The Coming of the Law

There was another roar of laughter. Many of the men seemed only now to have become aware of Dunlavey’s presence and they surged forward around him, disregarding Allen’s guns. The latter seemed to realize that the situation had passed beyond his control, for catching Hollis’s eye he smiled grimly and sheathed his weapons, seeking Hollis’s side.

“It’s no use,” he said shortly to Hollis as he came near; “they’ll run things to suit themselves now. I wasn’t expectin’ Ten Spot to butt into the game.”

“I reckon they’ve got us.” Norton had also sought Hollis’s side and the three stood near the rear door, watching the crowd around Dunlavey. Hollis tried to catch Ten Spot’s gaze but failed–the latter seemed studiously to avoid him.

A wave of dull anger surged through Hollis’s veins. Until now the contest had been conducted fairly; they had given Dunlavey and Watkins an honest election, even though they had found it necessary to eliminate them as active participants. From now on he was assured the contest would be a joke–though a grim one. He had depended upon Allen’s success–it meant much to him. The thought of failure just when victory was within his grasp aroused him and in spite of Norton’s low word of caution he stepped forward and stood beside the table on which reposed the hat into which the ballots had been placed by the men who had previously voted. He intended to take personal charge of the hat, determined upon securing a fair deal in spite of the great odds.

As he stepped forward he saw Greasy grin maliciously and try to snatch a gun from the holster of a cowboy who stood near him. This attempt was frustrated by the puncher, who suddenly dropped his hand to his holster, where it closed upon Greasy’s. The puncher snarled, muttered profanely, and struck furiously at Greasy, knocking him down in a corner.

Other men moved. There were curses; the flashing of metal as guns came out. Hollis felt rather than saw Norton and Allen advance toward the table and stand beside him. A grim smile wreathed his face over the knowledge that in the crowd there were at least two men upon whom he might depend to the end–whatever the end might be.

He heard Dunlavey snarl an oath, saw his big form loom out of the crowd, saw one of his gigantic hands reach for the hat on the table.

“I reckon I’ll take charge of this now!” he sneered, his brutal face close to Hollis’s.

Hollis would have struck the face that was so close to his, but at the instant he saw Dunlavey’s hand reach out for the hat he saw another hand dart out from the other side of the table, seize the hat, and draw it out of Dunlavey’s reach.

“I don’t reckon that you’ll take charge of her!” said a voice.

Hollis turned quickly. Over the table leaned Ten Spot, the captured hat in his hand, a big forty-five in the other, a cold, evil glitter in his eyes as he looked up at Dunlavey.

“I don’t reckon that you’re goin’ to have a hand in runnin’ this show a-tall, Bill,” he sneered. “Me an’ my friends come down here special to tend to that.” He grinned the shallow, hard grin that marks the passing of a friendship and the dawn of a bitter hatred. “You see, Bill, me an’ my friends has got sorta tired of the way you’ve been runnin’ things an’ we’re shufflin’ the cards for a new deal. This here tenderfoot which you’ve been a-slanderin’ shameful is man’s size an’ we’re seein’ that he gits a fair shake in this here. I reckon you git me?”

Hollis felt Norton poking him in the ribs, but he did not turn; he was too intent upon watching the two principal actors in the scene. Tragedy had been imminent; comedy was slowly gaining the ascendency. For at the expression that had come over Dunlavey’s face several of the men were grinning broadly. Were the stakes not so great Hollis would have felt like smiling himself. Dunlavey seemed stunned. He stood erect, passing his hand over his forehead as though half convinced that the scene were an illusion and that the movement of the hand would dispel it. Several times his lips moved, but no words came and he turned, looking about at the men who were gathered around him, scanning their faces for signs that would tell him that they were not in sympathy with Ten Spot. But the faces that he looked upon wore mocking grins and sneers.

“An’ I’ve been tellin’ the boys how you set Yuma on Nellie Hazelton, an’ they’ve come to the conclusion that a guy which will play a low down mean game like that on a woman ain’t no fit guy to have no hand in any law makin’.”

Ten Spot’s voice fell coldly and metallically in the silence of the room. Slowly recovering from the shock Dunlavey attempted a sneer, which gradually faded into a mirthless smile as Ten Spot continued:

“An’ you ain’t goin’ to have a hand in any more law-makin’ in this man’s town. Me an’ my friends is goin’ to see to that, an’ my boss, Mr. Hollis. I reckon that’ll be about all. You don’t need to hang around here while we do the rest of the votin’. Watkins an’ Greasy c’n stay to see that everything goes on regular.” He grinned wickedly as Dunlavey stiffened. “I reckon you know me, Bill. I ain’t palaverin’ none. You an’ Ten Spot is quits!”

He stepped back a little, away from the table, his teeth showing in a mocking grin. Then he looked down at the hat which he still held in his hand–Dunlavey’s hat. He laughed. “Why, I’m cert’nly impolite!” he said insinuatingly. “Here you’ve been wantin’ to go an’ I’ve been keepin’ your hat!” He dumped the ballots upon the table and passed the hat to Dunlavey. Without a word Dunlavey took it, jerking it savagely, placed it on his head, and strode to the door, stepping down into the street.

There was a short silence. Then Ten Spot turned and looked at Hollis, his face wreathed in a broad grin.

“I reckon you-all think you know somethin’ about handlin’ the law,” he said, “but your little Ten Spot ain’t exactly the measliest card in the deck! We’ll do our votin’ now.”

A quarter of an hour later, after Ten Spot and his friends had cast their ballots and Watkins had been forced to make out a certificate of nomination,–which reposed safely in Ben Allen’s inside pocket–the kerosene lights were extinguished and the men filed out. Hollis and Ten Spot were the last to leave. As they stood for a moment on the threshold of the doorway Hollis seized Ten Spot’s hand and gripped it heartily.

“I want to thank you, my friend,” he said earnestly.

Ten Spot jerked his hand away. “Aw, hell!” he said as they sought the darkness of the street, “I ain’t mushin’ none. But,” he added, as a concession to his feelings, “I reckon to know a white man when I see one!”

CHAPTER XXVI

AUTUMN AND THE GODS

It was Sunday afternoon and a hazy, golden, late September sun was swimming lazily in the blue arc of sky, flooding the lower gallery of the Circle Bar ranchhouse, but not reaching a secluded nook in which sat Hollis and Nellie Hazelton. Mrs. Norton was somewhere in the house and Norton had gone down to the bunkhouse for a talk with the men–Hollis and Nellie could see him, sitting on a bench in the shade of the eaves, the other men gathered about him.

Below the broad level that stretched away from the ranchhouse sank the big basin, sweeping away to the mountains. Miles into the distance the Circle Bar cattle could be seen–moving dots in the center of a great, green bowl. To the right Razor-Back ridge loomed its bald crest upward with no verdure saving the fringe of shrubbery at its base; to the left stretched a vast plain that met the distant horizon that stretched an interminable distance behind the cottonwood. Except for the moving dots there was a total absence of life and movement in the big basin. It spread in its wide, gradual, downward slope, bathed in the yellow sunshine of the new, mellow season, peacefully slumberous, infinitely beautiful.

Many times had Hollis sat in the gallery watching it, his eyes glistening, his soul stirred to awe. Long since had he ceased regretting the glittering tinsel of the cities of his recollection; they seemed artificial, unreal. When he had first gazed out over the basin he had been oppressed with a sensation of uneasiness. Its vastness had appalled him, its silence had aroused in him that vague disquiet which is akin to fear. But these emotions had passed. He still felt awed–he would always feel it, for it seemed that here he was looking upon a section of the world in its primitive state; that in forming this world the creator had been in his noblest mood–so far did the lofty mountains, the wide, sweeping valleys, the towering buttes, and the mighty canyons dwarf the flat hills and the puny shallows of the land he had known. But he was no longer appalled; disquietude had been superseded by love.

It all seemed to hold some mystery for him–an alluring, soul-stirring mystery. The tawny mountains, immutable guardians of the basin, whose peaks rose somberly in the twilight glow–did they hold it? Or was it hidden in the basin, in the great, green sweep that basked in the eternal sunlight?

Perhaps there was no mystery. Perhaps he felt merely the romance that would inevitably come to one who deeply appreciated the beauty of a land into which he had come so unwillingly? For romance was here.

He turned his head slightly and looked at the girl who sat beside him. She also was looking out over the basin, her eyes filled with a light that thrilled him. He studied her face long, noting the regular features, the slight tan, through which shone the dusky bloom of perfect health; the golden brown hair, with the wind-blown wisps straggling over her temples; he felt the unaccountable, indefinable something that told him of her inborn innocence and purity–qualities that he had worshiped ever since he had been old enough to know the difference between right and wrong.

A deep respect moved him, a reverent smile wreathed his lips. Motherly? Yes, that world-thrilling word aptly described her. And as he continued to look at her he realized that this world held no mystery for him beyond that which was enthroned in the heart of the girl who sat beside him, unconscious of his thoughts.

He turned again toward the basin. He did not want to uncover the mystery–yet. There were still several things to be done before he would feel free to speak the words that he had meditated upon for some weeks. Meanwhile–if the gods were with him–the solving of the mystery would be the more enjoyable.

Two weeks of inaction had followed the primary incident. Several of Ten Spot’s friends were now in his employ; in spite of the drought the Circle Bar had so far experienced a very prosperous season, and, though the addition of the men represented quite an item of expense, he felt that it was much better to employ them than to allow them to be re-engaged by Dunlavey.

He had been able to save considerable money. This he had transferred to a bank in Santa Fe, for he had determined to stay in the West. He had told his mother of this decision and had asked her to come, but she had written that she preferred to remain East for a time–at least until the following spring.

Hollis was satisfied. Affairs were progressing beyond his anticipations. Dunlavey’s influence in the county had received a mighty blow in the defeat of Watkins at the primary; he had received notice of the enactment of several new laws that would appreciably assist him in his fight; he had succeeded in winning many friends because of his attitude on the water question; the increased number of advertisements appearing in the Kicker would soon necessitate the addition of an extra sheet. It all presaged prosperity. Yes, he was satisfied. And yet–

He turned again and looked at the girl. This time he caught her watching him. Evidently she had been watching him for a long time for her gaze was fixed and meditative, as though she had been studying him. She started and blushed when he turned and caught her, looking down in sudden and complete confusion. But she looked up again instantly, meeting his gaze steadily, her lips in a frank smile.

“You have been thinking of this country,” she said.

“You have guessed it,” he returned gravely and gently; “I have been thinking of this country–and its people.” He smiled at her, his eyes shining with a light that caused hers to waver and droop. “But how did you discover that?” he questioned. “I was not aware that I had been speaking my thoughts.”

“Do you think it is always necessary to speak?” she answered, looking at him with a quiet smile. “Don’t you think there are times when one’s thoughts find expression in one’s eyes? When we can not conceal them–no matter how hard we try? I know that you were thinking of the country,” she went on earnestly, “because a few moments ago I had been thinking of it too and I know that my emotions were exactly the same as those expressed in your eyes. It is magnificent, isn’t it?” she said in an awed, eager voice. “It is so big, so mighty, so soul-stirring. It allures with its vastness, it dazzles with its beauty; it makes one feel closer to the Creator, even while pressing home a disquieting sense of one’s own insignificance.

“For instance,” she went on, her eyes large and luminous, a new, quiet color coming into her face “there are times when our tasks seem stupendous, when we are filled with an overpowering consciousness of the importance of them; when we feel that we are carrying such a burden that the addition of another would make the load too heavy. Then we look upon God’s work and immediately a still, small voice within us cries: ‘What have ye done in comparison to this?’ And what have we done?” she suddenly demanded.

“Nothing,” he returned gravely, awed by this fleeting illuminating glimpse into her soul.

She leaned back into her chair with a smile. “Those were the things I was thinking about. And you, too, were thinking of them,” she added. “Now, don’t deny it!” she warned, “for I saw it in your eyes!”

“No!” he said with a quick smile; “I don’t deny it. But I was thinking of the people also.”

“Oh, the people!” she said with a frown.

“Perhaps I should have said ‘person,’” he modified with a quick glance at her, under which her eyes drooped in swift confusion–as they had drooped on another occasion which he remembered.

“Oh!” she said merely.

“I have been comparing this person to God’s other works,” he said, a light in his eyes which told that the former decision to postpone an attempt to uncover the mystery had been ruthlessly put aside, “and I have come to the conclusion that in spite of the infinite care he took in forming the beautiful world out yonder he did not neglect this person to whom I refer.”

Her eyes met his in a glance of swift comprehension. She drew a slow, deep breath and averted her face, which was now crimson.

“As you have been able to illustrate man’s insignificance in comparison to God’s mighty creations, so has my own inferiority been forced upon me by my attempting to compare myself to the sweet character of the person of whom I speak,” said Hollis, his voice low and earnest. “It has been a question whether–when I speak to her of a thing which has been on my mind for many days–she could not with justice paraphrase the question asked by the still, small voice and say: What have you done to deserve this? And I should have to reply–nothing.” He had moved closer to her, leaning forward to look into her eyes.

She sat very still, her gaze on the basin. “Perhaps this very estimable person holds other views?” she returned, with a flash of mischief in her eyes. She turned suddenly and looked straight at him, meeting his gaze unwaveringly, a demure smile on her face. “I told you that sometimes a person’s thoughts were expressed in their eyes,” she said–and now her lashes flickered–“perhaps you can tell what my thoughts are?”