The Range Boss Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  A MAN AND HIS JOB

  Just what Ruth's sensations were the next morning she could not havetold. She could correctly analyze one emotion: it was eager anticipation.Also, she could account for it--she wanted to see Randerson. But herreason for wanting to see him was a mystery that she could not fathom,though between the time of arising and the moment when she got downstairsshe devoted much thought to it. She knew she did not like Randerson wellenough to wish to see him merely on that account--that was ridiculous, inspite of the vivid recollection of him that still lingered with her, forshe had met him only once, and she assured herself that she was toopractical-minded to fall in love with anyone at first sight. Yet byafternoon Ruth had tired of waiting; she had no special reason forcertainty that Randerson would arrive that day, and so she went riding.She went alone, for Masten seemed to have hidden himself--at least, shecould not find him. She rode to the break in the wall of the canyon thathe had told her about, found it, sent her pony through it and over ashallow crossing, emerging at length in a tangle of undergrowth in a woodthrough which wound a narrow bridle path. She followed this for somedistance, and after a while came to a clearing. A little adobe housestood near the center of the clearing. Ruth halted her pony, and wasdebating whether to call out or to ride boldly up, when a dog came out ofthe door of the cabin, growling, its hair bristling belligerently. Thedog was big, black, and undoubtedly savage, for the pony instantlywheeled, and when the dog came closer, lashed out with both hind hoofs atit.

  "Nig, you ol' duffer, git in hyeh where you b'long! Can't you see thatthat there's a _lady!_" came a voice, unmistakably feminine. And the dog,still growling, but submissive, drew off.

  Ruth urged the pony on and rode the remaining distance to the door. Agirl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of somecheckered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too smallfor her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, herhair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had beencombed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean,though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, inspite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strangemixture of admiration and defiance.

  "Dad ain't hyeh this mornin'," she volunteered as Ruth climbed off herpony.

  "I came to see you," said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over thepony's head and advanced, holding out a hand. "I am Ruth Harkness," sheadded, "the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month,and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?"

  "I reckon," said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth totake her hand. But she drew it away immediately. "I've heard of you," shesaid; "you're a niece of that ol' devil, Bill Harkness." She frowned. "Hewas always sayin' dad was hookin' his doggoned cattle. Dad didn't steal'em--ol' Bill Harkness was a liar!" Her eyes glowed fiercely. "I reckonyou'll be sayin' the same thing about dad."

  "No indeed!" declared Ruth. "Your dad and I are going to be friends. Iwant to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad withstealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. Iwant to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W andget acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren't you going to invite meinside? I would if you came to visit me, you know." She smiled winningly.

  The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which,Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished butclean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near arough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her handshanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the raggedapron. Her belligerence had departed; she seemed now to be beginning torealize that this visit was really meant to honor her, and she grewconscious of her rags, of the visible signs of poverty, of the visitor'sraiment, gorgeous in comparison with her own--though Ruth's was merely asimple riding habit of brown corduroy.

  Ruth had set out for this visit with a definite intention: she wanted todiscover just how the girl and her father lived, and if conditions wereas she suspected she was determined to help them. Conditions were worsethan she had expected, but her face gave no indication. Perhaps Ruth'swisdom was not remarkable where men were concerned, but she had a wealthof delicacy, understanding and sympathy where her own sex was inquestion. She stayed at the cabin for more than an hour and at the end ofthat time she emerged, smiling happily, her arm around the girl, with thegirl's pledge to visit her soon and an earnest invitation to come again.Best of all, she had cleverly played upon the feminine instinct for fineraiment, slyly mentioned a trunk that she had brought with her from theEast, packed to the top with substantial finery which was not in theleast needed by her--an incumbrance, rather--and which, she hinted, mightbecome the property of another, if suitable in size.

  The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside thepony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of boththat gave promise of future sincere friendship.

  "Good-bye, Hagar," said the Flying W girl.

  "Good-bye, lady," said the girl. "Ruth," she changed, as the Flying Wgirl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruthrode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in hereyes.

  Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rodefirst to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of thebuildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, haltedhim at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at thefront door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepsoncame out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson's face.

  "I cal'late you've got here," he said.

  "Looks mighty like it," returned the horseman. "You reckon my new boss isanywheres around?"

  "She's gone off ridin'," Uncle Jepson told him. "It's likely she'll beback shortly."

  "I reckon I'd better wait," said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.

  "There's plenty of sittin' room on the porch here," invited Uncle Jepson,indicating the chairs.

  "Thank you--reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters."

  He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patcheshalted:

  "I cal'late you'd better wait here."

  "If you insist," said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge ofthe porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between themwas warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of theplains; and the twinkle in Randerson's eyes as his met Uncle Jepson's wasnot to be mistaken.

  "So Vickers has gone," said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. "He's amighty fine man."

  "Willard wanted Chavis to have his job," whispered Uncle Jepson.

  "You don't say!" Randerson's eyes gleamed. "An' Miss Ruth didn't wanthim, I reckon." He caught Uncle Jepson's nod. "She's allowin' that she'sgoin' to be boss. But of course she would," he added. He stood up, forAunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him.He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with somethingnear affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. Hestepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and mostcomfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she lookedup at him and smiled.

  "I reckon you like it here?" he said gently to Aunt Martha.

  "I like it very much. But there are differences--after Poughkeepsie. Onedoesn't notice them so much at first."

  "I expect you find it sort of rough here," he said, looking at her. "Theytell me that in the East folks live pretty close together--that there'sconveniences. There ain't a heap of conveniences here." He pronounced theword slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put onhis best manners.

  "No--no conveniences," said Aunt Martha. "But it's a wonderful country,my boy--wonderful!"

  A pulse of something shot through him at the word, "boy." br />
  "I'm glad you like it," he said gravely.

  Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over therims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. Forshe saw something in this figure of a new type that sat beforeher--something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at--norhis leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, thehigh-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were thebadges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she sawthem not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quietfearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterlinghonesty that radiated from him, she saw--and admired. But above all shesaw the boy in him--the generous impulses that lay behind his mask ofgrimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.

  "You were born here?" she asked.

  "In Colfax, ma'am."

  "Is that a city?"

  "Bless yu', ma'am, no. It's a county."

  "And you were born on a ranch, then."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, andhe was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem animpertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deepwas his admiration of her.

  "And your parents?"

  "Both dead, ma'am." A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, andshe abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruthcoming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held thescreen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted hisbare head.

  "If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you," she said.

  He blushed crimson. "Why, ma'am--" he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in,and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.

  "Oh!" she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though shehad seen him from afar, "you are here already!"

  "I expect it's me, ma'am," he said gravely. "You see, Wes Vickers stoppedat the Diamond H last evenin', an' I come right over."

  It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longerwas he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty toexchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had beengiven a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to stepover that line, and his manner showed it.

  "Well," she said, "I am glad you decided to come right away; we missVickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation,that you will be able to fill his place acceptably."

  "Thank you, ma'am. I reckon I'm to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?"He paused. "Or mebbe the foreman's shanty?"

  "Why," she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, sostrikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day."Why, I don't know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and Isuppose you will stay here too."

  "All right, ma'am; I'll be takin' my war-bag in." He was evidentlyfeeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. Hegot his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shoulderedit, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth's voicestopped him.

  "Oh," she said, "your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in thenorthwest corner."

  "Thank you, ma'am." He went in.

  "Come down when you have straightened around," she called to him, "I wantto talk with you about some things."

  "I'll have to put Patches away, ma'am," he said, "I'd sure have to comedown, anyway."

  That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smokinghis pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle offPatches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talkand smoke with Uncle Jepson.

  While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside waslighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door.Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.

  "One of the boys, I reckon," said Randerson.

  Uncle Jepson chuckled. "It's Willard," he said. He peered intoRanderson's face for some signs of emotion. There were none.

  "I'd clean forgot him," said Randerson.

  Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson,but ignored Randerson.

  Supper was announced soon after Masten's entrance, and Uncle Jepson ledRanderson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tinwashbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury,and then led the new range boss inside.

  If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Mastenand the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson'smanner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign didhe indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity.

  Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find hisconduct faultless. He had not Masten's polish, of course, that was not tobe expected. But she noticed this--it was quickly impressed upon her--hewas not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy graceof movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemedto relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene.And last--the knowledge pleased her more than anything else--he continuedto keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he madethem see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It washis job to be here, and he had no illusions.