nan rode up to the veranda of the ranch house and sprang lightly from the saddle. her pony's flanks were caked with sweat. the days now, as they approached july, were blistering, and the work of the great ranch was heavy for everybody. nan had constituted herself jeff's substitute during his absence, and performed his share of the labor with a skill and efficiency which astonished even her father.
she was a little weary just now. the heat was trying. four weeks of continuous effort, four weeks of day-long saddle work, superintending the distant out-stations, the pasture fencing, the re-branding, which never seemed to come to an end, the hundred and one little duties which always cropped up unexpectedly; these things, in conjunction with the intense heat and the constant trouble which she held safely screened behind her smiling eyes, were not without effect upon her, although display was only permitted when no other eyes were present to witness her weakness.
it was the ranch house dinner time. bud was due, as was the return of the men who belonged to the home station.
nan released the cinchas of her saddle and removed her pony's bridle. then, with a sharp pat upon the creature's quarters, she sent it strolling off toward the open pasture, in which the windmill pump kept the string of watering tubs ready for the thirsty world about it.
she watched the animal as it flung itself down for a roll. its ungainly, thrusting legs held her interest. then, as it scrambled to its feet and shook itself, and headed for the water, she seated herself in a low wicker chair and wiped the dust from her long riding boots with the silk handkerchief she wore loosely tied about her neck. a few moments later her brown eyes were gazing fixedly out at the shimmer of heat which hovered low over the distant horizon.
she was meditating deeply, her tired body yielding to the greater activity of her thought. the scene was lost to her. her gaze sped beyond the maze of corrals, and the more distant patchwork of fenced pastures to the western boundary of her beloved rainbow hill valley. there was nothing but grass, endless grass, until the purple line of the wood-clad mountains was reached. and here it was that her regard found a resting place. but even so she was unaware of it, for her thoughts were miles away in another direction.
her courage had reaped its natural harvest. her labors had yielded her a peace of mind which at one time had seemed impossible. she could reflect calmly now, if not without a world of regret and sadness. just now, in the brief interval of waiting for her father for their midday meal, her relaxed body permitted her thoughts to wander toward the city where jeff was still held captive by toils she herself had been unable to weave about him.
she had had her desire. she had pressed her less willing father into her service, and through him she had obtained the right to see that jeff's house was made ready. it had been a labor of love in its highest sense, for not one single detail of her efforts but had been a fresh laceration of her loyal soul. in her mind it was never possible to shut out the memory that everything that was for jeff was also for a woman who had plucked the only fruit she had ever coveted with her whole heart. there had been moments of reward, however, a reward which perhaps a lesser spirit might never have known. it was the passionate satisfaction that her hands, her love, were able to minister to the well-being of the man she loved, for all that another woman occupied her place in his heart.
feelings such as these filled her heart now. they had so filled it that morning during her hour of superintending the work of the builders engaged upon the reconstruction of jeff's house. this was nearly completed, and somehow she felt when all the preparations were finished the last support must be banished forever. then there would be nothing left her but to watch, perhaps from afar, the happiness of the other woman basking in the love for which she would willingly have given her life.
there were moments when her spirit furiously rebelled, when she felt that the sacrifice was too great, when the limits of human endurance forbade submission to her lot. they were moments when mad jealousy rose up and threatened her bulwark of spiritual resistance. and at such time her battle was furious and hard, and she emerged therefrom scarred and suffering, but with a spirit unbroken and even strengthened.
then her pride, a small gentle thing, added its quota to her support. no one should pity her, no one should ever, ever know anything of the sufferings she endured. no, not even her beloved father. so her smile, even her ready laughter, was enlisted in her support, and the manner of her discussion of the work on jeff's house was an education in courageous acting.
but her father remained wholly undeceived. he saw with a vision rendered doubly acute by perfect sympathy. he read through every smile to the tears lying behind it. he noted the change in the tone of the laugh. he missed nothing of the painful abstraction at odd moments when nan believed she was wholly unobserved. nor did he misinterpret the language these things expressed. but for all his heart bled for the girl--and in his moments of solitude he bitterly cursed the woman who had robbed him of a son, and heaped every scathing epithet of his rough vocabulary upon the head of the man himself--he gave no sign that the fair world about them concealed shadowed corners, or that the life which was theirs was not one triumph of eternal delight. thus was nan helped, all unconscious of the help so given. so she was able to play the part her courage and gentleness of spirit had assigned to her.
presently a horseman came within sight, out of the northwest. it was the direction of jeff's ranch house. a moment of deliberate scrutiny revealed the man's identity. it was lal hobhouse, second foreman of the obar, the man who, before the amalgamation, was jeff's foreman.
nan wondered what was bringing him in at this hour. usually his visits to their headquarters were made in the evening when the work of the day was completed.
the man rode up and found nan interestedly waiting to receive him. there was a touch of anxiety in her tone as she greeted him.
"no trouble, lal?" she demanded, as the man reined up his pony. the direct manner of the girl was largely the result of her new responsibilities.
lal hobhouse was a lean-faced specimen of sun-dried manhood. his appearance suggested all wires and indifference to the nicenesses of life. his long moustache drooped mournfully below his square chin. and his fierce black eyes were full of a violent heat, rendered more savage for its bottling up during his long ride.
"trouble?" then he exploded with a furious oath, and his volcanic temper drowned the sunburn of his cheek under a living heat. "them rustlers. them lousy bums," he cried almost choking. "that bunch o' yearlings--shorthorn yearlings, miss. thirty of 'em--picked right out of the bush corrals where we'd got 'em for re-brandin'. say, bud--your father, miss," he corrected himself. "he ain't around?"
but nan's interest was in the work of the rustlers. not in his final inquiry. her pretty eyes were wide and hard with the anger his news had inspired.
"the shorthorn yearlings, lal?" she demanded. "our prize stock?"
"sure, miss. them. that's them. god blister their filthy carkises! may they stew in hell!"
he spat over his horse's shoulder as though to emphasize his furious disgust but his forcefulness was displeasing.
"guess you best off-saddle," nan said coolly. "father'll be along right now. you'll need food. say, what boys you got out there?" she inquired as the man slipped out of the saddle and began to unfasten the cinchas.
"why, just the same four damn fools, an'--sikkem."
"and they're following up the trail?"
"sure." the man flung off the saddle and his horse mouched away.
"psha!" he cried, turning his fierce eyes upon nan. "what's the use anyway?" his gesture was one of helpless disgust. "they're out. bin out since daylight. an' i guess they've as much chance roundin' that crowd up as they would huntin' bugs in a hundred acre pasture. sikkem's about the brightest. but he ain't no sort o' good after a bunch of rustlers. i wouldn't trust him with a dead mule o' mine anyway. the boss hangs to him as if he was the on'y blamed cowpuncher east o' the mountains because he's handy. i don't like him, miss, an'---- say, how did them rustlers know 'bout them calves? ther's two hundred head o' beeves out there, an' they passed 'em right over fer the shorthorns."
the man's argument and distrust of the man sikkem made a deep impression on nan. she had listened to some of the latter before. but jeff's predilection for the dark-faced half greaser had left her sceptical of lal's opinion. now, however, she was seriously impressed.
at that moment bud himself rode up at a gallop, and behind him rode four of the home station boys. the pace at which he came was unusual, and nan's troubled eyes promptly sought his face.
instantly her greeting died upon her lips, which tightened ominously. his usually steady gray eyes were hot and fierce, and his face was set. the comfortable lines about his mouth were drawn hard and deep. she needed no word to tell her that further trouble was abroad.
he scarcely waited for his horse to come to a halt. he was out of the saddle in a moment, and his great figure towered before the foreman, whom he took in with an angry stare.
"what's brought you in?" he demanded, with a dangerous calm. then the calm broke before his storm of feeling. "don't tell me ther's trouble around your layout, too," he cried, without waiting for reply. then he turned on nan, who was still on the veranda. "say, nan, they done it. the rotten swines have done it. they shot 'jock' up!"
"the highland bull?" nan gasped.
"yes. that's it." bud laughed furiously. "that bull i imported last fall for three thousand dollars," he went on, turning back to the foreman. "they shot him up and drove off his twenty-five cows from the coyote bluff pastures. dirty spite an' meanness. the white-livered scum!" then with a fierce oath the usually even-tempered bud hurled his wrath upon the waiting man. "gorl darn it, you're standin' around like a barbed wire fence post. what in hell's brought you around now? what they done your way?"
his manner roused the foreman to a soreness he wasn't slow in showing.
"jest thirty shorthorn yearlings," he said without any attempt to soften the blow. "jest thirty--prize stock."
the announcement had an unlooked-for effect. where nan expected another furious display bud remained silent. his eyes were wide as they stared into the foreman's. but no word came. then, after a few moments, he began to laugh and nan understood. she felt it was either that, or--her father would break something.
"well, i go plumb to hell!" he cried at last. and nan felt relieved at the sound of his voice.
the next moment lal hobhouse was pouring out his story with a redundant selection from his choicest vocabulary of abusive epithet, which was impartially divided between the rustlers and the cowhands under his charge. nan waited patiently, her eyes studying her father's face. but whatever his feelings he permitted them no further display, and, at the conclusion of the story, instead of offering comment, or reverting to his own discoveries, he turned to his daughter with a smile.
"food on, nan?" he inquired, in his easy way. "guess i'm needin' food--pretty bad. maybe we'll feel better after."
then he turned to the men who stood around.
"git on down to the bunkhouse an' feed, boys. one o' you grab my plug. after, we'll get around out with lal here. i----"
he broke off as nan darted away down the veranda. the mail man had just clattered up to the front of the house, and she had gone to meet him.
bud passed his horse on to one of the men, and, with heavy strides, clanking with the rattle of his heavy mexican spurs, his leather chapps creaking as he moved, he mounted the veranda and made his way into the house.
* * * * * *
nan entered the parlor with her hands full of mail. the meal was laid ready, and a colored girl was setting the chairs in their places.
"i'll jest get a clean up, nan," her father said, without a single trace of his recent display. "guess i'm full of dust."
he passed through the little room like some overwhelming mammoth. he seemed altogether too vast for the small home, which had never grown with his other worldly possessions. nan watched him go. then she laid the mail down on a side table and began to sort it out.
there were a number of letters for jeff. these she set carefully aside in a pile by themselves for redirection. there were several addressed in girlish hands to herself. for bud there were only a few. she glanced over the superscription of each. one or two were easily recognized business letters. there was a paper, however, addressed in jeff's hand, and a letter of considerable bulk. these were what she had been looking for. she pushed the bunkhouse mail aside, and regarded reflectively the outer covering of jeff's letter to her father.
it was not the first he had received from jeff during the four weeks since their return home. but its bulk this time was out of the ordinary, and the carefully folded news sheet was more than interesting. it awakened every doubt, every fear to which she had been a prey.
the rapid beating of her heart left her with a choking sensation. vivid imagination was at work, and she was reading in fancy under those covers that which, sooner or later, she knew she must read in fact.
these were bad moments for the girl, moments which found her again struggling with that self which left her little enough peace. perhaps the struggle lasted five minutes. perhaps less. at any rate it seemed an eternity to nan before the hired girl announced the meal.
nan sighed as she moved from the side table on which the mail was spread out.
"give father a call," she said, and took up a position at the open french window.
her back was turned when bud responded to the summons. the cold sluice he had just indulged in seemed to have entirely restored his equanimity. his voice came cheerily.
"guess we best set in, little gal," he said, moving to his place at the table. "we'll need to get busy after."
nan turned. she watched maimie deposit the hot dishes. then, when the girl had withdrawn, she took her place opposite her father.
"there's a deal of mail for jeff," she said, as she sat down. "there's some for you, too, daddy. there's a letter and--a newspaper. maybe you'd feel like reading them right away. guess there won't be time after."
with all her might she struggled for indifference. with all her might she desired that her father should miss the fears which prompted her. but she only succeeded in telling him of them in every word she spoke.
bud agreed readily. he rose and fetched his letter--and the newspaper which nan so feared.
nan went on with her food. her father tore open the covering of the letter. she was watching him covertly and silently whilst he read page after page. she was searching for confirmation of her worst fears. she was torturing herself.
bud's dissimulation was never great. nan watched the play of his expression. there was no smile. as the silent moments passed his brow became heavier. the furrow deepened between his eyes, and once there came that rather helpless raising of his hand to his forehead. then, too, she observed the compression of his lips, and the occasional dilation of his nostrils. each observation carried conviction, and the weight upon her heart grew almost insupportable.
finally he laid the letter down and went on with his meal. but he did not even glance at the wrappered newspaper.
in self-defense nan was forced to break the silence. if it had remained she felt she must scream. instead she smiled over at him, and indicated the newspaper.
"the calthorpe times, isn't it?" she said without a tremor.
"can't say."
the harsh tone was intended to convey indifference.
"won't you open it?" she asked. "maybe jeff's marked a piece."
then bud gave a display such as nan had never witnessed in him before.
"say, ain't we never to get food a feller ken eat?" he cried. "that nigger slut needs firin' right away. guess she couldn't cook a dry hash on a round-up. i'm quittin'. this stew 'ud choke a she-wolf."
his eyes were hot. he thrust his plate away from him and pushed back his chair. but nan's calmness defeated his almost childlike subterfuge.
"say, my daddy, you don't need to quit. sure," she added, a pathetic smile lighting her brown eyes, "i guess the stew's pretty good to any hungry folks, and maimie's just the dandiest cook anywhere around."
she paused. bud stood yearning for five minutes of unrestrained blasphemy as he read the understanding lying behind her words.
"i don't guess it's the food worrying, or maimie's cooking," nan went on, almost at once. "it's your letter. maybe there's a heap of things in it you aren't yearning to hand over to me." a sigh escaped her. "will i tell you of them? maybe one'll be sufficient. it's the one worrying you most. it's--it's his marriage. it's fixed. the date--i mean."
then she pointed at the unopened paper.
"likely it's in that. and that's why he's sent it. shall i see?"
she reached out and picked up the offending packet, and, with a swift movement, ripped the fastening open with one finger. without a word she unfolded the sheet, seeking a marked passage. it was there, as she knew it would be. it was found in a twinkling. no one could have missed it. heavy ink outlined it in the column of "city chatter," and she read the paragraph aloud without a tremor of voice. her deliberateness nearly drove the ranchman to distraction.
"the friends of mrs. john d. carruthers will be interested to learn that the marriage of her daughter, mrs. elvine van blooren, widow of the late robert van blooren, to jeffrey masters, of the celebrated 'obar' ranch, and this year's president of the western union cattle breeders' association, is to be solemnized at the church of st. mary in this city on august 4th next. the rev. claude i. carston, m. a., will----"
there was more of it, much more, referring in the usual local journalistic fashion to the "happy event," and dwelling upon the important "social standing" of the bride and bridegroom. but nan read no further then. there was no need to. was not the completeness of her disaster contained in those lines? the courage of the front she displayed before the sympathetic eyes of her father was superlative.
there was just a pause. it was the tragic pause under a staggering blow. then she forced a smile into the brave eyes, which never for a moment fell before the other's regard.
"there! there, my daddy," she said, with a studied calm which did not conceal the dry-throated swallow which accompanied the words. "i guess it was how i thought. you were scared. scared to tell me." she shook her head. "it's--it's not very brave, is it? i wonder why you were scared? you needn't have been. folks don't need to be scared of--anything. what you need most is just to--to grit your teeth and--die hard."
her manner was becoming abstracted. it seemed as if she were addressing herself, warning herself, and fighting down a weakness which was threatening to overwhelm her.
presently she went on, while the man stood by utterly robbed of the power to comfort her:
"august the fourth," she murmured. "august--that's six weeks from now. six weeks of--sunshine and--and warmth. when the harvest's ripening, and all the world's just--glad. and he'll be glad, and--and happy, too. yes, jeff will be very, very happy because--she's going to make him happy."
quite suddenly she started up from her chair. a dreadful panic had leaped to her eyes. the delicious, healthy color had been swept from her pretty downy cheeks. the corners of her sweet mouth were drooping, and her hands were held out in a gesture of despairing appeal.
"daddy, daddy, he will--he will be happy, won't he?" she cried. "i--i just need him to be happy, more--yes, more than anything in the world. sure, sure, she'll make him happy? oh, if she doesn't!"
still the man looked on, a helpless spectator of the girl's suffering. nor did it seem that his own was any less. but nan seemed to realize the weakness in her momentary display. her hands dropped to her side. there was even a visible effort in the manner in which she strove for self-mastery. her smooth brow puckered in an intense frown, and, to bud, it almost seemed that she was literally clenching her teeth to hold back the passionate distress which was seeking to find expression.
after a moment something of full self-possession seemed to return to her. she smiled. but it was a smile that lacked conviction. a smile that almost broke her father's heart.
"tell me, daddy," she pleaded. "do you think--he'd--he'd have me be a--a bridesmaid? would it sort of help him any?" she hurried on. "you see, i--i want him to be real happy. i want him to feel that we just love him, and that--that--we're just glad for him, and--and nothing in the world else matters--to anybody. i'm so----"
there was a little catch of breath. the words she would have spoken died upon her lips. she reeled. every vestige of color left her pretty face, and her eyes half closed. just for one weak instant her hands groped behind her for the chair. then, the next, bud was at her side, and one strong arm was supporting her.
"don't, nan!" he cried, in his heavy cumbersome way. and the sound of his deep voice alone served to ward off the encroachment of that final weakness which, in spite of all her courage, the girl was at last compelled to yield to.
bud drew her to him, and one hand smoothed her pretty brown hair with rough tenderness. for a moment her head rested against his broad bosom. then a deep sigh came, and nan looked up, smiling into the steady gray eyes gazing down at her, through a mist of welling tears.
"my dear--dear old daddy," she murmured, as the tears finally overflowed and slowly rolled down her cheeks.
