Out Of The Depths Part 16

Knowles had gone with Gowan to cut out and drive back the stray cattle belonging to the adjoining range. They returned during the regular supper hour. The cowman washed quickly and hastened in to the table.

Gowan, however, loitered just outside the door, fastening and refastening his neckerchief. He entered the dining-room while Isobel was in the midst of telling her father about the snake.

"Did you hear, Kid?" she asked, when she finished her vivid account.

"Yes, Miss Chuckie. I was slicking-up close 'longside the door. I heard all you told," he replied as he took his seat at the corner next to the animated girl. "We sh.o.r.e have got one mighty lucky tenderfoot on this range."

"Indeed, yes!" exclaimed Ashton. "Had not Miss Chuckie chanced to be pa.s.sing as the monster rattled--You know, she says that she might not have heeded it but for your killing the other snake yesterday. That put her on the alert."

The puncher stared across the table at the city man with a coldly speculative gaze. "You sh.o.r.e are a lucky tenderfoot," he repeated.

"'Tain't every fellow gets that close to a rattler this time of year and comes out of it as easy as you have. All I can see is you're kind of pale yet around the gills."

Ashton held up his bandaged left hand. "Ah, but I have also this memento of the occasion. It is far from a pleasant one, I a.s.sure you."

"Feels 'most as bad as a bee sting, don't it?" ironically condoled the puncher.

"What I can't make out," interposed Knowles, "is how that rattler got up into Mr. Ashton's bunk."

Gowan again stared across at the tenderfoot, this time with unblinking solemnity. "Can't say, Mr. Knowles," he replied. "Except it might be that desperado guide of his came around in the night and brought him Mr. Rattler for bedfellow."

"Oh, Kid!" remonstrated Isobel. "It's not a joking matter!"

"No, you're dead right, Miss Chuckie," he agreed. "There sh.o.r.e ain't any joke about it."

"Ah, but perhaps I can make one," gayly dissented Ashton. "Had you not interfered, Miss Chuckie, the poor snake would have taken one bite, and then curled up and died. I'm so charged with nicotine, you know."

Neither Isobel nor the puncher smiled at this ancient witticism. But Knowles burst into a hearty laugh, which was caught up and reenforced by the hitherto silent haymakers.

"By--James! Ashton, you'll do!" declared the cowman, wiping his eyes.

"When a tenderfoot can let off a joke like that on himself it's a sure sign he's getting acclimated. Yes, you'll make a puncher, some day."

Ashton smiled with gratification, and looked at Isobel in eager-eyed appeal for the confirmation of the statement. She smiled and nodded.

Upon his return from his remarkable ride to town she had a.s.sured him that he need not worry. Her present kindly look and the words of her father might have been expected to remove his last doubts. Such in fact was the result for the remainder of the evening.

But that night the new employe must have given much anxious thought to the question of his future and his great need to "make good." The liveliness of his concern was shown by his behavior during the next two weeks. His zeal for work astonished Knowles quite as much as his efforts to be agreeable to his fellow employes gratified Miss Isobel.

He charmed the j.a.panese cook with his praise of the cooking, he flattered the haymakers with his interest in their opinions. Towards the girl and her father he was impeccably respectful.

Within ten days he was "Lafe" to everybody except Gowan and the j.a.p.

The latter addressed him as "Mistah Lafe"; Gowan kept to the noncommittal "Ashton." The puncher had become more taciturn than ever, but missed none of the home evenings in the parlor. He watched Ashton with catlike closeness when Isobel was present, and seemed puzzled that the interloper refrained from courting her.

"Don't savvy that tenderfoot," he remarked one day to Knowles. "All his talk about his dad being a multimillionaire--Acted like it at the start-off. Came down to this candidate-for-office way of comporting himself. It ain't natural."

"Not when he's on the same range with Chuckie?" queried the cowman, his eyes twinkling. "Why don't you ever go into Stockchute and paint the town red?"

"That's another thing," insisted Gowan. "He started in with Miss Chuckie brash as all h.e.l.l. Now he acts towards her like I feel."

"That's natural. He soon found out she's a lady."

"No, it ain't natural, Mr. Knowles--not in him, it ain't. Nor it ain't natural for him to be so all-fired polite to everybody, nor his pestering you to find work for him."

"And it's not natural for a tenderfoot to gentle a hawss like Rocket the way he's done already," rallied Knowles. "That crazy hawss follows him about like a dog."

"Yes; Ashton feeds him sugar, like he does the rest of you," rejoined the puncher. "It ain't natural in his brand of tenderfoot--Bound to ride out, if there's any riding to do; bound to fuss and stew around the corral; bound to help with the haying; bound to help haul the water; bound to practice with his rope every moment he ain't doing something else. Can't tell me there ain't a n.i.g.g.e.r in that woodpile."

"Now, don't go to hunting out any more mares' nests, Kid," admonished Knowles. "He's just a busted millionaire, that's all; and he's proving he realizes it. Guess the smash scared him. He's afraid he can't make good. Chuckie says he thinks I'll turn him adrift if he doesn't hustle enough to earn his salt."

"Why not fire him anyway? You don't need him, and you won't need him,"

argued the puncher.

"Well, he helps keep Chuckie entertained. With you and him both on the place, she might conclude to stay over the winter, this year."

Gowan's mouth straightened to a thin slit. "Better send her to Denver right off."

"Look here, Kid," reproved the cowman. "You've had your chance, and you've got it yet. I've never interfered with you, and I'm not going to with him. It's for Chuckie to pick the winner. Like as not it'll be some man in town, for all I know. She has the say. Whether he wears a derby or a sombrero, she's to have her own choice. I don't care if he's a millionaire or a busted millionaire or a bronco buster, provided he's a man, and provided I'm sure he'll treat her right."

Gowan lapsed into a sullen silence.

Mounted as before on Rocket, Ashton had already made a second trip to Stockchute for mail, returning almost as quickly as on his wild first ride. Monday of his third week at the ranch he was sent on his third trip. As before, he started at dawn. But this time he did not come racing back early enough for a belated noon meal as he had on each of the previous occasions.

By mid-afternoon Isobel began to grow uneasy. Remarkable as had been the efforts of his new rider's training, there was the not improbable chance that Rocket had reverted to his ugly tricks. She shuddered as she pictured the battered corpse of the city man dragging over the rocks and through the brush, with a foot twisted fast in one of the narrow iron stirrups.

Her father and Gowan were off on their usual work of inspecting the bunches of cattle scattered about the range. The other men were as busy as ever mowing more hay and hauling in that which was cured. She was alone at the ranch with the j.a.p. At four o'clock she saddled her best horse and rode out towards Dry Fork. She hoped to sight Ashton from the divide. But there was no sign of any horseman out on the wide stretch of sagebrush flats.

She rode down to Dry Fork, crossed over the sandy channel, and started on at a gallop along the half-beaten road that wound away through the sagebrush towards the distant Split Peak. An hour found her nearing the pinon clad hills on the far side of Dry Mesa, with still no sign of Ashton.

By this time she had worked herself into a fever of excitement and dread. Her relief was correspondingly great when at last she saw him coming towards her around the bend of the nearest hill. But his horse was walking and he was bent over in the saddle as if injured or greatly fatigued. Puzzled and again apprehensive, she urged her pony to sprinting speed.

When he heard the approaching hoofs Ashton looked up as if startled.

But he did not wave to her or raise his sombrero. As she came racing up she scrutinized his dejected figure for wounds or bruises. There was nothing to indicate that he had been either shot or thrown. His sullen look when she drew up beside him not unnaturally changed her anxiety to vexation.

"What made you so slow?" she queried. "You know how eager I am for the mail each time. You might as well have ridden your own hawss."

"It--has come," he muttered.

"What?" she demanded.

"The letter from him."

"Him?" echoed the girl, trying hard to cover her confusion with a look of surprise.

His dejection deepened as he observed her heightened color and the light in her eyes. "Yes, from him," he mumbled.

"Oh, you mean Mr. Blake, I suppose," she replied. Lightly as she spoke, she could not suppress the quiver of eagerness in her voice.

"If you will kindly give it to me now."

He drew out a letter, not from among the other mail in his pouch, but from his pocket. Her look of surprise showed that she was struck with the oddness of this. She was too excited, however, to consider what might be its meaning. She tore open the letter and read it swiftly.

Her sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks when she looked up served only to increase Ashton's gloom.