The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country. Cullum Ridgwell

said just now my head was full of wheels,” he began, with a humorous light in his eyes that was yet not without sadness. “Maybe it is–maybe it has reason to be. You see, it was an automobile that finished my career at West Point. My mother came by her death in one. An accident. Automobiles were immature then–and–well, her income died with her, and I had to quit and hustle in a new direction. Curiously enough I went into the works of an automobile enterprise. I–I hated the things, but they fascinated me. I made good there, and got together a fat wad of bills, which was useful seeing I had my young cousin’s–you know, young Will Henderson, of Barnriff; he’s a trapper now–education on my hands. Just as things were good and dollars were coming plenty the enterprise bust. I was out–plumb out. I hunched up for another kick. I had a dandy patent that was to do big things. I got together a syndicate to run it. I’d got a big car built to demonstrate my patent, and it represented all I had in the world. It was to be on the race-track. Say, she didn’t demonstrate worth a cent. My syndicate jibbed, and I–well, here I am, a cattleman–you see cattle haven’t the speed of automobiles, but they mostly do what’s expected. That’s my yarn, boss. You didn’t know much of me. It’s not a great yarn as life goes. Mostly ordinary. But there’s a deal of life in it, in its way. There’s a pile of hope busted, and hope busted isn’t a pleasant thing. Makes you think a deal. However, Will Henderson and I–we can’t kick a lot when you look around. I’m earning a good wage, and I’ve got a tidy job–that don’t look like quitting. And Will–he’s netting eighty a month out of his pelts. After all things don’t much count, do they? Fifty or sixty years hence our doings won’t cut any ice. We’re down, out, and nature shuts out memory. That’s the best of it. We shan’t know anything. We’ll have forgotten everything we ever did know. We shan’t be haunted by the ‘might-have-beens’. We shall have no regrets. It’ll just be sleep, a long, long sleep–and forgetfulness. And then–ah, well, boss, I’m yarning a heap, and the boys are out on the fences with no one to see they’re not shooting ‘craps.’”

      The rancher turned to the door.

      “I’m going out to the fences meself,” he said, shortly. Then he went on: “There’s a dozen an’ more three-year-olds in the corrals needs bustin’. You best set two o’ the boys on ’em. Ther’s a black mare among ’em. I’ll get you to handle her yourself. I’m goin’ to ride her, an’ don’t want no fool broncho-buster tearing her mouth out.”

      “Right-ho, boss.” Jim was smiling happily at the man’s broad back as he stood facing out of the door. “But, if you’ve half a minute, I’ve got something else to get through me.”

      “Eh?” McLagan turned. His Irish face was alight with sudden interest. “Guess I ain’t busy fer ten minutes.”

      “That’s more than enough,” said Jim, readily. “It’s about that land I was speaking to you of the other day. I told you those things about myself–because of that. As I said, you didn’t know much of me, except my work for you.”

      McLagan nodded, and chewed the end of his cigar. His keen eyes were studying the other’s face. At last he removed his cigar, and spat out a bit of tobacco leaf.

      “I know all I need to,” he said cordially. “The proposition was one hundred and sixty acres for a homestead, with grazin’ rights. You want a lease. Gettin’ married?”

      “It might happen that way,” grinned the foreman somewhat sheepishly.

      “Found the leddy?”

      Jim nodded.

      “Marryin’s a fool game anyway.”

      “That’s as maybe.”

      McLagan shrugged.

      “Guess I don’t want wimmin-folk in mine. You’re goin’ to hold your job?”

      “Sure. You see, boss–” Jim began to explain.

      But McLagan broke in.

      “You can have it for rent, boy,” he said. “It suits me, if you don’t mean quittin’.”

      “I don’t mean quitting,” said Jim. “I’m going to run it with a hired man. Y’see I’ve got one hundred and fifty stock and a bit saved for building. When I get married my wife’ll see to things some. See the work is done while I’m here.”

      McLagan grinned and nodded.

      “Guess you didn’t seem like gettin’ married jest now, talkin’ of those things. You kind o’ seemed ‘down’ some.”

      Jim’s eyes became thoughtful.

      “Makes you feel ‘down’ when you get remembering some things,” he said. “Y’see it makes you wonder what the future feels like doing in the way of kicks. Things are going good about now, and–and I want ’em to keep on going good.”

      McLagan laughed boisterously.

      “You’ve sure jest got to play hard to-day, let the future worry fer itself. Well, so long. I’ll hand you the papers when you’ve selected the ground, boy. An’ don’t forget the black mare.”

      He left the hut and Jim watched him stumping busily away across to the big barn where the saddle horses were kept. His eyes were smiling as he looked after him. He liked Dan McLagan. His volcanic temper; his immoderate manner of expression suggested an open enough disposition, and he liked men to be like that.

      But his smile was at the thought that somehow he had managed to make his “boss” think that extreme caution was one of his characteristics. Yes, it made him smile. If such had been the case many things in the past, many disasters might have been averted.

      As a matter of fact he had been thinking of the woman he hoped to make his wife. He was wondering if he had a reasonable prospect of helping her to all the comfort in life she deserved. He took an ultra serious view of matrimonial responsibilities. Eve must have a good, ample home. She must have nothing to worry, none of little petty economies to study which make life so burdensome. Yes, they must start with that, and then, with luck, their stock would grow, he would buy more land, and finally she would be able to hold her place with the wives of all the richest ranchers in the district. That was what he wanted for her when they were married.

      When they were married. Suddenly he laughed. He had not asked her yet. Still– His eyes grew gloomy. His thoughts turned to another man, his cousin, Will Henderson. He knew that Will liked Eve Marsham. It was the one cloud upon his horizon. Will was younger than he by a good deal. He was handsome, too. Eve liked him. Yes, she liked him, he was sure. But somehow he did not associate marriage with Will. Well,–it was no good seeking trouble.

      He pushed his thoughts aside and stood up. But the cloud upon his dark face was not so easily got rid of. How could it be? for Eve Marsham meant the whole world to him.

      He moved toward the door, and as he looked out at the sunlit yards he started. A horseman had just come into view round the corner of one of the barns. But though his smile was lacking when the man came up and drew rein at his door, there was no mistaking the kindly cordiality of his greeting as he held out his hand.

      “Why, Will,” he cried, “I’m real glad you’ve come along.”

      CHAPTER II

      A SHOOTING MATCH

      In silence the two men sat smoking. Will Henderson, half sitting, half lying on the stretcher-bed, gazed out through the doorway at the distant mountain peaks. His hands were clasped behind his head, and a sullen, preoccupied look was in his eyes. Jim Thorpe was sitting, frog-fashion, on an upturned soap-box, watching him. His eyes were a shade anxious, but full of good feeling.

      Jim was nine years his cousin’s senior, and Will was twenty-four. They were really almost foster-brothers, for from the younger man’s earliest days he had lived with Jim, in the care of the latter’s widowed mother. He was an orphan, both his parents having died before he was two years old, and so it was that he had been adopted by Jim’s mother, the child’s only living relative. For years Jim had lavished on him an elder brother’s affection and care. And when his own mother died, and he