CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Arizona, like a pouting child, was indulging in one of her periodic drouths, and cattle were slowly succumbing to starvation. The winter snows and rains had been insufficient to start the Spring grass, and though it was now late in August and the summer rains usually began in June, not a drop had fallen.
Most of the water-holes were dry, and water in the wells of ranches sank further from the surface each day. Many springs considered permanent, degenerated into mere mudholes where cattle bawled and crowded one another into the bogs till the weakest fell and were suffocated or trampled to death. The country was not only devoid of green grass, but what dry feed was left contained no nutriment whatever.
Ranchers fortunate enough to own permanent springs, or wells that were not yet dry, guarded the water jealously, notifying neighbours to come and care for the stray cattle that lingered bellowing around the closed watering places, or walked aimlessly for miles beside the barbed wire fences that kept them from the water they could smell. Tiny calves trailed weakly behind skeleton cows; other cows abandoned their young; and all added hysterically to the din of constant bellowing wherever there was a pool of water to lure them.
Sulphur Springs Valley was over a hundred miles long. It spread twenty miles across from the Grahams to the Galiuros, and was broken by groups of cottonwood trees clustering about small ponds of water supplied by windmills. Ordinarily these ponds were open to all stock, but now the gates were closed. Unless the water were used economically there would soon be none in reserve, as a few days without wind would cut off the daily supply from the windmills, and dry up the ponds.
Each day at ten o'clock the gates were opened. Cowboys stood guard, allowing the cattle bearing the ranch brands to enter the water-corrals, all other stock being "cut" away from water. The owners of these strays, having been notified, sent men to drive their own cattle home; but the animals would not remain away. Accustomed to ranging and watering in a certain locality, they would return and stand dumbly watching other cattle drink, waiting patiently for their own turn. When night fell, they lay down by the fence, lowing pitifully until morning, when they would again stagger to their feet. Sometimes, in frenzy, an animal tried to break through the wire fence, cutting itself on the barbs and growing steadily weaker hour by hour, till at last there was another carcass to be hauled away from the fence about the water corrals.
The August heat was intensified by the drouth, and a discussion in the corrals had annoyed Traynor. With the mood still on him, he entered the living-room of the Diamond H, where his wife was sitting beside a couch on which Jamie was sleeping. The boy had grown listless of late, and Nell tried to deceive herself by blaming the weather. Doctor Powell had been with them almost constantly, battling with all his skill for the waning life.
Traynor stooped over the child, then paced restlessly up and down the room. "I wish I could see a way to get you and the boy off to California, Nell, until this drouth is over. You both need the change. You have been a plucky little woman, never making a single complaint; yet I know how much the boy means to you. He is as dear as an own son to me, and it is maddening to be tied hand and foot, so that I cannot help you. I was a fool that I did not accept the offer of that Eastern syndicate last Fall – but cattlemen are all fools! None of us will sell during a good year. When the drouth hits us we curse ourselves for letting a sale slip. Drouth or no drouth, the men have to be paid; grain bought for the horses and provisions for us all. Where the money is coming from, the Lord only knows – I don't."
He flung himself moodily into a chair. Rising swiftly, Nell went to his side and slipped her arm about his neck, looking down into his face as he tried to smile up at her.
"Can't you pay the men with checks on the stores as you have always done?" she asked. "You told me once the stores carried all bills for five or six months, and accounts were settled when cattle were sold at the regular shipping season."
"That would be all right, ordinarily; but unfortunately the stores don't see it that way just now. They not only refuse further credit for cash or merchandise, but are asking settlements of all accounts in full, saying they are being pressed by their own creditors. Of course, one cannot very well blame them. They have to 'save their own bacon;' as the boys say."
"Is there any chance of getting money from the Tuscon bank?" asked his wife, hopefully. "When Mr. Eisenbart was here he said this ranch was the finest piece of property – not only in the Territory – but in the entire west."
"That did not cost him anything," retorted Traynor bitterly. "You see, like most cattlemen, I have never established a credit at any bank, being satisfied to do all my business through the stores which cash my checks. Consequently, now that the stores are closing down on me, I have no other place to turn!" He paced the floor restlessly and Nell watched him with troubled eyes, realizing how little she could help.
"I should have opened an account with some California bank long ago," he continued. "However, there's no use crying over spilled milk. I did not fully understand how critical my position was until I wrote to Eisenbart two weeks ago. I offered a mortgage on the ranches and all the stock, at twelve per cent. for a five thousand dollar loan! Why, this place is worth five hundred thousand dollars! He answered they were not making any new loans and were calling in all outstanding notes. No one wants a mortgage on dead or dying cattle, but the land would have been ample security for ten times what I needed."
Traynor stood by the window, staring out at the sky. He turned and resumed his restless walking to and fro, "God! If it would only rain! It's not just myself, but you and Jamie, and I want to get you two away to the Coast for a while. Then I got Powell into the mess, too. This drouth hits his plans pretty hard. All his money is now tied up in the Springs and the PL herd that he bought from Paddy!"
"But the Springs are not affected?" said Nell, "Limber told me that nothing can influence that water supply."
"No; there is that much to be thankful for, at least," he admitted wearily, sinking down into a chair, and letting his head drop into his hands. Nell crossed softly, and her hand caressed the bowed head, until Traynor's face looked up at her. The haggard, drawn lines about eyes and mouth, distinct in the glaring light from the window, smote her heart with pity and longing to comfort him.
"Dearest, I don't care how poor we are, so long as I have you and Jamie;" she was looking into his eyes bravely. "You did not marry a rich girl; but one who knew what poverty meant, and poverty where there was no one to speak an encouraging word. We have a roof that is our own. Even if the cattle die, the drouth cannot last for ever. When the rains come again we can mortgage the land, and get – why we can get a few chickens and a milk-cow, maybe," she laughed. "I have learned to make dandy butter, so we can sell butter and eggs if we can't get money enough to buy a bunch of cattle. We won't stay down, if we do get bowled over!"
"Nell! Bless your heart, you'd help any man get on his feet. Someday, please God, I will be able to give you everything money can buy."
"Nothing you could buy would make me as happy as knowing I am able to help you," she smiled through a mist of tears.
"I must go out and see what the boys are doing," and with head erect Allan Traynor passed through the door. Soon Nell heard his whistle – the first time for many days.
The regular round-up had been deferred until Fall, as the cattle were too weak to be handled and branded. The Diamond H men were kept busy, however, working the cattle at the watering places or riding the range where the weakest stock was "cut out" and driven slowly to the ranch and fed at the big stacks of native hay, or in the pastures that Traynor's foresight had reserved for such an emergency. Other ranchers, who had been amused at his idea of fencing pastures when the whole country was an open range, now saw his plans had been good judgment, and looked with chagrin at their own dying cattle which might have been saved by such measures.
One afternoon near sunset, Paddy Lafferty appeared at the Diamond H stables. Tying his dejected, flea-bitten grey horse in a stall, he unbuckled his rusty spurs and hung them over the horn of his saddle.
"Whar's Limber?" he asked Bronco, who passed the door of the building.
"Hot Springs," Bronco returned, in gasps of lighting a cigarette. "Doc's at – Tucson."
"Whar's the bye?"
"Inside the house."
Paddy waited no longer, but stalked through the Court and knocked at the door of the sitting-room.
Nell met him and her eyes lighted with pleasure, for his quaint, Irish humour was never tiresome to her. Then, too, she saw the sincerity under the surface. Paddy stepped with awkward care across the room and seated himself on the edge of a chair.
"How do he bye a doin'?" he asked in his customary hoarse whisper, jerking his head toward the lounge where Jamie lay in uneasy sleep.
"Not as well as usual, Paddy. He tires easily," she answered sadly, knowing only too well that the little life was slipping away hour by hour, though she had kept the thought to herself, believing that Traynor was still blind to the truth and not wishing to add to his many anxieties. She was unaware that Powell and Traynor had warned the boys not to speak to her of the child's serious condition.
Paddy had also been told of the deception, and had given his word to Traynor. He sat looking at Nell intently, knitting his shaggy eye-brows, and trying to think what to say without betraying his knowledge.
"Mebbe it's the weather do be a doin' it. Misthress Thraynor. Whin the rain comes he will be afther falin' betther."
"Oh, if we could only get rain!" she cried. "Do you think the cattle blame us for their suffering when they look at us with their pitiful, patient eyes? I want to tell them we are suffering, too. Yesterday I watched a cow, standing by her dying calf, licking its face. It was like something human. After it died the mother stood there – and this morning she would not leave it until I asked Bronco to take it away from her. I couldn't stand it. Please don't think I am crazy, Paddy, but it seemed so cruel that a tiny, helpless creature should come into the world for a few weeks, only to suffer and die."
"Yez ain't the only wan that do be a worritin' over the sayson, Misthress Thraynor," rejoined Paddy, who had found conversational bearings at last. "Paple passes on the road widout savin' ache ither, becoz they're all so busy lookin' up at the sky – " he was trying hard to tide her over the danger point. "They're all a boyin' linnyments to rub their necks, becoz of the kinks from lookin' for the clouds." Nodding approval at a faint smile he had evoked, he went on: "Yez was talkin' about cattle havin' rayson, Misthress Thraynor. Did yez be afther knowin' whin ould cows on the range have young calves too wake to walk fur, they all put their heads together and talk it over, loike a lot of women-folks does, an' thin wan of thim cows sthays and takes care of four or foive calves, whilst the ither cows goes off to wather, mebbe tin miles away. Thin she takes her turn whin the ithers comes back. Now, if that ain't rayson, be jabers, phwat is it?"
"I believe all animals have some reason, Paddy. It is human beings who do not understand them. We call them dumb brutes, because we lack the patience or intelligence to comprehend. I have learned a great deal since coming here to live."
"Did yez iver say a cow funeral, Misthress Thraynor?" asked Paddy.
"No, but I have heard the boys speak of them," she answered.
"It's a funny thing," went on Paddy. "Sometoimes a critter's been killed a wake or two, and no soign of it to be seen. Thin an ould cow will come along wid her nose to the ground, loike a dog on a trail, shniffin', and suddenly she raises up her head and lits out a yell loike an Apache Injun. As soon as she does thot all the cattle that are nigh enough to hear comes a runnin' to beat the divvle, an' yellin' as loud as they can. Thin they all sthand around ashniffin' and bawlin' and pawin' up the ground to beat the band. They don't seem to moind if a cow dies natural, but when wan of thim is killed so its blood touches the ground, it upsets the bunch of thim as soon as they find out about it. There was a tinder-foot that committed suicide three years ago, when he laughed at one of the Erie outfit that was tellin' about a cow funeral. The Erie boys had things pretty much their own way, them days."
"Suicide?" asked Nell, wonderingly.
"Well, it figured out that way. He killed hisself by bein' too slow drawin' his gun."
"How much longer do you think the cattle will hold out, Paddy?" she asked anxiously.
"Oi belave the strongest wans kin hould out six wakes, but the poorest wans can't last over two. Yez say, afther the rains comes it beats down the dry fade that is lift, and there won't be any strength to the new fade for siveral wakes, so thot makes it harder for a whoile afther the rains stharts. Thin's the toime cattle gives up." Paddy paused and smoked reflectively, while Nell rocked slowly, immersed in anxious thoughts. Paddy squinted at her from under his heavy eyebrows, then broke the silence, saying, "Did yez iver say ould man Brandther?"
Nell shook her head.
"Will," resumed Paddy, "he's the only wan in Arizony I'm not sorry for. He's gittin' it in the nick, now, an' Oi'm dumned glad of it! Oi till yez, he's a genywine hypercrit! Always says grace at male toimes; and whin he gits out of bed mornin's he goes on his knaze wid his noight-shirt a floppin' around his shanks and t'umps his craw and tills the Good Lard what a fine man ould Brandther is! Thin, he goes on the range and swoipes a couple of calves; and when noight comes, he gits on his knaze agin an t'umps his craw, and t'anks the Good Lard for all the marcies He has besthowed that day."
Despite her heavy heart, Nell's eye twinkled, her mouth twitched and a dimple began to show. The dimple had been hidden away for many days. Paddy saw and approved it.
"He sthayed to my place wan noight the last toime he come to his ranch, and thot's how I know about his religious belafes of hisself. Afther he had lift, Oi flopped on my knaze and t'anked the Saints and the Good Lard that thar wasn't but wan real good and holy man in Arizony so long as I was in the cattle raising business."
In spite of her anxiety, Nell's laughter rang through the room, as she pictured the pompous Mr. Brander thumping his "craw." The man was very wealthy, and only visited his ranch at intervals, but was so rabidly anti-Catholic that he never missed any opportunity to harangue on the topic, and he allowed no Mexicans employed on his ranch, because of their religion.
"It seems pitiful that we need rains so badly here, while the farmers in the East are complaining of too much," Nell said, unable to avoid the topic that was so vital to them all.
"Oi'm siventy-foive years ould, Misthress Thraynor, and Oi've found things ginerally works that way. Boy-the-boy, have yez iver been to Nye Yark?"
"I was born there and lived there with my parents till they died, then the money went and I worked, Paddy. I had to earn enough for Jamie and myself, you see. There was no one to help us. You get frightened when you know you are only one in the four millions people around you."
"The nixt toime yez go to Nye Yark," said Paddy, "there's a little restyrant yez want to be afther thryin'. Oi disremember the name of the strate yez sthart from, but ony way, yez go tin strates to the roight, thin thray strates to the lift, and thin yez kape straight on till yez say the place, and there yez are. Yez can't miss it. Yez can git the best male yez iver ate in your loife," he leaned over and dropped his voice more confidentially, "and they only charge tin cints!"
In order to hide the twitching corners of her mouth, as she conjured up a vision of turning cannibal and devouring "the best male yez iver ate in your loife," Nell moved to the window and stood picking dead leaves from a common geranium growing in a crude window box on the inner ledge formed by the thick adobe walls of the house.
"It's growing beautifully, Paddy," she said to the old man, "and Jamie and I love to watch it. Only, I hate to have you give it up yourself after you have had it so long. It's a beautiful geranium."
"Oh, well," Paddy replied carelessly, waving his hand with the pipe, "I was away from the house so much that half the toime I'd fergit to wather it. It's a long ways betther since you took care of it. Only, yez remimber, yez mustn't give it away to anybody ilse. Yez see, it belonged to the ould Dootch woman I married, and she thought a lot of it. Oi wouldn't give it to any wan ilse but you and Jamie."
Nell's face was sympathetic. She had heard of the strange wife of old Paddy, who spoke only Holland Dutch, while Paddy spoke not one word of the language; but they had managed to get along together till she passed away. Paddy had never called her anything except "The ould Dootch woman."
"It needs water now," Nell spoke after prodding in the earth. "I'll get some from the well."
When she left the room, Paddy laid his beloved pipe aside, then drew his chair near the sleeping boy. As he watched the pale, parted lips, the faint breath, the dark rings under the half-closed eyes, something warm and moist slipped down the old man' cheek and dropped upon his wrinkled, calloused hand. "Lard," he whispered hoarsely, "I can't see why yez let an ould useless bag o' bones like me kape on livin' and take the little lad that iverywan wants and loves. Can't ye swap us?"
Then Nell returned, and Paddy straightened up. "He never even peeped," he announced, turning to watch her water the plants. There was a peculiar expression on his face as he walked slowly over to where Nell let the water flow gently on the dry soil, then taking a pair of scissors from her work-box she pruned the plants carefully, saying, "Jamie usually takes care of them himself, but the last week I have done it for him. He is so easily tired. Did you ever think that life is just like a plant, Paddy? It starts out so bravely, sending its roots deep into the soil, and spreading its tender leaves to the sunshine – Happy, just because it is alive. Then the Gardener comes and prunes the stalks, and the plant does not understand why it is treated so cruelly. Sometimes it seems as though the leaves would never start again, but after a while the blossoms are more beautiful than ever, for pruning makes it stronger." She paused, looking down at the plants, then her voice trembled a little, "I am trying so hard, Paddy, to believe that the Gardener knows what is best."
He knew she was thinking of the child on the couch, and he held out his rough hand; "Oi giss yez are roight, Misthress Thraynor. Things wurrk out in the ind, if we do be doin' the bist we know how. Oi've lived among the cattle so long that I don't know anything ilse but cows and cow-talk, but if iver yez nade a frind, jist yez remimber ould Paddy."
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Glendon, just back from one of his numerous trips to town, tossed a letter to his wife without a word. It fell to the floor, but she reached for it quickly, her heart beating fast at the thought it might be a reply from her Aunt Jane.
There had been no further discussion between herself and her husband about Donnie going away, but she did not know at what hour the ordeal might face her. Even if Aunt Jane declined to advise her in this matter, or aid in any way, Katherine wished that the strained relations between herself and the only one belonging to her by ties of blood, might be more kindly. She had come to understand Aunt Jane's attitude and to acknowledge that the old lady had read Glendon's character better than the girl who married him.
Looking back, Katherine saw all too clearly, that what she had mistaken for love, had been reaction against the dull monotony of her life with Ann and Aunt Jane, and a longing for some outlet for her repressed emotions. This very knowledge made her more staunch in her attitude to Glendon, fearing that her own lack of deep affection made her more alive to his shortcomings.
Her husband stood watching her, and she knew that whatever might be the contents of that letter, he would demand the right to see it. She had no friends who wrote her. If Aunt Jane mentioned receiving any letter, or referred to the appeal, Glendon would at once understand that his wife had written without his knowledge and this very fact would precipitate the catastrophe she had hoped to avert.
The letter was lying face down between them on the floor. Hiding the nauseating fear, she picked it up and turned it over. The engraved address of a firm of lawyers met her eyes. Her name, the ranch, typed.
Puzzled, she tore open the long envelope and started to read. Then she looked up at Glendon, her eyes full of tears, her lips trembling, as she said brokenly, "Aunt Jane is dead!"
"Well, what of it?" he demanded. "Do you expect me to howl with grief? You've not heard from her for years. Can't see that it makes much difference to you whether she's dead or alive. The old cat!"
Her eyes went back to the pages in her hand. They were typed and lengthy. She read them through, then, without comment handed them to Glendon.
"It's a legacy," she said simply.
He sat down and began perusing the contents of the communication, his brows knitting angrily as he grasped the purport.
Dear Madam:
Miss Jane Grimes, whose will has been left in our hands, has made you and your son, Donald, beneficiaries subject to certain conditions.
A sufficient sum to educate your son is set aside, all bills to be rendered to the Trust Company and paid by them. Your desires to be considered in the selection of proper school, but one which must be approved by the Trust Company.
Twelve hundred dollars annuity to be paid to you after the death of your husband, James W. Glendon. Until demise of James W. Glendon, the twelve hundred dollars per annum and accruing interest shall be held by the Trust Company.
In event of failure to agree to the terms set forth in the will, copy of which is herewith enclosed, the entire estate is to revert to the Prohibition Society of America. Otherwise, the estate will pass to your son on his thirtieth birthday.
Kindly communicate with us at your earliest convenience, and oblige, Yours very respectfully,
Goodrich Trust Company.
P. S. Letter enclosed from Miss Grimes.
The other letter read,
Dear Katherine:
You have had time now to realize that my estimate of James Glendon's character was correct. I have been at some pains and expense during the last seven years, since you moved to Arizona, to keep myself informed as to your husband's actions. I feel that I was justified, and it impels me to do all I am able to assist you after I am gone, without being of any comfort or benefit to a man whom I despise.
You are to confer with the Trust Company regarding a school for Donnie. It must be a school where self-respect and honour are taught; in fact, an old-fashioned school where boys are trained in the almost forgotten standards of an old-fashioned gentleman.
The annuity of twelve hundred dollars a year will be paid you at the death of your husband, for I know your inflexible principles and that you will never invoke the aid of the law to protect you by a divorce. It is because I, myself, am opposed to the wide-spread evil of divorce, that I am trying my best to aid you without aiding your husband financially. I wish to prevent him from benefitting in any way. I am confident that you will sorely need enough to provide a roof and food in event of his death, and should I make any other provisions for you and your child, I do not believe either of you would benefit one cent by my legacy.
He is the type of man who has no sense of moral obligation, but I want you to understand that you have my sympathy, and that you always had my love.
Affectionately,Aunt Jane Grimes.
Glendon finished the two letters, returned them to his wife with a shrug of his shoulders, saying, "Sweet old cat! She certainly had it in for me from the very first day we met!"
Katherine waited for a violent tirade, but Glendon turned on his heel and left the room. It was a relief to her, but the uncertainty was not dispelled.
Four days went by, and then Katherine broached the topic.
"Jim, I've got to answer that letter."
He was sitting on the porch step smoking, his thoughts evidently far-afield.
"What letter?"
"About the legacy and sending Donnie to school," was the woman's reply. She knew that the future of the child depended on the answer she waited from the child's father. Her hands lay in her lap, gripped tensely, her eyes looked pleadingly at the face of the man.
"Do as you please about it," the words were indifferent. "I haven't any time to waste talking over these things. This drouth will about wind up my remnant of credit in Arizona. It won't make any difference to you, for you're heeled for life, if I am out of the way."
She tried to tell him her appreciation, "Jim! I will stand by you, no matter what comes! With Donnie's education provided for, we can surely win out together!" she moved impulsively to his side, laid her hand on his shoulder and stooped over to kiss him, but Glendon's shoulder jerked away roughly, as he answered, "Oh, for God's sake, Katherine, stop your melodramatics and let me alone!"
Despite the rebuff, her heart was singing with joy as she hurried to write the Trust Company, and stated that she could have Donnie ready to start East in two weeks; but that she had not the money, nor could she come with him on that account. The drouth in Arizona had stagnated all cattle business temporarily.
Katherine explained to the child that his going away was with her full consent, and that it did not mean he was to stay away, except during the school term. They could be together for the summer vacations. She also told him of the strange old aunt who had cared for her own education, and who, though dead, now made it possible for him to go to a good school, such as his father could not afford. She made him understand, too, that his father had given consent, and without such consent, no one could have done anything.
The reply from the Trust Company informed her that one of the members of the firm would meet the child at Willcox on a date specified. That business matters had made a trip to California imperative, and the return trip would be arranged via Willcox, if the child were there at the time.
Katherine timidly told this to her husband, but met with no opposition. His acquiescence surprised and touched her. She ascribed it to his desire to make amends, and her gratitude was pathetic. Yet, knowing his vacillating character, she hastened to perfect arrangements. Not until she saw the child in charge of the man who met them at Willcox, and accompanied them to the depot platform, did she feel safe. She clasped the boy in a last, close embrace and watched him wave from the window of the train. The "stone wall had toppled over," and the hideous fear of losing her boy completely was laid to rest.
Aunt Jane had not answered her letter but now Katherine knew that the old lady had understood the situation and set her wits to work to aid the niece she really loved.
Before the train pulled out Doctor Powell crossed the street, and stood talking with Donnie, thus helping both in their battle to be brave. Then, Katherine and Powell stood side by side, watching the train pull away until it disappeared in the gap between the Graham and Dos Cabezas ranges. But, long before the crags intervened, it had vanished from the mother's eyes in a blur of tears.
"Tell me," Powell spoke, "Is Donnie going to his grandfather?" He was thinking of the paper that reposed in the hands of his lawyers, and wondered if Glendon had dared defy him.
"No," Katherine smiled happily, "Jim gave up that intention some time ago. It was a legacy from an aunt of mine, which provides for Donnie's education. So, you see, you were right. The stone wall has toppled over!"
Powell's hand gripped hers, "I'm glad for your sake and for Donnie's!"