Guardians of the Sage (16 page)

“Maybe I best leave you here and fetch a rig if you're feelin' so bad,” he suggested desperately. In a quarter of an hour they would be approaching the house. He dreaded being seen with Letty Stall draped over him, her arms about his neck.

“It'll be better if we don't stop,” Letty insisted. “I—I'm not tiring you, Kin?”

“Oh, no—not at all,” he drawled unhappily. His face was beet red.

“I'll feel better when I get to the house——”

“So will I,” he thought. The boys would be working on the new bunk-house. They'd all be there to observe him.

Letty knew what was running through his mind. As they drew nearer the yard she snuggled even closer to him.

“I'm afraid I'm a terrible nuisance,” she purred. “Making nurse-maids of all of you——”

The barb that lay in her words sunk into Kin's consciousness with a savage plunge.

The reception that awaited them measured up fully to Kin's worst expectations. In a dead silence they rode past the new bunk-house, and Kin looked neither to right nor left.

Reb appeared just as they reached the house. He carried Letty inside.

“Maybe I'd ought to carry you up to your room,” he suggested.

“No, I can limp up all right,” Letty smiled. “You might get the arnica for me from Father's room.”

Reb obliged. Letty took it, and handing him the note her father had sent, began to limp up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing.

Reb had finished reading Mr. Stall's note and was regarding her with growing amazement. Letty was limping perfectly, but she was favoring the wrong foot. Light began to break on Reb as his nimble brain pondered the fact.

“You'll be stayin' then, I guess,” he said stonily.

“For a while,” Letty answered without looking back.

“I thought so,” Reb muttered knowingly to himself.

A
FAINT breeze stirred the aspens to murmurous lamentation as the Reverend John Gare stood at the head of the freshly made grave on the hillside above the Skull and consigned all that was mortal of Gene Crockett to the dust of his fathers.

The house had proven far too small to accommodate the crowd that had come for the funeral. At Gare's suggestion they had held the services in the yard, under the big cottonwood. He had spoken at length, interlarding the sonorous phrases of the Bible with the homely wisdom of one who knew how to reach their hearts.

He did not torture Mother Crockett and Dan by attempting to eulogize the boy. He spoke of God's mercy; of the strange ways in which He brings his miracles to pass.

A blanket had been thrown over the rough pine box which Dan and Brent had built for Gene. Gare stood beside it, the black-bonneted women and sober-faced men ringed about him in a half circle. His frock coat, long since faded to a dull bottle green, his shaggy hair and unbuttoned shirt did not detract from the magnetism of the man. He had brought the Word to them, and they listened with bowed heads.

Mother Crockett, tearless now, hung on his words. Gene was having a Christian burial, and it fortified her. Dan stood on one side of her, Brent on the other, clasping her hands.

Montana told himself he would never forget that picture. He was humble in the face of their fortitude. It was that very quality which had first won him to them. From within themselves, they had drawn strength with which to go on.

Ministers are all too prone to ignore the struggles and worldly problems that afflict their parishioners. Not so John Gare. He could have avoided any mention of the conflict in the valley; but he felt it to be his duty to speak of it. In blunt words he warned them to beware of false prophets. He counselled peace and patience, echoing the very things Montana had advised.

Quantrell had come, bringing his men along. They stood a little apart—a hard-faced crew. Jim felt the big fellow's stare and met his eyes squarely, reading their message of implacable hatred.

If Gare had mentioned Quantrell by name his reference to false prophets could not have been more pointed. The crowd understood him. There was no dissenting murmur. Even the boys who had ridden with Gene gave no sign of disapproval.

“Knowing that I brought the minister from Wild Horse, Quantrell will figure I told him what to say,” Jim thought. He was little concerned about that. He had sensed a studied coolness on the part of the crowd toward the big fellow. It was almost more than he had dared to hope. He surmised that Quantrell had feared it, otherwise he would hardly have brought his men with him.

The shadows were growing long before the Reverend Gare made his final appeal to them. He quoted from Romans, chapter 12:

“ ‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written: Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

“ ‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.' ”

In homely words he translated those sentences into a rule of conduct for them.

When he had concluded, the coffin had been placed on the shoulders of Gene's companions and carried to the little dell among the aspens where they stood now. Gare spoke briefly. Catching Dan's eye, he signalled for him to take Mother Crockett back to the house.

The crowd opened up for them to pass. They had almost reached the further edge of it when Mother Crockett saw Quantrell standing before her.

“Come on, Mother,” Dan urged softly as he felt her pause. “You'll feel better if you can lie down for a while.” Some sixth sense seemed to warn him of what was to occur.

Mother Crockett stopped and levelled her red-rimmed eyes at Quantrell. The crowd held its breath. They saw a harried look flit across his face.

“I'm awful sorry, Mother—” he started to say. Her eyes stopped him.

“Can you give me back my boy?” she demanded stonily. “You took him. But for you he'd be alive this minute.”

Dan pleaded with her to continue on to the house.

“You jest got to kinda keep it in, Mother,” he said.

Mother Crockett put him off.

“No, Dan'el. I've got sunthin' to say, and there'll never be a better time fer sayin' it.” She took in the assembled crowd in a sweeping glance. “You all can lissen to me—you men partic'lar. Most of you are blood kin of mine; so I got a right to speak to you.”

There was a tragic deliberation about her that gripped even the children and compelled them to silence.

“We didn't have nuthin' when we come to this valley. By hard work we prospered here. Now we're apt to lose it all; and yet you stand by and let this man turn your heads and our boys' heads with his high and mighty talk about what he's agoin' to do. We knew him when he was freightin' to the Reservation. He had a ranch here then—if you could call it that—but he wa'n't one of us then and he ain't one of us now.”

Quantrell couldn't hold his tongue any longer.

“Reckon you're pretty excited, Mother Crockett,” he exclaimed, trying to hold his voice steady, “but you're heapin' it on a mite strong. The boys shouldn't have done this without me. You know my horse went lame——”

“Too bad he didn't go lame before he fetched you here to-day,” Mother Crockett answered stoutly. “I came to Squaw Valley in a covered wagon, with a pot and pan or two, and I'll leave here the same way before I'll see my men folk beholden to you for anythin'. You put one of my boys in his grave, but you're not agoin' to put Brent there. Now you git offen the ranch, and don't ever let me sot eyes on you ag'in!”

John Gare and Montana glanced at each other with peculiar satisfaction. The situation was moving to a climax much sooner than they had supposed possible. Mother Crockett had unwittingly forced a showdown. In a few seconds they would know the true temper of the crowd and exactly where Quantrell stood.

The moment was not without a certain element of danger, although Montana considered it rather remote. He knew there were some among those present who would line up on the big fellow's side. There was evidence that others were through with him. Quantrell's conduct depended on the turn of the balance. If he found the majority against him he would have no alternative but to exit as gracefully as he could. If sentiment favored him, he would remain to make the most of his victory.

It had come so suddenly that it took a moment for opinions to crystallize. Quantrell essayed a smile of confidence, but his eyes were shifting about uneasily. His men had edged perceptibly nearer him. They were armed—apparently the only ones present who were.

The tension increased as old Lance Morrow stepped forward. In addition to his five sons there were a dozen other Morrows in the valley. As the head of his clan he was a man of importance. Montana considered him the bulwark of Quantrell's strength. If the old man had not openly espoused the big fellow's plans he had, at least, lined up squarely with him on one thing; namely that since this must be a fight to the finish nothing was to be gained by waiting for the other side to bring the fight to them.

Quantrell took confidence. His eyes lost some of their harried look.

“I don't aim to stay where I ain't wanted,” he declared with a mirthless grin. “If there's some feeling against me here I reckon I know who I've got to thank. If he can get us quarrellin' among ourselves he'll be doin' just about what he's been plannin' to do all along. Some hard words has been said to me, but I'm big enough to overlook them, though no man likes to feel he's bein' run out. I—I reckon there's no danger of that happenin'——”

To his surprise it failed to win a murmur of approval. Old Lance's eyes had narrowed to slits. Nancy Crockett was his niece and the blood tie outweighed any consideration he might otherwise have shown Quantrell.

“You heard what she said, didn't you, Clay?” he asked, his tone cold and uncompromising. “She asked you to go.”

It came as such a complete surprise that Quantrell could not hide his chagrin.

“Hits neither the time ner the place for argufyin',” Lance warned him. “Mebbe you meant well, Clay, but some of us think you went behind our backs in gettin' our boys mixed up in this. We can talk that over later. The thing for you to do now is to go as peaceable as you can.”

It was a slap in the face that staggered Quantrell. John Gare had made his way to Montana's side.

“If he blows up there's going to be trouble,” he warned Jim. “Be ready for it.”

“Don't worry,” Jim replied, “Quantrell isn't going to lose his head. He's too cagy for that. A show of temper now and he's in the discard. He'll try to save his face some way. Lance left him a loophole.”

The next few seconds saw Jim proved correct. Quantrell strove to dissemble his rage and humiliation. His men didn't know what to make of it.

“Don't worry about me,” they heard him say. “I didn't come here to make any trouble. I only wanted to pay my respects to Gene and you, Mother Crockett. I wanted you to know I feel just as bad about this as the rest of you. If I could change places with that boy in his grave yonder I'd do it in a minute. I realize you're all upset now and feel hard toward me; but when you get your second wind and have time to think things over you'll look at it a little different.

“I came into this fight on your side, and I'm goin' through right to the end with you. If ever I can do anythin' to help you, just call on me. Anythin' I got is yours for the askin'.”

Mother Crockett, leaning heavily on Dan, waited until Quantrell and his men had started for their horses before she suffered her husband to take her on to the house.

Now that the services were over the crowd made no move to depart. Living apart as they did it was only the burying of a loved one, or perchance a wedding, that permitted them to gather together as they were to-day. The women folk, especially, saw too little of each other. They began to draw apart now, the men moving toward the corral. Knowing that the Reverend Gare would be spending the night with the Crocketts, they looked forward to hearing him speak further. He not only had come a long distance, bringing them the news of Wild Horse and the world beyond, but he had a practical knowledge of husbandry, with all the vexing problems it brought them, even to being able to diagnose the condition of an ailing calf and prescribe the best treatment for tick fever.

Montana had lingered behind, a little bewildered at the turn events had taken. He refused to believe the rebuff Quantrell had just received would deter the big fellow for long.

“But it may trip him at that,” he thought, “because it's going to hurry him, whatever his game is. He won't sit around waiting for something to happen.”

He was still fifty yards from the house when he saw Quantrell and his men riding toward him, evidently leaving by way of the Skull, although they had ridden in from the north. Jim felt it was a meeting that could accomplish nothing and he chided himself for not having kept out of the man's way. Now that it was unavoidable he met it without fear or favor, continuing on as though Quantrell did not exist.

The big fellow pulled up his horse and threw the animal across Jim's path. There was no need for him to cover up now. His face was livid with rage.

“I can thank you for this,” he snarled.

“You can if you care to,” Montana answered coolly, “but you may be flattering me.”

Quantrell ripped out an oath.

“I'm puttin' it on the fire along with a few other things I got cookin' for you, Montana,” he ground out furiously. “I'll be dishin' them out to you one of these days.”

“Be careful you don't burn your fingers on 'em,” Jim said easily.

He could hear the big fellow cursing as he rode away.

“Got a bad taste in his mouth, all right,” Montana murmured to himself. “You'd have hydrophobia if he bit you tonight.”