Part 18 (1/2)
The white road stretched ahead of them. Their horses' feet raised a haze of dust. On either side billowed fields of tall, untrodden gra.s.s and beyond the fields lumped the foot-hills. In a pasture a roan mare lay with her head up over her shoulder asleep, while beside her, flat on its side in the sun, dozed a young colt. Insects droned and buzzed unceasingly. The air sparkled with that brand of ozone to be found only among the foot-hills.
Benson and Peggy came upon Courtlandt in Lower Field. He nodded to them absent-mindedly. He was the centre of a group of mounted men, all eager, all armed. Most of them rolled and smoked cigarettes incessantly as they sat their horses. A few of them wore chaps with vests over their colored s.h.i.+rts, some were in khaki riding clothes, all wore bandanas of violent pattern in place of collars, broad-brimmed Stetsons and laced riding boots. They were a clean-cut, self-respecting looking lot, as lean, lithe and brown as a life spent in the saddle could make them. Pete Gerrish on his ma.s.sive sorrel loomed above them all.
”Understand me, there is to be no shooting,” Steve was reiterating as Peg and Benson rode up. ”Gerrish, I'll fire the man who shoots unless in self-defense. Do you get me, boys?”
”Sure, we get you,” drawled Marcelle O'Neil, so nicknamed because of the unrepressible kink in his straw-colored hair. ”No objection, be ther', to ropin' one of Ranlett's gang an' reinin' him up short if he starts to lope?” he wheedled.
”No. Bring every one of them back if you can. Without injury, though.
We'll let the law mete out punishment.”
”Sure, it's none of my b.u.t.t-in how you handle the durn polecat, but if I had my way I'd swing Ranlett up to a cottonwood if I got my mazuma fer doin' it. Them were the finest Shorthorns in the world and if Nick-the-time-feeder was back----”
Nicholas Fairfax had been notoriously prompt to discharge a man who slacked on the job, but O'Neil had not intended to let the bunk-house name for the late owner of the Double O slip out. He looked furtively at Courtlandt but he, consciously or unconsciously, ignored the lapse.
”We'll find them, O'Neil. We must. Get a move on, boys. Ride in pairs and ride like----”
Their whoop of enthusiasm drowned his last words. Steve remained motionless until the last one had taken the fence at a jump. His face was white, his eyes strained and tired. He rode toward Peg and Benson who had with difficulty restrained their horses from following the riders.
”That was the nearest approach to the wild-west cowboy of the eighties that you will ever see, Peg-o'-my-heart. Did you notice that Marks and Schoeffleur were missing, Tommy? Why didn't Jerry come with you, Peg?”
”She said that she had work to do, that she would ride after luncheon.”
”She understood that she was not to go out of sight of the ranch-house?”
The girl's salaam was as profound as the neck of her horse would permit.
”Your slave heard and obeys, oh Abdul the Great.”
A laugh erased the tired lines about Courtlandt's mouth.
”Do I seem such a tyrannous old Turk to you? Well, it is only because I am afraid that Jerry----” He left his sentence unfinished and turned to Benson. ”Take a message to Upper Farm for me. Tell--the Devil!”
”Your mistake, Steve; it's only Mrs. Denbigh,” Peggy corrected mischievously as she followed Courtlandt's eyes to where Felice Denbigh and Greyson were entering the field. The three rode to meet the newcomers.
”Good morning. I didn't know that you left your downy before noon, Felice.”
The woman put her horse through a few paces that were as coquettish as her eyes and voice.
”On with the vamps!” muttered Tommy in a tone intended only for Peg's ear. With difficulty she choked back a delighted giggle as Felice answered in a spoiled-child voice:
”Steve, you're getting to be a barbarian out here. Have you forgotten that last night you invited me to ride with you this morning?”
”Last night--I what?” demanded Courtlandt, a slow color darkening his face.
”I waited for you at the X Y Z and when you didn't come fairly browbeat my host into escorting me to Double O ranch. I thought I should find you there. No such luck. We saw only Mrs. Courtlandt and she thought that you would be too busy----”
”I am too busy,” curtly. ”Tommy, take Mrs. Denbigh with you and Peg to Upper Farm. You'll find the most up-to-date dairy in the country there, Felice. Its equipment cost----”
”Don't talk like a mail-order catalogue, Steve,” the woman interrupted petulantly. ”If you can't show me the Upper Farm I will wait until you can, I'm a patient waiter. I always get what I want,” with narrowed eyes and an iced smile which sent a queer s.h.i.+ver down Benson's spine. He looked at Greyson to see how he was bearing his equivocal position. The man's fine, thoroughbred face was red and set about the lips. Benson couldn't understand his allowing himself to be placed in such an awkward situation. Why the d.i.c.kens had he invited the Denbigh woman to the X Y Z? He must have been at the Manor long enough during Old Nick's illness to have found her out. He brought his thoughts back to the present in time to hear Felice say:
”Shall we go on to Slippy Bend, Mr. Greyson? Your sister gave us some commissions to execute there. So long, Stevie! You'll come over for a game of auction to-night, of course. You and I against mine host and Paula.” She didn't wait for his answer. Without a glance in the direction of Peg and Benson she wheeled her horse and rode away. Greyson waved his hat to Peg, called something to her companions and cantered after his guest. For one long, silent moment Courtlandt followed the two with his eyes, then he resumed his directions to Benson where he had dropped them.