Back Aa

Fighting Shepherdess, The

Close

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>THE SUMMONS</h3></div> Bowers had offered to take Lingle, the Deputy Sheriff, to the sheep camp, which he was sure he could find easily from the directions Mormon Joe had given him when he hired him, but, as it proved, the herder had been over-sanguine. They were hungry and tired from long hours in the saddle, and the breath frozen on their upturned collars testified to the continued extremity of the weather when for the hundredth time they checked their horses and tried to get their bearings. “I’m certain sure that Mormon Joe said to ride abreast that peak and about a half mile to the left of it turn in to a ‘draw’ runnin’ northeast by southwest, and ride until I come acrost the wagon.” “Don’t see how a child could miss the way from that description,” replied Lingle, sarcastically. “I think I see a woolie movin’.” Bowers squinted across the white expanse and the deputy endeavored to follow his gaze, but could see nothing but dancing specks due to a mild case of snow blindness. “Yep—that’s a woolie. I’m so used to ’em I kin tell what a sheep is thinkin’ from here to them mountains.” Reining their horses at the top of a “draw” a quarter of an hour later they looked down upon the sheep wagon in a clearing in the sagebrush, together with the tepee and cook tent. Urging their horses down the steep side they dismounted and went inside the latter, where soiled breakfast dishes sat on the unplaned boards which served as a table. In the way of food there was only a can of molasses and a half dozen biscuits frozen solid. “Real cozy and homelike,” Lingle commented, as he tried to pour himself some cold coffee and found it frozen. “I’ll look around a bit and then go up and tell her.” “I’d ruther it ud be you than me,” Bowers observed grimly. “Can’t abide hearin’ a female take on and beller. I don’t like the sect, noway. You kin bet I don’t aim to stay no longer than she kin git another herder, neither.” But Lingle was already out of hearing of the querulous voice of the misogynist, and peering into the tepee which was as Mormon Joe had left it he noted that it contained an unmade bed, and extra pair of shoes, and a few articles of wearing apparel—that was all. The door of the sheep wagon was unlocked, yet he hesitated a moment before opening it. Its examination was in line with his duty, however, so he opened it and looked about with a certain amount of curiosity. The bare, cold stillness of it went to his marrow. There was something pathetic to him in the pitiful attempts at home making shown in the few crude decorations. A feminine instinct for domesticity evidenced itself in the imitation of the scalloped border of a lace curtain made in soap on the glass of the small window in the back of the wagon, in a pin cushion of coarse muslin worked in blue worsted yarn, in the bouquet of dried goldenrod in a bottle, in the highly colored picture of an ammunition company’s advertisement pinned to the canvas wall. A snag of a comb and a brush were thrust in a wooden strip near the small cheap mirror. Above the bunk two loops of wire were suspended from an oak bow of the wagon top, which obviously was where the occupant kept her rifle. There was a tiny stove by the door and a cupboard beside it, the shelves of which were crowded with books whose titles made the sheriff’s eyes open. A Latin grammar, a Roman history, the “Story of the French Revolution,” mythology, and many others that might as well have been Greek for all the meaning their titles conveyed to the deputy. “Whew!” he whistled softly. He had no idea that Mormon Joe’s Kate had any education. He had the impression that she was, in his own phraseology, “a tough customer.” Mormon Joe must have taught her, he reflected. There never was any doubt about his learning when it suited him to display it. The discovery increased the sheriff’s curiosity to see the girl. Continuing his investigations, he opened one of the drawers that pulled out from beneath the bunk, and closed it hastily—but not too soon to see that the undergarments it contained were made of flour sacks which had been ripped, laundered and fashioned clumsily by a hand unused to sewing. In the drawer on the other side there were clippings giving recipes for improving the complexion, hair treatments, care of the teeth and nails, and other aids to beauty. Lingle smiled as he glanced at them. Evidently she had traits that were distinctly feminine. In addition, there were writing materials and a packet of letters addressed in a masculine hand that looked unformed and youthful. They were tied with a pink ribbon, and had the appearance of having been read frequently. Lingle fingered the packet uncertainly and then threw it back in the drawer impatiently. “Thunder!” he muttered, “I ain’t paid to snoop through a woman’s letters.” On the southern slope of a foothill where the snow lay less deep than on the northern and eastern exposures, Kate stood on the sunny side of a brown boulder leaning her shoulder against it as she watched the sheep below her nibbling at the spears of dried bunch grass which thrust themselves above the surface. Her rifle stood against a rock where she could reach it easily, and her horse fed near her, pawing through the snow, like an experienced “rustler.” She was dressed to meet the weather in boys’ boots and arctics, woolen mittens, riding skirt of heavy blue denim, the fleece-lined canvas coat of the sheepherder, and a coonskin cap with ear-laps. Her face wore an expression that was both sad and troubled as she mechanically watched such sheep as showed a disposition to stray, and kept an eye out for coyotes. Save in her sleep, her quarrel with Mormon Joe had not been out of her mind since, three days before, she had stood shivering at the door and watched him vanish through the sagebrush. Now, in addition, she was worried over his absence. She had kept supper waiting until long after her usual bedtime and to-day she had worn a trail to the top of the hill, watching, and still had seen no sign of him. Poignant regret for what she had said and shame for her ingratitude overwhelmed her. Along with the feelings was a fear lest he refuse to forgive her and insist upon her leaving. Then, too, there was her promise to Mrs. Toomey. Kate was confronted with her first problem. She had threshed it out, turned it over and over, finally arriving at the conclusion that she must keep her promise at any cost to herself. A promise was a promise, and she had given her hand on it. Her regard for her word was a dominant trait in Kate. Mormon Joe had fostered this ideal by words and his own example. So she had slowly made up her mind that having given her word she would not recall it, though it would be a high price to pay for a principle if it cost her his friendship and protection. Kate intended to plead with him; to beg his forgiveness upon her knees, if necessary; to put her arms about his neck and make him understand how much she loved him. She had taken everything for granted heretofore, as her right because he had given it so readily, but all would be different if only he would forget what she had said and give her another opportunity, and if he would let her keep her promise to Mrs. Toomey she would herd sheep until she had saved the amount in a herder’s wages. This was her plan after sleepless hours and three days of thinking. Until their quarrel Kate never would have doubted that she could have her way without much difficulty, but then she had not met the cool polite stranger with the adamant beneath his polished exterior. The girl wondered if the whimsical unselfish friend and comrade ever would come back to her. The doubt of it set her chin quivering. Kate trudged through the snow to turn back the sheep that Bowers had seen, and at the top of the hill stopped and gave a cry of relief and gladness. A thin blue thread of smoke was rising from the “draw” and she wondered how anyone could have come without her seeing them. She looked at the sun and calculated that she could shortly be starting the sheep back to the bed-ground, and her spirits rose immeasurably as she sent the strays scampering back to the others and returned to the small warmth which the sunny side of the rock afforded. Kate was leaning against the boulder conjecturing as to whether it was Mormon Joe or the herder who had arrived, when Lingle rode around the side of the hill and came upon her suddenly. Immediately the deputy’s face set in lines of sternness. He had been rehearsing his part in the dialogue which was to follow and believed he had it sufficiently well in hand to play the act admirably. This murder was the first big case he had had since being appointed deputy. It was a great opportunity and he meant to make the most of it, for if handled creditably it might prove a stepping-stone to the sheriff’s office. The element of surprise he knew was most effective and he was counting upon it to obtain valuable admissions. In the scene, as he visualized it while riding, he was to advance gimlet-eyed, throw open his coat and confront her with the badge which made the guilty tremble. “Guess you know what I’m here for, Madam,” he was to say significantly and harshly. But like most prearranged things in life it all went differently. When he was close enough to see well his jaw dropped automatically. There was no more resemblance between the girl who straightened up and smiled upon him and the hard-featured woman he had pictured as “Mormon Joe’s Kate,” than there was between himself and the horse he was riding. Younger by years than he had anticipated, she radiated wholesomeness, simple friendliness and candor. A strand of soft hair had slipped from beneath her cap and lay upon a cheek that was a vivid pink in the cold atmosphere; she had the clear skin of perfect health and her lips were red with the blood that was close to the surface, while the gray eyes with which she regarded him were frank and steady as she gazed at him inquiringly. Lingle tugged at his hat brim instinctively. “I thought you were a coyote when the sheep began running,” she said, good-naturedly. “They’ve been bothering a lot this cold weather.” Lingle mumbled that he “presumed so.” “I suppose you are the new herder?” “I came out with him,” the deputy replied evasively. “Didn’t Uncle Joe come?” Kate’s face fell in disappointment. Lingle shifted his weight and looked elsewhere. “He’s in town yet,” he answered. Lingle knew instinctively that she thought Mormon Joe was drinking heavily. Then, fixing her troubled eyes upon him she asked hesitatingly: “Did he—say when I could expect him?” The merciless hound of the law, who had dismounted, shuffled his feet uneasily and looked down to see if his badge was showing. “Er—he didn’t mention it.” In the panic which seized him he could not frame the words in which to tell her, and he felt an illogical wrath at Bowers—the coward—for not coming with him. For a moment he considered resigning, then walked over to where her horse was feeding to collect himself while her wondering gaze followed him. Lingle ran his hand along the horse’s neck, the hair of which was stiff with dried sweat, lifted the saddle blanket and looked at its legs, where streaks of lather had hardened. He regarded her keenly as he turned to her. “You been smokin’ up your horse, I notice.” “I ran a coyote for two miles this morning—emptied my magazine at him and then didn’t get him.” The truth shining in her clear eyes was unmistakable. Lingle broke off a handful of sagebrush and used it as a makeshift currycomb, while Kate, a little surprised at the action, picked up the bridle reins when he had finished the gratuitous grooming and started the sheep moving. “I’ll feed back to camp slowly. Don’t wait for me—you and the herder eat supper.” “Anything I can do, ma’am?” “Oh, no, thank you.” Bowers met the deputy at the door of the cook tent, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Did she beller?” Lingle sat down morosely and removed his spurs before answering. “I didn’t tell her.” “What!” Bowers fairly jumped at him. “What’s the matter?” “She might as well eat her supper, mightn’t she?” defiantly. “Do you know what I think?” Bowers pointed a spoon at him accusingly. “I think your nerve failed you. All I got to say is—you’re a devil of an officer.” “Maybe you’d like to tell her,” sneeringly. “I shore ain’t afraid to!” bristling. “I don’t like to listen to a female’s snifflin’, and I say so, but when it comes to bein’ afraid of one of ’em—” Bowers banged the pan of biscuits on the table to emphasize the small esteem in which he held women. “What fer a looker is she?” he demanded. “You’d better eat your supper before she gets here.” “Bad as that?” “Worse,” grimly. “I ain’t got educated words enough to describe her.” They had eaten by the light of the lantern, when they heard Kate coming. She lifted the flap of the tent and smiled her friendly smile upon them. “Goodness, but I’m glad I don’t have to cook supper! I haven’t had anything warm since morning.” Bowers stood with the broom in his hand, staring, while Kate removed her cap and jacket. Then he cast an evil look upon the deputy, a look which said, “You liar!” As she made to get the food from the stove he interposed hastily: “You set down, Ma'am.” Lingle gave him a look which was equally significant, a jeering look which said ironically, “Woman hater!” Bowers colored with pleasure when she lauded his “cowpuncher potatoes” and exclaimed over the biscuits. When Kate had finished she looked from one to the other and beamed upon them impartially. “It’s nice to see people. I haven’t seen any one for six weeks except Uncle Joe,” wistfully. “I wish he had come back with you—it’s so lonesome.” There was an immediate silence and then Bowers cleared his throat noisily. “Night 'fore last was tol'able chilly in your wagon, I reckon?” Her face sobered. “It was—terrible! I couldn’t sleep for the cold, and thinking about and pitying the stock on the range, and anybody that had to be out in it. I was glad Uncle Joe was safe in Prouty—there was no need for us both to be out here suffering.” Again there was silence, and once more Bowers came to the rescue with a feeble witticism, at which he himself laughed hollowly: “I hearn that a feller eatin’ supper with a steel knife got his tongue froze to it, and they had a time thawin’ him over the tea kettle.” Kate rose to clear away and wash the dishes, but Bowers motioned her to remain seated. “You rest yourself, Ma'am. I was a pearl diver in a restauraw fer three months onct so I am, you might say, a professional.” “Uncle Joe and I take turns,” Kate laughed, “for neither of us likes it.” “That’s the best way,” Bowers agreed, breaking the constrained silence which fell each time Mormon Joe’s name was mentioned. “More pardners has fell out over dish-washin’ and the throwin’ of diamond hitches than any other causes.” When, to Kate’s horror, Bowers had wiped off the top of the stove with the dishcloth and removed some lingering moisture from the inside of a frying pan with his elbow, she said, rising: “I’m up at four, so I go to bed early. You can sleep in Uncle Joe’s tepee,” to Lingle, “and you needn’t get up for breakfast when we do. I suppose,” to Bowers, “you’ll want to start in to-morrow, so I’ll go with you and show you the range we’re feeding over.” With a friendly good night she turned towards the entrance. Lingle rose with a look of desperation on his countenance. “Just a minute.” There was that in his voice which made her turn quickly and look from one to the other in wonder. Lingle had a feeling that his vocal cords had turned to wire, they moved so stiffly, when he heard himself saying: “Guess I’ll have to ask you to take a ride with me to-morrow.” “Me?” Her eyes widened. “What for?” The yellow flame flickered in the smudged chimney of the lantern on the table, a bit of burning wood fell out from the front of the stove and lay smoking on the dirt floor in front of it. Bowers stood rigid by the basin where he had been washing his hands, with the water dripping from his fingers. In a frenzy to have it over the deputy blurted out harshly: “Mormon Joe’s been murdered!” The girl gave a cry—sharp, anguished, as one might scream out with a crushed finger. Bowers advanced a step and demanded fiercely of Lingle: “Don’t you know nothin’—not no damned nothin’?” Kate’s face was marble. “You mean—he’s dead—he won’t come back here—ever?” “You’ve said it,” the deputy replied, huskily. Kate walked back unsteadily to the seat she had just vacated and her head sank upon her folded arms on the table. She did not cry like a woman, but with deep tearless sobs that lifted her shoulders. The two men stood with their hands hanging awkwardly, looking at each other. Then Bowers made a grimace and jerked his head towards the tent entrance. The deputy obeyed the signal and went out on tip-toe with the sheepherder following. “She’s got guts,” said Bowers briefly. “She’ll need ’em,” was the laconic answer. <hr class='major' /> <div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2