Rimrock Trail by Joseph Allan Dunn (best novel books to read .TXT) π
"Minin' camp over that way, ain't there?"
"Was. There's a lava bed strip of six-seven miles at the end of the pass, then comes a bu'sted mesa, all box caΓ±on an' rim-rock, shot with caves, nothin' greener than cactus an' not much of that. There's a twenty per cent. grade wagon road, or there was, for it warn't engineered none too careful, that run over to the mines. I was over there once, nigh on to ten years ago. They called the camp Hopeful then. Next year they changed the name to Dynamite. Jest natcherully blew up, did that camp. Nothin' left but a lot of tumbledown shacks an' a couple hundred shafts an' tunnels leadin' to nothin'. Reckon this P. Casey is a prospector, Sam. One of them
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"I've got something to tell you, Sandy," she said. "It's private, for the present," she added with a glance toward Westlake.
Sandy sat down by the fire with a sinking qualm. Molly perched herself on the arm of his chair, silent for a moment or two.
"It's a love story, Sandy," she said presently.
"Westlake?"
"Yes. He wanted me to tell you before he went. He's very fond of you, Sandy."
"Is he?" Sandy spoke slowly, rousing himself with an effort. "I think he's a fine chap. I sure wish him all the luck in the world." He fancied his voice sounded flat.
"I suppose you wondered why we were so chummy all the evening?"
"Yes. I wondered a li'l' about that." Sandy did not look at her, but gazed into the dying fire. He saw himself sitting there, lonely, woman-shy once more, through the long stretch of years, with a letter coming once in a while from far-off places telling of a happiness that he had hoped for and yet had known could not be for him; Sandy Bourke, cow-puncher, two-gun man, rancher, growing old.
"I was the first girl he had seen for a long while, you see," Molly was saying. "And he had to talk it over with some one. He told me about it first this morning and then the telegram came."
"Talkin' about what?"
"His sweetheart. Now he can marry her with this opportunity. She may sail with him. Isn't it fine? He showed me her picture."
"It's the best news I've heard fo' a long time," answered Sandy soberly.
"I'm sleepy," said Molly. "Good night, Sandy, dear."
She put her lips to his tanned cheek and left him in a maze. The dying fire leaped up and the room lightened. It died down again, but Sandy sat there, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Miranda Bailey had offered to come in for Westlake with her car, but the train went early and he had refused. Molly drove him in the buckboard, his grips stowed behind, and Sandy saw them go with the old light back in his eyes. He gave Westlake a grip of the hand that made him wince.
"Bring her out to the Three Star sometime," he told him. "Mind if I tell Sam and Mormon, Westlake? They'll sure be tickled."
"I'd like them to know. And we'll come, when we can. Maybe we'll find you coupled by that time, Sandy. All three of you. And I hope we'll find Molly here."
"I hope so." Sandy fancied the last sentence more than casual.
"You can rely upon my information being correct," were Westlake's last words, spoken aside before he climbed into the buckboard and Molly flirted the reins over the backs of the team shooting off at top speed.
Sandy's mood had changed. He was in high fettle as he watched them go. The rider who was breaking horses for the Three Star surrendered his job that morning to the "old man."
Molly came back a little before noon, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Mr. Keith's in town," she said. "With Donald and his secretary, Mr. Blake. He asked me if Mr. Westlake had been here and he seemed annoyed when I told him I had just seen him off on the train. They all came from Casey Town in the big car. Has there been any trouble between Mr. Keith and Mr. Westlake?"
"The South American offer is a better chance than Casey Town," answered Sandy. "Mr. Keith may have been annoyed about that. His boy's along, you say? Is he comin' oveh to the ranch?"
"Yes. He wanted to come with me, to drive me out in the car, but I had the buckboard and I'd rather drive horses any day. So he'll be out a little later to take up your invitation. Mr. Keith has some business in Hereford. He and Mr. Blake will stay on their private car. He told me to tell you he would be out to-morrow to see you. Oh, here's a telegram for you."
"Thanks." Sandy tucked the envelope in his pocket. "Hop out, Molly, an' I'll put up the team."
"I'll help you. I haven't forgotten how to unhitch." Her nimble fingers worked as fast as Sandy's with buckles, coiling traces and looping reins. She led the team off to the drinking trough and fed each an apple, with Sandy looking at her, registering the picture that made such strong appeal.
"Goin' to take Donald Keith out fo' a real ride on a real hawss?" he asked her.
"Yes. To-morrow. He's keen to go. You'll come. And Sam and Kate?"
"I've got a hunch I'm goin' to be busy ter-morrer. Keith's comin', fo' one thing."
"I forgot. I wish you could come." The passing shadow on her face was sunshine to Sandy. Molly went into the house and he opened the telegram. It was from Brandon, as he expected.
Thanks. Coming immediately. Was starting anyway. That trap worked. May need horses for eight. Will you arrange?
Brandon.
"It sure looks like a busy day ter-morrer," Sandy said half aloud. "Keith and Brandonβwhich means roundin' up Jim Plimsoll. Sam don't get to any picnic, either. He'll have to 'tend to the hawsses."
The Keith touring car arrived in mid-afternoon with young Keith at the wheel, the chauffeur beside him, grips in the tonneau. Donald Keith jumped out, affable, a little inclined to condescension at first toward everything connected with the ranch, including Kate Nicholson. The imperturbable driver left with the car. Young Keith's snobbery wore off as he inspected the corrals and the stock with eager interest and the riders with a certain measure of awe, which he transferred to Sandy on learning that he had broken two colts that morning.
"If they're broken, I must be all apart," he said, watching them plunge wildly about the corral at the sight of visitors. "I'd hate to try to ride one of them in Central Park. If I could stick on I'd be pinched for endangering the public. Wish I could have seen you bu'st them."
"There'll be mo' of it befo' you leave," said Sandy. His mood of the morning held. His generosity of feeling toward Keith's boy did not lessen when he saw how much the elder of the two Molly appeared. The youngster was spoiled, probably selfish, but he was distinctly likable.
"Know what time yore father expects to be out?" Sandy asked him, later.
"He didn't say. He's got some business to attend to. Some time in the forenoon, I imagine. I know he's figuring on getting back to Casey Town to-night. Molly, you haven't taken me out to see your father's grave. Won't you? You promised to." Sandy liked the lad for that. But it did not ameliorate his attitude toward the visit of Keith Senior.
That worthy arrived after lunch had been cleared the next day. Kate Nicholson busied herself to wait deferentially upon him and his secretary, the fox-faced Blake. Keith was brisk and brusk, breathing prosperity.
"I was detained in Hereford, Bourke," he said. "I haven't much time for anything but a flying visit. I promised Mrs. Keith I'd come over the first opportunity, and I wanted to see you. Donald's out with Molly, you say. I'll leave him with you on your invitation and pick him up when we go back east. That will be in about a week. Sooner than I expected. I'd like to spare a day to look over the ranch. I've heard fine things about it."
"Thanks," drawled Sandy laconically. "Glad to have a talk with you. Sam, Mr. Blake might like to see the hawsses gentled that came up this mo'nin'."
Keith raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Leaving Blake, Sandy led Keith to his office, rolled a cigarette, offered a chair to his visitor and smoked, waiting for the latter to open the talk.
"There are some papers for you to examine, as Molly's guardian," said Keith. "But Blake has them."
"We'll take them up later. Anythin' else?"
Keith looked sharply at Sandy's face. There was a certain grimness to it that reminded the promoter of the first time he had seen it. His own changed to a mask, expressionless, save for his eyes, holding suspicion that changed to aggressiveness. But the latter did not show in his voice which was smooth and ingratiating.
"Nothing of great importance. I hear Westlake has been over here, Bourke. We had a misunderstanding. Sorry to lose him, since you recommended him."
"He figgers he has a better job," answered Sandy.
"I'm glad he thinks so. He is young and lacks experience. His opinion clashed with that of my engineer-in-charge, an expert of high standing. Westlake was hot-headed and would not brook being overruled. There is no doubt but that he was mistaken. He is a valuable man, under a superior, but he is intolerant."
"He didn't strike me that way," said Sandy. "Me, I set a good deal on his opinion."
"I didn't imagine you knew much about mining, Bourke." Keith looked at his watch. "I'll really have to be going as soon as you have looked over those papers. Hadn't we better call Blake?"
Sandy looked out of the window. He saw Miranda Bailey's flivver halting by the big car, Mormon walking toward her, and wondered what had brought her over. So far he had not got the opening he wanted, unless he took up defense of Westlake more forcibly to introduce the matter. He was inclined to suggest a trip for himself to Casey Town to inspect the mine in company with Keith that night, but the coming of Brandon hampered him. He wanted to be on hand for that. Then he saw Mormon leave Miranda and come toward the office, bowling along at top speed.
"Excuse me a minute, Keith," he said. "My partner wants to see me."
Keith's face wore a scowl as Sandy stepped outside. His conscience was not entirely clear and he did not like the general atmosphere of the office. He scented antagonism in this rancher who called him Keith without the prefix. It was all right for him to omit it, but.... He took out a cigar, bit off the end savagely and lit it.
"Mirandy wants to see you," panted Mormon. "She's found out somethin' about Keith that sure shows his play. He's been discardin'!"
The Keith chauffeur had wandered off to the corrals where Sam was showing Blake around. Miranda handed Sandy a long envelope.
"Hen Collins had an accident last night," she said. "Blew a tire on the bridge by our place an' smashed through the railin'. Bu'sted a rib or two an' was knocked out. We took him in. I'm sorry for Hen but it sure was a lucky accident. You see, Keith told him to keep quiet but Hen was grateful to Ed fo' takin' him in an' puttin' him to bed an' sendin' fo' the doctor. Don't open that envellup, that Keith weasel might be lookin'. I reckon you'll want to spring it on him sudden."
"Sure," said Sandy. "Spring what?"
"I'm flustered," admitted Miranda. "I usually talk straight. Now I'll start to the beginnin'. When Keith arrived on this trip he held quite a reception in his private car. Ed was there with the rest. He invited them up fo' cigars. Talked big about Casey Town an' gen'ally patted himself on the back. Said it was too bad all the stock of the Molly wasn't held in locally, but of co'se the pore promoter had to have somethin' fo' his money. He was real affable. Ben Creel asked him if he didn't want to sell some of his Molly stock an' they all laffed.
"This time, when he come back yesterday, he brings up the
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