Part 20 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIX
AT MCWHORTER'S RANCH
Colin McWhorter was a man of long silences. A big framed, black-bearded giant of a man, he commanded the respect of all who knew him, and the friends.h.i.+p of few. His ranch, his sheep, his daughter were things that concerned him--the rest of the world was for others. Twice each year, on the twentieth of June and the third of December, he locked himself in his room and drank himself very drunk. At all other times he was very sober. No one, not even Janet, knew the significance of those dates. All the girl knew was that with deadly certainty when the day arrived her father would be locked in his room, and that on the third day thereafter he would unlock the door and come out of the room, shaken in nerve and body, dispose of an armful of empty bottles, resume his daily routine, and never by word or look would he refer to the matter.
These semi-annual sprees had been among the girl's earliest recollections. They had come as regularly and as certainly as the pa.s.sing of the seasons, and she had come to accept them as a matter of course. Janet McWhorter stood in no fear of her father, yet never had she brought herself to venture one word of remonstrance, nor offer one word of sympathy. His neighbours accepted the fact as they accepted McWhorter--with respect. If they wondered, they continued to wonder, for so far as anyone knew n.o.body had ever had the temerity to seek knowledge at its fountain head.
McWhorter's habit of silence was not engendered by any feeling of aloofness--cowpunchers, sheep-men, horse-thieves, or nesters--all were welcome at his cabin, and while they talked, McWhorter listened--listened and smoked his black pipe. With Janet he was as sparing of words as with others. Father and daughter understood each other perfectly--loved each other with a strange undemonstrative love that was as unfaltering as the enduring hills.
The moment McWhorter came upon the girl at the gate of the corral he sensed that something was wrong. She had greeted him as usual but as he watched her walk to the cabin, he noted an unwonted weariness in her steps, and a slight drooping of her square shoulders. Unsaddling his horse, he turned him into the corral with the bay mare. He noted the absence of the big roan. ”Been tryin' to ride Blue, an' he got away from her,” he thought; ”weel, she'll tell me aboot it, if so.”
While Janet placed supper on the table her father washed noisily at the bench beside the door, then entered, and took his place at the table.
The meal progressed in silence, and in silence McWhorter, as was his custom, helped the girl wash and dry the dishes and put them away on their shelves. This done, he filled his black pipe and seated himself in the chair. In another chair drawn close beside the big lamp, Janet pretended to read a magazine, while at every m.u.f.fled night sound, her eyes flew to the window.
”Wheer's Blue,” asked McWhorter, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it.
”I loaned him to a man who came here on foot.”
”From the bad lands?”
”No. From the river. He's Mr. Colston's range foreman and he and--and somebody else were crossing the river on Long Bill's ferry and the cable broke, and the boat came ash.o.r.e above here.”
”An' the ither--did the ither come?”
”No. That's why he borrowed Blue--to hunt for the other.”
”An' ye rode wi' 'um? I see the mare's be'n rode.”
Janet nodded: ”Yes, I rode with him as far as the bad lands, and then--he sent me back.”
McWhorter puffed for some minutes in silence: ”Think you he will come here the night?”
”Yes--unless something happens.”
”An' that's what's worrin' ye--that something might happen him--oot theer? What wad ye think could happen?”
”Why--why--lots of things could happen,” she glanced at her father, wondering at his unwonted loquacity.
The man caught the look: ”Ye'll be thinkin' I'll be talkin' o'er much,”
he said, ”but ye've found out befoor this, when theer's words to be said I can say 'em.” The man's voice suddenly softened: ”Come, la.s.s, 'tis ye're own happiness I'm thinkin' of--ye've na one else. Is he some braw young blade that rode that de'el of a Blue wi'oot half tryin'? An' did he speak ye fair? An' is he gude to look on--a man to tak' the ee o' the weemin'? Is ut so?” The girl stood at the window peering out into the darkness, and receiving no answer, McWhorter continued: ”If that's the way of ut, tak' ye heed. I know the breed o' common cowpunchers--they're a braw lot, an' they've takin' ways--but in theer hearts they're triflin' gude-for-naughts, wi' na regard for G.o.d, mon, nor the de'el.”
”He's not a common cowpuncher!” defended the girl hotly, she had turned from the window and stood facing the stern faced Scotchman with flushed cheeks. Then the words of the hand-bill seemed to burn into her brain.
”He's--he's--if he were a common cowpuncher Mr. Colston would never have made him foreman,” she concluded lamely.
McWhorter nodded gravely: ”Aye, la.s.s--but, when all is said an' done, what Colston wants--what he hires an' pays for, is cowpunchin'--the work o' the head an' hands. Gin an mon does his work, Colston wadna gi' a fiddle bow for what's i' the heart o' him. But, wi' a la.s.s an' a mon--'tis different. 'Tis then if the heart is clean, it little matters that he whirls his loop fair, or sits his leather like a plough-boy.”
”What's this nonsense,” cried the girl, angrily, ”--this talk about choosing a man? I never saw him till today! I hate men!”
McWhorter finished his pipe, returned it to his pocket and stepping into his own room reappeared a moment later with a pair of heavy blankets which he laid on the table. ”I'm goin' to bed, for I must be early to the lambin' camp. I'm thinkin' the young mon will not return the night--but if he does, here's blankets.” He stood for a moment looking down at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the stern eyes allowed: ”My little la.s.s,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself, ”I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter--an' I am glad. The anger will pa.s.s--an' 'twill set ye thinkin'--that, an' what's here on the paper.” Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed it upon the blankets. ”'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same as the one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate--'twas seein'
that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, la.s.s--an' 'twad be sair hard to see ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twad steal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night.”