A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES
The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything was temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he proved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemed suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his proper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then the authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman, and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley’s.
Diane, acting on Tresler’s advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs. Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As a matter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and conditions of her father’s death, and the discovery that he was so terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the death of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her old home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on, when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go into Whitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness, she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influence and consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the trial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at the preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence at the higher court.
And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return to Forks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with the ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement to the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than might have been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost second nature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind and watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and with motherly solicitude—she had no children of her own—insisted on the only remedy she understood—physic. And the girl submitted to the kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help her complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages and assurances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in her life than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried out his threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on any man. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a girl with such a past, such parentage.
And so she waited for her lover’s return to tell him. Once she thought of writing it, but she knew Jack too well. He would only come down to Forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no desire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decision when he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for the government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country forever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her young face.
It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that rough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men, who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her troubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and, instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly on the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate, hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for existence.
And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very different man now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about him as he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler’s little house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him there. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney’s saloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help or guide. He straightway hooked his horse’s reins over the tie-post and walked into the bar.
The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the rascal’s appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the same men there—one or two more besides—the same reeking atmosphere, the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.
Slum’s greeting was characteristic. “Wal, blind-hulks has passed—eh? I figgered you was comin’ out on top. Guess the government’ll treat you han’some.”
The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing “solitaire” with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard Slum’s greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be.
Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. Then he turned to Slum.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to take up my abode here for a week or two.”
“I’m real glad,” said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before. “The missis’ll be glad, too,” he added. “I ’lows she’s a far-seein’ wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran’ noo iron bed, wi’ green an’ red stripes, an’ a washbowl goin’ with it. Say, it’s a real dandy layout, an’ on’y three dollars a week wi’out board. Guess I’ll git right over an’ tell her to fix—eh?”
Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Don’t bother. Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren’t you, Carney?”
“That’s how,” replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible Slum.
“Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o’ your goin’ over from a pal like that,” said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar.
“Guess he’s had some,” observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. “I ’lows that bed has bugs, an’ the wash-bowl’s mostly used dippin’ out swill,” he finished up scornfully.
Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. “Guess I never knew you but what you was insultin’, Shaky,” he observed, in a tone of pity. “Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin’ them cards too close. You never was bustin’ wi’ brains. Say, Carney,” turning back to the bar complainingly, “wher’s them durned brandy ‘cocks’ Mr. Tresler ordered a whiles back? You’re gettin’ most like a fun’ral on an up-hill trail. Slow—eh? Guess if we’re to be pizened I sez do it quick.”
“Comin’ along, Slum,” replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler understand that the man’s impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at Shaky’s hands. “I’ve done my best to pizen you this ten year. Guess Shaky’s still pinin’ fer the job o’ nailin’ a few planks around you. Here you are. More comin’.”
“Who’s needin’ me?” asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. “Slum Ranks?” he questioned, pausing. “Guess I’ve got a plank or two fit fer him. Red pine. Burns better.”
He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.
“Say, go easy wi’ that lucifer. Don’t breathe on it, or ther’ won’t be no need fer red pine fer you.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Carney, jocosely, “the present—kep to the present. Because Slum, here, runs a—well, a boardin’ establishment, ther’ ain’t no need to discuss his future so coarsely.”
“Not so much slack, Carney,” said Slum, a little angrily. “Guess my boardin’ emporium’s rilin’ you some. You’re feelin’ a hur’cane; that’s wot you’re feelin’, I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin’ value fer their dollars, don’t it?”
“Good fer you, good fer you,” cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw.
The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.
“Sail in, Slum,” said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as “Sawny” Martin. “I allus sez as you’ve got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev’ry time. But go easy, or the boss’ll bar you on the slate.”
“Don’t owe him nuthin’,” growled Slum.
“Which ain’t or’nary in this company,” observed the smiling Carney; he loved to get Slum angry. “Say, Shaky,” he went on, “how do Slum fix you in his—hotel? You don’t seem bustin’ wi’ vittals.”
“Might do wuss,” responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. “But, y’ see, I stan’ in wi’ Doc. Osler, an’ he physics me reg’lar.”
Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.
“Say, you gorl-durned ‘fun’ral boards,’ you’re gittin’ kind o’ fresh, but I’d bet a greenback to a last year’s corn-shuck you don’t quit ther’ an’ come grazin’ around Carney’s pastures, long as my missis does the cookin’.”
“I ’lows your missis ken cook,” said Shaky, with enthusiasm. “The feller as sez she can’t lies. But wi’ her, my respec’ fer your hog-pen ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who’s fer ‘draw’?”
Slum turned back to the bar. “Here, Carney,” he said, planking out a ten-dollar bill, “hand over chips to that. We’re losin’ blessed hours gassin’. I’m goin’ fer a hand at ‘draw.’ An’ say, give us a new deck o’ cards. Guess them o’ Shaky’s needs curry-combin’ some. Mr. Tresler,” he went on, turning to his old boarder, “mebbe I owe you some. Have you a notion?”
“No thanks, Slum,” replied Tresler, decidedly. “I’m getting an old hand now.”
“Ah!”
And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features.
Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for “draw.” And what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker—an artist. The baser instincts of the game appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there to best each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood that his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only would he resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would be real trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had been doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for years more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had no opinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them, and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in Life’s great battle.
But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had been waiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler asked him the reason.
“Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler,” the burly man said, with something like a smile. “He wouldn’t come in. Shall we go out to him?”
The other assented, and they passed out. Joe was sitting on his buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his old eyes.
“Why are you sitting there?” Tresler asked at once. Then he regretted his question.
“Wal,” Joe drawled, without the least hesitation, “I’m figgerin’ you oughter know by this time. Ther’s things born to live on liquid, an’ they’ve mostly growed tails. Guess I ain’t growed that—yet. Mebbe I’ll git down at Doc. Osler’s. An’ I’ll git on agin right ther’,” he added, as an afterthought.
Joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but Tresler was annoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him.
“Well, I’m sorry I suggested it, Joe,” he said quickly; “as you say, I ought to have known better. Never mind, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Name it, an’ I’ll do it if I bust.”
The little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor of him.
Tresler didn’t respond at once. He didn’t want to put the matter too bluntly. He didn’t want to let Joe feel that he regarded him as a subordinate.
“Well, you see, I’m looking for some one of good experience to give me some friendly help. You see, I’ve bought a nice place, and—well, in fact, I’m setting up ranching on my own, and I want you to come and help me with it. That’s all.”
Joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distant hills, his eyes turned on Doc. Osler’s house; he cleared his throat and screwed his face into the most weird shape. His eyes sought the door of the saloon and finally came back to Tresler. He swallowed two or three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he were going to strike his benefactor.
“Shake,” he muttered hoarsely.
And Tresler gripped the proffered hand. “And perhaps you’ll have that flower-garden, Joe,” he said, “without the weeds.”
“Mr. Tresler, sir, shake agin.”
“Never mind the ‘mister’ or the ‘sir,’” said Tresler. “We are old friends. Now, Fyles,” he went on, turning to the officer, who had been looking on as an interested spectator, “have you any news for Miss Marbolt?”
“Yes, the decision’s made. I’ve got the document here in my pocket.”
“Good. But don’t tell it me. Give me an hour’s start of you. I’m going to see the lady myself. And, Joe,” Tresler looked up into the old man’s beaming face. “Will you come with the sheriff when he interviews—er—our client?”
“All right, Mis——”
“No.”
“Tresler, si——”
“No.”
“All right, Tresler,” said the old man, in a strangely husky voice.
Diane was confronting her lover for the last interview. Mrs. Osler had discreetly left them, and now they were sitting in the diminutive parlor, the man, at the girl’s expressed wish, sitting as far from her as the size of the room would permit. All his cheeriness had deserted him and a decided frown marred the open frankness of his face.
Diane, herself, looked a little older than when we saw her last at the ranch. The dark shadows round her pretty eyes were darker, and her face looked thinner and paler, while her eyes shone with a feverish brightness.
“You overruled my decision once, Jack,” she was saying in a low tone that she had difficulty in keeping steady, “but this time it must not be.”
“Well, look here, Danny, I can give you just an hour in which to ease your mind, but I tell you candidly, after that you’ll have to say ‘yes,’ in spite of all your objections. So fire away. Here’s the watch. I’m going to time you.”
Tresler spoke lightly and finished up with a laugh. But he didn’t feel like laughter. This objection came as a shock to him. He had pictured such a different meeting.
Diane shook her head. “I can say all I have to say in less time than that, Jack. Promise me that you will not misunderstand me. You know my heart, dear. It is all yours, but, but—Jack, I did not tell all I knew at the inquest.”
She paused, but Tresler made no offer to help her out. “I knew father could see at night. He was what Mr. Osler calls a—Nyc—Nyctalops. That’s it. It’s some strange disease and not real blindness at all, as far as I can make out. He simply couldn’t see in daylight because there was something about his eyes which let in so much light, that all sense of vision was paralyzed, and at such time he suffered intense pain. But when evening came, in the moonlight, or late twilight; in fact at any time when there was no glare of light, just a soft radiance, he could not only see but was possessed of peculiarly acute vision. How he kept his secret for so many years I don’t know. I understand why he did, but, even now, I cannot understand what drove him to commit the dreadful deeds he did, so wealthy and all as he was.”
Tresler thought he could guess pretty closely. But he waited for her to go on.
“Jack, I discovered that he could see at night when you were ill, just before you recovered consciousness,” she went on, in a solemn, awestruck tone.
“Ah!”
“Yes, while you were lying there insensible you narrowly escaped being murdered.”
Again she paused, and shuddered visibly.
“I was afraid of something. His conduct when you were brought in warned me. He seemed to resent your existence; he certainly resented your being in the house, but most of all my attendance on you. I was very watchful, but the strain was too much, and, one night, feeling that the danger of sleep for me was very real, I barricaded the stairs. I did my utmost to keep awake, but foolishly sat down on my own bed and fell asleep. Then I awoke with a start; I can’t say what woke me. Anyway, realizing I had slept, I became alarmed for you. I picked up the light and went out into the hall, where I found my barricade removed——”
“Yes, and your father at my bedside, with his hands at my throat.”
“Loosening the bandage.”
“To?”
“To open the wound and let you bleed to death.”
“I see. Yes, I remember. I dreamt the whole scene, except the bandage business. But you——”
“I had the lighted lamp, and the moment its light flashed on him he was as—as blind as a bat. His hands moved about your bandage fumbling and uncertain. Yes, he was blind enough then. I believe he would have attacked me, only I threatened him with the lamp, and with calling for help.”
“Brave little woman—yes, I remember your words. They were in my dream. And that’s how you knew what to do later on when Jake and he——”
The girl nodded.
“So Fyles was right,” Tresler went on musingly. “You did know.”
“Was I wrong, Jack, in not telling them at the inquest? You see he is dead, and——”
“On the contrary, you were right. It would have done no manner of good. You might have told me, though.”
“Well, I didn’t know what to do,” the girl said, a little helplessly. “You see I never thought of cattle-stealing. It never entered my head that he was, or could be, Red Mask. I only looked upon it as a villainous attempt on your life, which would not be likely to occur again, and which it would serve no purpose to tell you of. Besides, the horror——”
“Yes, I see. Perhaps you were right. It would have put us on the right track though, as, later on, the fight with Jake and your action with regard to it did. Never mind; that’s over. Julian Marbolt was an utter villain from the start. You may as well know that his trading in ‘black ivory’ was another name for slave-trading. His blindness had nothing to do with driving him to crime, nor had your mother’s doings. He was a rogue before. His blindness only enabled him to play a deeper game, which was a matter likely to appeal to his nature. However, nothing can be altered by discussing him. I have bought a ranch adjoining Mosquito Bend, and secured Joe’s assistance as foreman. I have given out contracts for rebuilding the house; also, I’ve sent orders east for furnishings. I am going to buy my stock at the fall round-up. All I want now is for you to say when you will marry me, sweetheart.”
“But, Jack, you don’t seem to understand. I can’t marry you. Father was a—a murderer.”
“I don’t care what he was, Danny. It doesn’t make the least difference to me. I’m not marrying your father.”
Diane was distressed. The lightness of his treatment of the subject bothered her. But she was in deadly earnest.
“But, Jack, think of the disgrace! Your people! All the folk about here!”
“Now don’t let us be silly, Danny,” Tresler said, coming over to the girl’s side and taking possession of her forcibly. In spite of protest his arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. “My people are not marrying you. Nor are the folk—who, by the way, can’t, and have no desire to throw stones—doing so either. Now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, once through your bravery. And I tell you no one has the right to save life and then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burden to the miserable wretch on whom they’ve lavished such care. That would be a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentle heart. Sweetheart,” he went on, kissing her again, “you must complete the good work. I am anything but well yet. In fact I am so weak that any shock might cause a relapse. In short, there is only one thing, as far as I can see, to save me from a horrid death—consumption or colic, or some fell disease—and that’s marriage. I know you must be bored to death by——No,” as the girl tried to stop him, “don’t interrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth—a sort of chronic invalid, but if you don’t marry me, well, I’ll get Joe to bury me somewhere at the crossroads. Look at all the money I’ve spent in getting our home together. Think of it, Danny; our home! And old Joe to help us. And——”
“Oh, stop, stop, or you’ll make me——”
“Marry me. Just exactly what I intend, darling. Now, seriously, let’s forget the old past; Jake, your father, Anton, all of them—except Arizona.”
Diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests. There was something so strong, reliant, masterful about her Jack that made him irresistible to her. She knew she was wrong in allowing herself to think like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak, loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right. If she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcame her sense of duty, was there much blame? Tresler felt the gentle clinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once.
“Time’s nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe are coming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regions fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don’t care which it is—I mean—no. Yes, quick! They’re on the verandah.”
The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said, so low that his face came in contact with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly sheriff knocked at the door.
He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side by side. He was still holding her hand.
“Fyles,” Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, “let me present you to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe,” he added, turning on the little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, “are the corrals prepared, and have you got my branding-irons ready? You see I’ve rounded her up.”
The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Diane listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely remarking in true wifely fashion—
“Don’t be absurd, Jack!”
At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring them to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic pocket.
“I’ve just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt,” he said deliberately. “Shall I read it to you, or would you——?”
“Never mind the reading,” said Diane impulsively. “Tell me the contents.”
“Well, I confess it’s better so. The legal terms are confusing,” said the officer emphatically. “You can read them later. I don’t guess the government could have acted better by you than they’ve done. The property,”—he was careful to avoid the rancher’s name—“the property is to remain yours, with this proviso. An inquiry has been arranged for, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years in the district. And all approved claims will have to be settled out of the estate. Five years is the time allowed for all such claims to be put forward. After that everything reverts to you.”
Diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finished speaking.
“And, Jack, when that time comes we’ll sell it all and give the money to charity, and just live on in our own little home.”
“Done!” exclaimed Tresler. And seizing her in his arms he picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss. The action caused the sheriff to cough loudly, while Joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in a voice of wildest excitement, shouted—
“Gee, but I want to holler!”