Charles Alden Seltzer

Hollis smiled. The Judge got to his feet and approached the two men.

“Hollis,” he said, “shake hands with Mr. Allen, of Lazette.”

Allen’s hand came out quickly and was grasped by Hollis’s, both grips being hearty and warm.

“My name’s Ben Allen,” explained the stranger with a smile. “Tacking on a handle like ‘Mister’ would sure make me feel like a stranger to myself.”

“We’ll not quarrel about that,” remarked the Judge with a smile; “we’ll call you Ben.” He looked soberly at Hollis, continuing:

“Allen has been sent over here from Lazette to assist us in establishing the law. He was formerly sheriff of Colfax County, having been defeated by the Cattlemen’s Association because he refused to become a party to its schemes. On several occasions since severing his official connection with Colfax County he has acted in a special capacity for the government. He is an old acquaintance of the new Secretary of the Interior and much trusted by him. He is to be the inquisitor mentioned in the letter which I read in the presence of Dunlavey.”

Hollis looked at Allen with a new interest. After noting again the steady, serene eyes, narrowed always with a slight squint; the firm straight lips, the well set jaws, Hollis mentally decided that the Secretary of the Interior could not have made a better choice. Certainly, if he had served as sheriff of Colfax County, he had had some excellent experiences, for from reading the Lazette Eagle, Hollis had acquired considerable knowledge of the character of the inhabitants of Colfax. The editor of the Eagle had many times felicitated himself upon the fact that his town (Lazette) had not been built ten miles farther east–in which case he would have been a resident of Union–and ashamed of it.

“I think we need you,” said Hollis simply. “But I imagine you will have to concentrate your efforts upon one ranch only–the Circle Cross. If you make Dunlavey bow to the law you may consider your work finished.”

“I think Dunlavey will change his views of things shortly,” remarked Allen, quietly, but significantly. He smiled at Hollis. “I have read your paper regularly,” he said. “You’ve got the editor of our paper hopping mad–with your claims about Dry Bottom being superior to Lazette. Also, you’ve stirred up the Secretary of the Interior some. I was called to Washington three weeks ago and invited to tell what I knew of conditions out here. I didn’t exaggerate when I told the Secretary that hell was a more peaceful place for a law loving man to live in. Though,” he added with a smile, “I wasn’t ever in hell and couldn’t be positive. I was just accepting what I’ve heard preachers say about it. The Secretary asked me if I knowed you and I told him that though I didn’t I would be right glad to if you was doing anything in my line. He laughed and said he’d miss his guess if you wasn’t making things interesting. Told me to get you to one side and tell you to go to it.” He smiled dryly. “According to what I’ve read in the Kicker you don’t need to be told that and so I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

He dropped his humor and spoke seriously, questioning Hollis about the location of his ranch, listening quietly and attentively to the latter’s answers. Half an hour later after having arranged with Judge Graney for the registering of his brand and the listing of his cattle, Hollis left the court house and went to his office. In running through his mail he came upon Judge Graney’s notification and also another letter, postmarked “Chicago,” which drew a pleased smile to his face. A few minutes later Norton came in, and though Hollis had done very little on the paper he rose and smilingly announced his intention of returning to the Circle Bar.

“We’ll take the Coyote trail,” he informed Norton, after they had mounted and were riding away from the Kicker office; “I’m stopping for a moment at the Hazelton cabin. Of course,” he added, seeing a knowing grin on Norton’s face, “I expected you would be suspicious–married folks have a habit of adopting a supercilious and all-wise attitude toward those of us who have been unfortunate enough to remain in a state of single blessedness.”

“Meanin’ that you’re some sore because you ain’t got hooked up yet?” grinned Norton.

“Perhaps,” laughed Hollis. “But I have been thinking seriously of trying to reach your altitude.”

“Girl willin’?” queried Norton, as they rode down through a little gully, then up to a stretch of plain that brought them to the Coyote trail.

“That’s where I am all at sea,” returned Hollis. He laughed. “I suppose you’ve read Ace’s poem in the Kicker?” He caught Norton’s nod and continued. “Well, Ace succeeded in crowding a whole lot of truth into that effort. Of course you remember the first couplet:

“‘Woman–she don’t need no tooter,
Be she skule ma’am or biscut shooter.”’

he quoted.

“A woman seems to have an intuitive knowledge of man’s mental processes. At least she gauges him pretty well without letting him into the mystery of how she does it. A man can never tell where he will land.” Ace came very near striking the nail on the head when he wrote in the second couplet that:

“And then, knowing man so well, she absolutely refuses to let him know anything of her thoughts. Which again, Ace has noted in this manner:

“That seems to be the exact truth,” he laughed.Norton grinned at him. “You single guys have certa’nly got a whole lot to learn,” he said, “for a fact. Of course if she’s any kind of a woman at all she’s got him runnin’. But which way?”

“Why, toward her, of course!” laughed Hollis.

Norton’s smile widened. “You’ve tumbled to that, then,” he observed dryly. “Then you’re ready for the next lesson.”

“And that?” questioned Hollis.

Norton smiled with ineffable pity. “Lordy!” he laughed; “you single guys don’t know a thing not a durned thing!”

After that they rode on in silence. When they came in sight of the Hazelton cabin Norton reined in his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, grinning at Hollis.

“You run along now,” he advised. “I’ll be hittin’ her off toward the Dry Bottom trail for the rest of the way–I sorta like that trail better anyway.”

He urged his pony off at a tangent and Hollis continued on his way. He found Nellie alone, her brother having gone out on the range. She came out on the porch, hearing his pony’s hoofs on the hard sand and rocks of the trail, and there was a sincere welcome in her eyes. It was the first time that he had visited the cabin since he had returned to the Circle Bar.

“Oh!” she said delightedly. And then, aware of the sudden light that had come into Hollis’s eyes at this evidence of interest, she blushed and looked down at the hem of her skirt, nervously pushing it out with the toe of her shoe.

During the days of Hollis’s convalescence at the Hazelton cabin he had seen the young woman in many moods. In none of them, however, had she seemed so attractive as now. Confusion became her, he decided, and he regarded her with a new interest as he sat on his pony, awaiting her invitation to dismount. It came presently.

“It is frightfully hot,” she said, moving over to where stood two chairs–one in which he had passed many hours during the days of his convalescence, the other in which she had sat quite often–near him. Not until now did he realize how full and satisfying those days had been. As he dismounted and tied his pony to one of the slender porch columns he smiled–thinking of Norton’s question during their discussion of Ace’s poem. “Of course”–the range boss had said–“if she’s any kind of a woman at all she’s got him runnin’. But which way?” Of course–literally–she did not have him running, but he knew that some uncommon passion had gripped him and that he was unaccountably pleased.

His smile grew when he remembered her sudden indignation over his thoughtless statement that women had never interested him. Of course he would not tell her that he felt a serious interest in one woman. When he dropped into his favorite chair, removing his hat and mopping the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief, he caught her looking swiftly at the scar under his right eye–which would always be a reminder of his experience on the night of the storm. She saw his brows contract in a frown.

“You have quite recovered,” she said; “except for that slight scar under the eye you are the same as before the meeting with Dunlavey’s men.”

He looked beyond her at the tawny mountains that rose in the distance,–miles on the other side of the big basin–swimming in the shimmering blur of white sky–somber guardians of a mysterious world. What secret did they guard? What did they know of this world of eternal sunlight, of infinite distance? Did they know as much of the world upon which they frowned as he knew of the heart of the slender, motherly girl whose eyes betrayed her each time he looked into them?

A smile that lurked deep within him did not show in his face–it was unborn and it gripped him strangely, creating a sensation in his breast that he could not analyze, but which pleaded to be expressed. He could not express it–now. He feared to trust himself and so he fought it down, assuring himself that it was not yet time. But he knew that he was not the same as before his experience with Dunlavey on the night of the storm. Something had stolen into his heart and was enthroned there; something deeper than a mere scar–a girl who had mothered him in his extremity; who had hovered over him, attending to his bruises, binding his wounds, tenderly smoothing his brow during the days and nights of the fever; attending his wants during convalescence; erecting a citadel in his heart which would stand as a monument to his gratitude. No, not gratitude merely. The smile was born. He turned and looked at her, meeting her eyes fairly, and hers dropped in confusion.

“Do you think that I am the same as before?” he asked suddenly.

She stood up, radiant, pointing a finger toward the Coyote trail. “Ed is coming!” she declared.Before he could say another word she was down off the porch and running toward her brother, holding his horse while he dismounted, kissing him, patting him lovingly as they came toward the porch.

The latter greeted Hollis warmly. “A fellow couldn’t help but feel good with a sister like that–now could he?” he inquired as he came upon the porch and took the chair which Nellie had vacated. She had disappeared into the cabin, not even looking at Hollis, but she could not have heard Hollis’s reply had she remained. For it was wordless. There are times when men understand perfectly without speech.

Hollis stayed for dinner. Nellie was radiantly silent during the meal, attending to the wants of the two men, listening while they discussed recent happenings in the county. Ed was much pleased to hear of the coming of Ben Allen.

“That guy is business–through and through,” he assured Hollis. “He was the best sheriff Colfax County ever had–and it’s had some good ones. Allen’s quiet, but there ain’t anyone going to herdride him. Some have tried it, but they found it didn’t pay and so they don’t try it any more.”

After dinner they went out on the porch for a smoke, leaving Nellie inside. They could hear her singing as she washed the dishes. Hazelton smiled as a particularly happy note reached his ears. “I don’t know what’s got into Sis,” he said, flashing a swift glance at Hollis. “I don’t know as I ever heard her sing that well before.”

Hollis made no reply and the conversation turned to the drought–as all conversations did during that period. Word had come to Hazelton of Dunlavey’s warning to the cattle owners. He had heard also of Hollis’s announced intention of taking sides with the small owners.

“Dunlavey’s ten days is up the day after tomorrow,” said Hazelton. “If Dunlavey starts anything what are you going to do?”

“That will depend on what Dunlavey starts,” smiled Hollis.

“H’m!” inexpressively grunted Hazelton. He flashed a glance at the face of the young man beside him, noting the firm mouth, the steady eyes, and the faint, grim smile. “H’m!” he said again. “I suppose you know who you’re going to give your water to?” he questioned.

Hollis nodded. “To men who refused to help my father when he needed help,” he returned.Hazelton smiled oddly. “I’ve heard about that,” he said. He laughed. “It strikes me that I wouldn’t give such men any water,” he added.

Hollis turned and looked at him, meeting his gaze fairly, and holding it.

“Yes, you would, Hazelton,” he said, a broad smile on his face.

“How do you know that?” queried the latter, slightly defiant.

Hollis motioned toward the kitchen door. “I know,” he said; “you’re her brother.”

“Well,” began Hazelton hesitatingly,–“I—”

The screen door opened–slammed, and Nellie Hazelton came out upon the porch. She had found time to change her morning dress for a soft, fluffy creation of some sort, and she stood before them, flushing slightly as both looked at her, a picture that smote Hollis’s heart with a sudden longing. Only one glance did she give him and then she was over near Ed’s chair, leaning over him, stroking his hair.

For a long time Hollis sat, watching them with sympathetic, appreciative eyes. Then he thought of the letter in his pocket, the one postmarked “Chicago,” which he had discovered at the Kicker office on returning from the court house. He drew it from his pocket and read the legend in the upper left hand corner:

“Dr. J. J. Hammond, — Hospital, Chicago, Ill.”

He studied the legend for some little time, his thoughts busy with the contents of the envelope. Fortunately, his letter to the great physician had fallen into the hands of the son, Tom Hammond, and the latter, not forgetting his old schoolmate, had appealed to his father. This was what the surgeon had written in the letter–he would not have agreed to accept the case had it not been for the fact that Hollis had been, and was Tom’s friend. He would be pleased if the patient would make the journey to Chicago within a month, that he might be able to take up his case before entering upon some scientific investigations which had been deferred a long time, etc.

Hollis had been reading the letter again. He finished it and looked up, to see Ed and Nellie watching him. He flushed and smiled, holding out the letter to Nellie.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I found this interesting. Perhaps you will also find it so.”

He leaned back with a smile and watched them. But he did not, watch long. He saw Nellie start, saw the color slowly recede from her face, saw her hands clench tightly–as she began to read the letter. He turned away, not caring to watch them during that sacred moment in which they would read the line of hope that the great surgeon had written. He looked–it seemed–for a long time down the Coyote trail, and when he finally turned his head toward them he saw Ed Hazelton sitting erect in his chair, apparently stunned by the news. But before him, close to him, so close that he felt her breath in his face–her eyes wide with delight, thankfulness–and perhaps something more–Nellie was kneeling.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Hollis!” she said earnestly, her lips all a-quiver; “Thank you, and God bless you!”

He tried to sit erect; tried to open his lips to tell her that he had done only what any man would have done under the circumstances. But he moved not, nor did he speak, for her arms had gone around his shoulders, and her lips were suddenly pressed firmly and quickly to his. Then he was released and she turned, crying:

“Come and thank him, Ed!”

But Ed had taken himself off–perhaps he did not care to allow anyone to witness his joy.

Some time during the evening Hollis took his departure from the Hazelton cabin. Ed had come back, silently taking Hollis’s hand and gripping it earnestly. And before Hollis had departed Ed had taken himself into the house. Perhaps he divined that there were other’s joys beside his.

That night before retiring Nellie stole softly into her brother’s room and kissed him lightly on the forehead. That same night also Hollis rode up to the Circle Bar corral gate–singing. Norton and Potter were sitting on the gallery, waiting for him. While Hollis was removing the saddle from his pony Norton rose from his chair and smiled at Potter.

“Well,” he said to the latter, “I’m goin’ to bed.” He moved a few steps toward the door and then turned and looked back at Potter, who had also risen. He laughed.

“Listen, Potter,” he said. Then he quoted:

He hesitated and looked again at Potter. “Why,” said the latter, puzzled, “that’s from Ace’s poem!”

“Sure,” laughed Norton; “that’s just what it is!”