Alcatraz

THE COMING OF DAVID

Having reached this conclusion, the logical thing, of course, was for Marianne to pack and go without waiting to see the race or hear the bidding for the Coles horses; but she could not leave.  Hope is as blind as love.  She had left the ranch saying to her father and to the foreman, Lew Hervey:  “The bank account is shrinking, but ideals are worth more than facts and I shall improve the horses on this place.”  It was a rather too philosophical speech for one of her years, but Oliver Jordan had merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled another cigarette; the crushed leg which, for the past three years, had made him a cripple, had taught him patience.

Only the foreman had ventured to smile openly.  It was no secret that Lew Hervey disliked the girl heartily.  The fall of the horse which made Jordan a semi-invalid, killed his ambition and self-reliance at the same instant.  Not only was it impossible for him to ride since the accident, but the freeswinging self-confidence which had made him prosperous disappeared at the same time; his very thoughts walked slowly on foot since his fall.  Hervey gathered the reins of the ranch affairs more and more into his own hands and had grown to an almost independent power when Marianne came home from school.  Having studied music and modern languages, who could have suspected in Marianne either the desire or the will to manage a ranch, but to Marianne the necessity for following the course she took was as plain as the palm of an open hand.  The big estate, once such a money-maker, was now losing.  Her father had lost his grip and could not manage his own affairs, but who had ever heard of a hired man being called to run the Jordan business as long as there was a Jordan alive?  She, Marianne, was very much alive.  She came West and took the ranch in hand.

Her father smiled and gave her whatever authority she required; in a week the estate was hers to control.  But for all her determination and confidence, she knew that she could not master cattle-raising in a few weeks.  She was unfemininely willing to take advice.  She even hunted for it, and though her father refused to enter into the thing even with suggestions, a little help from Hervey plus her indomitable energy might have made her attempt a success.

Hervey, however, was by no means willing to help.  In fact, he was profoundly disgruntled.  He had found himself, beyond all expectation, in a position almost as absolute and dignified as that of a real owner with not the slightest interference from Jordan, when on a sudden the arrival of this pretty little dark-eyed girl submerged him again in his old role of the hired man.  He took what Marianne considered a sneaking revenge.  He entered at once upon a career of the most perfect subordination.  No fault could be found with his work.  He executed every commission with scrupulous care.  But when his advice was asked he became a sphinx.  “Some folks say one way and some another.  Speaking personal, I dunno, Miss Jordan.  You just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

This attitude irritated her so that she was several times on the verge of discharging him, but how could she turn out so old an employee and one so painstaking in the duties assigned to him?  Many a day she prayed for “a new foreman or night,” but Hervey kept his job, and in spite of her best efforts, affairs went from bad to worse and the more desperately she struggled the more hopelessly she was lost.  This affair of the horses was typical.  No doubt the saddle stock were in sad need of improved blood but this was hardly the moment to undertake such an expenditure.  Having once suggested the move, the quiet smiles of Hervey had spurred her on.  She knew the meaning of those smiles.  He was waiting till she should exhaust even the immense tolerance of her father; when she fell he would swing again into the saddle of control.  Yet she would go on and buy the mares if she could.  Hers was one of those militant spirits which, once committed, fights to the end along every line.  And indeed, if she ever contemplated surrender, if she were more than once on the verge of giving way to the tears of broken spirit, the vague, uninterested eyes of her father and the overwise smiles of Hervey were whips which sent her back into the battle.

But today, when she regained her room in the hotel, she walked up and down with the feeling that she was struggling against manifest destiny.  And in a rare burst of self-pity, she paused in front of the window, gritting her teeth to restrain a flood of tears.

A cowpuncher rocked across the blur of her vision on his pony, halted, and swung down in front of the stable across the street.  The horse staggered as the weight came out of the stirrup and that made Marianne watch with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless riding since she came West and it always angered her.  The cowpunchers used “hoss-flesh” rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot.  If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be ridden.  That was one of her maxims.  She stepped closer to the window.  Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped steadily into the dust and the reins had chafed his neck to a lather.  Marianne flashed into indignation and that, of course, made her scrutinize the rider more narrowly.  He was perfect of that type of cowboy which she detested most:  handsome, lithe, childishly vain in his dress.  About his sombrero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was blue silk; his bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible; and on his heels glittered—­gilded spurs!

“And I’ll wager,” thought the indignant Marianne, “that he hasn’t ten dollars in the world!”

He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against one hip while he surveyed his mount.  In spite of all his vainglory he was human enough to show some concern, it appeared.  He called for a bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony.  Marianne repressed a cry of warning:  a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that.  But the gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the reaching nose.

The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of the stable, only shifting from time to time to keep in shadow, passed his beard through his fist and spoke.  Every sound, even of the panting horse, came clearly to her through the open window.

“Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss.”

“Not so small,” said the rider.  “About fifteen two, I guess.”

“Measured him?”

“Never.”

“I’d say nigher onto fifteen one.”

“Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he’s fifteen two; and that’s good odds for you.”

The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.

“I’ll take that bet if—­” he began.

The rider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again.  Of course he knew the height of his own horse and it would be criminal to take the old loafer’s money, but that was his determination.

“Get a tape, son.  We’ll see.”

The stable boy disappeared in the shadow of the door and came back at once with the measure.  The grey gelding, in the meantime, had smelled the sweetness of hay and was growing restive but a sharp word from the rider jerked him up like a tug on his bit.  He tossed his head and waited, his ears flat.

“Look out, Dad,” called the rider, as he arranged the tape to fall from the withers of the horse, “this little devil’ll kick your head off quicker than a wink if he gets a chance.”

“He don’t look mean,” said the greybeard, stepping back in haste.

“I like ’em mean and I keep ’em mean,” said the other.  “A tame hoss is like a tame man and I don’t give a damn for a gent who won’t fight.”

Marianne covertly stamped.  It was so easy to convert her worries into anger at another that she was beginning to hate this brutal-minded Beau Brummel of the ranges.  Besides, she had had bitter experience with these noisy, careless fellows when they worked on her ranch.  Her foreman was such a type grown to middle-age.  Indeed her anger at the whole species called “cowpuncher” now focused to a burning-point on him of the gilded spurs.

The measuring was finished; he stepped back.

“Fifteen one and a quarter,” he announced.  “You win, Dad!”

Marianne wanted to cheer.

“You win, confound it!  And where’ll I get the mates of this pair?  You win and I’m the underdog.”

“A poor loser, too,” thought Marianne.  She was beginning to round her conception of the man; and everything she added to the picture made her dislike him the more cordially.

He had dropped on one knee in the dust and was busily loosening the spurs, paying no attention to the faint protests of the winner that he “didn’t have no use for the darned things no ways.”  And finally he drowned the protests by breaking into song in a wide-ringing baritone and tossing the spurs at the feet of the others.  He rose—­laughing—­and Marianne, with a mental wrest, rearranged one part of her preconception, yet this carelessness was only another form of the curse of the West and Westerners—­extravagance.

He turned now to a tousle-headed three-year-old boy who was wandering near, drawn by the brilliance of the stranger.

“Keep away from those heels, kiddie.  Look out, now!”

The yellow-haired boy, however, dazed by this sudden centering of attention on him, stared up at the speaker with his thumb in his mouth; and with great, frightened eyes—­he headed straight for the heels of the grey!

“Take the hoss—­” began the rider to the stable-boy.  But the stable-boy’s sudden reaching for the reins made the grey toss its head and lurch back towards the child.  Marianne caught her breath as the stranger, with mouth drawn to a thin, grim line, leaped for the youngster.  The grey lashed out with vicious haste, but that very haste spoiled his aim.  His heels whipped over the shoulder of his master as the latter scooped up the child and sprang away.  Marianne, grown sick, steadied herself against the side of the window; she had seen the brightness of steel on the driving hoofs.

A hasty group formed.  The stable boy was guiltily leading the horse through the door and around the gaudy rider came the old man, and a woman who had run from a neighboring porch, and a long-moustached giant.  But all that Marianne distinctly saw was the white, set face of the rescuer as he soothed the child in his arms; in a moment it had stopped crying and the woman received it.  It was the old man who uttered the thought of Marianne.

“That was cool, young feller, and darned quick, and a nervy thing as I ever seen.”

“Tut!” said the other, but the girl thought that his smile was a little forced.  He must have heard those metal-armed hoofs as they whirred past his head.

“There is distinctly something worth while about these Westerners, after all,” thought Marianne.

Something else was happening now.  The big man with the sandy, long moustaches was lecturing him of the gay attire.

“Nervy enough,” he began, “but you’d oughtn’t to take a hoss around where kids are, a hoss that ain’t learned to stop kicking.  It’s a fool thing to do, I say.  I seen once where—­”

He stopped, agape on his next word, for the lectured had turned on the lecturer, dropped his hands on his hips, and broke into loud laughter.

“Excuse me for laughing,” he said when he could speak, “but I didn’t see you before and—­those whiskers, partner—­those whiskers are—­”

The laughter came again, a gale of it, and Marianne found herself smiling in sympathy.  For they were odd whiskers, to be sure.  They hung straight past the corners of the mouth and then curved sabre-like out from the chin.  The sabre parts now wagged back and forth, as their owner moved his lips over words that would not come.  When speech did break out it was a raging torrent that made Marianne stop her ears with a shiver.

Looking down the street away from the storming giant and the laughing cowpuncher, she saw that other folk had come out to watch, Westernlike.  An Eastern crowd would swiftly hem the enemies in a close circle and cheer them on to battle; but these Westerners would as soon see far off as close at hand.  The most violent expression she saw was the broad grin of the blacksmith.  He was a fine specimen of laboring manhood, that blacksmith, with the sun glistening on his sweaty bald head and over his ample, soot-darkened arms.  Beside his daily work of molding iron with heat and hammer-blows, a fight between men was play; and now, with his hands on his hips, his manner was that of one relaxed in mood and ready for entertainment.

Presently he cast up his right arm and swayed to the left; then back; then rocked forward on his toes presenting two huge fists red with iron-rust and oil.  It seemed that he was engaging in battle with some airy figure before him.

That was enough of a hint to make Marianne look again towards the pair directly below her; the hat of the gaudy cowpuncher lay in the dust where it had evidently been knocked by the first poorly aimed blow of him of the moustaches, and the owner of the hat danced away at a little distance.  Marianne saw what the hat had hitherto concealed, a shock of flame-red hair, and she removed her fingers from her ears in time to hear the big man roar:  “This ain’t a dance, damn you!  Stand still and fight!”

“Nope,” laughed the other.  “It ain’t a dance.  It’s a pile more fun.  Come on you—­”

The big man obscured the last of the insulting description of his ancestry with the rush of a bull, his head lowered and his fists doing duty as horns.  Plainly the giant had only to get one blow home to end the conflict, but swift and graceful as a tongue of fire dancing along a log the red-headed man flashed to one side, and as he whirled Marianne saw that he was laughing still, drunk with the joy of battle.  Goliath roared past, thrashing the air; David swayed in with darting fists.  They closed.  They became obscure forms whirling in a fog of dust until red-head leaped out of the mist.

Goliath followed with the cloud boiling away from him, a mountain of a man above his foeman.

“It’s unfair!” shrilled Marianne.  “That great brute and—­”

Red-head darted forward, a blue clad arm flicked out.  She almost heard and felt the jar of that astonishing shock which halted Goliath in his tracks with one foot raised.  He wobbled an instant, then his great knees bent, and dropping inert on his face the dust spurted like steam under the impact.

The crowd now washed in from every side to lift him up and revive him with canteens of water, yet they were quite jovial in the midst of their work of mercy and Marianne gathered that the fall of Goliath was not altogether unwelcome to the townsmen.  She saw the bulky figure raised to a sitting posture, saw a dull-eyed face, bloody about the mouth, and looked away hastily towards the red-headed victor.

He was in the act of picking the torn fragments of his sombrero from the dust.  It had probably come in contact with the giant’s spurs as they wrestled, for the crown was literally ripped to tatters.  And when its owner beat out the dirt and placed the hat on his head, the fiery hair was still visible through the rents.  Yet he was not downhearted, it seemed.  He leaned jauntily against a hitching post under her window and rolled a cigarette, quite withdrawn from the crowd which was working over his victim.

Marianne began to feel that all she had seen was an ordinary chapter in his life; yet in the mere crossing of that street he had lost his spurs on a bet; saved a youngster from death at the risk of his own head, battled with a monster and now rolled a cigarette cheerily complacent.  If fifty feet of his life made such a story what must a year of it be?

As though he felt her wonder above him, he raised his head in the act of lighting his cigarette and Marianne was looking down into bright, whimsical blue eyes.  She was utterly unconscious of it at the moment but at the sight of that happy face and all the dust-dimmed finery of the cavalier, Marianne involuntarily smiled.  She knew what she had done the moment he grinned in response and began to whistle, and whistle he did, keeping the rhythm with the sway of his head: 

  “At the end of the trail I’ll be weary riding
  But Mary will wait with a smile at the door;
  The spurs and the bit had been chinking and chiding
  But the end of the trail—­”

Marianne stepped back from the window with the blood tingling in her face.  She was terribly ashamed, for some reason, because she knew the words of that song.

“A cowpuncher—­actually whistling at me!” she muttered, “I’ve never known a red-headed man who wasn’t insolent!”

The whistling died out, a clear-ringing baritone began a new air: 

  “Oh, father, father William, I’ve seen your daughter dear. 
  Will you trade her for the brindled cow and the yellow steer? 
  And I’ll throw in my riding boots and….”

Marianne slammed down the window.  A moment later she was horrified to find herself smiling.