Part 15 (1/2)

CHAPTER XI

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The darkness that precedes morning had the prairie country in its grip when Howard, the gaunt foreman of the B.B. ranch, drew rein before the silent tent, and with the b.u.t.t end of his quirt tapped on the heavy canvas.

”Wake up,” he called laconically. ”You're wanted at the ranch house.”

Echo-like, startling in its suddenness, an inverted V opened in the white wall and in it, fully dressed, vigilant, appeared the figure of its owner.

”What is it?” asked a voice insistently.

The Texan stared in unconcealed surprise.

”In Heaven's name, man, don't you ever sleep?” he drawled. ”The boss is dead,” he added baldly at second thought.

The black V closed again, and distinct in outline against the white background appeared the silhouette of the listener. His arms were folded across his chest in a way that was characteristic, and his moccasined feet were set close together. He spoke no word of surprise, asked no question; merely stood there in the silence and the semi-darkness waiting.

The foreman was by no means a responsive soul, yet, watching, there instinctively crept over him a feeling akin to awe of this other silent human. There was the mystery of death itself in that motionless, listening shadow.

”It was just before I came over to tell you that Mrs. Landor raised the house,” he explained. ”She woke up in the night and found the boss so--and cold already.” Unconsciously his voice had lowered. ”She screamed like a mad woman, and ran down-stairs in her nightdress, chattering so we could hardly understand her.” He slapped at his baggy chaperajos with his quirt absently. ”That's all I know, except there's no particular use to hurry. It's all over now, and he never knew what took him.”

Silently as before the aperture in the tent opened and closed and the listener disappeared; to reappear a moment later with a curled-up woolly bundle in his arms. Without a word of explanation he strode toward the barn, leaving Howard staring after him uncertainly. Listening, the latter heard a suppressed little puppyish protest, as though its maker were very sleepy, a moment later the soft, recognising whinny of a broncho, and then, startlingly sudden as the figure had first emerged from the tent, it appeared again, mounted, by his side.

For half the distance to the ranch house not a word was said; then of a sudden Howard drew his horse to a walk meaningly.

”I suppose it's none of my business,” he commented without preface, ”but unless I'm badly mistaken there'll be h.e.l.l to pay around the Buffalo b.u.t.te now.”

Again, as at the tent door, his companion made no answer; merely waited for the something he knew was on the other's mind. The east was beginning to lighten now, and against the reddening sky his dark face appeared almost pale.

Howard s.h.i.+fted in his saddle seat and inspected the ground at his right as intently as though there might be jewels scattered about.

”The boss's relative--Craig,” he added, ”has taken possession there as completely as if he'd owned the place a lifetime instead of been a visitor two days.” The long moustaches that gave the man's face an unmeritedly ferocious expression lifted characteristically. ”I like you, How, or I wouldn't stick my bill into your affairs. That boy is going to make you trouble, take my word for it.”

Even then there was no response; but the overseer did not seem surprised or offended. Instead, the load he had to impart off his mind, his manner indicated distinct relief. But one thing more was necessary to his material comfort--and that solace was at hand. Taking a great bite of plug tobacco, a chew that swelled one of his thin cheeks like a wen, he lapsed into his normal att.i.tude of disinterested reverie.

The ranch house was lighted from top to bottom, abnormally brilliant, and as the Indian entered the odour of kerosene was strong in his nostrils. In the kitchen as he pa.s.sed through were the other two herders. They sat side by side in uncomfortable inaction, their big sombreros in their hands; and with the suppression of those unused to death nodded him silent recognition. The dining-room was empty, likewise the living-room; but as he mounted the stairs, he could hear the m.u.f.fled catch of a woman's sobs, and above them, intermittent, authoritative, the voice of a man speaking. His moccasined feet gave no warning, and even after he had entered the room where the dead man lay none of the three who were already present knew that he was there.

Just within the doorway he paused and looked about him. In one corner of the room, well away from the bed, sat Mary Landor. She did not look up as he entered, apparently did not see him, did not see anything. The first wild pa.s.sion of grief past, she had lapsed into a sort of pa.s.sive lethargy. Her fingers kept picking at the edge of the loose dressing sack she had put on, and now and then her thin lips trembled; but that was all.

Only a glance the newcomer gave her, then his eyes s.h.i.+fted to the bed; s.h.i.+fted and halted and, unconsciously as he had done when Howard first broke the news, his feet came close together and his arms folded across his chest in characteristic, all-observing attention. Not a muscle moved, he scarcely seemed to breathe. He merely watched.

And this was what he saw: The shape of a dead man lying as at first beneath the covers; only now the sheet had been raised until the face was hid. Beside it, stretched out in abandon as she had thrown herself down, her head all but buried from view, was the girl Bess. She was sobbing as though her heart would break: sobbing as though unconscious of another human being in the world. Above her, leaning over her, was the form of a man: Craig. His uncle had brought his belongings from the tiny town the day before, and even at this time his linen and cravat were immaculate. He was looking down at the little woman before him, looking and hesitating as one choosing between good and evil.

”Bess,” he was saying, ”you must not. You'll make yourself sick.

Besides, it's nearly morning and people will be coming. Don't do so; please!”

No answer, no indication that he had been heard; only the m.u.f.fled, racking, piteous sobs.

”Bess,” insistently, ”Bess! Listen to me. I can't have you do so. Uncle Landor wouldn't like it, I know he wouldn't. He'd be sorry if he knew.