Ben Blair Page 8

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN

  Twelve years slipped by. Short as they seemed to those actually livingthem, they had brought great material changes. No longer did the ranchcattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under stress ofcompetition, they browsed within the confines of miles upon miles ofgalvanized fencing. Neighbors, as Rankin said, were near now. There werefour within a radius of twenty miles. To be sure, there was still plentyof land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri,--open rough land,gradually rising in elevation, where a traveller could journey for daysand days without seeing a human face. But this was not then a part ofthe so-called "cattle ranges." In the parlance of the country, that was"West,"--a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but as yet givingno indication of ever becoming of practical use.

  The Box R Ranch had evolved along with the others, and always well inadvance. The house now boasted six rooms; the barn and stock-sheds hadat a distance the appearance of a town in themselves; the collection ofhaying implements--mowers, loaders, stackers--was almost complete enoughto stock a jobbing house. The herd itself had augmented, despite itsannual reduction, until one artesian well was inadequate to supplywater; and fifteen miles north, at the extreme limit of his home-ranch,Rankin had sunk another well, making a sort of sub-station of thatpoint. From it an observer with good eyes could see the outlines of themodern Big B Ranch property, built on the old site, and ostensiblyoperated by a long-legged Yankee, Rob Hoyt by name, but in realityowned, as had been the remnant of stock Tom Blair left behind him, bysaloon-keeper Mick Kennedy.

  The ranch force had changed very little. Rankin, stouter by aquarter-hundred weight, shaggier of eyebrows and with an accentuateddroop in the upper eyelids, and if possible an increased taciturnity,still lived his daytime life mainly on wheels. The old buckboard hadfinally succumbed, but its counterpart, mud-spattered andweather-bleached, had taken its place. In the kitchen, Ma Graham stillpresided, her accumulated avoirdupois seeming to have been gathered atthe expense of her lord, who in equal ratio thinner and more weazened,danced attendance as of old. Only one of the former cowboys nowremained. That one, strange to say, was Grannis, the "man from nowhere,"who had apparently taken root at last. Regularly on the last day of eachmonth he drew his pay, and without a word of explanation or commentdisappeared upon the back of a cow-pony, to reappear, perhaps in tenhours, perhaps in sixty, dead broke, with a thirst seeminglyunappeasable, but quite non-committal concerning his experience,apparently satisfied and ready to take up the dull routine of his lifeagain.

  Last of all, Benjamin Blair. Precisely as the boy had given promise, theyouth had developed. He was now mature in size, in poise, in action.Long of leg, long of arm, long of face, he stood a half head aboveRankin, who had been the tallest man upon the place. Yet he was notawkward. Physically he was of the type, but magnified, to which allcowboys belong; and no one would ever call him awkward or uncouth.

  There had been less change upon the Baker ranch. Scotty was not anexpansionist. Scarcely a score more horses grazed in his paddock than ofold. The barn, though often repaired, was still of sod and thatch. Thehouse contained the original number of rooms. The experiment with treeshad never been repeated. If possible, the man himself had altered evenless than his surroundings. Scrupulously fresh-shaven each day,fortified beyond the compound lenses of his spectacles, a stranger wouldhave guessed him anywhere from thirty-five to fifty.

  Time had not dealt as kindly with Mrs. Baker. She seemed to have agedenough for both herself and her husband. Notwithstanding the fact thatfor the first eight years of the twelve, the family had spent half theirtime in the East, she had grown careless of her appearance. True to hisinstincts, Scotty still dressed for dinner in his antiquated eveningclothes; but pathetic as was the example, it had long ceased tostimulate her. The last four years had been dead years with MollieBaker. The future held but one promise. She referred to it daily, almosthourly; and at such times only would a trace of youth and beauty returnto the one-time winsome face. She looked forward and dreamed of anevent after which she would do certain things upon which she had set herheart; when, as she said, she would begin to live. It seemed to Scottyghastly to speak about that event, for it was the death of his father.

  The last member of the family had developed with the child's promise,and at seventeen Florence was beautiful; not with a conventionalprettiness, but with a vital feminine attraction. All that the motherhad been, with her dark, oval face, her mass of walnut-brown hair, hergreat dark eyes, her uptilted chin, the daughter was now; but with addedhealth and an augmented femininity that the mother had never known.Moreover, she had an independence, a dominance, born perhaps of the wildprairie influence, that at times made her parents almost gasp. Except inthe minute details of their daily existence, which habit had madeunchangeable, she ruled them absolutely. Even Rankin had become asecondary factor. Scotty probably would have denied the assertionemphatically, yet at the bottom of his consciousness he realized thathad she told him to sell everything he possessed for what he could getand return to old Sussex he would have complied. Considering Mollie'sdaily plaint, it was a constant source of wonder to him that the girldid not do this; but she seemed wholly satisfied with things as theywere. For exercise and excitement she rode almost every horse upon theplace--rode astride like a man. For amusement she read everything shecould lay hands upon, both from the modest Baker library and from thelarger and more creditable collection which Rankin had imported fromthe East. This was the first real library that had ever entered theState, and, subject for speculation, it had uniformly the frontfly-leaves remaining as mere stubs, as though the pages had been tornout by a hurried hand. What name was it that had been in those hundredsof volumes? For what reason had it been so carefully removed? The girlhad often speculated thereon, and fitted theory after theory; but neveryet, wilful as she was, had she had the temerity to ask the only personwho could have given explanation,--Rankin himself.

  In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an instinctive loveof a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was not in the least deceivedwhen, during a lull at the dinner-table one evening late in the Fall,she broke in with an irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark.

  "I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding this morning." Thedark eyes turned upon her father quizzically, humorously. "They seem tobe very plentiful."

  "Yes," said Scotty; "they always are in the Fall."

  Florence ate for a moment in silence.

  "Did you ever think how much sport we could have if we owned a couple ofhounds?" she asked.

  Scotty was silent; but Mollie threw up her hands in horror. "You don'treally mean that you want any of those hungry-looking dogs around, doyou, Flossie?" she protested pettishly. "Seems as though you'd besatisfied with riding the horses tomboy style without going to huntingrabbits that way."

  The daughter's color heightened and the matter dropped; but Scotty knewthe main attack was yet to come. He had learned from experience themethods of his daughter in attaining an object.

  Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shadedlamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining ofa headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even morepronounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watchingthe door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloomformed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenlyabout his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek waslaid against his own.

  "Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice.

  For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into thebrown eyes. "Why?" he asked.

  "Because,"--her voice was low, her answering look was steady,--"becauseit won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away--move backinto civilization."

  For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheekagainst her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair.Scotty followed her wi
th his eyes.

  "Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked.

  Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip ofrice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of apeace-offering.

  "No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can'tchange. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got totake her away--for good."

  Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the flame had burnedwell along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned itto a stump.

  "Aren't you happy here, Flossie?" he asked gently.

  The girl's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked past himabsently.

  "Really, for once in my life," she answered seriously, "I spoke quiteunselfishly. I was thinking only of mamma." There was a pause, and adeeper concentration in the brown eyes. "As for myself, I hardly know.Yes, I do know. I'm happy now, but I wouldn't be long. The life here istoo narrow; I'd lose interest in it. At last I'd have a frantic desire,one I couldn't resist, to peep just over the edge of the horizon andtake part in whatever is going on beyond." She smiled. "I might runaway, or marry an Indian, or do something shocking!"

  Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger.

  "Can't you think of anything that would interest you and broaden yourlife enough to make it pleasant?" he ventured.

  This time mirth shone upon the girl's face, and a laugh sounded in hervoice.

  "Papa, papa," she said, "I didn't think that of you! Are you so anxiousto get rid of your daughter?" As swiftly as it had come, the smilevanished, leaving in its place a softer and warmer color.

  "I'm not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, "to pretend not tounderstand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the worldI could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with himand be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrongdisposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyessparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I couldcare for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and didthem better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where othersare. No, I never could live here."

  Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed astray speck of dust from his sleeve.

  "In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father," heremarked quietly.

  The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up shethrew her arms impulsively about her father's neck.

  "Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world likeyou! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek againand again. But for the first time in her life that Florence couldremember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself.

  "Nevertheless," he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could nevermarry a man like your father,--one who had no desire to be known of men,but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make youhappy. You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of hismovements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into thewrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurtme, Florence."

  The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. Shedropped her face into her hands.

  "Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed,there was nothing to be said.

  Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid facedownward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to thefloor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to hissleeping-room he paused.

  "You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds,Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you havethem." He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about ourleaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped itwouldn't be necessary for a while yet." He paused, fingering the knobabsently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish."

  This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, thegirl sobbed as though her heart would break.