Bunch Grass Part 5

"Just that, my pet," said he. "He's old, and he's poor--the poorest man, ain't he, boys?--the very poorest man in Paradise."

The child looked puzzled. It would have taken a wiser head than hers to understand the minds of the men about her.

"I thought old Pap was rich," she faltered.

"He ain't," said the blacksmith, hugging her tight. "He's poorer than all of us poor folks put together."

"Oh, my!" said Sissy, opening her blue eyes. "No wonder he looks as if someone'd hit him with a fence rail. Pore old Pap!" Then she whispered some message, and father and child went out of the store.

We looked at each other. The storekeeper, who had children, blew his nose with unnecessary violence. Ajax said, abruptly: "Boys, I've been a fool. I've driven away the one man who might help us."

"That's all right," the storekeeper growled. "You done first-rate, young man. You tole the ole cuss in plain words what we've bin a- thinkin' fer a c.o.o.n's age. Help us? Not he!"

Outside, our saddle-horses were hitched to the rail. We had managed to save our horses. Ajax and I rode down the valley, golden with the glory of the setting sun. Beyond, the bleak, brown hills were clothed in an imperial livery of purple. The sky was amber and rose. But Ajax, like Gallio, cared for none of these things. He was cursing his unruly tongue. As we neared the big, empty barn, he turned in his saddle.

"Look here," said he, "we'll nip up to Pap's after supper. I shall ask him to help us. I shall ask for a cheque."

"You expect me to go with you on this tomfool's errand?"

"Certainly. We must use a little tact. I'll beg his pardon--the doing of it will make me sick--you shall ask for the cheque. Yes, we're fools; otherwise we shouldn't be here in this forsaken wilderness."

Pap lived just outside the village in an _adobe_ built upon a small hill to the north-west of our ranch. No garden surrounded it, no pleasant live oaks spread their shade between the porch and the big barns. Pap could sit on his porch and survey his domain stretching for leagues in front of him, but he never did sit down in the daytime-- except on a saddle--and at night he went to bed early to save the expense of oil. Knowing his habits, we rode up to the _adobe_ about eight. All was dark, and we could see, just below us, the twinkling lights of Paradise. After thundering at the door twice, Pap appeared, carrying a lantern. In answer to his first question, we told him that we had business to discuss. Muttering to himself, he led us into the house and lighted two candles in the parlour. We had never entered the parlour before, and accordingly looked about with interest and curiosity. The furniture, which had belonged to Pap's father-in- law, a Spanish-Californian, was of mahogany and horsehair, very good and substantial. In a bookcase were some ancient tomes bound in musty leather. A strange-looking piano, with a high back, covered with faded rose-coloured silk, stood in a corner. Some half a dozen daguerreotypes, a case of stuffed humming-birds, and a wreath of flowers embellished the walls. Upon everything lay the fine white dust of the dry year, which lay also thick upon many hearts.

"Sit ye down," said Pap. "I reckon ye've come up to ask for a loan?"

"Yes," said Ajax. "But first I wish to beg your pardon. I had no right to speak as I did in the store this evening. I'm sorry."

Pap nodded indifferently.

"'Twas good advice," he muttered. "I ain't skeered o' much, but diptheery gives me cold feet. I calc'late to skin out o' this and into the mountains to-morrer. How about this yere loan?"

"It's not for us," said I.

"I don't lend no good dollars on squatters' claims," said Pap. "Let's git to business."

We explained what we wanted. Upon the top of Pap's head the spa.r.s.e grey hairs bristled ominously. His teeth clicked; his eyes snapped. He was furiously angry--as I had expected him to be.

"You've a nerve," he jerked out. "You boys come up here askin' me fer a thousand dollars. What air you goin' to do?"

"We've no money," said Ajax, "but we've leisure. I dare say we may dig graves."

"You're two crazy fools."

"We know that, Mr. Spooner."

"I'm a-goin' to tell ye something. Diptheery in this yere country is worse'n small-pox--and I've seen both." The look of horror came again into his face. "My wife an' my child died o' diptheery nearly thirty- five year ago." He shuddered. Then he pointed a trembling finger at one of the daguerreotypes. "There she is--a beauty! And before she died--oh, Heaven!" I thought I saw something in his eyes, something human. Ajax burst out----

"Mr. Spooner, because of that, won't you help these poor people?"

"No! When she died, when the child died, something died in me. D'ye think I don't know what ye all think? Don't I know that I'm the ornariest, meanest old skinflint atween Point Sal and San Diego?

That's me, and I'm proud of it. I aim to let the hull world stew in its own juice. The folks in these yere foothills need thinnin' anyway.

Halloa! What in thunder's this?" Through the door, which we had left ajar, very timidly, all blushes and dimples, and sucking one small thumb, came Sissy Leadham. She stood staring at us, standing on one leg and scratching herself nervously with the other.

"Why, Sissy?" said Ajax.

She removed her thumb, reluctantly.

"Yas--it's me," she confessed. "Popsy don't know as I've comed up here." Then, suddenly remembering the conventions, she said, politely, "Good-evening, Mr. Spooner."

"Good-evening," said the astonished Pap.

"You wasn't expectin' me?"

"I didn't think it was very likely as you'd call in," said Pap, "seein', Missy, as you'd never called in afore."

"My name's Sissy, not Missy. Well, I'll call again, Mr. Spooner, when you've no comp'ny."

"Jee-roosalem! Call again--will ye? An' s'pose I ain't to home--hey?

No, Missy--wal, Sissy, then--no, Sissy, you speak out an' tell me what brought you a-visitin'--me?"

She shuffled very uneasily.

"I felt so awful sorry for you, Mr. Spooner. I jest hed to come, but I'll call again, early to-morrer."

"No, ye won't. Because I aim ter leave this yere ranch afore sun-up.

Jest you speak up an' out. If yer folks has sent you here"--his eyes hardened and flashed--"to borrer money, why, you kin tell 'em I ain't got none to loan."

Sissy laughed gaily.

"Why, I know that, Mr. Spooner. It's jest because, be-cause yer so pore--so very, very pore, that I comed up."

"Is that so? Because I'm so very poor?"

"I heard that in the store this evenin'. I was a-comin' in as you was a-comin' out. I heard Popsy say you was the porest man in the county, porer than all of us pore folks put together."

She had lost her nervousness. She stood squarely before the old man, lifting her tender blue eyes to his.

"Wal--an' what are you a-goin' to do about it?"

"I can't do overly much, Mr. Spooner, but fer a little girl I'm rich.

The dry year ain't hurt me any--yet. I've three dollars and sixty cents of my own."

One hand had remained tightly clenched. Sissy opened it. In the moist pink palm lay three dollars, a fifty-cent piece, and a dime. Never had Pap's voice sounded so harsh in my ears as when he said: "Do I understan' that ye offer this to--me?"

His tone frightened her.