Square Deal Sanderson Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  SANDERSON LIES

  Sanderson did not sleep. He sat at the window all afternoon, dismallytrying to devise way of escape from the dilemma. He did not succeed.He had gone too far now to make a confession sound reasonablyconvincing; and he could not desert the girl to Dale. That was not tobe thought of. And he was certain that if he admitted the deception,the girl would banish him as though he were a pestilence.

  He was hopelessly entangled. And yet, continuing to ponder thesituation, he saw that he need not completely yield to pessimism. Forthough circumstances--and his own lack of foresight--had placed him ina contemptible position--he need not act the blackguard. On thecontrary, he could admirably assume the role of protector.

  The position would not be without its difficulties, and the deceptionmeant that he could never be to Mary Bransford what he wanted to be toher; but he could at least save the Double A for her. That done, andhis confession made, he could go on his way, satisfied that he had atleast beaten Dale.

  His decision made, Sanderson got up, opened the door a trifle, andlooked into the sitting-room. It was almost dusk, and, judging fromthe sounds that reached his ears from the direction of the kitchen,Mary intended to keep her promise regarding "supper."

  Feeling guilty, though grimly determined to continue the deception tothe end--whatever the end might be--Sanderson stole through thesitting-room, out through the door leading to the porch, and made hisway to a shed lean-to back of the kitchen.

  There he found a tin washbasin, some water, and a towel, and for tenminutes he worked with them. Then he discovered a comb, and a brokenbit of mirror fixed to the wall of the lean-to, before which he combedhis hair and studied his reflection. He noted the unusual flush on hischeeks, but grinned brazenly into the glass.

  "I'm sure some flustered," he told his reflection.

  Arrayed for a second inspection by Mary Bransford, Sanderson stood fora long time at the door of the lean-to, trying to screw up his courageto the point of confronting the girl.

  He succeeded finally, and walked slowly to the outside kitchen door,where he stood, looking in at Mary.

  The girl was working over the stove, from which, floating to thedoorway where Sanderson stood, came various delicious odors.

  Mary was arrayed in a neat-fitting house dress of some soft printmaterial, with a huge apron over it. Her sleeves were rolled slightlyabove the elbows; her face was flushed, and when she turned and sawSanderson her eyes grew very bright.

  "Oh," she said; "you are up! I was just thinking of calling you!" Sheran to him, threw her arms around him, and, in spite of his efforts toevade her, she kissed him first on one cheek and then on the other.

  Noting his reluctance she stepped back and looked reprovingly at him.

  "You seem so distant, Will. And I am so glad to see you!"

  "I ain't used to bein' kissed, I expect."

  "But--by your sister!"

  He reddened. "I ain't seen you for a long time, you know. Give metime, an' mebbe I'll get used to it."

  "I hope so," she smiled. "I should feel lost if I could not kiss mybrother. You have washed, too!" she added, noting his glowing face andhis freshly combed hair.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Mary!" she corrected.

  "Mary," grinned Sanderson.

  Mary turned to the stove. "You go out and find a chair on the porch,"she directed, over her shoulder. "I'll have supper ready in a jiffy.It's too hot for you in here."

  Sanderson obeyed. From the deeply crimson hue of his face it wasapparent that the heat of the kitchen had affected him. That, atleast, must have been the reason Mary had ordered him away. His face_felt_ hot.

  He found a chair on the porch, and he sank into it, feeling like acriminal. There was a certain humor in the situation. Sanderson feltit, but could not appreciate it, and he sat, hunched forward, staringglumly into the dusk that had settled over the basin.

  He had been sitting on the porch for some minutes when he became awareof a figure near him, and he turned slowly to see the little, anemicman standing not far away.

  "Cooling off?" suggested the little man.

  Sanderson straightened. "How in hell do you know I'm hot?" he demandedgruffly.

  The little man grinned. "There's signs. Your face looks like you'dhad it in an oven. Now, don't lose your temper; I didn't mean tooffend you."

  The little man's voice was placative; his manner gravely ingratiating.Yet Sanderson divined that the other was inwardly laughing at him.Why? Sanderson did not know. He was aware that he must seem awkwardin the role of brother, and he suspected that the little man hadnoticed it; possibly the little man was one of those keen-witted andhumorously inclined persons who find amusement in the incongruous.

  There was certainly humor in the man's face, in the glint of his eyes,and in the curve of his lips. His face was seamed and wrinkled; hisears were big and prominent, the tips bending outward under the brim ofa felt hat that was too large for him; his mouth was large, andSanderson's impression of it was that it could not be closed far enoughto conceal all the teeth, but that the lips were continually trying tostretch far enough to accomplish the feat.

  Sanderson was certain it was that continual effort of the muscles ofthe lips that gave to his mouth its humorous expression.

  The man was not over five feet and two or three inches tall, andcrowning his slender body was a head that was entirely out ofproportion to the rest of him. He was not repulsive-looking, however,and a glance at his eyes convinced Sanderson that anything Providencehad taken from his body had been added, by way of compensation, to hisintellect.

  Sanderson found it hard to resent the man's seeming impertinence. Hegrinned reluctantly at him.

  "Did I tell you you'd hurt my feelin's?" he inquired. "What oven doyou think I had my head in?"

  "I didn't say," grinned the little man. "There's places that arehotter than an oven. And if a man has never been a wolf with women, itmight be expected that he'd feel sort of warm to be kissed and fussedover by a sister he's not seen for a good many years. He'd seem like astranger to her--almost."

  Sanderson's eyes glowed with a new interest in the little man.

  "How did you know I wasn't a wolf with women?"

  "Shucks," said the other; "you're bashful, and you don't run to vanity.Any fool could see that."

  "I ain't been introduced to you--regular," said Sanderson, "but youseem to be a heap long on common sense, an' I'd be glad to know you.What did you say your name was?"

  "Barney Owen."

  "What you doin' at the Double A? You ought be herd-ridin' scholars ina district schoolhouse."

  "Missed my calling," grinned the other. "I got to know too much toteach school, but didn't know enough to let John Barleycorn alone. I'ma drifter, sort of. Been roaming around the north country. Struck thebasin about three weeks ago. Miss Bransford was needing men--herfather--yours, too, of course--having passed out rather sudden. I waswanting work mighty had, and Miss Bransford took me on because I wasbig enough to do the work of half a dozen men."

  His face grew grave. Sanderson understood. Miss Bransford had hiredOwen out of pity. Sanderson did not answer.

  The little man's face worked strangely, and his eyes glowed.

  "If you hadn't come when you did, I would have earned my keep, and AlvaDale would be where he wouldn't bother Miss Bransford any more," hesaid.

  Sanderson straightened. "You'd have shot him, you mean?"

  Owen did not speak, merely nodding his head.

  Sanderson smiled. "Then I'm sort of sorry come when I did. But do youthink shootin' Dale would have ended it?"

  "No; Dale has friends." Owen leaned toward Sanderson, his face workingwith passion. "I hate Dale," he said hoarsely. "I hate him worse thanI hate any snake that I ever saw. I hadn't been here two days when hesneered at me and called me a freak. I'll kill him--some day. Yourcoming has merely delayed the time. But before he dies I want to seehim
beaten at this game he's tryin' to work on Miss Bransford. AndI'll kill any man that tries to give Miss Bransford the worst of it.

  "You've got a fight on your hands. I know Dale and his gang, andthey'll make things mighty interesting for you and Miss Bransford. ButI'll help you, if you say the word. I'm not much for looks--as you cansee--but I can sling a gun with any man I've ever met.

  "I'd have tried to fight Dale alone--for Miss Bransford's sake--but Irealize that things are against me. I haven't the size, and I haven'tthe nerve to take the initiative. Besides, I drink. I get riotouslydrunk. I can't help it. I can't depend on myself. But I can helpyou, and I will."

  The man's earnestness was genuine, and though Sanderson had littleconfidence in the other's ability to take a large part in what was tocome, he respected the spirit that had prompted the offer. So hereached out and took the man's hand.

  "Any man that feels as strongly as you do can do a heap--at anything,"he said. "We'll call it a deal. But you're under my orders."

  "Yes," returned Owen, gripping the hand held out to him.

  "Will!" came Mary's voice from the kitchen, "supper is ready!"

  Owen laughed lowly, dropped Sanderson's hand, and slipped away into thegrowing darkness.

  Sanderson got up and faced the kitchen door, hesitating, reluctantagain to face the girl and to continue the deception. Necessity drovehim to the door, however, and when he reached it, he saw Mary standingnear the center of the kitchen, waiting for him.

  "I don't believe you are hungry at all!" she declared, looking keenlyat him. "And do you know, I think you blush more easily than any man Iever saw. But don't let that bother you," she added, laughing;"blushes become you. Will," she went on, tenderly pressing his arm asshe led him through a door into the dining-room, "you are awfullygood-looking!"

  "You'll have me gettin' a swelled head if you go to talkin' like that,"he said, without looking at her.

  "Oh, no; you couldn't be vain if you tried. None of the Bransfordswere ever vain--or conceited. But they all have had good appetites,"she told him, shaking a finger at him. "And if you don't eat heartilyI shall believe your long absence from home has taken some of theBransford out of you!"

  She pulled a chair out for aim, and took another at the table oppositehim.

  Sanderson ate; there was no way out of it, though he felt awkward anduncomfortable. He kept wondering what she would say to him if she knewthe truth. It seemed to him that had the girl looked closely at himshe might have seen the guilt in his eyes.

  But apparently she was not thinking of doubting him--it was thatknowledge which made Sanderson realize how contemptible was the part hewas playing. She had accepted him on trust, without question, with theimplicit and matter-of-fact faith of a child.

  He listened in silence while she told him many things about theBransfords--incidents that had occurred during his supposed absence,intimate little happenings that he had no right to hear. And he sat,silently eating, unable to interrupt, feeling more guilty anddespicable all the time.

  But he broke in after a time, gruffly:

  "What's the trouble between Dale and the Nylands?"

  Instantly she stiffened. "I forgot to tell you about that. Ben Nylandis a nester. He has a quarter-section of land on the northwestern edgeof the basin. But he hasn't proved on it. The land adjoins Dale's.Dale wants it--he has always wanted it. And he means to have it. Healso wants Peggy Nyland.

  "Dale is a beast! You heard Peggy tell how he has hounded her. It istrue; she has told me about it more than once. Dale hasn't told, ofcourse; but it is my opinion that Dale put the Double A cattle intoBen's corral so that he could hang Ben. With Ben out of the way hecould take the Nyland property--and Peggy, too."

  "Why did he use Double A cattle?"

  Mary paled. "Don't you see the hideous humor of that? He knows PeggyNyland and I are friends. Dale is ruthless and subtle. Can't youunderstand how a man of that type would enjoy seeing me send myfriend's brother to his death--and the brother innocent?"

  "Why didn't you tell Dale the cattle did not belong to you?"

  Mary smiled faintly. "I couldn't. To do so would have involved BenNyland in more trouble. Dale would have got one of his friends toclaim them. And then I could have done nothing--having disclaimed theownership of the stock. And I--I couldn't lie. And, besides, I kepthoping that something would happen. I had a premonition that something_would_ happen. And something did happen--you came!"

  "Yes," said Sanderson inanely, "I came."

  He drew a large red handkerchief from a pocket and mopped some hugebeads of sweat from his face and forehead. When the handkerchief cameout a sheet of paper, folded and crumpled, fluttered toward the floor,describing an eccentric circle and landing within a foot of Mary's feet.

  The girl saw that Sanderson had not noticed the loss of the paper, andshe stooped and recovered it. She held it in a hand while Sandersoncontinued to wipe the perspiration from his face, and noting that hewas busily engaged she smoothed the paper on the table in front of herand peered mischievously at it. And then, her curiosity conqueringher, she read, for the writing on the paper was strangely familiar.

  Sanderson having restored the handkerchief to its pocket, noticedMary's start, and saw her look at him, her eyes wide and perplexed.

  "Why, Will, where did you get this?" she inquired, sitting very erect.

  "Mebbe if you'd tell me what it is I could help you out," he grinned.

  "Why, it's a letter father wrote to a man in Tombstone, Arizona. Seehere! Father's name is signed to it! I saw father write it. Why, Irode over to Dry Bottom and mailed it! This man had written to fathera long time before, asking for a job. I have his letter somewhere. Itwas the oddest letter! It was positively a gem of formality. I canremember every word of it, for I must have read it a dozen times. Itran:

  "DEAR SIR:

  "The undersigned has been at the location noted below for a term ofyears and desires to make a change. If you have an opening for a goodall-around man, the undersigned would be willing to work for you. Ifyou would want a recommendation, you can address Amos Burroughs, of thePig-Pen Ranch, near Tombstone, where the undersigned is employed.

  "Yours truly,

  "DEAL SANDERSON."

  Mary leaned forward in her chair and looked at Sanderson with eager,questioning eyes. Sanderson stared vacantly back at her.

  She held the letter up to him. "This is father's answer, telling theman to come on. How on earth did you get hold of it?"

  Sanderson had slumped down in his chair. He saw discovery and disgracein prospect. In the total stoppage of his thoughts no way of escape orevasion suggested itself. At the outset he was to be exposed as amiserable impostor.

  He groaned, grinned vacuously at Mary, and again produced thehandkerchief, wiping away drops of perspiration that were twice as bigas those he had previously mopped off.

  Mary continued to stare at him, repeating the question: "How did youget it?"

  Sanderson's composure began to return; his grin grew wider and moreintelligent, and at the sixth repetition of Mary's question heanswered, boldly:

  "I wasn't goin' to tell you about that. You see, ma'am----"

  "Mary!"

  "You see, Mary, I was goin' to fool Brans--dad. I wrote, askin' himfor the job, an' I was intendin' to come on, to surprise him. Butbefore I told him who I was, I was goin' to feel him out, an' find outwhat he thought of me. Then I got your letter, tellin' me he was dead,an' so there wasn't any more use of tryin' to fool him."

  "But that name, 'Sanderson?' That isn't your name, Will!"

  "It was," he grinned. "When I left home I didn't want anybody to berunnin' into me an' recognizin' me, so I changed it to Sanderson. DealSanderson."

  The girl's expression changed to delight; she sat erect and clapped herhands.

  "Oh," she said, "I wish father was here to listen to this! He thoughtall along that you were going to turn out bad. If he only kne
w! Will,you don't mean to tell me that you are the Sanderson that we all knowof here--that nearly everybody in the country has heard about; the manwho is called 'Square Deal' Sanderson by all his friends--and even byhis enemies--because of his determination to do right--and to makeeveryone else do right too!"

  Again Sanderson resorted to the handkerchief.

  "I don't reckon they've talked about me that strong," he said.

  "But they have! Oh, I'm so happy, Will. Why, when Dale hears about ithe'll be positively venomous--and scared. I don't think he will botherthe Double A again--after he hears of it!"

  But Sanderson merely smirked mirthlessly; he saw no reason for beingjoyful over the lie he had told. He was getting deeper and deeper intothe mire of deceit and prevarication, and there seemed to be no escape.

  And now, when he had committed himself, he realized that he might haveevaded it all, this last lie at least, by telling Mary that he hadpicked the note up on the desert, or anywhere, for that matter, and shewould have been forced to believe him.

  He kept her away from him, fending off her caresses with a pretense ofslight indisposition until suddenly panic-stricken over insistence, hetold her he was going to bed, bolted into the room, locked the doorbehind him, and sat long in the darkness and the heat, filling the roomwith a profane appreciation of himself as a double-dyed fool who couldnot even lie intelligently.