Part 11 (1/2)
Another man came briskly up, carrying papers in his hand.
”Are you the agent, Mr. Smith?” asked Pan.
”I am thet air, young fellar.”
”Can I see you a moment, on business?”
”Come right in.” He ushered Pan into his office and shut the door.
”My name's Smith,” began Pan hurriedly. ”I'm hunting for my dad...
Bill Smith. Do you know him--if he's in Marco?”
”Bill Smith's cowboy! Wal, put her thar,” burst out the other, heartily, shoving out a big hand. His surprise and pleasure were marked. ”Know Bill? Wal, I should smile. We're neighbors an' good friends.”
Pan was so overcome by relief and sudden joy that he could not speak for a moment, but he wrung the agent's hand.
”Wal, now, sort of hit you in the gizzard, hey?” he queried, with humor and sympathy. He released his hand and put it on Pan's shoulder.
”I've heard all about you, cowboy. Bill always talked a lot--until lately. Reckon he's deep hurt thet you never wrote.”
”I've been pretty low-down,” replied Pan with agitation. ”But I never meant to be.... I just drifted along.... Always I was going back home soon. But I didn't. And I haven't written home for two years.”
”Wal, forget thet now, son,” said the agent kindly. ”Boys will be boys, especially cowboys. You've been a wild one, if reports comin' to Bill was true.... But you've come home to make up to him. Lord knows he needs you, boy.”
”Yes--I'll make it--up,” replied Pan, trying to swallow his emotion.
”Tell me.”
”Wal, I wish I had better news to tell,” replied Smith, gravely shaking his head. ”Your dad's had tough luck. He lost his ranch in Texas, as I reckon you know, an' he follered--the man who'd done him out here to try to make him square up. Bill only got a worse deal. Then he got started again pretty good an' lost out because of a dry year. Now he's workin' in Carter's Wagon Shop. He's a first-rate carpenter. But his wages are small, an' he can't never get no where. He's talked some of wild-hoss wranglin'. But thet takes an outfit, which he ain't got.
I'll give you a hunch, son. If you can stake your dad to an outfit an'
throw in with him you might give him another start.”
Pan had on his tongue an enthusiastic reply to that, but the entrance of the curious Matthews halted him.
”Thank you, Mr. Smith,” he said, eagerly. ”Where'll I find Carter's Wagon Shop?”
”Other end of town. Right down Main Street. You can't miss it.”
Pan hurried out, and through the door he heard Matthews' loud voice:
”Carter's Wagon Shop! ... By thunder, I've got the hunch! That cowboy is Panhandle Smith!”
Pan smiled grimly to himself, as he pa.s.sed on out of hearing. The name and fame that had meant so little to him back on the prairie ranges might stand him in good stead out here west of the Rockies. He strode swiftly, his thought reverting to his father. He wanted to run.
Remorse knocked at his heart. Desertion! He had gone off, like so many cowboys, forgetting home, father, mother, duty. They had suffered. Never a word of it had come to him.
The way appeared long, and the line of stone houses and board shacks, never ending. At last he reached the outskirts of Marco and espied the building and sign he was so eagerly seeking. Resounding hammer strokes came from the shop. Outward coolness, an achievement habitual with him when excitement mounted to a certain stage, came with effort and he paused a moment to gaze at the sweeping country, green and purple, dotted by gray rocks, rising to hills gold with autumn colors. His long journey was at an end. In a moment more anxiety would be a thing of the past. Let him only see his father actually in the fles.h.!.+
Pan entered the shop. It was open, like any other wagon shop with wood scattered about, shavings everywhere, a long bench laden with tools, a forge. Then he espied a man wielding a hammer on a wheel. His back was turned. But Pan knew him. Knew that back, that s.h.a.ggy head beginning to turn gray, knew even the swing of arm! He approached leisurely. The moment seemed big, splendid.
”Howdy, Dad,” he called, at the end of one of the hammer strokes.
His father's lax figure stiffened. He dropped the wheel, then the hammer. But not on the instant did he turn. His posture was strained, doubtful. Then he sprang erect, and whirled. Pan saw his father greatly changed, but how it was impossible to grasp because his seamed face was suddenly transformed.