakfast," she said, hurriedly; "forhere comes the sun." And as she spoke the light of the morning streamedlike a golden river into the little room.

  "It's me to the wood-pile, then," cried Roy, and his smile was of apiece with the sunshine on the wall.

  II

  Beside the fallen monarch of the wood the lifting saplings bud andintertwine. So over the stern old postmaster these young peoplere-enacted the most primitive drama in the world. Indifferent to thejeers of his fellows, Roy devoted himself to the service of "TheBadger's Niece," and was still in town when McCoy returned from "theEast"; that is to say, from Kansas City.

  Lida had ceased to protest against the cowboy's attendance and hislove-making, for the good reason that her protests were unavailing. Hedeclined to take offense, and he would not remain silent. A part of hisdevotion was due, of course, to his sense of guilt, and yet this wasonly a small part. True, he had sent warnings and dire threats tosilence his band of marauders; but he did not feel keenly enough abouttheir possible tale-bearing to carry his warnings in person. "I can'tspare the time," he argued, knowing that Lida would be going home in afew days and that his world would then be blank.

  "I lose too much of you," he said to her once; "I can't afford to haveyou out of my sight a minute."

  She had grown accustomed to such speeches as these, and seldom repliedto them, except to order the speaker about with ever-increasing tyranny."You're so anxious to work," she remarked, "I'll let you do a-plenty.You'll get sick o' me soon."

  "Sick of you! Lord heavens! what'll I do when you leave?"

  "You'll go back to your ranch. A fine foreman you must be, fooling roundhere like a tramp. What does your boss think?"

  "Don't know and don't care. Don't care what anybody thinks--but you.You're my only landmark these days. You're my sun, moon, and stars,that's what you are. I set my watch by you."

  "You're crazy!" she answered, with laughter.

  "Sure thing! Locoed, we call it out here. You've got me locoed--you'remy pink poison blossom. There ain't any feed that interests me but you.I'm lonesome as a snake-bit cow when I can't see you."

  "Say, do you know Uncle Dan begins to notice you. He asked me to-daywhat you were hanging round here for, and who you were."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him you were McCoy's hired man just helping me take care ofhim."

  "That's a lie. I'm _your_ hired man. I'm takin' care of you--willing towork for a kiss a day."

  "You'll not get even that."

  "I'm _not_ getting it--yet."

  "You'll never get it."

  "Don't be too sure of that. My life-work is _collecting_ my dues. I'vegot 'em all set down. You owe me a dozen for extra jobs, and a good hugfor overtime."

  She smiled derisively, and turned the current. "The meals you eat areall of a dollar a day."

  "They're worth a bushel of diamonds--when you cook 'em. But let me askyou something--is your old dad as fierce as Uncle Dan?"

  She nodded. "You bet he is! He's crusty as old crust. Don't you go upagainst my daddy with any little bank-book. It's got to be a fat wad,and, mind you, no cloves on your breath, either. He's crabbed on thedrink question; that's why he settled in Colorado Springs. No saloonsthere, you know."

  He considered a moment. "Much obliged. Now here's something for you.You're not obliged to hand out soft words and a sweet smile to everydoggone Injun that happens to call for mail. Stop it. Why, you'll haveall the cow-punchers for fifty miles around calling for letters. Thatbunch that was in here just now was from Steamboat Springs. Their maildon't come here; it comes by way of Wyoming. They were runnin' a bluff.It makes me hot to have such barefaced swindling going on. I won't standfor it."

  "Well, you see, I'm not really deputized to handle the mail, so I mustbe careful not to make anybody mad--"

  "Anybody but me. I don't count."

  "Oh, _you_ wouldn't complain, I know that."

  "I wouldn't, hey? Sure of that? Well, I'm going to start a petition tohave myself made postmaster--"

  "Better get Uncle Dan out first," she answered, with a sly smile. "Theoffice won't hold you both."

  * * * * *

  At the end of a week the old postmaster was able to hobble to the windowand sort the mail, but the doctor would not consent to his cooking hisown meals.

  "If you _can_ stay another week," he said to Lida, "I think you'd betterdo it. He isn't really fit to live alone."

  Thereupon she meekly submitted, and continued to keep house in thelittle kitchen for herself, her uncle, and for Roy, who still cameregularly to her table, bringing more than his share of provisions,however. She was a good deal puzzled by the change which had come overhim of late. He was less gay, less confident of manner, and he oftenfell into fits of abstraction.

  He was, in fact, under conviction of sin, and felt the need ofconfessing to Lida his share in the zealous assault of the cowboys thatnight. "It's sure to leak out," he decided, "and I'd better be the firstto break the news." But each day found it harder to begin, and only theannouncement of her intended departure one morning brought him to thehazard. He was beginning to feel less secure of her, and lessindifferent to the gibes of the town jokers, who found in hisenslavement much material for caustic remark. They called him the "tiredcowboy" and the "trusty."

  They were all sitting at supper in the kitchen one night when the oldpostmaster suddenly said to Roy: "Seems to me I remember you. Did I knowyou before I was sick?" His memory had been affected by his "stroke,"and he took up the threads of his immediate past with uncertain fingers.

  "I reckon so; leastwise I used to get my mail here," answered Roy, a bitstartled.

  The old man looked puzzled. "Yes; but it seems a little more specialthan that. Someway your face is associated with trouble in my mind. Didwe have any disagreement?"

  After the postmaster returned to his chair in the office, Roy said toLida, "The
y're going to throw your uncle out in a few weeks."

  "You don't mean it!"

  "Sure thing. He really ain't fit to be here any more. Don't you see howkind o' dazed he is? They're going to get him out on a doctor'scertificate--loss of memory. Now, why don't you get deputized, and actin his place?"

  "Goodness sakes! I don't want to live here."

  "Where do you want to live--on a ranch?"

  "Not on your life! Colorado Springs is good enough for me."

  "That's hard on Roy. What could I do to earn a living there?"

  "You don't have to live there, do you?"

  "Home is where you are." She had come to the point where she receivedsuch remarks in glassy silence. He looked at her in growing uneasiness,and finally said: "See here, Lida, I've got something to tell you. Youheard the old man kind o' feelin' around in his old hay-mow of a mindabout me? Well, him and me did have a cussin'-out match one day, and hedrawed a gun on me, and ordered me out of the office."

  "What for?"

  "Well, it was this way--I think. He was probably sick, and didn't feel alittle bit like sorting mail when I asked for it. He sure wasaggravatin', and I cussed him good and plenty. I reckon I had a clove onmy tongue that day, and was irritable, and when he lit onto me, I washot as a hornet, and went away swearing to get square." He bracedhimself for the plunge. "That was _my_ gang of cowboys that camehell-roaring around the night I met you. They were under my orders toscare your uncle out of his hole, and I was going to rope him."

  "Oh!" she gasped, and drew away from him; "that poor, sick old man!"

  He hastened to soften the charge. "Of course I didn't know he was sick,or I wouldn't 'ave done it. He didn't look sick the day before; besides,I didn't intend to hurt him--much. I was only fixin' for to scare him upfor pullin' a gun on me, that was all."

  "That's the meanest thing I ever heard of--to think of that old man,helpless, and you and a dozen cowboys attacking him!"

  "I tell you I didn't know he was ailin', and there was only six of us."

  Her tone hurt as she pointed at him. "And _you_ pretend to be so brave."

  "No, I don't."

  "You _did_!"

  "No, I didn't. _You_ said I was brave and kind, but I denied it. I neversoberly claimed any credit for driving off that band of outlaws. That'sone reason why I've been sticking so close to business here--I felt kindo' conscience-struck."

  Her eyes were ablaze now. "Oh, it is! You've said a dozen times it wason _my_ account."

  "That's right--about eighty per cent, on yours and twenty per cent, onmy own account--I mean the old man's."

  "The idea!" She rose, her face dark with indignation. "Don't you darecome here another time. I never heard of anything more--more awful. Youa rowdy! I'll never speak to you again. Go away! I despise you."

  Her anger and chagrin were genuine, that he felt. There was nothingplayful or mocking in her tone at the moment. She saw him as he was, areckless, vengeful young ruffian, and as such she hated him.

  He got upon his feet slowly, and went out without further word ofdefense.

  III

  The sun did not rise for Roy Pierce on the day which followed herdeparture. His interest in Eagle River died and his good resolutionsweakened. He went on one long, wild, wilful carouse, and when McCoyrescued him and began to exhort toward a better life, he resigned hisjob and went back to the home ranch, where his brothers, Claude andHarry, welcomed him with sarcastic comment as "the returning goat."

  He tried to make his peace with them by saying, "I'm done with whiskyforever."

  "Good notion," retorted Claude, who was something of a cynic; "just cutout women _and_ drink, and you'll be happy."

  Roy found it easier to give up drink than to forget Lida. To put awaythought of her was like trying to fend the sunlight from his cabinwindow with his palm. He was entirely and hopelessly enslaved to thememory of her glowing face and smiling eyes. What was there in all hisworld to console him for the loss of her?

  Mrs. Pierce wonderingly persisted in asking what had come over him, thathe should be so sad and silent, and Claude finally enlightened her.

  "He's all bent up over a girl--the postmaster's niece--of Eagle River,who had to quit the country to get shut of him."

  The mother's heart was full of sympathy, and her desire to comfort herstricken son led to shy references to his "trouble" which made himsavage. He went about the ranch so grimly, so spiritlessly, that Claudedespairingly remarked:

  "I wish the Lord that girl _had_ got you. You're as cheerful to havearound as a poisoned hound. Why don't you go down to the Springs and siton her porch? That's about all you're good for now."

  This was a bull's-eye shot, for Roy's desire by day and his dream bynight was to trail her to her home; but the fear of her scornfulgreeting, the thought of a cutting query as to the meaning of his call,checked him at the very threshold of departure a dozen times.

  He had read of love-lorn people in the _Saturday Storyteller_, whichfound its way into the homes of the ranchers, but he had always sworn orlaughed at their sufferings as a part of the play. He felt quitedifferently about these cases. Love was no longer a theme for jest, anabstraction, a far-off trouble; it had become a hunger more intolerablethan any he had ever known, a pain that made all others he hadexperienced transitory and of no account.

  Even Claude admitted the reality of the disease by repeating: "Well, you_have_ got it bad. Your symptoms are about the worst ever. You're locoedfor fair. You'll be stepping high and wide if you don't watch out."

  In some mysterious way the whole valley now shared in a knowledge of theraid on the post-office, as well as in an understanding of Roy's"throw-down" by the postmaster's niece, and the expression of thisinterest in his affairs at last drove the young rancher to desperation.He decided to leave the state. "I'm going to Nome," he said to hisbrothers one day.

  "Pious thought," declared Claude. "The climate may freeze this poisonout of you. Why, sure--go! You're no good on earth here."

  Roy did not tell him or his mother that he intended to go by way of theSprings, in the wish to catch one last glimpse of his loved one beforesetting out for the far northland. To speak with her was beyond hishope. No, all he expected was a chance glimpse of her in the street, thegleam of her face in the garden. "Perhaps I may pass her gate at night,and see her at the window."

  IV

  The town to him was a maze of bewildering complexity and magnificence,and he wandered about for a day in awkward silence, hesitating toinquire the way to the Converse home. He found it at last, a prettycottage standing on a broad terrace, amid trees and vines vivid with theautumn hues; and if any thought of asking Lida to exchange it for ashack on a ranch still lingered in his mind, it was instantly wiped outby his first glance at the place.

  He walked by on the opposite side of the street, and climbed the mesaback of the house to spy upon it from the rear, hoping to detect hisloved one walking about under the pear-trees. But she did not appear.After an hour or so he came down and paced back and forth with eyes onthe gate, unable to leave the street till his soul was fed by one lookat her.

  As the sun sank, and the dusk began to come on, he grew a little morereckless of being recognized, and, crossing the way, continued tosentinel the gate. He was passing it for the fourth time when Lida cameout upon the porch with an older woman. She looked at the strangercuriously, but did not recognize him. She wore a hat, and was plainlyabout to go for a walk.

  Roy knew he ought to hurry away, but he did not. On the contrary, heshamelessly met her with a solemn, husky-voiced greeting. "Hello, girl!How's Uncle Dan?"

  She started back in alarm, then flushed as she recognized him. "How dareyou speak to me--like that!"

  In this moment, as he looked into her face, his courage began to comeback to him. "Why didn't you answer my letters?" he asked, putting heron defense.

  "What business had you to write to me? I told you I would not answer."

  "No, you didn't; you only said you wouldn't _sp
eak_ to me again."

  "Well, you knew what I meant," she replied, with less asperity.

  Someway these slight concessions brought back his audacity, his power ofdefense. "You bet I did; but what difference does that make to a sickman? Oh, I've had a time! I'm no use to the world since you left. I toldyou the truth--you're my sun, moon, and stars, and I've come down to sayit just once more before I pull out for Alaska. I'm going to quit thestate. The whole valley is on to my case of loco, and I'm due at thenorth pole. I've come to say good-by. Here's where I take my congee."

  She read something desperate in the tone of his voice. "What do youmean? You aren't really leaving?"

  "That's what. Here's where I break camp. I can't go on this way. I'vegot the worst fever anybody ever had, I reckon. I can't eat or sleep orwork, just on account of studying about you. You've got me goin' in acircle, and if you don't say you forgive me--it's me to the bone-yard,and that's no joke, you'll find."

  She tried to laugh, but something in his worn face, intense eyes, andtwitching lips made her breathing very difficult. "You mustn't talk likethat. It's just as foolish as can be."

  "Well, that don't help me a little bit. You no business to come into mylife and tear things up the way you did. I was all right till you came.I liked myself and my neighbors bully; now nothing interests me--butjust you--and your opinion of me. You think I was a cowardly coyoteputting up that job on your uncle the way I did. Well, I admit it; butI've been aching to tell you I've turned into another kind of farmersince then. You've educated me. Seems like I was a kid; but I've grownup into a man all of a sudden, and I'm startin' on a new line of action.I'm not asking much to-day, just a nice, easy word. It would be a heapof comfort to have you shake hands and say you're willing to let thepast go. Now, that ain't much to you, but it's a whole lot to me. Girl,you've got to be good to me this time."

  She was staring straight ahead of her with breath quickened by thesincere passion in his quivering voice. The manly repentance whichburdened his soul reached her heart. After all, it was true: he had beenonly a reckless, thoughtless boy as he planned that raid on her uncle,and he had been so kind and helpful afterward--and so merry! It waspitiful to see how changed he was, how repentant and sorrowful.

  She turned quickly, and with a shy, teary smile thrust her hand towardhim. "All right. Let's forget it." Then as he hungrily, impulsivelysought to draw her nearer, she laughingly pushed him away. "I don'tmean--so much as you think." But the light of forgiveness and somethingsweeter was in her face as she added: "Won't you come in a minute andsee mother and father--and Uncle Dan?"

  "I'm _wild_ to see Uncle Dan," he replied with comical inflection, as hefollowed her slowly up the path.

  THE REMITTANCE MAN

  _--wayward son from across the seas--is gone. Roused to manhood by his country's call, he has joined the ranks of those who fight to save the shores of his ancestral isle._