The Long Shadow, page 21
CHAPTER XXI.
_The End of the Double-Crank._
Dill himself rode on that last round-up. Considering that it was allnew to him, he made a remarkably good record for himself among themen, who were more than once heard to remark that "Dill-pickle's suremaking a hand!" Wherever Billy went--and in those weeks Billy rodeand worked with a feverish intensity that was merely a fight againstbitter thinking--Dill's stirrup clacked close alongside. He wassilent, for the most part, but sometimes he talked reminiscentlyof Michigan and his earlier life there. Seldom did he refer to theunhappy end of the Double-Crank, or to the reason why they were ridingfrom dawn to dusk, sweeping together all the cattle within the widecircle of riders and later cutting out every Double-Crank animal andholding them under careful herd.
Even when they went with the first twelve hundred and turned them overto Brown and watched his careful counting, Dill made no comment uponthe reason for it beyond one sentence. He read the receipt over slowlybefore laying it methodically in the proper compartment of his longred-leather book, and drew his features into his puckered imitation ofa smile. "Mr. Brown has counted just twenty-one dollars more into mypocket than I expected," he remarked. "He tallied one more than youdid, William. I ought to hold that out of your wages, young man."
Rare as were Dill's efforts at joking, even this failed to bring morethan a slight smile to the face of Charming Billy Boyle. He was tryingto look upon it all as a mere incident, a business matter, pure andsimple, but he could not. While he rode the wide open reaches, thererode with him the keen realization that it was the end. For him theold life on the range was dead--for had not Dill made him see it so?And did not every raw-red fencepost proclaim anew its death? Forevery hill and every coulee he buried something of his past and weptsecretly beside the grave. For every whiff of breakfast that mingledwith the smell of clean air in the morning came a pang of homesicknessfor what would soon be only a memory.
He was at heart a dreamer--was Charming Billy Boyle; perhaps anidealist--possibly a sentimentalist. He had never tried to find a namefor the side of his life that struck deepest. He knew that theripple of a meadow-lark swinging on a weed against the sunrise, withdiamond-sparkles all on the grass around, gripped him and hurt himvaguely with its very sweetness. He knew that he loved to sit aloneand look away to a far skyline and day-dream. He had always knownthat, for it had been as much a part of his life as sleeping.
So now it was as if a real, tangible shadow lay on the range. He couldsee it always lengthening before him, and always he must ride withinits shade. After a while it would grow quite black, and the range andthe cattle and the riding over hills and into coulees untamed wouldall be blotted out; dead and buried deep in the past, and with thecareless, plodding feet of the plowman trampling unthinkingly uponthe grave. It was a tragedy to Charming Billy Boyle; it was as if therange-land were a woman he loved well, and as if civilization were thedespoiler, against whom he had no means of defense.
All this--and besides, Flora. He had not spoken to her for two months.He had not seen her even, save for a passing glimpse now and then ata distance. He had not named her to any man, or asked how she did--andyet there had not been an hour when he had not longed for her. Shehad told him she would marry the Pilgrim (she had _not_ said that, butBilly in his rage had so understood her) and that he could not stopher. He wouldn't _try_ to stop her. But he would one day settle withthe Pilgrim--settle to the full. And he wanted her--_wanted_ her!
They had taken the third herd in to Brown, and were back on the range;Billy meaning to make a last sweep around the outer edges and gatherin what was left--the stragglers that had been missed before. Therewould not be many, he knew from experience; probably not more than ahundred or two all told, even with Billy anxious to make the count aslarge as possible.
He was thinking about it uneasily and staring out across the widecoulee to the red tumble of clouds, that had strange purples and graysand dainty violet shades here and there. Down at the creek Dill wastrying to get a trout or two more before it grew too dark for themto rise to the raw beef he was swishing through the riffle, and animpulse to have the worst over at once and be done drove Billy down tointerrupt.
"Yuh won't get any more there," he said, by way of making speech.
"I just then had a bite, William," reproved Dill, and swung the baitin a wide circle for another awkward cast. He was a persistent soul,was Dill, when once he got started in a given direction.
Billy, dodging the red morsel of meat, sat down on a grassy hummock."Aw, come and set down, Dilly," he urged wearily. "I want to tell yuhsomething."
"If it's about the cook being out of evaporated cream, William, I havealready been informed twice. Ah-h! I almost had one then!"
"Aw, thunder! yuh think I'm worrying over canned cream? What I wantto say may not be more important, but when yuh get fishing enough I'llsay it anyhow." He watched Dill moodily, and then lifted his eyes tostare at the gorgeous sky--as though there would be no more sunsetswhen the range-life was gone, and he must needs fill well his memoryfor the barren years ahead.
When Dill flopped a six-inch trout against his ear, so steeped was hein bitterness that he merely said, "Aw, hell!" wearily and hunchedfarther along on the hummock.
"I really beg your pardon, William. From the vicious strike he made, Iwas convinced that he weighed at least half a pound, and exerted moremuscular force than was quite necessary. When one hasn't a reel it isimpossible to play them properly, and it is the first quick pull thatone must depend upon. I'm very sorry--"
"Sure. Don't mention it, Dilly. Say, how many cattle have yuh gotreceipts for, to date--if it ain't too much trouble?"
"No trouble at all, William. I have an excellent memory for figures.Four thousand, three hundred and fifteen. Ah-h! See how instinctinspires him to flop always toward the water! Did you ever--"
"Well, yes, I've saw a fish flop toward the water once or twicetbefore now. It sure is a great sight, Dilly!" He did not understandDill these days, and wondered a good deal at his manifest indifferenceto business cares. It never occurred to him that Dill, knowing quitewell how hard the trouble pressed upon his foreman, was only tryingin his awkward way to lighten it by not seeming to think it worthworrying over.
"I hate to mention trifles at such a time, Dilly, but I thought maybeyuh ought to know that we won't be able to scare up more than a coupleuh hundred more cattle, best we can do. We're bound to fall a lotshort uh what I estimated--and I ain't saying nothing about thefine job uh guessing I done! If we bring the total up to forty-fivehundred, we'll do well."
Dill took plenty of time to wind the line around his willow pole. "Touse your own expressive phraseology, William," he said, when he hadquite finished and had laid the pole down on the bank, "that willleave me in one hell-of-a-hole!"
"That's what I thought," Billy returned apathetically.
"Well, I must take these up to the cook." Dill held up the four fishhe had caught. "I'll think the matter over, William, and I thank youfor telling me. Of course you will go on and gather what there are."
"Sure," agreed Billy tonelessly, and followed Dill back to camp andwent to bed.
At daybreak it was raining, and Billy after the manner of cowboysslept late; for there would be no riding until the weather cleared,and there being no herd to hold, there would be none working save thehorse-wrangler, the night-hawk and cook. It was the cook who handedhim a folded paper and a sealed envelope when he did finally appearfor a cup of coffee. "Dill-pickle left 'em for yuh," he said.
Billy read the note--just a few lines, with a frown of puzzlement.
Dear William: Business compels my absence for a time. I hope you willgo on with your plans exactly as if I were with you. I am leaving apower-of-attorney which will enable you to turn over the stock andtransact any other business that may demand immediate attention, incase I am detained.
Yours truly,
Alexander P. Dill
It was queer, but Billy did not waste much time in wondering. Herounded up the last of the Double-Cranks, drove them to Brown'splace and turned them over, with the home ranch, the horses, and campoutfit--"made a clean sweep uh the whole damn', hoodooed works," wasthe way he afterward put it. He had expected that Dill would be thereto attend to the last legal forms, but there was no sign of him orfrom him. He had been seen to take the eastbound train at Tower, andthe rest was left to guessing.
"He must uh known them two-hundred odd wouldn't square the deal,"argued Billy loyally to himself. "So uh course he'll come back and fixit up. But what I'm to do about payin' off the boys gets me." For twohours he worried, mentally in the dark. Then he hit upon an expedientthat pleased him. He told Brown he would need to keep a few of thesaddle-horses for a few days, and he sent the boys--those of themwho did not transfer their valuable services to Brown upon theasking--over to the Bridger place to wait there until further orders.
Also, he rode reluctantly to the Double-Crank ranch, wondering, as hehad often done in the past few weeks, what would become of Flora andMama Joy. So far as he knew, they had not heard a word as to whetherBridger was alive or dead, and if they had friends or family to whomthey might turn, he had never heard either mention them. If Dill hadbeen there he would have left it to him; but Dill was gone, and therewas no knowing when he would be back, and it devolved upon Billyto make some arrangements for the women, or at the least offerhis services--and it was, under the circumstances, quite the mostunpleasant duty thus far laid upon him.
He knew they had been left there at the ranch when round-up started,because Dill had said something about leaving a gentle horse or twofor them to ride. Whether they were still there he did not know,although he could easily have asked Spikes, who had been given chargeof the ranch while Dill was away on the range. He supposed the Pilgrimwould be hanging around, as usual--not that it made much difference,though, except that he hated the thought of a disagreeable scenebefore the women.
He rode slowly up to the corral gate, turned his horse inside andfastened the chain just as he had done a thousand times before--onlythis would be the last time. His tired eyes went from one familiarobject to another, listlessly aware of the regret he should feel buttoo utterly wearied of sorrow to feel much of anything. No one seemedto be about, and the whole place had an atmosphere of desolation thatalmost stirred him to a heartache--almost.
He went on to the house. There were some signs of life there, and somesound. In the very doorway he met old Bridger himself, but he couldnot even feel much surprise at seeing him there. He said hello, andwhen he saw the other's hand stretching out to meet him, he clasped itindifferently. Behind her husband, Mama Joy flashed at him a look hedid not try to interpret--of a truth it was rather complex, with alittle of several emotions--and he lifted his hat a half-inch from hisforehead in deference to her sex. Flora, he thanked God dully, he didnot see at all.
He stayed perhaps ten minutes listening impersonally to Bridger, whotalked loudly and enthusiastically of his plans. At the time they didnot seem to concern him at all, though they involved taking Flora andMama Joy away to Seattle to spend the winter, and in the spring movingthem on to some place in the North--a place that sounded strange inthe ears of Billy, and was straightway forgotten.
After that he went to his room and packed what few things he wanted;and they were not many, because in his present mood nothing matteredand nothing seemed to him of much value--not even life. He was morecareful of Dill's belongings, and packed everything he could find thatwas his. They were not scattered, for Dill was a methodical man andkept things in their places instinctively.
He paused over but one object--"The Essays of Elia," which had somehowfallen behind a trunk. Standing there in the middle of Dill's room, heturned the little blue book absently in his hand. There was dust uponthe other side, and he wiped it off, manlike, with a sweep of hisforearm. He looked at the trunk; he had just locked it with muchstraining of muscles and he hated to open it again. He looked at thebook again. He seemed to see Dill slumped loosely down in the oldrocker, a slippered foot dangling before him, reading solemnly fromthis same little blue book, the day he came to tell him about theditch, and that he must lease all the land he could--the day when theshadow of passing first touched the range-land. At least, the day whenhe had first seen it there. He turned a few leaves thoughtfully, heardFlora's voice asking a question in the kitchen, and thrust the bookhastily into his pocket. "Dilly'll want it, I expect," he muttered. Heglanced quickly, comprehensively around him to make sure that hehad missed nothing, turned toward the open front door and went outhurriedly, because he thought he heard a woman's step in the diningroom and he did not want to see anybody, not even Flora--least of all,Flora!
"I'll send a rig out from town for the stuff that's ours," he calledback to Bridger, who came to the kitchen door and called afterhim that he better wait and have some supper. "You'll be here tillto-morrow or next day; it ain't likely I'll be back; yuh say Dillsettled up with the--women, so--there's nothing left to do."
If he had known--but how could he know that Flora was watching himwistfully from the front porch, when he never once looked toward thehouse after he reached the stable?
