The Range Boss by Charles Alden Seltzer (reader novel .TXT) 📖

received lessons in hair-dressing, and her brown, wavy tresses were just obstinate enough, through long neglect, to refuse to yield fully to the influence of comb and brush; they bulged under the brim of the soft hat, and some stray wisps persisted in blowing over her face.

She had just taken leave of Ruth who, at the instant Randerson stepped on the porch, was standing inside the doorway, watching her. She had given the girl a trinket that had long been coveted by her, and Hagar’s eyes were bright with delight as she took leave of her friend. They grew even brighter when she saw Randerson on the porch, and a swift color suffused her face.

The girl stood still, looking at the range boss. A sudden whim to discover if he recognized her, took possession of her—for she had known him long and he had been a friend to her father when friends were few; she stood looking straight at him.

He gave her one quick, penetrating glance, and then stepped back, astonishment and recognition in his eyes. Then he took a quick step forward and seized her hands, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes leaping in admiration.

“Why, if it ain’t Hagar Catherson!” he said, wonder in his voice. “Have you just got out of a fairy book?”

Old friendship was speaking here; Ruth could not fail to understand that.

But he had not yet finished. “Why, I reckon—” he began. And then he saw Ruth, and his lips wreathed in a delighted grin. “You’re the fairy, ma’am.” And then he sobered. “Shucks. I’m talkin’ nonsense, ma’am. I’ve come to tell you that the grass ain’t what it ought to be where we’ve been, an’ tomorrow we’re drivin’ past here to go down the river.” He was still holding Hagar’s hands, and now he seemed to realize that perhaps he had been too effusive, and he flushed and dropped them. “You was just goin’, I reckon,” he said to the girl. And at her nod, and a quick, pleased glance from her eyes, he added: “Tell your dad that I’m comin’ over to see him, pretty soon. I’d have been over before, but I’ve been sort of busy.”

“We’ve been a-hopin’ you’d come,” answered Hagar. And with another smile at Ruth she stepped off the porch and mounted her pony.

Randerson went directly to his room, and Ruth stood for a long time at the door, watching Hagar as she rode her pony over the plains. There was a queer sensation of resentment in her breast over this exhibition of friendship; she had never thought of them knowing each other. She smiled after a while, however, telling herself that it was nothing to her. But the next time that she saw Hagar she ascertained her age. It was seventeen.

The outfit came in the next morning—fourteen punchers, the horse-wrangler having trouble as usual with the remuda, the cook, Chavis, and Pickett. They veered the herd toward the river and drove it past the ranchhouse and into a grass level that stretched for miles. It was near noon when the chuck wagon came to a halt near the bunkhouse door, and from the porch of her house Ruth witnessed a scene that she had been anticipating since her first day in the West—a group of cowboys at play.

Did these men of the plains know that their new boss had been wanting to see them in their unrestrained moments? They acted like boys—more mischievous than boys in their most frolicsome moods. Their movements were grotesque, their gestures extravagant, their talk high-pitched and flavored with a dialect that Ruth had never heard. They were “showing off”; the girl knew that. But she also knew that in their actions was much of earnestness, that an excess of vigor filled them. They were like their horses which now unleashed in the corral were running, neighing, kicking up their heels in their momentary delight of freedom.

The girl understood and sympathized with them, but she caught a glimpse of Chavis and Pickett, sitting close together on a bench at the front of the messhouse, talking seriously, and a cloud came over her face. These two men were not light-hearted as the others. What was the reason? When she went into the house a few minutes later, a premonition of impending trouble assailed her and would not be dismissed.

She helped Aunt Martha in the kitchen. Uncle Jepson had gone away—“nosin’ around,” he had said; Masten had ridden away toward the river some time before—he had seemed to ride toward the break in the canyon which led to the Catherson cabin; she did not know where Randerson had gone—had not seen him for hours.

Hilarious laughter reached her, busy in the kitchen, but it did not banish the peculiar uneasiness that afflicted her. And some time later, when the laughter ceased and she went to the window and looked out, the cowboys had vanished. They had gone in to dinner. But Chavis and Pickett still sat on their bench, talking. Ruth shivered and turned from the window.

She was in better spirits shortly after dinner, and went out to the stable to look at her pony. Because of the coming of the remuda she had thought it best to take her pony from the corral, for she feared that in company with the other horses her own animal would return to those ungentle habits which she disliked.

She fed it from some grain in a bin, carried some water in a pail from the trough at the windmill, and stood at the pony’s head for some time, watching it. Just as she was about to turn to leave the stable, she felt the interior darken, and she wheeled quickly to see that the door had closed, and that Jim Pickett stood before it, grinning at her.

For a moment her knees shook, for she could not fail to interpret the expression of his face, then she heard a gale of laughter from the direction of the bunkhouse, and felt reassured. But while she stood, she heard the sounds of the laughter growing gradually indistinct and distant, and she gulped hard. For she knew that the cowboys were riding away—no doubt to join the herd.

She pretended to be interested in the pony, and stroked its mane with a hand that trembled, delaying to move in the hope that she might be mistaken in her fears and that Pickett would go away. But Pickett did not move. Glancing at him furtively, she saw that the grin was still on his face and that he was watching her narrowly. Then, finding that he seemed determined to stay, she pretended unconcern and faced him, meeting his gaze fearlessly.

“Is there something that you wanted to talk to me about, Pickett?” she questioned.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said respectfully, though his voice seemed slightly hoarse, “I’ve got a letter here which I want you to read to me—I just can’t sorta make out the writin’.”

She almost sighed with relief. Leaving the stall she went to Pickett’s side and took from his hand a paper that he held out to her. And now, in her relief over her discovery that his intentions were not evil, it suddenly dawned on her that she had forgotten that the door was closed.

“It is dark here,” she said; “open the door, please.”

Instead of answering, he seized the hand holding the paper, and with a swift pull tried to draw her toward him. But her muscles had been tensed with the second fear that had taken possession of her, and she resisted—almost broke away from him. His fingers slipped from her wrist, the nails scratching the flesh deeply, and she sprang toward the door. But he was upon her instantly, his arms around her, pinning her own to her sides, and then he squeezed her to him, so tightly that the breath almost left her body, and kissed her three or four times full on the lips. Then, still holding her, and looking in her eyes with an expression that filled her with horror, he said huskily:

“Lord, but you’re a hummer!”

Then, as though that were the limit of his intentions, he released her, laughed mirthlessly and threw the door open.

She had spoken no word during the attack. She made no sound now, as she went toward the house, her face ashen, her breath coming in great gasps. But a few minutes later she was in her room in the ranchhouse, on her bed, her face in the pillow, sobbing out the story of the attack to Aunt Martha, whose wrinkled face grew gray with emotion as she listened.

Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room, looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her.

“Why, what has happened?” Masten took a few steps and stood in front of her, looking down at her.

“Aunty will tell you.” Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly.

Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before he reached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost a sneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in the kitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity.

“Well?” he said, questioningly.

“It is most outrageous,” began Aunt Martha, her voice trembling. “That man, Pickett, came upon Ruth in the stable and abused her shamefully. He actually kissed her—three or four times—and—Why, Mr. Masten, the prints of his fingers are on her wrists!”

Ruth, in the sitting-room, waited, almost in dread, for the explosion that she knew would follow Aunt Martha’s words.

None came, and Ruth sank back in her chair, not knowing whether she was relieved or disappointed. There was a long silence, during which Masten cleared his throat three times. And then came Aunt Martha’s voice, filled with mingled wonder and impatience:

“Aren’t you going to do something Mr. Masten? Such a thing ought not to go unpunished.”

“Thunder!” he said fretfully, “what on earth can I do? You don’t expect me to go out and fight that man, Pickett. He’d kill me!”

“Mebbe he would,” said Aunt Martha in a slightly cold voice, “but he would know that Ruth was engaged to a man!” There was a silence. And again came Aunt Martha’s voice:

“There was a time when men thought it an honor to fight for their women. But it seems that times have changed mightily.”

“This is an age of reason, and not muscle and murder,” replied Masten. “There is no more reason why I should go out there and allow Pickett to kill me than there is a reason why I should go to the first railroad, lay my head on the track and let a train run over me. There is law in this country, aunty, and it can reach Pickett.”

“Your self-control does you credit, Mr. Masten.” Aunt Martha’s voice was low, flavored with sarcasm. Masten turned abruptly from her and went in to Ruth. Her face was still in her hands, but she felt his presence and involuntarily shrank from him.

He turned his head from her and smiled, toward the stable, and then he laid a hand on Ruth’s shoulder and spoke comfortingly.

“It’s too bad, Ruth. But we shall find a way to deal with Pickett without having murder done. Why not have Randerson discharge him? He is range boss, you know. In the meantime, can’t you manage to stay away from places where the men might molest you? They are all unprincipled scoundrels, you must remember!”

He left her, after a perfunctory caress which she suffered in silence. She saw him, later, as he passed her window, talking seriously to Chavis, and she imagined he was telling Chavis about the attack. Of course, she thought, with a wave of bitterness, Chavis would be able