The men’s eyes met again.
“Yes––for convenience.” There was a sharpness in the foreman’s acquiescence.
The Irishman’s eyes grew hot. The whites began to get bloodshot.
“Seems to me it’s fer you to see if that iron fits, an’, if so––why?”
In spite of Dan’s evident heat his tone was frigid, and its suggestion could no longer be ignored. Jim Thorpe, conscious of his innocence, was not the man to accept such innuendoes without protest. Suddenly his swift rising anger took hold of him, and the fiery protest which McLagan had intended to call forth broke out.
“Look here, McLagan,” he cried, vainly trying to keep his tone cool, “I’ve been with you about four years. You know something of my history, and the folks I spring from. You know more than any one else of me. For four years I’ve worked for you in a way, as you, yourself, have been pleased to say in odd moments of generosity, in a way that few hired men generally work out here in the West. You’ve trusted me in consequence. And you’ve never found me shirking responsibilities, nor slacking. You’ve helped me get together a bunch of cattle with a view to becoming independent, and shown me in every way your confidence. You’ve 218 even offered to lease me grazing. These latter things have not been without profit to you. That’s as it should be. However, I just mention these things to point the rise in confidence which has grown up between us. You understand? Now the cattle stealing begins. These cattle are brought in here with my brands on. There is no doubt they are your steers. You listen to the story of the manner of their finding. You witness the cold suspicion of me which those two men possess. Those four years go for nothing. Your confidence won’t stand the least strain. You do not accuse me straight out, but show me the suspicion with which you are contaminated in a manner unworthy of an honest man. I tell you it’s rotten. It’s––it’s despicable. Do you think I’m going to sit down under this suspicion? It will be all over the countryside by to-morrow, and I––I shall be a branded man. I tell you I’m going to sift this matter to the bottom. But make no mistake. Not for your sake––nor for anybody else but myself. Those four years of hard honest work don’t count with you. Well, they shan’t count with me. I’ll stay here with you so that I’m handy whenever wanted––you understand me, I suppose––‘wanted.’ But I’ll thank you to let me pursue my investigations in the way I choose. Your work shan’t suffer. If I don’t lay my hands on the thief or thieves in a month’s time, then write me down a wrong ’un. If I do round ’em up I’ll at once take my leave of you, for I’ve no use for a man of your evident calibre.”
He was standing when he finished speaking. His dark eyes said far more than his words, and the clenching hands at his sides conveyed a threat that Dan was quick to perceive. However he felt the other’s words he gave no sign. 219 And his attitude was once more disconcerting and puzzling to the furious Jim. He wanted one of those outbursts of Celtic passion he was used to; he wanted a chance to hand out unrestrained the fury that was working up to such a pitch inside him. But the opportunity was not given. Dan spoke coldly and quietly, a process which maddened the injured man.
“Words make elegant pictures,” he said, “an’ I hate pictures. See here, Jim Thorpe, you’ve ladled it out good an’ plenty. Now I’m goin’ to pass you a dipper o’ hash. There’s the cattle; there’s your brands; there’s wher’ they was found. Three nuts that need crackin’. You guess you’re goin’ to crack them nuts. Wal, I’d say it’s up to you. Crack ’em. An’––you needn’t to stop here to do it. You can get right out an’ do the crackin’ where you like. An’ when you’ve cracked ’em, an’ you feel like it,––mind, I don’t ask you to––you can come along and you’ll find this shack still standin’. That, too, is up to you. Meanwhiles, Joe Bloc’ll slep right here. Guess you’ll be startin’ out crackin’ nuts to-morrow morning. There’s just one thing I’d like to say before partin’, Jim,” he added, his frigidity thawing slightly. “I’m a cattleman first an’ last. It’s meat and drink an’ pocket-money to me. My calibre don’t cut any figure when there’s cattle stealin’ doing. As sure as St. Patrick got busy with the snakes, I’d help to hang the last cattle-rustler, an’ dance on his face after he was dead––if he was my own brother. Think o’ that, and maybe you’ll understand things.”
He rose from the bed and walked out of the hut without waiting for a reply.
For a full minute Jim stood staring after him through the doorway. Then his eyes came back to the branding-iron 220 on the bed. He stared at it. Then he picked it up and mechanically examined the stars at the end of it. Suddenly he flung it out of sight under the bed where it had come from, and sat on the blankets with his face resting in his hands.