Rim o' the World

“I–I don’t believe I could stop. I–I only came by because I–my horse–” Mary Hope stammered and blushed so red that her freckles were invisible. After all, it was very hard to tell a lie, she discovered.

“There’s something I like about this horse,” said Belle, running her plump white hand down the nose of Rab. “He’s neighborly, anyway. He brought you here against your will, I can see that. And now he’s here he sort of takes it for granted you’ll be friendly and stop a while. Don’t you think you ought to be as friendly as your horse, honey?”

“I–I am friendly. I–I always wished I could come and see you. But mother–mother doesna visit much among the neighbors; she–she’s always busy.”

“I don’t visit much, myself,” said Belle dryly. “But that ain’t saying I can’t be friendly. Come on in, and we’ll have some lemonade.”

Sheer astonishment brought Mary Hope down from her horse. All her life she had taken it for granted that lemonade was sacred to the Fourth of July picnics, just as oranges grew for Christmas trees only. She followed Belle dumbly into the house, and once inside she remained dumb with awe at what seemed to her to be the highest pinnacle of grandeur.

There was the piano with a fringed scarf draped upon its top, and pictures in frames standing upon the scarf in orderly rows. There were many sheets of music,–and never a hymn book. There were great chairs with deep upholstery which Mary observed with amazement was not red plush, nor even blue plush, yet which appealed to her instincts for beauty. There was no center table with fringed spread and family album and a Bible and a conch shell. Instead there was a long table before a window–a table littered with all sorts of things: a box of revolver cartridges, a rifle laid down in the middle of scattered newspapers, a bottle of oil, more music, a banjo, a fruit jar that did duty as a vase for wild flowers, a half-finished, braided quirt and four silver dollars lying where they had been carelessly flung down. To Mary Hope, reared in a household where dollars were precious things, that last item was the most amazing of all. The Lorrigans must be rich,–as rich as they were wicked. She thrilled anew at her own daring.

Belle brought lemonade, wonderful lemonade, with an egg beaten to yellow froth and added the last minute. Mary Hope sipped and marveled. After that, Belle played on the piano and sang songs which Mary Hope had never heard before and which she thought must be the songs the angels sang in Heaven, although there was nothing to suggest harps or hallelujahs. Love songs they were, mostly. The sun slipped around and shone through a window on Belle’s head, so that her yellow hair glistened like fine threads of gold. Mary Hope watched it dreamily and wondered how a Jezebel could be so beautiful and so good.

“You’d better run along home now, honey,” Belle said at last when she had finished her eighth song. “I’d love to have you stay all night–but I reckon there’d be trouble. Your dad ain’t any too mild, I’ve heard. But I hope you won’t wait until your horse runs away with you again. I want you to come real soon. And come early so you can stay longer. I’ll teach you to play the piano, honey. You ought to learn, seeing you love it so.”

That night Mary Hope dreamed of playing strange, complex compositions on a piano which Lance Lorrigan had given her. The next morning and for many days after she still dreamed of playing entrancing strains upon a piano, and of Lance Lorrigan who had thrown her a kiss. Belle had said that Lance always teased a person he liked, and in that one remark lay the stuff of many dreams.

CHAPTER FOUR

A MATTER OF BRANDS

On the grassy expanse known locally as Injun Creek, fifteen hundred head of cattle were milling restlessly in a close-held herd over which gray dust hovered and settled and rose again. Toward it other cattle came lowing, trotting now and then when the riders pressed close, essaying a retreat when the way seemed clear. From Devil’s Tooth they came, and from Lava Bed way, and from the rough sandstone ridges of Mill Creek. Two by two the riders, mere moving dots at first against a monotone of the rangeland, took form as they neared the common center. Red cattle, black cattle, spotted and dingy white, with bandy-legged, flat-bodied calves keeping close to their mothers, kicking up their heels in sheer joy of their new life when the pace slowed a little, seeking a light lunch whenever the cows stopped to cast a wary glance back at their pursuer. A dozen brands were represented in that foregathering: The NL brand of Tom Lorrigan on most, with its various amendments which differentiated the property of other members of the family, since all of the Lorrigans owned cattle. There was the NL Block of Belle Lorrigan, the ANL which was Al’s brand, the DNL of Duke and the LNL which belonged to Lance; monograms all of them, deftly constructed with the fewest possible lines. There was that invitation to the unlawful artistry of brand-working, the Eleven which Sleek Douglas thought quite sufficient to mark his cattle. It was merciful to the calves, he maintained, and as to thieves, the dishonest would be punished by law and the Douglas wrath. The Miller brand, a plain Block, showed now and then upon the rump of some animal. The AJ fled occasionally before a rider, and there were brands alien to the Black Rim; brands on cattle that had drifted down from the Snake through the Lava Creek pass, or over the sage-grown ridges farther north.

His rifle sheathed in a saddle holster under his thigh, his black eyes roving here and there and letting no small movement of men or animals escape their seeing glances, Tom Lorrigan rode to the round-up, lord of the range, steadfast upon the trail of his “million on the hoof” of which he dreamed. Beside him rode Al, and the two of them were talking while they rode.

“He ain’t safe, I tell you,” Al was saying in the tone of reiteration. “And you needn’t ask me how I know. I know it, that’s all. Maybe he’s too damn’ agreeable or something. Anyway, I know I don’t like the way his eyes set in his head.”

“A man that wasn’t safe wouldn’t dare come into the Black Rim and make the play he’s makin’,” Tom contended. “I’ve had my eye on him ever since he come. I’ve checked up what he says at different times–they tally like the truth. I can’t find nothing wrong.”

“I’ve got him set down for a spotter,” said Al.

“If he ain’t on the level it’ll show up sooner or later,” Tom contended. “I’ve got my eye on him. I dunno what you pin your argument on, Al, I’ll be darned if I do.”

“Well, watch out for Cheyenne. That’s all. You’re pretty keen, all right, but all a man’s got to do to get on your blind side is to blow in here with his chin on his shoulder and his horse rode to a whisper and claim to you he’s hidin’ out. Cheyenne ain’t right, I tell yuh. You take a tip from me and watch him.”

“Takes a kid to tell his dad where to head in at!” growled Tom. “How do you reckon I ever got along before your time. Ever figure that out, Al?”

“Now, what’s eatin’ on old Scotty Douglas, do yuh reckon? That’s him, all right. I could tell him on horseback ten mile off. He rides like a Mormon.”

Tom grunted. His boys, he had long ago discovered, were very apt to find some excuse for changing the subject whenever he mentioned the past which had not held their arrogant young selves. Tom resented the attitude of superior wisdom which they were prone to assume. They were pretty smart kids, but if they thought they were smarter than their dad they sure had a change of heart coming to them.

“Supposin’ it is old Scotty. Do you reckon, Al, I’ve got you along for a guide, to point out what my eyes is getting too poor to see? As for Cheyenne,” he reverted angrily to the argument, “as for Cheyenne, when you’ve growed to be a man, you’ll find it’s just as much the mark of a fool to go along suspecting everybody as it is to bank on everybody. You think now it’s funny to put the Judas brand on every man you don’t know. It ain’t. It’s a kid’s trick. Boys git that way when they begin to sprout hair under their noses. I been pretty patient with yuh, Al. You’re growing up fast, and you’re feeling your oats. I make allowances, all kinds. But by the humpin’ hyenas, don’t you start in telling me where to head in at with my own outfit! If you do, I’ll jest about wear out a willer switch on yuh!”

This to a youth almost old enough to vote was dire insult. Al pulled up his horse. “Run your own outfit and be darned to yuh!” he cried hotly, and spurred off in the direction of the ranch.

Tom laughed shortly and rolled a cigarette. “Thinks now it’ll bust up the round-up if he goes,” he opined. “Lucky for my kids I ain’t as strict as my old dad was; they wouldn’t have any hide left, I reckon.”

Up loped Aleck Douglas then, riding stiff-legged, his bony elbows jerking awkwardly with the motion of his horse, a rusty black vest dangling open under his coat which flapped in the wind. That the Douglas wrath rode with him Tom saw from the corner of his eye and gave no sign.

“Hello,” said Tom casually and drew a match along the stamped fork of his saddle. “You’re quite a stranger.” He lighted his cigarette, holding his reins lightly in one hand while he did so; gave the reins a gentle flip to one side and sent his horse after a cow and calf that showed symptoms of “breaking back.”

“Mister Lorrigan, ’tis aboot a spotted yearlin’ that I’ve come to speak with ye. I’ve found the hide of her in the brush beneath yon hill, and the brand is cut from it. But I wad swear to the hide wi’out the brand. ’Twas a yearlin’ I ken weel, Mister Lorrigan.” He rode alongside, and his close-set little eyes regarded keenly Tom’s face.

“A spotted yearling with the brand cut out, hey? That looks kinda bad. Have you got the hide with you?”

“I have no got the hide wi’ me, but I ken weel whaur it lies, Mister Lorrigan, and I thinkit so do you.”

“Hm-m. You’d ought to of brought it along.” Tom’s glance went out toward the herd and the cattle lumbering toward it far and near. “The range is plumb lousy with spotted yearlings, Scotty. What do you expect me to do about it?”

The Douglas face worked spasmodically before he spoke. “I expect ye, Mr. Lorrigan, to pay for yon beastie. I ken weel ye could name the mon that stickit the knife in her throat. An’ she made fine eatin’, I have na doot. But ’tis the law, Mister Lorrigan, that a mon should pay for the meat he consumes.”

“Meaning, of course, that you think I’m feeding Douglas meat to my outfit. Don’t you think you’re kinda hasty? I kill a beef about every three or four days in round-up time. The boys work hard and they eat hard. And they eat NL beef, Scotty; don’t overlook that fact. Hides ain’t worth anything much, but salt’s cheap, too. I ain’t throwin’ away a dollar when it’s no trouble to save it. If you’re any curious at all, you ride over to ranch and count all the green hides you can find. Belle, she’ll show ’em to you. Take a look at the brands, and figure it out yourself, I don’t know how many you’ll find, but I’ll gamble you a dozen cows against one that you’ll wonder what went with all the beef that was in them hides. Humpin’ hyenas! Ain’t I got cattle enough of my own, without rustlin’ off my neighbors?”

“Aye. Ye ha’ cattle, Mister Lorrigan; I ken weel ye should no’ be put to it for a wee bit meat–but I ken weel yon spotty yearlin’ was mine. I ken ye’ve been campin’ thereabout–and it wad seem, Mister Lorrigan, that the salt was no sa plentifu’ when the spotty yearlin’ was kilt.”

The downright foolhardiness of the Douglas wrath held Tom’s hand,–though of a truth that hand trembled and crept backward. Nor was Aleck Douglas nearsighted; he saw the movement and his bearded underlip met his shaven underlip in a straight line.

“Ye do weel to be reachin’ for the gun, Mister Lorrigan. I dinna carry aye weapon save the truth.”

Tom flushed. “Blame your oatmeal soul, if I reached for my gun, you wouldn’t be telling me about it!” he exploded. “Carry the truth, do yuh? You’ve got to show me where you keep it, then. If you wasn’t an old man–and a darn fool on top of that.”

“’Tis no brave to cover shame wi’ bitter words, Tam Lorrigan. ’Tis the way of ye to bluster and bully until the neighbors all are affrighted to face ye and yere ill deeds.”

Toward them clattered two riders hotly pursuing a lean, long-legged steer with a wide spread of horns and a gift of speed that carried him forging past the disputants. Tom wheeled mechanically and gave chase, leaving the Douglas wrath to wax hotter or to cool if it would. It was a harsh accusation that Aleck Douglas had made, and that he did make it seemed to prove that he had what he considered very good evidence that he was right. Tom was well schooled in troubles of that kind. He did not take the matter so indifferently as Douglas believed.

Duke and Mel Wilson, riding hard, came upon Tom just as he had roped and thrown the steer in a shallow draw that hid them from the level where Aleck Douglas waited.

“Hey!” Tom beckoned them close. “Old Douglas says there’s a hide in the willows this side of Squaw Butte, with the brand cut out; a spotted yearling, and he claims it’s his and he can swear to it without the brand. I don’t know a darn thing about it. Nobody does in this outfit; I’ll stake all I’ve got on that. But he’s on the fight–and a mule’s a sheep alongside him when he’s got his back up. He left the hide where he found it. Haze this steer and ride over there and see what there is to his talk. If you find a hide cachéd in the willows, put it outa sight. We don’t want any rustling scraps started on this range; that’s bad medicine always. If he can’t produce any hide, he can’t start anything but talk–and talk’s cheap.”

A few moments later they came tearing up out of the draw, the steer running strong, the three riders still hotly pursuing. Duke and Mel rushed it on to the herd, and Tom dropped out of the race and came along across to where Douglas wrath had not cooled but had smoldered and waited for the wind of opposition to fan it to flame again.

“Well, you still mournin’ over your spotty yearlin’?” Tom called. “You must have more time than you know what to do with to-day. Us, we have to work.”

“If it’s to the round-up ye’re going, then I’ll ride wi’ ye, Tom Lorrigan. I’m a fair mon and I wush na ill to my neighbors. But I canna twiddle the thumbs whilst others fare well on Douglas beef.”

“You can ride where you please; it’s open range. But if you ride to the herd I’ll show you forty yearlings that I’ll bet are dead ringers for the one that you claim was killed. I never seen that hide neither, unless maybe when the critter was using it.

“Now, I don’t want any trouble with yuh, Scotty. But I tell yuh right now I can’t stand for much more of this talk about beef rustling. Thief’s a pretty hard word to use to a man’s face–and get away with it.”

“’Tis a hard mon I’m usin’ it tae,” the Douglas retorted grimly.

“Braggin’ about your nerve, are yuh, Scotty?”

“I have a name, Tam Lorrigan, and ’tisna Scotty.” The Douglas face twisted with anger. “I will no bandy worrds with ye. ’Tis ill I should descend to the level o’ them that deespitefully use me.”

“Deespitefully!–why, humpin’ hyenas! Ain’t I letting yuh live? And do yuh reckon any other man could walk up to me and call me a thief and live long enough to take it back? Just because you’re old, and such a blamed fool you go around without a gun on yuh, I’m keepin’ my hands off you. I call yuh a coward. You wouldn’t a dared to come over here with a gun on yuh and talk the way you’ve done. You’ve got me hog-tied. You know it. And damn yuh, I’ll fight yuh now with the law–which is the only way a coward will fight.

“You’ve done a heap of chawin’ around about the Lorrigans, Scotty. Don’t think I ain’t heard it. Maybe it’s your religion to backbite yore neighbors and say what you wouldn’t dare to say to their face with a gun on you so we’d be equal. I’ve passed it up. I’ve considered the source and let it go. But when you come belly-achin’ around about me stealin’ a spotty yearlin’–jest as if there wasn’t but one on the Black Rim range!–why, damn it, you’ll prove it! Do you get that? You’ll prove it before a jury, or I’ll sue yuh for libel and bust yuh. I don’t go much on the law, but by Henry, I’ll use it on you!”

The Douglas eyes flickered uncertainly, but the Douglas mouth was unyielding. “The law can no be cheatit so easy, Tam Lorrigan. I hae no wush to send ye tae jail–but ye ken weel that wad be the penalty for killin’ yon beastie in the willows. I came to settle the matter fair between neighbors, and tae warn ye to cease your evil doings on the range. I wadna see yer woman come tae grief–”

“You can cut out that mercy talk, Scotty. And don’t try to bring Belle into this. If it comes to a showdown, lemme advise you, you’d better sidestep Belle. The grief would all be yourn, if you and Belle lock horns, and I’m telling yuh so.”

They had reached the nearest margin of the herd. Cheyenne, a nameless estray from the Wyoming ranges, chanced to be holding herd where the two rode up. At him Tom looked, suspicion for the moment sharpening his glance.

“You can ask this man what he knows about any spotted hide over by Squaw Butte,” he invited the Douglas stiffly. “He’s practically a stranger to the outfit–been here about a month. Maybe his word’ll be worth something to yuh–I dunno. You can ask him.”

Douglas rode over to Cheyenne and said what he had to say. Tom meanwhile held the herd and meditated on the petty injustices of life–perhaps–and wished that a real he-man had come at him the way Douglas had come. It irked Tom much to be compelled to meet hard words with tolerant derision. Toleration was not much of a factor in his life. But since he must be tolerant, he swung his horse to meet the Douglas when the brief conversation with Cheyenne was over. The Douglas head was shaking slowly, owning disappointment.

“Well, yuh might as well make the rounds, Scotty. Go on and ask all the boys. If I asked ’em myself you might think it was a frame-up. And when you’ve made the rounds, take a look through the herd. The chances are that you’ll find your spotty yearlin’ walking around with her hide on her. And when you’re plumb through, you make tracks away from my outfit. My patience is strainin’ the buttons right now, looking at your ugly mug. And lemme tell yuh–and you mark it down in your little red book so yuh won’t forget it–after you’ve peddled your woes to the hull outfit, you bring in that hide and some proof, or you get down on them marrow bones and apologize! I’m plumb tired of the way you act.”

Aleck Douglas scowled, opened his hard lips to make a bitter answer and reconsidered. He went off instead to interview the men, perhaps thinking that adroit questioning might reveal a weak point somewhere in their denial.

Tom rode over to Cheyenne. “Scotty’s got his war clothes on,” he observed carelessly.

“Shore has,” Cheyenne grinned. “But that’s all right. He didn’t make nothin’ off me. I never give him any satisfaction at all.”

Tom’s brows pulled together. “Well, now, if you know anything about any hide with the brand cut out, you’d better come through, Cheyenne.”

“I never said I knowed anything about it. I guess mebby that’s why I couldn’t give him no satisfaction.” Cheyenne still grinned, but he did not meet Tom’s eyes.

“You spoke kinda queer for a man who don’t know nothing, Cheyenne. Did yuh think mebby it wasn’t all NL beef you been eating?”

“Why, no. I never meant anything like that at all. I only said–”

“Straight talk don’t need no explainin’, Cheyenne. The Devil’s Tooth outfit shore likes the taste of its own beef. If any man fails to agree with that, I want him to speak up right now.”

Cheyenne pinched out the fire in his cigarette and flipped the stub away from him. He did not look at Tom when he said:

“NL beef shore suits me. I don’t know about any other brand. I ain’t et none to judge by.”

“You bet your life you ain’t,” snapped Tom, as he turned away. “When you sample another brand you won’t be drawin’ wages with this outfit.”

He rode away to the wagon, where a fire was already burning and the branding irons heating. Cheyenne, with his hat pulled down over his forehead so that he looked out from under the brim that shaded his face, watched Tom queerly, a corner of his lips lifted in a half smile that was not pleasant.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY RIDE AND THEY DO NOT TELL WHERE

Aleck Douglas, having questioned the crew as Tom had suggested, and having inexorably ridden through the herd–in search of brands that had been “worked,” or for other evidence of the unlawful acquisition of wealth, rather than in hope of finding his spotted yearling–rode away with the parting threat that he would “gang to the shuriff and hae a talk wi’ him.” Tom had advised him of one or two other destinations where he hoped the Douglas would arrive without any delay whatever, and the branding proceeded rather slowly with the crew three men short.

Duke and Mel Wilson rode in about three o’clock with a few cows and calves which they had gleaned from some brushy draw to cover their real errand. By the time they had snatched a hasty meal at the wagon a mile away, and had caught up fresh horses, the afternoon’s work was nearly over. A little earlier than usual, Tom kicked the branding fire apart, ordered the herd thrown on water and grazed back to the bed-ground that had been used during round-up time ever since he could remember, and rode slowly toward camp, whither the lucky ones not on herd were speeding.

Cheyenne, Tom observed, seemed in a greater hurry than the others, and he beckoned to him a slim, swarthy-skinned youth who answered to the euphonious name of Sam Pretty Cow, who was three-quarters Indian and forgiven the taint for the ability to ride anything he ever tried to ride, rope anything he ever swung his loop at, and for his unfailing good humor which set him far above his kind.

“Cheyenne’s in a hurry to-night, Sam.”

“Yeah. Ride hell out of his horse. I dunno, me.” Sam grinned amiably at his boss.

“I wish you would camp on his trail, Sam. He’ll maybe ride somewhere to-night.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. You bet,” acquiesced Sam, and leaned forward a little, meaning to gallop after Cheyenne.

“Hold on a minute! What did Scotty have to say, Sam?”

“Him? Talk a lot about spotty yearlin’ he says is dead. Asking who kills them calf. Search me, I dunno.”

“Hear any talk among the boys about beef rustling?”

“Uh-huh. First I hear is them sour-face asking me who kills them critter. Me, I dunno.”

“If you hear anything about it, Sam, let me know. Scotty thinks we done it.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. Anybody does something mean, everybody says, ‘Damn Lorrigans done it.’ Too much talk in the Black Rim. Talking under their hats all the time but no liking to fight them Lorrigans. Uh-huh. They’re scared, you bet.”

“They’ll have something to get scared at, if they ain’t careful. I’m getting tired of it,” said Tom gloomily.

“Yeah, you bet!” agreed Sam, his voice all sympathy. Then seeing that Tom had no immediate intention of saying more, he touched his horse with his long-shanked spurs and hurried on to “camp on the trail of Cheyenne.”

Tom had nearly reached camp when Duke came pounding up behind him, coming from the herd. Duke set his horse up, in two jumps slowing from a gallop to a walk. Tom turned his head but he did not speak. Nor did Duke wait for questions.

“Dad, we didn’t find any hide over by Squaw Butte,” he announced abruptly. “Mel and I hunted every foot of the willows. I saw where a critter had been killed, all right. There was some scuffed-out tracks and blood on the ground. But there wasn’t any hide. Scotty musta cachéd it somewheres.”

“Scotty claims he left it where he found it, for evidence,” Tom said gloomily.

“Darned if I’d take the blame for other folks’ rustling,” Duke declared. “I wisht he’d of come to me with his tale of woe. I’d a showed him where to head in, mighty darned sudden. I’d of asked where was his proof; there’s other cow outfits in the Black Rim besides the Devil’s Tooth, I’d tell him. And if he didn’t have mighty darned good evidence, I’d of–”

“Yes, I expect you would of tore the earth up all round him,” Tom interrupted drily. “You boys shore are fighty, all right–with your faces. What I’m interested in, is whereabouts you and Mel hunted. That hide wouldn’t show up like the Devil’s Tooth–understand. And Scotty was bawling around like a man that’s been hurt in the pocket. He found a hide, and if it ain’t his he shore thinks it is, and that’s just about the same. And we camped over there three days ago. Where all did you and Mel look?”