Alcatraz

THE FAILURE

Before noon Shorty, that lightweight and tireless rider, unwearied, to all appearance, by his efforts of that night, had started towards Glosterville with her letter to Perris, but it was not until the next day that she confessed what she had done to Hervey.  Certainly he had done more than his share in his effort to get back the Coles horses and she had no wish to needlessly hurt his feelings by letting him know that the business was to be taken out of his hands and given into those of a more efficient worker.  But Hervey surprised her by the complaisance with which he heard the tidings.

“Never in my life hung out a shingle as a hoss-catcher,” he assured her.  “He’s welcome to the job.  Me and the boys won’t envy him none.  It’ll be a long trail and a tolerable lonely one, most like.”

After that she settled down to wait with as great a feeling of security as though the mares were already safely back in the corral.  If he came, the death-warrant of Alcatraz was as good as signed.  But when the third day of waiting ended without bringing Shorty and Perris, as it should have done, the “if” began to assume greater proportions, and by late afternoon of the fourth day she had made up her mind that Perris was gone from Glosterville and that Shorty was on a wild goose chase after him.  So great was her gloom that even her father, usually blind to all emotions around him, delayed a moment after he had been helped into his buckboard and stared thoughtfully down at her.

The habit had grown on Oliver Jordan of late.  When the westering sun lost most of its heat and threw slant shadows and a yellow light over the mountains, Oliver would have a pair of ancient greys, patient as burros and hardly faster, hitched to a buckboard and then drive off into the evening and perhaps, long after the dinner hour.  Only foul weather kept him in from these lonely jaunts on which he never took a companion.  To Marianne they were a never-ending source of wonder and sorrow, for she saw her father slowly withdrawing himself from the life about him and dwelling in a gentle, uninterrupted melancholy.  She met his stare, on this evening, with eyes clouded with tears.

Truly he had aged wonderfully in the past years.

The accident which robbed him of his physical freedom seemed, at the same time, to destroy all spirit of youth.  Whether walking or sitting he was bowed.  His eyes were dull.  Beside his mouth and between his eyes deep lines gave a sad dignity to his expression.  And though, as his cowpunchers swore, his hand was as swift to draw a gun as ever and his eye as steady on a target, he had gradually lost interest in even his revolvers.  Indeed, what real interest remained to him in the world, Marianne was unable to tell.  He lived and moved as one in a dream surrounded by a world of dreams.  His eyes were dull from looking into the dim distance of strange thoughts, and the smile which was rarely away from his lips was rather whimsically enduring than a sign of mirth.

But as he looked down at her from the buckboard, Marianne saw his expression clear to awareness of her.  He even reached out and rested his hand on her head so that her face was tilted up to him.

“Honey,” he said, “you’re eating your heart out about something.  How come?”

“Red Perris is overdue,” she said.  “But I don’t want to bother you with my troubles, Dad.”

“Red Perris?  Who’s he?”

“Don’t you remember?  I told you how he rode Rickety.  And now I’ve sent for him to come and hunt Alcatraz—­because once that man-killing horse is dead, it will be easy to get the mares back.  And every day counts—­ every day the mares are getting wilder!”

“What mares?” Then he nodded.  “I remember.  And they ain’t nothing but that worrying you, Marianne.”

His expression of concern vanished; his glance wandered far east where the shades were already brimming the valleys.

“I’ll be getting on, then, honey.”

All at once, for pity at thought of him driving into the lonely silences, she caught his hand.  It was still lean, hard of palm, sinewy with strength of which most extreme age, indeed, would never entirely rob it.  And the touch of those strong fingers called back to her mind the picture of Oliver Jordan as he had been, a kingly man among men.  Tears came into the eyes of Marianne.

“But where are you going?” she asked him gently.  “And why do you never let me go with you, dear?”

“You?” he chuckled.  “Waste time driving out nowheres with an old codger like me?  I didn’t give you all that schooling to have you throw your life away doing things like that.  Don’t you bother about me, Marianne.  I’m just going to drift over yonder around Jackson Peak.  You see?”

“But who is there, and what is there?”

He merely rubbed his knuckles across his forehead and then shook his head.  “I dunno.  Nothing much.  It’s tolerable quiet, though.  And you get the smell of the pines the minute the trail starts climbing.  Sort of a lazy place to go, but then I’ve turned into a lazy man, honey.  Just sitting and thinking is about all I’m good for, or most like just the sitting without the thinking.  Why, Marianne, where’d you get them tears?”

She choked them back.

“I wish—­I wish—­” she began.

“That’s right,” he nodded.  “Keep right on wishing things.  That’s what I been doing lately.  And wishing things is better than doing them.  The way kids are, that’s the best way to be.  S’long, Marianne.”

She stepped back, trying valiantly to smile, and he raised a cautioning finger, chuckling:  “Look here, now, don’t you go to bothering your head about me.  Just save your worrying for this Perris gent.”

He clucked to the greys and their sudden start threw him violently against the back of the seat.

The promise of that start, however, was by no means borne out by the pace into which they immediately fell, which was a dog-trot executed with trailing hoofs that raised little wisps of dust at every stride.  She saw the lines slacken and hang loosely to every swing of the buckboard.  Had she not, ten years before, trembled at the sight of this same team dashing into the road, high-headed, eyes of fire, and the reins humming with the strength of Oliver Jordan’s pull?

The buckboard jolted slowly down the road and swung out of sight, but Marianne Jordan remained for long moments, staring after her father.  Every time they passed through one of these interviews—­and today’s talk had been longer than most—­she always felt that she had been pushed a little farther away from him.  At the very time of his life when his daughter should have become a comfort to him, Oliver Jordan withdrew himself more and more from the world, and she could not but feel that his evening drives through the silences of the hill were dearer and closer to him than his daughter.  The buckboard reappeared, lurching up a farther knoll, and then rolled out of sight to be seen no more.  And Marianne felt again, what she had often felt before, seeing her father drive away in this fashion, that some day Oliver Jordan would never come back from the hills.

A moment later half a dozen of the cowpunchers came into view with the unmistakable form of Lew Hervey in the lead.  He was a big-looking man in the saddle and he showed himself to the greatest advantage by riding rigidly erect with his head thrown a little back, so that the loose brim of his sombrero was continually in play about his face.  For all her dislike of him she could not but admit that he was the beau ideal of the fine horseman.  The dominant leader showed in every line and it was no wonder that the cowpunchers feared and respected him.  Besides, there were many tales of his prowess with rifle and revolver to make him stand out in bolder relief.

She saw the riders disappear in the direction of the corrals and then turned back towards the house.  Unquestionably it was to avoid sight of his men returning from their day’s work that Oliver Jordan usually drove off at this time of the day; it brought home to him too keenly the many times when he himself had ridden back by the side of Lew Hervey from a day of galloping in the wind; it crushed him with a sense of the impotence into which his life had fallen.  Indeed, unless some vital change came, her father must soon mourn himself into a grave.  For the first time Marianne clearly perceived this.  Oliver Jordan was wasting for grief over his lost freedom just as some youthful lover might decline because of the death of his mistress.  The shock of this perception brought Marianne to a halt.  When she looked up Shorty and Red Perris were not a hundred yards away, swinging along at a steady lope!

All sad thoughts were whisked from her mind as a gust whirls dead leaves away and shows the green grass beneath, newly growing.  How it lifted her heart to see him.  But she looked down, with a cold falling of gloom, at her blue gingham dress.  That was not as she wished to appear.  She could be in her riding costume, with the rather mannish blouse and loosely tied cravat, spurs on her boots and quirt in her hand as became the mistress and ruling force of a big ranch.  Then she received sudden and convincing proof that mere outward appearances meant nothing in the life of Red Jim Perris.  He took off his hat and swung it in greeting.  There was a white flash of his teeth as he laughed, a red flash of his amazing hair in the sunset light.  Then he was pulling up and swinging down to the ground.  He came to meet her with his hat dangling in one hand and the other extended.

Typically Western, she thought, that in their second meeting he should act like an old friend.  Delightfully Western, too!  Under his straight-glancing eyes, his open smile of pleasure, new confidence came in Marianne, new self-reliance.  The grip of his hand sent strength up her arm and into her heart.

“I’d given you up,” she admitted.

“Mighty sorry it took so long,” said Perris.  “You see, I was right in the middle of a little poker game that hung on uncommon long.  But when it finished up, me and Shorty come as fast as we could.  Eh, Shorty?”

“Huh!” grunted Shorty.  Marianne looked to her messenger for the first time.

He sat his saddle loosely, one hand falling heavily on the pommel, and his head bent.  He did not raise it to meet her glance, but rolled his eyes up in a gloomy scowl which flitted over her face and then came to a rest on the face of Red Jim Perris.  A frown of weariness puckered the brow of Shorty.  Purple, bruised places of sleeplessness surrounded his eyes.  And every line of age or worry or labor was graven more deeply on his face.

“Huh!” grunted Shorty again, mumbling his words very much like a drunkard.  “I’ve killed my Mamie hoss, that’s all!”

And with this gloomy retort, he urged the mare to a down-headed trot.  In fact, the staunch little brown mare staggered on tired legs and her sides heaved like bellows.  The grey horse of Red Jim Perris was in hardly better condition.

“I wanted you quickly,” said Marianne, a little horrified.  “But I didn’t ask you to kill your horses coming.”

“Kill ’em?” said Perris, and he cast a sharp glance of disapproval at her.  “Not much!  That hoss of mine is a pile fagged.  I aim to get her that way.  But she’ll be fit as a fiddle in the morning.  I ride her till she’s through and never a step more.  I know the minute she’s through working on muscle and starts working on her nerve, and when that time comes, I stop.  I’ve put up in the middle of nowheres to let her get back her wind.  Kill her?  Nope, lady, and the only reason Shorty’s hoss was so used up was because he plumb insisted on keeping up with us!”

And Marianne nodded.  Ordinarily such a speech would have drawn argument from her.  Indeed, her own submissiveness startled her as she found herself gently inviting the fire eater to come into the house and learn in detail the work which lay before him.