The Range Boss by Charles Alden Seltzer (best novels to read to improve english .TXT) 📕

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The girl followed her to the edge of the clearing, walking beside the pony. There they took leave of each other, a glow in the eyes of both that gave promise of future sincere friendship.

“Good-bye, Hagar,” said the Flying W girl.

“Good-bye, lady,” said the girl. “Ruth,” she changed, as the Flying W girl held up an admonishing finger. And then, with a last smile, Ruth rode down the bridle path homeward, pleasure and pity mingling in her eyes.

Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson’s face.

“I cal’late you’ve got here,” he said.

“Looks mighty like it,” returned the horseman. “You reckon my new boss is anywheres around?”

“She’s gone off ridin’,” Uncle Jepson told him. “It’s likely she’ll be back shortly.”

“I reckon I’d better wait,” said Randerson. He wheeled Patches.

“There’s plenty of sittin’ room on the porch here,” invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs.

“Thank you—reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters.”

He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted:

“I cal’late you’d better wait here.”

“If you insist,” said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson’s eyes as his met Uncle Jepson’s was not to be mistaken.

“So Vickers has gone,” said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. “He’s a mighty fine man.”

“Willard wanted Chavis to have his job,” whispered Uncle Jepson.

“You don’t say!” Randerson’s eyes gleamed. “An’ Miss Ruth didn’t want him, I reckon.” He caught Uncle Jepson’s nod. “She’s allowin’ that she’s goin’ to be boss. But of course she would,” he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled.

“I reckon you like it here?” he said gently to Aunt Martha.

“I like it very much. But there are differences—after Poughkeepsie. One doesn’t notice them so much at first.”

“I expect you find it sort of rough here,” he said, looking at her. “They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together—that there’s conveniences. There ain’t a heap of conveniences here.” He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners.

“No—no conveniences,” said Aunt Martha. “But it’s a wonderful country, my boy—wonderful!”

A pulse of something shot through him at the word, “boy.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said gravely.

Aunt Martha folded her hands in her lap and looked long at him over the rims of her glasses. There was interest in her eyes, and kindliness. For she saw something in this figure of a new type that sat before her—something that the two big guns, at his hips did not hint at—nor his leather chaps, the cartridge belt, the broad hat, the spurs, the high-heeled boots, the colored scarf at his throat. These things were the badges of his calling, and were, of course, indispensable, but she saw them not. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling honesty that radiated from him, she saw—and admired. But above all she saw the boy in him—the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.

“You were born here?” she asked.

“In Colfax, ma’am.”

“Is that a city?”

“Bless yu’, ma’am, no. It’s a county.”

“And you were born on a ranch, then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep was his admiration of her.

“And your parents?”

“Both dead, ma’am.” A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his bare head.

“If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you,” she said.

He blushed crimson. “Why, ma’am—” he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in, and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.

“Oh!” she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she had seen him from afar, “you are here already!”

“I expect it’s me, ma’am,” he said gravely. “You see, Wes Vickers stopped at the Diamond H last evenin’, an’ I come right over.”

It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step over that line, and his manner showed it.

“Well,” she said, “I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation, that you will be able to fill his place acceptably.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon I’m to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?” He paused. “Or mebbe the foreman’s shanty?”

“Why,” she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day. “Why, I don’t know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I suppose you will stay here too.”

“All right, ma’am; I’ll be takin’ my war-bag in.” He was evidently feeling a slight embarrassment, and would have been glad to retreat. He got his war-bag from its place behind the saddle, on Patches, shouldered it, and crossed the porch. He was opening the door when Ruth’s voice stopped him.

“Oh,” she said, “your room. I forgot to tell you; it is the one in the northwest corner.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He went in.

“Come down when you have straightened around,” she called to him, “I want to talk with you about some things.”

“I’ll have to put Patches away, ma’am,” he said, “I’d sure have to come down, anyway.”

That talk was held with Uncle Jepson looking on and listening and smoking his pipe. And when it was over, Randerson took the saddle and bridle off Patches, turned him loose in the corral and returned to the porch to talk and smoke with Uncle Jepson.

While they sat the darkness came on, the kerosene lamp inside was lighted, delicious odors floated out to them through the screen door. Presently a horseman rode to the corral fence and dismounted.

“One of the boys, I reckon,” said Randerson.

Uncle Jepson chuckled. “It’s Willard,” he said. He peered into Randerson’s face for some signs of emotion. There were none.

“I’d clean forgot him,” said Randerson.

Masten came in a few minutes later. He spoke a few words to Uncle Jepson, but ignored Randerson.

Supper was announced soon after Masten’s entrance, and Uncle Jepson led Randerson around to the rear porch, where he introduced him to a tin washbasin and a roller towel. Uncle Jepson also partook of this luxury, and then led the new range boss inside.

If Ruth had any secret dread over the inevitable meeting between Masten and the new range boss, it must have been dispelled by Randerson’s manner, for he was perfectly polite to Masten, and by no word or sign did he indicate that he remembered the incident of Calamity.

Ruth watched him covertly during the meal, and was delighted to find his conduct faultless. He had not Masten’s polish, of course, that was not to be expected. But she noticed this—it was quickly impressed upon her—he was not self-conscious, but entirely natural, possessing the easy grace of movement that comes of perfect muscular and mental control. He seemed to relegate self to the background; he was considerate, quiet, serene. And last—the knowledge pleased her more than anything else—he continued to keep between himself and the others the bars of deference; he made them see plainly that there would be no overstepping his position. It was his job to be here, and he had no illusions.