Desert Conquest Part 10

And so Casey Dunne dreamed as he rode--dreamed as he had not dreamed waking since the days when, a little boy, he had lain on warm sands beside a blue inland sea on summer's afternoons and watched the patched sails of the stone hookers, and the wheeling, gray lake gulls, and heard the water hiss and ripple to the long, white beaches. And, as he dreamed, a part of boyhood's joy in mere life awoke in him again.

Chakchak Ranch came into view. Its cultivated area smaller than that of Talapus, it was nevertheless as scrupulously cared for. The one might have served as model for the other. Here, also, were the straight lines of the ditches, the squares of grain fields beginning to show green, the young orchards, the sleek, contented stock, the corrals, and outbuildings.

But, as became the residence of a bachelor, the ranch-house itself was less pretentious. It was a small bungalow, with wide verandas which increased its apparent size. There Casey lived with Tom McHale, his right-hand man and foreman. The hired men, varying in number constantly, occupied other quarters.

Casey would have helped Sheila to alight, but she swung down, stretching her limbs frankly after the hard ride.

"That's _going_," she said. "Beaver Boy was a brute to hold; he wanted to race s.h.i.+ner. He nearly got away from me once. My wrists are actually lame." She drew off her long buckskin gauntlets, flexing her wrists cautiously, straightening her fingers, prolonging the luxury of relaxing the cramped sinews.

"Let us now eat, drink, and be merry," said Casey, "for to-morrow--well, never mind that. But what would you like? Coffee, tea, claret lemonade? Tell me what you want."

"Too hot for tea. I'd like a dust eraser--a cold drink about a yard long."

"Hey, you, Feng!" Casey cried, to a white-ap.r.o.ned, grinning Chinaman, "you catch two ice drink quick--_hiyu_ ice, you savvy! Catch claret wine, catch cracker, catch cake. Missy _hiyu_ dry, _hiyu_ hungry. Get a hustle on you, now!"

Feng, understanding perfectly the curious mixture of pidgin and Chinook, vanished soft-footed. They entered the living room of the bungalow.

"Stretch out and be comfy while he's rustling it," said Casey, indicating a couch. He himself fell into a huge wicker chair, flung his hat carelessly at the table, and reached for a cigar box.

Sheila dropped on the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms above her head, her hands clasped, every muscle of her relaxing. The comparative coolness, the quiet, the soft cus.h.i.+ons were good after a day in the saddle. Down there on the Coldstream the strict proprieties did not trouble them. If any one had suggested to Sheila McCrae that she was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, she would have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have been unsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirability of a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all, the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advanced civilization.

But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening.

"You're awfully untidy, Casey!" she said.

Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of the room was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, and tobacco. Odd tools--a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl--mingled with them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinder swung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can.

In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set of antlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pair of muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.

"Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?" she demanded.

"Why, you see," he explained, "they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry.

I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact." He rose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through the open door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila was not placated.

"That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and now it's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you know that that makes work?"

"For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for--only he doesn't do it."

But she shook her head, brus.h.i.+ng the excuse aside as trifling, unsatisfactory. "It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey."

"Poor thing!"

"When you get one, I mean."

"Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same to you, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the way it is."

"Muss it up! I like that!" she responded. "Why, of all the old _junk_!

Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust." She extended her fingers in proof. "That dirty rag! And a gun and cartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn't leave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving them loaded, almost."

"That's Tom's gun. Sail into him."

"You shouldn't allow it."

"Allow it! I never touch another man's gun. n.o.body comes in here but Feng, and he doesn't matter. What's a c.h.i.n.k more or less?"

"But it's the _principle_. And what's this--down here? Why, Casey, it's--it's a _hen!_"

It was a hen. In a s.p.a.ce between two piles of newspapers, flanked by a cigar box, squatted a white fowl, very intent upon her own affairs.

"Shoo!" said Sheila. But the bird merely c.o.c.ked a bright eye at her, and uttered a little warning, throaty sound. Casey laughed.

"That's Fluffy, and she's a lady friend of mine. Poor old Fluff, poor old girl! Don't scare her, Sheila. Can't you see she's busy?"

"Casey Dunne, do you mean to tell me that you allow a hen to lay in your sitting room, on your _table?_"

"Of course--when she's a nice little chicken like Fluffy. Why not? She doesn't do any harm."

"I never heard of such a thing. The place for hens is in the chicken run. Casey, you're simply _awful!_ Your wife--oh, heavens, what a life she'll have!"

"n.o.body could help liking Fluff," he replied. "She's really good company. I wish I could talk her talk. She has a fine line of conversation if I could only savvy it."

Sheila sat down with a hopeless gesture. Fond of all living things as she was, she could not understand the tolerance that allowed a hen the run of the house. To her a hen was a hen, nothing more. She could name and pet a horse or a dog or any quadruped. But a hen! She could not understand.

But Feng entered with the two "ice drink"--a tray containing long gla.s.ses, tinkling ice, claret, lemons, cake, and biscuits. He set the tray upon the table. As he did so his hand came in contact with Fluffy.

With a rasping cry of indignation she pecked him.

"Hyah!" cried Feng, startled, and reached for her impulsively.

Fluffy bounded from her nest, and fled shrieking for the door. Her fluttering wings brushed the contents of the tray. The long gla.s.ses and bottle capsized, rolled to the floor, and smashed, the crash of gla.s.s mingling with her clamour.

"What foh?" yelled Feng, in a fury. "Jim Kli, dam chick.u.m spoiley icey dlink. _Hiyu_ no good--all same son of a gun! S'pose me catch him, ling him neck!" And he darted after the hen, on vengeance bent.

But Casey caught him by the collar. "Never mind, Feng. That chicken all same my _tillik.u.m_, you savvy. _Hiyu_ good chicken; lay _hiyu_ egg. You catch more ice drink!"

And when the angry Celestial had gone he lay back in his chair, and laughed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly, then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression, in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gasped for breath.

"Oh--oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such a laugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too.

It's coming to her. That c.h.i.n.k--how mad he was! But what a mess! And claret stains so. Your rug----"

She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could, and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the veranda steps.

This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with the flat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a but partially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazel eyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of his nourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.

"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there was hostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there c.h.i.n.k? He's cussin'

scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"

"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff.

Result, one bottle of claret and two gla.s.ses gone to glory."

"Also one c.h.i.n.k on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in the insurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She's surely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than if the Oriental was a c.o.o.n. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."