CHAPTER XIX

One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.

Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.

Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.

Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.

As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.

"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow.

"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."

While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.

For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's hands when the child grew tired of holding the quirt.

Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican saddle and lariat. On his diminutive face was stamped an aggressive pugnacity. He was followed by Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece of wood. As Bill surveyed them he knew that they had been talking things over and had arrived at some conclusion. They had been good workers in their time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that they were not bad, but that life had tried them severely with its failures and disappointments. He waited for them to speak. There was a moment's silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the bench, said:

"Say, Bill, I s'pose you know the boys is gettin' nervous 'bout their money, don't you?"

Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work as he answered, "To-morrow's pay-day." He would not anticipate them in their rebellion; he would make it hard for them to declare themselves.

"That's what," Shorty went on.

"Well, it's time to get nervous day after to-morrow." And still Bill braided the leather.

"They're goin' to make trouble if they don't git it." Shorty acted as spokesman. Grouchy and Andy only nodded their heads in approval of their leader's words.

Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his arms. "Are they?" he said. "Well, I reckon Jim Carston and me can handle that bunch." He spoke as though the others were not present.

"Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted, as he flung the saddle against the walls of the cabin.

"Und say, Bill—und say—to-morrow's pay-day." Andy's voice trembled as he spoke. He was a gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.

Hal began to listen and to look from one to the other. Bill noticed the child's look of inquiry and set him on the ground.

"Son, you run in and help your mother with the milking." He slapped his hands together as though a great joy were in store for the child, who laughed with glee as he hurried across to the stable.

The men waited for Bill to say something, but he only stood twisting a straw about in his mouth and pulling his hat-brim.

Again Andy's courage rose and he walked close to Bill. "To-morrow's pay-day, Bill—eh?"

"Is it? Do tell! Ain't you a discoverer! Say, Andy, you're neglectin' the north pole a little."

This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well, I want mine," and he viciously dug his knife into the hitching-post.

Bill looked from one to the other. Surely they would be reasonable; he would try them.

"Boys, it's seven years since the boss bought this ranch, and he's had an up-hill fight. Every one's done him. He bought when cattle was higher than they've ever been since, and you know what last winter did for us; but he 'ain't ever hollered, and the top wages he paid you at the start he's been a-payin' you ever since."

"Oh, what's the use!" Shorty interrupted. "The money is owed us. The only question is, do we git it?"

Backed up by Shorty, Grouchy began again, "Well, I want mine."

Only gentle Andy was silent. He could hear little Hal laughing as he played in the cow-shed.

Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled around on the men and in a sudden blaze said:

"Well, you know Carston and you know me. If you're lookin' for trouble, we won't see you go away disappointed." He squared his shoulders as he spoke. "Oh, shucks!" He looked at the boys again. "It's no use," he began, more good-naturedly. "It's the business that's no good. Nothin' in it. The packers has got us skinned to death. They pay us what they like for cattle, and charge the public what they like for beef. Hell!" he grunted, as he turned on his heel. "I'm goin' into the ministry."

This time Grouchy's "Well, I want mine" was extremely faint.

Before the others could speak again Bill quickly called, "Here's the boss now," and signalled the men to be silent.

They were touched by Jim's haggard face. They had not seen the boss for several days; he had been busy with accounts, Bill had told them. They began shuffling their feet as though about to leave. Each one thought perhaps it would be as well to wait until the next day. Shorty signalled them to come on, but Jim stopped them.

"Boys, I hear you're getting anxious about your pay. I don't blame you. My affairs are in a bad way, but I don't expect any one to share my bad luck. You've earned your money. I'll see that you get it."

As Jim spoke he drew from his pocket several small boxes and from his belt an old wallet. "I have some useless old trinkets here that have been knocking around in my trunk for years. If you will take them to town, where people wear such things, you will get enough for them to wipe out my account and something to boot for long service and good-will." Andy's sniffles were the only answer that followed. Jim turned to him, "Andy—"

But Andy refused the package. "Und say, boss. Und say, I ain't kickin'. Und say, I can trust you."

Jim only tossed the box into his hands. "Shorty," he said, as he slapped the wallet across the little fellow's shoulder.

"Oh, I'd rather not," Shorty shamefacedly answered. "Gee, but this is tough work," he muttered to himself.

Jim smiled. "You must take it, please. The man who refuses throws suspicion on the value of my junk. You won't do that, I'm sure." And the wallet slid into Shorty's hand.

"Grouchy, you can have my repeating rifle," he added. "And now, good-night. I'll see you to-morrow for the last time."

So this was to be the end of their association with the boss. Would he try to shoulder the work of the place without them? A second's reflection told them that this would be impossible. It was to be really the end of Carston's ranch. The three men stood staring at Jim. Bill, at the back of the hut, as he heard the words, sank down on a rough bench. This was what had come of the days of silence on Jim's part; in each man's heart there was an unspeakable emotion at the dissolution of their companionship.

Suddenly down the road they heard the clatter of horses. Then the whoop-la of a crowd of men, and a stentorian voice called:

"Hello, any one to home at Carston's ranch?"

Shorty and Andy hurried to meet the new-comers. It was Bud Hardy, the Sheriff, with a posse of men. In they rushed, swarming all over the place, and carrying with them the smell of alkali and the heat of the plains. Dripping with perspiration, stained and worn with their travel, they seemed like part of the desert, so covered were they with a heavy caking of dust. One felt the parched fever of their thirst as they stood asking hospitality of the ranch. Jim advanced to meet them.

"Hello, folks," Bud called, as the men of the ranch welcomed his men. Then he came towards Jim, who shook hands with him.

"Why, how are you, Sheriff?"

Since the day at Maverick, when the Sheriff had tried to arrest him, Jim had often seen Bud. He was never sure of the honesty of the man's intentions, ne and Big Bill had often discussed Bud's unfitness for the power he held in the place, but he gave no sign of this in his greeting.

Bud's great frame towered above the others. He seemed more effusive and excited than the occasion warranted, and Big Bill's brows rose questioningly as he saw the demonstrative way in which he greeted Jim.

"Howdy, Mr. Carston—howdy? Knowin' the hospitality of this here outfit, we most killed ourselves to git here, to say nothin' of the horses. We left them leanin' up against the corral, the worst done up cayuses." Then directly in appeal to Jim, he said, "We simply got to stay here to-night, Mr. Carston."

With a cordial gesture of invitation, Jim said, "You and the boys are welcome, Sheriff, and what we lack in grub and accommodations we'll hope to make up to you in good-will."

As Jim spoke, Bud quickly glanced in triumph at Clarke, a prominent worker in his posse. The pale face of Clarke gave back a glance of comprehension as he lowered his white-lashed eyelids over his bulging eyes. All this was observed by Bill, who sauntered towards the Sheriff as Bud answered Jim.

"What's good enough for you all is good enough for us, you bet," and he wrung Jim's hand again. "Why, hello!" he finished, as he saw Bill and turned to greet him.

"Any news?" Bill laconically asked, as he studied Bud and his men.

"Nothin' of any consequence," said Bud. "We just had a little fracas down at the agency. Total result, one Injin killed."

A shout of approval rose from the boys, but Clarke broke in with another guffaw. "And the joke of it is, Bud killed the wrong man."

"But nothin' to it. All in a day's work," Bud laughingly explained.

"You look tired, Sheriff," Jim said. "The boys will take you to their quarters. Shorty, you and the others make the Sheriff and his people feel at home."

There was a murmur of approval. "Come on," said Shorty, and the men started for their quarters. Shorty, who loved bossing an affair almost better than teasing, swept them all on before him. Then he linked his arm through Bud's.

"Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string you never roped the man who killed Cash Hawkins at Maverick."

Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud, gave an involuntary look of surprise at the Sheriff, but the flash of anger on Bud's blowsed, crimson face quickly cowed him.

"Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and years ago, Shorty," and with his arm about him he followed the men towards their quarters.

Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut and stables, but only for a moment, for he quickly realized that Bill was intently watching him.

Jim turned to go to the house—then paused. He could see Bill against the hitching-post tearing a straw into wisps that fluttered and fell lifeless to the ground. There was not enough breeze to carry even a strand away. He must speak to Bill, but how could he express anything of the desolation he felt at this parting of their ways.

"Bill," he began, in a low voice—and Bill, who divined the words that were about to follow, made no answer; he only held tighter to the post. He could hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes. He made no effort to move; he felt he could not.

"Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you must get out and look for another job." Jim clinched his hands tight as he added, "I'll be sorry to lose you, old man."

"I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Then, almost in a growl, he questioned, "And what are you going to do, boss?"

The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as Jim said, in a level, flat tone, "Sell out—move on—begin all over again—somewhere." Then with the indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added, more hopefully, "There must be a place for me somewhere." Mastering himself, he added, as he took Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer to pay you, Bill."

And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on Jim's part why he loved the boss, answered, "You better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both of his.

"Not now," Jim said, with the old hope again rising to encourage him, that later he might be able to help Bill. "In my life I've had one friend and only one." He laid his hands on Bill's shoulders and looked straight in his eyes.

But Bill could not stand the strain of it any longer. "You make me tired," he gulped, and Jim smiled.

"Why did you pay those cayotes three or four times what you owe 'em?" Bill scolded, gruffly, but kindly. "It's wicked, Jim. You're a sentimental fool."

As though bestowing a final benediction, Jim answered, "And you're another—God bless you," and then dropped on to the log and seemed to forget Bill and all about him.

Bill stood a moment, then tiptoed away while Jim sat watching the afternoon shadows beginning to creep up towards the hut.