WHEREIN GILBERT JONES IS WORRIED, AND LUCIA PELL IS ASKED TO DO AN IMPOSSIBLE THING
Poor "Red" couldn't have encountered the invalid at a less propitious moment; for he was almost knocked down by that crabbed gentleman.
"Certainly wheels a mean chair," he said good-naturedly to Gilbert, as he watched Uncle Henry steer himself out to the gate. "Got his cut-out open, too! Pesky to-day, ain't he? That's one reason I came back." He spread his legs apart, and fanned himself with his hat. He ran his fingers through his thick, violent crop of hair. "A mean Arizona day!" he said. "The walk made me hot."
"I should think it would," Jones replied.
"No grub yet?" "Red" ventured. He was hungry even yet. Twenty-two is always hungry.
"No," said his employer.
"Should have been ready two hours ago. What's the matter? Wish we had Mrs. Quinn over here."
"I don't know what's the matter. I haven't thought much about eating." He was engrossed again in his papers.
But "Red" didn't intend to let the matter drop. "You're too easy on that cook," he said. "Now, if you had a Mrs. Quinn—" He had pulled out a worn tobacco-bag, which was discouragingly flat. He had smoked a lot this morning.
Gilbert was swift to notice the empty pouch, and offered him his.
"Thanks; much obliged," "Red" said, filling his pipe. "But darn that cook, anyhow! If he wasn't leavin', I'd fire him! As if you didn't have enough troubles, without havin' to bother about late meals—an' guests in the house."
But a puff or two on his pipe soothed him, "Red's" bark was always worse than his bite. He was the best-natured chap in the world, and he idolized Gilbert Jones. There was a big packing-case in the middle of the room, and he sat on it, tailor-fashion, as happy as a husky, normal young man can be.
He looked longingly at the unset table; but his thoughts were more of Angela Hardy than of the good meal to come.
"'Red,'" said Gilbert after a brief silence, "I was hoping to be able to pay you off to-day."
"Pay me off?" That would have been heaven! He could have taken Angela to the movies at Bisbee.
"Yes."
"Oh, forget it! You don't owe me nothin'!"
"Only a mere trifle of six months' wages," Gilbert laughed.
"Red" had put his head in one hand, and leaned back on the case, at peace with the world. His left foot beat a little tattoo on the side of the box. Now he sat up straight and looked sharply at Jones.
"What's the use of talking about this?" he wanted to know. "You ain't got it, have you?"
Gilbert paused the fraction of a second. "No," he had to admit, "But that doesn't alter the fact that I owe you money." He went over and stood close to his foreman.
"You're wrong," the younger man said. "It was my own proposition that I come here with you and work, an' you know it. Now what you got to say?"
Gilbert put his arm around "Red's" big shoulder, and playfully pushed him off the box. "You're just a big kid, aren't you, 'Red'?"
"I don't know what I am. But I do know I was only too glad to take the gamble with you. An' I'll take another one right now if you've got one to suggest."
Gilbert pushed the case over on its side. It was empty. There were some Navajo blankets on a little stand by the window. These he now fetched over to the case, first placing them carefully on the floor, spread out in all their rainbow beauty. Their bright patterns glorified the room, as if a lamp had been lighted. He said nothing. "Red" wondered what he was doing with these splendid blankets. He had never seen anything like them on the ranch, though there were others on the walls.
"I'd like to remark," "Red" went on, "that if we ever gets into the cow business again, we ought to get us a nice ranch in Washington, D.C. It don't pay American citizens to go too fur away from home, these days."
Gilbert laughed. Then, "Oh!" he ejaculated, as though remembering something.
"What's the matter?" "Red" asked.
"Haven't you heard? Lopez has broken off the reservation again."
"Lopez!" exclaimed "Red," forgetting his pipe, his dinner, and even Angela for the moment. "The devil he has!"
"Uh—uh! Raided the Diamond Dot last night."
"He won't bother us," "Red" smiled, settling back again. "Nothin' to steal here except the mortgage." He paused, as though in deep thought; but Gilbert, had he known it, was thinking even harder. Lopez, the Mexican bandit, was a dim uncertainty; the mortgage was a stern reality.
"You'll want to be drivin' over to the station later?" "Red" went on, coming to the table, and taking off his spurs.
"Yes," Gilbert answered. He had folded all the blankets neatly, rose, and went over to the window-box to get some strong cord.
"In the gallopin' wash-boiler?" "Red" smiled, "That still belongs to us—I mean, you." He clinked his spurs on the table.
"Us is right, 'Red.' You said you'd been a partner. You have. Some day I'm going to tell you how grateful I am." In his preoccupation, he forgot to tie up the blankets; and, one hand on "Red's" shoulder, he let the cord fall on the table.
"Aw, that's all right," "Red" said. He didn't like to be thanked, and he avoided even the shadow of sentimentality with Jones. After all, they were two young fellows, playing a big game together, taking big chances; and what was the use of talking about it? "What are you going to tell the Pells?" he suddenly asked, glad to get off the immediate subject.
"Pells?"
"Say, I'm goin' to poke that bird in the beak some day!" "Red" declared.
Jones smiled. "What's he done to you?"
"Nothin'. He'd better not. It's the way he treats his wife. She's so darn game, too. I wouldn't treat a horse the way he treats her. Well, what are you goin' to tell them?"
Gilbert stood perfectly still. He was in deep thought. Finally he spoke.
"I'm going to tell them I'm going away—important business."
"East?" "Red" asked. He had seated himself at the table, and picked up Gilbert's pen, and began making curious little scrawls with it on a piece of paper, as a business man sometimes does when he is telephoning.
"No. West," answered Jones. "They're going East."
"What are you going to do?" "Red" was amused rather than alarmed.
"Oh, I'll get a job somewhere. Punch cows—or maybe join the rangers. There's always something a fellow can do."
"An' what about your uncle?"
"I'll put him up in Bisbee till I get a chance to ship him back to Bangor. He likes Bangor, you know!" Gilbert smiled.
"He takes it sort o' hard, don't he?"
"Well, you can't blame the old boy. You see, I got him to sell out everything—everything, and invest in this ranch. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do; but I thought I was certain to succeed. I meant all for the best, 'Red.' You know that." Who could doubt those gray eyes of Gilbert Jones, that open, frank, boyish face?
"Of course I do." He got up, and walked over to the window. "Your uncle don't like jokin' much, does he? I asked him the other day why he didn't get a chauffeur. Gosh! he got mad!" "Red" laughed at the recollection.
"Uncle Henry's in no joking mood just now. You can't blame him much."
"Red" turned and looked at his employer. He didn't know whether he should ask the next question or not; but he took his courage in his hands.
"He—he wants you to—to marry Angela Hardy, don't he?"
Gilbert looked surprised. "Hardy's daughter?"
"Red" nodded.
"How did you know?" Jones asked.
"Because he ain't talked of nothin' else for six months. You wasn't thinkin' of doin' it, was you?" He hung on Gilbert's answer.
"Hardly!" with a smile.
The relief of "Red"!
"I know, I know!" he cried. "But once she gets her mind set on a thing—"
"You mean you think she wants to marry me? Is that it?" Gilbert asked, not taking the matter very seriously. He was busy at the box again, pulling the top farther back.
"Well, I don't know as I'd say that," "Red" offered; "but I think she thinks she wants to." He was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging one leg. "She's prone to fancies, Angela is. Even I gotter admit that!"
"Even you?" Gilbert inquired, puzzled.
The question made "Red" a bit nervous. He jumped to the floor, and then sat down in the chair beside the table, pretending to be very much at ease. "Like that traveling man from Saint Looey," he explained. "She thought she cared for him. I tried to tell her different. I had to run him out of town with a gun to prove it. But even then she didn't believe it until that New York surveyor come along."
Gilbert looked up, "And she thought she loved him?"
"Until she met up with that hoss doctor from Albuquerque! An' now there's a new feller in Bisbee!"
Jones was a trifle mystified, "Say, how do you happen to know so much about her affairs, 'Red'?"
How involved he had become! He blushed like a schoolboy; got up, took his pipe out of his mouth and emptied it in the fireplace. "Me?" he said. "Oh, I've knowed her a long time."
Jones was beginning to see the truth, to read the heart of this young rascal. So it was over at the Hardy's that he spent so many hours!
"Oh, so that's it, is it? What's the matter? Does her father object?"
"Oh, no!" "Red" was quick to deny. "I stand all right with him. He's knowed me a long time. It's her."
Gilbert laughed outright; and "Red," humanly embarrassed now that his secret was out, paced the room, his hands behind his back, digging his heel every now and then in the floor. "Aw—" he began.
"Listen, 'Red,'" said Jones, in sympathy with the lad, and hoping to cover up his confusion. "If Hardy comes, keep him out till I'm alone. I don't want any war talk before the Pells."
"I get yer," said "Red," visibly relieved.
"Any stronger cord on the place anywhere?" Gilbert looked around the room. Maybe one of the many Indian jugs contained a string. "Red" and he had a habit of putting any old thing in them.
"There's some down in the hay barn. Want me to get it for you?" "Red" offered.
"No; I'll get it, thanks. You see if you can't prod up the cook a little. I'm hungry now."
And "Red" ran into the kitchen. No sooner had he left the room, than there was a rumble, and Uncle Henry burst in on Gilbert, a smile of triumph on his face.
"I got it!" he all but yelled.
"Got what?" his nephew asked.
"An idea!... Mebbe he'd lend you some."
"Some what? And who?"
"Money, of course! That feller Pell, I mean. He's rich, an' if he knowed that you and his wife was old friends—I betcher he'd lend you some." He paused, breathless, for he had run his sentences into one. Gilbert glared at him, as if he thought he had gone stark mad. But Uncle Henry was not afraid. "You won't ask him?" he inquired.
"Certainly not. What are you raving about, anyhow? Cut out this sort of talk, Uncle. You're getting on my nerves."
The old man simply switched his chair about. He had heard Gilbert in an angry mood before, and he knew that nothing would follow his little burst of wrath. "Oh, you make me tired, you young people," he raged. "I'd ask him if it was me, you can bet I would!"
"You would," was all that Gilbert replied. Sarcasm was in his voice.
"First you won't marry Hardy's daughter and now you won't ask him for money," Uncle Henry pursued the subject.
Gilbert was genuinely angry now. "Oh, keep quiet! I'm sick of your plans."
"Yes, but if you ain't goin' to do nothing, I am!"
His nephew wouldn't trust himself to hear another word. He turned on his heel and left the old man.
Uncle Henry was shaking with excitement. He lifted his hand, smote the arm of his chair, and cried out after the vanishing figure of his nephew, "You make me sick, you gol darn fool!" He was almost in tears. "Gol darn the gol darn luck, anyhow!"
At that moment, Lucia Pell came down the little stairway. She had discarded her riding-habit, and now looked equally lovely in a simple frock of blue.
"What's the matter?" she inquired, seeing at once that something was troubling Uncle Henry.
"What ain't the matter?" the old fellow screamed, but glad of someone to whom he could unburden his overflowing heart. "Gol darn it! By gollies! I got it again!" he cried, seized with another inspiration. He eyed the radiant Lucia, as a miser might appraise a new gold coin. "Mis' Pell," he said, twirling his chair so that he caught a better glimpse of her.
"Yes?" she said, half-way down.
"You and Gil's old friends, ain't you?" The question was as direct as anything could be.
"Yes," was the equally direct answer.
"Want to do him a good turn?" asked the scheming old man.
"Of course. What do you mean?" She was at his side now.
"He's got a chance to make a swell marriage," announced Uncle Henry.
"What?" There was a curious catch in Lucia's voice.
"A rich marriage," Uncle Henry went on, almost smacking his lips over the words.
Lucia went over to the window, so that she would not face the invalid.
"Not as rich as yourn, of course," Uncle Henry pursued; "but rich for him—and he won't do it." He waited for her to say something; but she did not speak. There was a pause. Lucia looked out at the baking valley, and off to the far mountains, and the ticking of the clock could be heard like steady rain in a cistern. Then she went over to the table near the alcove, where a few books were scattered about. She opened one, and pretended to read. All the time Uncle Henry's eyes never left her. And she knew he was searching her thoughts.
"He won't?" she finally said.
"No—the gol darn fool!" the old fellow screamed again.
"Does he—does he love her?" Lucia brought herself to ask.
Quick as a flash Uncle Henry came back: "Sure he does! It's the only thing for him to do. He ain't got no right to be livin' alone. All he don't get skinned out of he gives away. Never gets nothin' to eat. If ever a feller needed a nice, sensible wife to take care of him, it's Gil. I know. Ain't I his uncle?"
"You think she would—make him—a good wife?" Lucia Pell got the words out somehow, never lifting her eyes from the printed page.
"The finest in the world!" Uncle Henry affirmed. "Now, looky here, Mis' Pell: He won't listen to me—funny the way folks are about their relatives. But I was thinkin' that mebbe if you was to ask him—"
Lucia was startled. "I?" she said.
The wheel chair bobbed about. "Yes. You and him bein' old friends that way, mebbe he'd pay some attention to you. Make him see what a gol darn fool he is and give him h——. Give it to him good! It's a wonderful chance. He'll never get another. Darned if I see how he ever got this. But he has. And what we gotter do is to make him take it." He paused; but she said nothing. He waited a moment. Then,—"What do you say? Will you?"
"You—think he should?"
"I know darn well he should!"
Lucia closed the book and put it down. She looked straight at Uncle Henry. "I should think he would see it for himself."
Uncle Henry showed his disgust—not for her, but for his nephew. "Aw, he's always been like this. I remember five or six years ago, he told me then he wouldn't ask no woman to marry him until he got a lot of money. False pride, I call it. What'd the world come to if everybody felt like that?"
"You think it's only pride that's keeping him from it?" Her voice was very low.
"Well, what else could it be, I'd like to know."
"Maybe it's because he hasn't a lot of money. He may be honest in that."
"Well, mebbe you're right. That may be it. What do you say?"
"All right," Lucia Pell said. But she turned away.
Uncle Henry was delighted. "That's the idee! Hooray!" Had he been able to stand, he would have risen and given three rousing cheers. He hadn't been so happy in years. "We'll put it over yet, by heck!"
He hadn't seen his nephew come into the room, with a ball of stout twine in his hands.
"Put what over?" Gilbert asked.
Uncle Henry was taken aback, but he quickly covered his confusion.
"Oh, somethin'. It's a secret." He turned and addressed Lucia Pell. "Don't forget," he admonished, and swiftly wheeled himself out into the yard again.