The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (fastest ebook reader .TXT) 📖

him as not one of them. Some

believed him lazy; others believed him shiftless; others

thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and there were

many who called him slow-witted. Then there was another side

to their regard for him, which always afforded him

good-natured amusement. Two of this group asked him to bring

in some turkey or venison; another wanted to hunt with him.

Lem Harden came out of the store and appealed to Dale to

recover his stolen horse. Lem’s brother wanted a

wild-running mare tracked and brought home. Jesse Lyons

wanted a colt broken, and broken with patience, not

violence, as was the method of the hard-riding boys at Pine.

So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfish needs,

all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures.

And on the moment there happened by two women whose remarks,

as they entered the store, bore strong testimony to Dale’s

personality.

 

“If there ain’t Milt Dale!” exclaimed the older of the two.

“How lucky! My cow’s sick, an’ the men are no good

doctorin’. I’ll jest ask Milt over.”

 

“No one like Milt!” responded the other woman, heartily.

 

“Good day there — you Milt Dale!” called the first speaker.

“When you git away from these lazy men come over.”

 

Dale never refused a service, and that was why his

infrequent visits to Pine were wont to be prolonged beyond

his own pleasure.

 

Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to

enter the store he espied Dale.

 

“Hullo there, Milt!” he called, cordially, as he came

forward with extended hand. His greeting was sincere, but

the lightning glance he shot over Dale was not born of his

pleasure. Seen in daylight, Beasley was a big, bold, bluff

man, with strong, dark features. His aggressive presence

suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.

 

Dale shook hands with him.

 

“How are you, Beasley?”

 

“Ain’t complainin’, Milt, though I got more work than I can

rustle. Reckon you wouldn’t take a job bossin’ my

sheep-herders?”

 

“Reckon I wouldn’t,” replied Dale. “Thanks all the same.”

 

“What’s goin’ on up in the woods?”

 

“Plenty of turkey an’ deer. Lots of bear, too. The Indians

have worked back on the south side early this fall. But I

reckon winter will come late an’ be mild.”

 

“Good! An’ where ‘re you headin’ from?”

 

“‘Cross-country from my camp,” replied Dale, rather

evasively.

 

“Your camp! Nobody ever found that yet,” declared Beasley,

gruffly.

 

“It’s up there,” said Dale.

 

“Reckon you’ve got that cougar chained in your cabin door?”

queried Beasley, and there was a barely distinguishable

shudder of his muscular frame. Also the pupils dilated in

his hard brown eyes.

 

“Tom ain’t chained. An’ I haven’t no cabin, Beasley.”

 

“You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp

without bein’ hog-tied or corralled!” demanded Beasley.

 

“Sure he does.”

 

“Beats me! But, then, I’m queer on cougars. Have had many a

cougar trail me at night. Ain’t sayin’ I was scared. But I

don’t care for that brand of varmint… . Milt, you goin’

to stay down awhile?”

 

“Yes, I’ll hang around some.”

 

“Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old

huntin’ pards of yours are workin’ for me.”

 

“Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I’ll come over.”

 

Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with an

after-thought, he wheeled again.

 

“Suppose you’ve heard about old Al Auchincloss bein’ near

petered out?” queried Beasley. A strong, ponderous cast of

thought seemed to emanate from his features. Dale divined

that Beasley’s next step would be to further his advancement

by some word or hint.

 

“Widow Cass was tellin’ me all the news. Too bad about old

Al,” replied Dale.

 

“Sure is. He’s done for. An’ I’m sorry — though Al’s never

been square —”

 

“Beasley,” interrupted Dale, quickly, “you can’t say that to

me. Al Auchincloss always was the whitest an’ squarest man

in this sheep country.”

 

Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.

 

“Dale, what you think ain’t goin’ to influence feelin’ on

this range,” returned Beasley, deliberately. “You live in

the woods an’ —”

 

“Reckon livin’ in the woods I might think — an’ know a

whole lot,” interposed Dale, just as deliberately. The group

of men exchanged surprised glances. This was Milt Dale in

different aspect. And Beasley did not conceal a puzzled

surprise.

 

“About what — now?” he asked, bluntly.

 

“Why, about what’s goin’ on in Pine,” replied Dale.

 

Some of the men laughed.

 

“Shore lots goin’ on — an’ no mistake,” put in Lem Harden.

 

Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt

Dale as a responsible person; certainly never one in any way

to cross his trail. But on the instant, perhaps, some

instinct was born, or he divined an antagonism in Dale that

was both surprising and perplexing.

 

“Dale, I’ve differences with Al Auchincloss — have had them

for years,” said Beasley. “Much of what he owns is mine. An’

it’s goin’ to come to me. Now I reckon people will be takin’

sides — some for me an’ some for Al. Most are for me… .

Where do you stand? Al Auchincloss never had no use for you,

an’ besides he’s a dyin’ man. Are you goin’ on his side?”

 

“Yes, I reckon I am.”

 

“Wal, I’m glad you’ve declared yourself,” rejoined Beasley,

shortly, and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man

who would brush any obstacle from his path.

 

“Milt, thet’s bad — makin’ Beasley sore at you,” said Lem

Harden. “He’s on the way to boss this outfit.”

 

“He’s sure goin’ to step into Al’s boots,” said another.

 

“Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al,”

declared Lem’s brother.

 

Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down

the road. The burden of what he knew about Beasley weighed

less heavily upon him, and the close-lipped course he had

decided upon appeared wisest. He needed to think before

undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to that end

he sought an hour’s seclusion under the pines.