Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation. Bennet Robert Ames
as emotionless as usual.
“Well?” asked Knowles. “Have a seat.”
“Didn’t get him,” reported Gowan, dropping into a chair. “Near as I could make out, he cut straight across for the railroad, on the jump.”
“Then it must have been that guide!” exclaimed Ashton.
“Looks that way,” added Knowles. “Glad of it. We won’t see him again, unless you want to notify the sheriff, when you ride over tomorrow.”
“No, oh, no. I am satisfied to be rid of him.”
“If he don’t come back,” remarked Gowan.
“He won’t,” predicted Knowles.
“Well, not for a time maybe,” agreed Gowan.
CHAPTER VIII
A MAN’S SIZE HORSE
At dusk the sonorous boom of a Japanese gong gave warning of the approach of the supper hour. A few minutes later a second booming summoned all in to the meal. Miss Isobel sat at one end of the table; her father at the other. Along the sides were the employés, Ashton and Gowan at the corners nearest the girl. A large coal oil lamp with an artistic shade cast a pink light on the clean white oilcloth of the table and the simple tasteful table service.
Yuki, the silent Jap, served all with strict impartiality, starting with the mistress of the house and going around the table in regular succession, either one way or the other. The six rough-appearing haymakers used their knives with a freedom to which Ashton was unaccustomed, but their faces were clean, their behavior quiet, and their occasional remarks by no means inapt.
After the meal they wished Miss Knowles a pleasant “Good-night,” and left for the bunkhouse. But Ashton and Gowan, at the smiling invitation of the girl, followed her into the front room. Knowles came in a few minutes later and, with scarcely a glance at the young people, settled down beside a tableful of periodicals and magazines to study the latest Government report on the reclamation service.
Ashton had entered the “parlor” under the impression that here he would have Gowan at a disadvantage. To his surprise, the puncher proved to be quite at ease; his manners were correct and his conversation by no means provincial. A moment’s reflection showed Ashton that this could not well be otherwise, in view of the young fellow’s intimacy with Miss Chuckie Isobel.
Another surprise was the discovery that Gowan had a remarkably good ear for music and knew even more than the girl about the masters and their works. There was a player attachment to the piano, and the girl and Gowan had a contest, playing the same selections in turn, to see which could get the most expression by means of the mechanical apparatus. If anything, the girl came out second best. At least she said so; but Ashton would not admit it.
Between times the three chatted on a thousand and one topics, the girl always ready to bubble over with animation and merriment. She bestowed her dimpled smiles on both her admirers with strict impartiality and as impartially stimulated each to his best with her tact and gay wit.
At nine o’clock sharp Knowles closed his report and rose from his comfortable seat.
“Time to turn in, boys. Coal oil costs more than sunlight,” he announced, in the flat tone of a standing joke. “We’ll take a jog down creek to the Bar-Lazy-J ranch, first thing tomorrow, Kid.–Ashton, you’d better start off in the cool, before sunup. Here’s my bunch of letters, case I might forget them.”
He handed over half a dozen thinly padded envelopes. Gowan was already at the door, hat in hand.
“Good night, Mr. Knowles. Good night, Miss Chuckie. Pleasant dreams!” he said.
“Same to you, Kid!” replied the girl.
“May I give and receive the same?” asked Ashton.
“Of course,” she answered. “But wait a moment, please. I’ve some letters to go, myself, if you’ll kindly take them with Daddy’s.”
As she darted into a side room, Knowles stepped out after Gowan. When the girl returned, Ashton took the letters that she held out to him and deliberately started to tie them in a packet with those of her father. His sole purpose was to prolong his stay to the last possible moment. But inadvertently his eye caught the name “Blake” on one of the envelopes. His smile vanished; his jaw dropped.
“Why, Mr. Ashton, what is the matter?” said the girl.
“I–I beg your pardon,” he replied. “I did not realize that–But it’s too absurd–it can’t be! You did not mean what you said this afternoon. It can’t be you’re writing to that man to come here.”
“I am,” she replied.
“But you can’t–you must not. He’s the very devil for doing impossible things. He’ll be sure to turn loose a flood on you–drown you out–destroy your range!”
“If it can be done, the sooner we know it the better,” she argued. “Daddy says little, but it is becoming a monomania with him–the dread. I wish to put an end to his suspense. Besides, if–if this Mr. Blake is as remarkable as you and the reports say he is, it will be interesting to meet him. My only fear is that so great an engineer will not think it worth while to come to this out-of-the-way section.”
“The big four-flusher!” muttered Ashton.
“How you must dislike him! It makes me all the more curious to see him.”
“Does your father know about this letter?” queried Ashton.
“You forget yourself, sir,” she said.
Meeting her level gaze, he flushed crimson with mortification. He stood biting his lip, unable to speak.
She went on coldly: “I do not ask you to tell me the cause of your hatred for Mr. Blake. I assume that you are a gentleman and will not destroy my letter. But even if you should do so, it would mean only a short delay. I shall write him again if I receive no reply to this.”
Ashton’s flush deepened. “I did not think you could be so hard. But–I presume I deserved it.”
“Yes, you did,” she agreed, with no lessening of her coldness.
“I see you will not accept an apology, Miss Knowles. However, I give you my word that I will deliver your letter to the postmaster at Stockchute.”
He started out, very stiff and erect. As he passed through the doorway she suddenly relented and called after him: “Good night, Mr. Ashton! Pleasant dreams!”
He wheeled and would have stepped back to reply had not Knowles spoken to him from the darkness at the end of the porch: “This way, Ashton. Kid is waiting to show you to the bunkhouse. You’ll find a clean bunk and new blankets. I’ve also issued you corduroy pants and a pair of leather chaps from the commissary. Those city riding togs aren’t hardly the thing on the range. There’s a spare saddle, if you want to change off from yours.”
“Thank you for the other things; but I prefer my own saddle,” replied Ashton.
He now perceived the dim form of Gowan starting off in the starlight, and followed him to the bunkhouse. The other men were already in their beds, fast asleep and half of them snoring. Gowan silently lit a lantern and showed the tenderfoot to an unoccupied bunk in the far corner of the rough but clean building. After a curt request for Ashton to blow out the lantern when through with the light, he withdrew, to tumble into a bunk near the door.
Ashton removed twice as many garments as had the puncher, and slipped in between his fresh new blankets, after several minutes spent in finding out how to extinguish the lantern. For some time he lay listening. He had often read of the practical jokes that cowboys are supposed always to play on tenderfeet. But the steady concert of the snoring sleepers was unbroken by any horseplay. Presently he, too, fell asleep.
He was wakened by a general stir in the bunkhouse. Day had not yet come, but by the light of a lantern near the door he could see his fellow employés passing out. He dressed as hastily as he could in his gloomy corner, putting on his new trousers and