CHAPTER XVII
WESTLAKE BRINGS NEWS
In the week that followed the partners of the Three Star managed to find many hours for holiday-making. The ranch ran well on its own routine, and Molly was a princess to be entertained. Kate Nicholson emerged from her chrysalis and became almost a butterfly rather than the pale gray moth they had fancied her. Even Miranda revised her opinion. The Nicholsons, it came out, had been a family of some consequence and a fair degree of riches in South Carolina before an unfortunate speculation had taken everything. Kate Nicholson, left alone soon afterward, had assumed the role of governess or companion with more or less success and drifted on, submerged in the families who had used her services until Keith had secured her for the post with Molly when things had seemed particularly black. Now, riding with Molly, with Sam and Sandy for escorts, over the open range or up into the cañons, on picnics, the years slid off from her. She acquired color with the capacity for enjoyment, she developed a quaint gift of jest and she proved a natural horsewoman. Molly coaxed her into different modes of hair dressing and little touches of color. She laughed understandingly and talked spontaneously. Evenings, when they would return to the disconsolate Mormon, who bewailed openly his lack of saddle ease, they found, two nights out of three, Miranda Bailey, self-charioted in her flivver with offerings of cake and doughnuts to supplement Pedro's still uncertain efforts.
Molly chuckled once to Sandy.
"Miranda's a dear," she said. "I wish she'd marry Mormon. But Kate Nicholson is a far better cook than she is. Only she won't do anything for fear of hurting Miranda's feelings."
Yet the governess did cook on occasion, trout that they caught in the mountain streams, and camp biscuits and fragrant coffee when they made excursion, so deft a presiding genius of the camp-fire that Sam declared she belonged to Sageland.
"I love it," she answered, sleeves tucked to the elbow, stooping over the fire, her face full of color, tucking a vagrant wisp of hair into place.
"Not much like the East, is it, Molly?" Sandy would ask.
"Not a bit. Lots better."
"You must miss a lot."
"What, for instance, Sandy?"
"Real music, for one thing. Concerts, theaters. Your sports. Tennis and golf. The people you met at the Keiths'. Clothes, pritty dresses, dancin'."
"I love dancing," she said. "But not always the way they dance. Tennis and golf are poky compared to riding Blaze. I like pretty things, but I'm not crazy about clothes, Sandy. And lots of them are, back there. Grown-up women as well as the girls I knew. And they are never satisfied, Sandy. It isn't real there. Nobody seems to know each other. Anybody could drop out and not be missed. It is all a rush. It is good to be back – good."
She stopped talking, gazing into the fire. The nights at Three Star were crisp. It was as if cold was jealous of the land that the sun wooed so ardently and rushed upon it the moment the latter sank behind the hills. Sandy looked at her hungrily, wishing she would elect to sit there always, mistress of the hearth and of him.
"Young Keith'll be over soon, I reckon," he said presently. "He said he'd come. Like him, Molly?"
It was not jealousy prompted the suggestion, but Sandy had more than once contrasted himself with the youngster and his easy manners, his undeniably good looks, his youth, wondering how close he was to Molly's moods and ideals, making him typical of the East as against the West.
"He's a nice boy," she said. "He has always had things his own way. He's partly spoiled, I'm afraid. He'd have been a lot nicer if he had been brought up on a ranch. I've told him so."
"Why?"
"Life's quieter out here, Sandy. It's bigger somehow. Donald only pleases himself. He – they don't seem to have real families out East, Sandy. I don't quite mean that, but as I have seen them. The Keiths. They are kind but they don't belong just to each other. They have their own ways and none of them do anything together. He's been nice to me – Donald. So have Mr. and Mrs. Keith."
Sandy had no effort imagining Donald being nice to Molly, contrasted with the other girls who just amused themselves.
"I'd cut a pore figger at tennis, I reckon," he said. "Or golf."
"So would Donald breaking a bronco," she laughed. "He's keen to ride one, to see a round-up. Why, Sandy, they think life is wonderful out here. And it is."
He wondered how much of her enthusiasm was lasting, how much came of the affectionate gratitude she showed them constantly, how much she thought of the swifter life she was going back to presently at the end of the month – with one week gone out of the four. He wrestled with the temptation to ask her not to go back, or to have Miss Nicholson remain on the ranch to complete the education that was steadily widening – as he saw it – the gap between them.
Sandy was not ignorant. His speech was mostly dialect, born of environment. He wrote correctly enough, aided by the dictionary he had acquired. He had business capacity, executive ability, strong manhood. He read increasingly, his mind was plastic. But these things he belittled. And he was her guardian. Though he knew he might win her promise to stay easily enough, he did not wish to exercise his authority. It might be misunderstood, even by Molly herself, later. He could not force his hand in this vital matter, as he handled other things. And yet…
Sam had stopped playing, Kate Nicholson was weaving chords in music unknown to those who listened, save that it seemed to speak some common language that had been forgotten since childhood. The fire shifted, there was silence in the big room. Mormon sat shading his face, Miranda Bailey beside him, her knitting idle. Sam lounged in a shady corner near the harmonium. Grit lay asleep. It was infinitely peaceful.
There was the sound of a motor outside, the honk of a horn. The door opened and a man came in, gazing uncertainly about him in the half-light – Westlake.
"This is the Three Star, isn't it?" he asked, evidently puzzled at the group.
Sandy lit the big lamp as they all rose, Grit nosing the engineer, accepting him.
"Sure is," he said. "You know Miss Bailey, Westlake? Miss Keith an' Miss Nicholson, Mr. Westlake. They both know something about you. Come to stay, I hope."
His voice was cordial as he gripped Westlake's hand, though the remembrance of what Sam had said at the mining camp leaped up within him. Westlake and Molly! Here was a man who might mate with her, might suit her wonderfully well. Upstanding, educated, no lightweight pleasure-seeker, as he estimated Donald Keith. Here was a complication in his dreams of happiness that he had lost sight of. He saw the two appraising each other and approving.
"If you can put up with me, for a bit," said Westlake. "I've come partly on business, Bourke. I've left Casey Town."
He seemed to speak with some embarrassment, glancing toward Molly. Sandy sensed that something had happened with his relations with Keith.
"You're more than welcome," he said. "Any one with you?"
"No, I came over with a machine from the garage at Hereford," he said. "I'll get my things and send him back."
Sandy went outside with him and helped him with his grips. The machine started.
"Quit Keith?" asked Sandy.
"Yes, we had a misunderstanding. About my staying here, Bourke. It may be a bit awkward. Young Donald Keith intends coming over. I am sure he doesn't know a thing about his father's business affairs. But I have a strong hunch that Keith himself will be along later to offset any talk he thinks I may have with you. He'll figure I've come here. He doesn't know all that I have found out, at that. If it's likely to embarrass you or your guests in the least I'll go on to Denver to-morrow. I'm headed that way. I've got a South American proposition in view. Wired them yesterday and may hear at any minute."
"Shucks!" said Sandy. "Yo're my friend. Young Keith don't interest me, save as Molly wants to entertain him. I'm under no obligations to Keith himse'f. Yo're my guest an' we'll keep you's long we can hold you in the corral. As fo' Molly, you don't know her. If it come to a show-down between you an' Keith, with you in the right, there ain't any question as to where she'd horn in."
"I had no idea Miss Casey would be like – what she is," said Westlake, as Miranda Bailey, Mormon in attendance, came out of the house.
"Time fo' me to be trailin' back," said the spinster. "Moon's risin'. Good night, Mr. Westlake. See you ag'in before you go, I hope. I reckon you sure gave me good advice when you said to take cash fo' my claims."
She climbed into the machine which Mormon cranked. It moved off, Mormon watching it. Then Sam came out and joined them.
"Gels gone to bed," he announced. "What's Keith doin' up to Casey Town, Westlake?"
"It won't take long to tell you."
The four walked over to the corral and the three partners climbed on the top rail, ranch-fashion. Westlake stood before them.
"Practically all the gold found in Casey Town comes from the main gulch where the creek runs. The gulch was once non-existent. It is likely there was a hill there. Its nub was a porphyry cap, the rest of it was composed of layers of porphyry and valueless rock dipping downward, nested like saucers in the synclinal layers. Ice and water wore off the nub and leveled the hill, then gouged out the gulch. They ground away, in my belief, all the porphyry that held gold except the portions now lying either side of the gulch. That gold was distributed far down the creek, carried by glacier and stream. Casey found indications and worked up to where he believed he had struck the mother vein. He did strike it but it had been worn down like the blade of an old knife.
"It was the top layers that held the richest ore. Of those that are left only one carries it and that is the reef that outcrops here and there both sides of the gulch. This isn't theory. All strikes have been made in this top layer. Where they have sunk through to a lower porphyry stratum they have found only indications where they found anything at all. But the strikes were rich because sylvanite is one of the richest of all gold ores. They look big and they encourage further development and – what is more to the point – further investment. Some of the strikes have been on the Keith Group properties. They have boosted the stock of all of them.
"I have been developing these group projects. The value of group promotion, to the promoter, is, that as long as one claim shows promise, the shares keep selling. The public loves to gamble. Keith came back this trip and proposed to purchase a lot of claims that are nothing but plain rock, surface dirt and sage-brush. They are not even on the main gulch. He can buy them for almost nothing. But he does not propose to sell them for that. He was going to start another group. He ordered me to make the preliminary surveys. Later I was to plan development work, to make a showing for his prospectus.
"He knew one would have as much chance digging in a New York back-yard. I told him so. He has his own expert and, if he didn't tell him so too, he's a crook.
"Keith said he understood his business and suggested I should attend strictly to mine. I told him I understood mine and that it included some personal honor. I was hot. I suggested that wildcat development was not my business. He called me a quixotic young fool among other things, and I may have called him a robber. I'm not sure. Anyway, I quit.
"Now, Keith's kept me off from the properties as soon as they have been fairly started and I have been only consulting engineer for the Molly. I've been busy on preliminary work. The engineer he brought from New York has been in actual charge. That was all right. I'm comparatively a kid. But I know what is going on generally in Casey Town. There have been no more strikes, for one thing; the discoveries have all been in the one layer and they are gradually working out.
"Keith would rather develop a good property than a bad one. He has established himself, has a future to look to. He carries his investing clients from one proposition to another. He never has to risk his own money and he has been lucky. He has made money – lots of it. Now then, why does he start wildcatting?"
"Must need money," suggested Sandy.
"That's my idea. I believe he's been stung somewhere. I know he's been fooling with oil stocks. His mail's full of it. And I believe he's been bitten by the other fellow's game instead of sticking to his own."
"It's been done befo'."
"But that isn't all." Westlake brought down his right fist into the palm of his left hand for emphasis. "This comes from information I can rely on, from logical deductions of my own, from actual observation of conditions. Yesterday they closed up the stopes in the Molly. Boarded 'em over. This was done without consulting me. The superintendent talked some rot about not wishing over-production and pushing development. I heard of it after I had walked out of Keith's office, resigned, or fired. You can't issue an order like that without miners talking. I know most of them.
"Now then – there's no gold left back of the boarding in those stopes – practically none! The Molly is played out, picked like a walnut of its meat! If they do develop down to the second porphyry level they won't find anything to pay for the work. They have taken all the sylvanite out of your mine and Keith is trying to cover up that fact."
Westlake stopped and eyed them. They took it differently. Mormon softly whistled. Sam slid out his harmonica, cuddled in beneath his mustache and played a little of the Cowboy's Lament. Sandy's eyes closed slightly. They glittered like gray metal in the moonlight.
"Keith can't help the mine peterin' out," he said. "Jest why is he hidin' it? So's he can sell new shares an' keep the price up of the old ones. So's he can unload?"
"Plain enough. Now the Molly Mine stock isn't on the market. It is all owned, as I understand, by Miss Casey and you three holding the controlling interest, Keith the rest. It's been paying dividends from the start. Keith will try to unload."
"He'll have to do it on the quiet or it 'ud have the same effect as if the news came out about the mine," said Sandy.
"True. He may try to sell it to you."
"Not likely. He doesn't expect us to have the money. We haven't. I take it he can't dump 'em in a hurry. That's why he's boardin' the stopes. If he don't trail over here in a day or so I'll shack over to Casey Town fo' a li'l' chat. I'd admire to go over the mine. Mebbe we'll all go. Might even call a directors' meetin'. Quien sabe? Much obliged to you, Westlake."
Westlake nodded. He understood that quiet drawl of Sandy's. If the li'l' chat came off, Keith would not enjoy himself, he fancied.
"The question is what move to make an' when to make it. If Molly is one thing she is game. We've got a good deal out of the mine an' it's all come so far from the sale of gold to the mint, I take it. We don't dabble in stocks. We're ahead. If the mine's gone bu'st she's done nicely by us, at that."
Back of Sandy's talk thoughts formed in his brain that held a good deal of comfort. Molly was no longer an heiress, if Westlake's news was true. And he did not doubt it. Molly would not have to go back East. Her relations with the Keiths would be broken. She had not spent all her share of the dividends. Keith held some portion of this. Just how much Sandy did not know. He had not held Keith to strict accountings, he had trusted him to bank the funds. That Molly had a banking-account, he knew. It might mean her staying west. The principal used on the Three Star was intact and would be turned over to her, if they could make her accept it, but it began to look as if Molly might remain, all things considered.
"I figger you're right about Keith trailin' over here to see if you've showed," Sandy went on. "That's the way I'd play him. As you say, he's got to git rid of his shares quietly an' he can't do it in a rush. I don't want to tell Molly she's bu'sted until we're plumb certain. An' Keith's got money of hers. We want to git that out of the pot befo' we break with Keith. He'll give us an openin' fo' a general understandin', I reckon. If he don't show inside of a couple of days I'll take a pasear over to Casey Town an' have a li'l' chat with him.
"Young Keith sabe his father's play?" asked Sandy.
"No." Westlake spoke decidedly. "He's not interested in mining. He's on the trip because his father holds the purse strings. He's a good deal of a cub, at present. I mean he don't show much inclination to use his brains. He's having a good time on easy money. He doesn't know the difference between an adit and an air-drill. Doesn't want to. Makes a show of interest, naturally, to stand in with his old man, but he puts in a good deal of time scooting round the hills in that big car of theirs, or going hunting. I heard he was trying to buck a poker game, but Keith's secretary heard that too and I imagine attended to it. It was not my province. He's a likable kid in many ways but he's just a kid."
"'Tw'udn't be fair to hold anythin' ag'in' him, 'count of his breedin'," said Sandy, "but colts that ain't bred right bear watchin'. Men an' hawsses, there's a sight of difference between thoroughbred an' well bred. I've known a heap of folks mighty well bred who didn't have much pedigree. So long's the blood's pure, names don't amount to shucks. Now tell us some about that South American berth of yours, Westlake."
Westlake rather marveled at the ease with which Sandy and his chums dismissed a matter that meant a material loss of money to them, but he had seen the light in Sandy's eyes and he knew his capacity for action when the moment arrived. The four sat up late, talking of mining in various ways and places.
"This Westlake hombre'll go a long ways," summed up Sam to Sandy after Westlake had turned in and Mormon had yawned himself off to bed. "He sure knows a heap, he don't brag, he's on the square an' he ain't afraid of work."
"A good deal of a he-man," assented Sandy. "Stands up on his hind laigs. He didn't come out of the same mold as Keith. Sam, you ain't a potenshul millionaire any longer, just plain ranchman. You can go to sleep 'thout worryin' how yo're goin' to spend yore dividends."
"That so't of worry won't tuhn my ha'r gray," retorted Sam, "though I wish you'd talk plain United States an' forgit the dikshunary. What I'm worryin' about is Molly."
"So'm I, Sam," said Sandy. "Good night."
That Westlake won approval from Molly, and also from Kate Nicholson, was patent before breakfast was over the next morning. A buyer came out from Hereford demanding Sandy's attention and he stayed at the ranch while the three and Sam went off saddleback. Westlake had expressed a desire to see the ranch and Molly had volunteered to display her own renewed knowledge of it. The buyer looked at the Three Star stock with expert eyes and made bids that were highly satisfactory.
"Better beef, better prices, that's the modern slogan," he said at the noon meal with Sandy and Mormon. "I see you believe in it. You can establish a brand for the Three Star steers, Mr. Bourke, just as readily as any producer of staple goods, and you can command your own market.
"I heard some talk in Hereford this morning of trouble at one ranch not far from here," he went on. "A horse ranch run by a man named Plimsoll. Waterline Ranch, I think they call it. I have a commission from a man in Chicago to look up some horses for him and I had heard of Plimsoll before, not over-favorably. I understand he is a horse-dealer rather than a breeder. And that he is not fussy over brands."
"He's got a big herd," said Sandy non-committally. "Claims to round up slick-ears."
"Slick-ears?"
"Same as broom-tails – wild hawsses. What was the trouble?"
"General row among the crowd, far as I could make out. Plimsoll shot at one of his men named Wyatt, I believe, and started to run him off the ranch. There were sides taken and shots fired."
"News to me," said Sandy. He was not especially interested in Waterline happenings so long as Plimsoll remained set. The buyer left and the rest of the day went slowly.
When the quartet returned, Molly and Westlake were obviously more than mere acquaintances. Sandy felt out of the running though Molly held him in the conversation. Kate Nicholson unconsciously intensified his mood.
"They make a wonderful pair, don't they?" she said to him. "Both Western, full of life and mutual interest."
Miranda Bailey, driving over, created a welcome diversion.
"I've brought a telegram out for you, Mr. Westlake," she said. "The operator phoned us to see if any one was coming over. Said you left word you were at the Three Star. Here it is. When you goin' to have your phone put into the ranch, Sandy?"
"Company promised to finish the party line next month," answered Sandy. "Held up for poles."
He answered with his eyes on the yellow envelope that Westlake, with an apology, was opening. The engineer read it and passed it to Molly. Sandy saw her face glow.
"That's fine!" she exclaimed. "But it means you've got to go. I'm sorry for that."
The relief that Sandy felt, and dismissed as selfish, was marred by the cordial understanding that had sprung up between the two. He wondered if they had discovered a real attachment for each other. Such things could happen in a flash. His view was apt to be jaundiced, but he did not realize that.
"I'll have to go first thing to-morrow," said Westlake. "I'm sorry, too. They've come up to my counter-offer, Bourke, and they want me to come on immediately. It means a lot to me. Everything," he added, with a smile that Molly returned.
"You'll write?" she said. "You promised."
Kate Nicholson looked at Sandy with arching eyebrows. She too appeared to scent romance, to approve of it. Miranda broke in.
"I'm sure glad it's good news," she said.
Sandy fancied she was about to ask about Keith. He knew her curiosity to be lively, though he thought her tact would appreciate the situation with regard to Molly. "I've got some of my own," she continued. "There's been trouble out to Jim Plimsoll's. He shot at Wyatt or Wyatt at him, I don't know which rightly. But there was sides taken an' a gen'ral rumpus. Several of his men quit or was run off the place. It's been a reg'lar scandal. Called the place the Waterline. Whiskyline w'ud have suited it better, I reckon. Plimsoll's aimin' to sell out, Ed heard. It'll be a good riddance."
"Whoever buys the stock is takin' a long chance," said Mormon. "Aimin' to sell, is he?"
"I'll have a telegram fo' you to take back, Mirandy," said Sandy. "You sendin' one, Westlake?"
"If you'll take it, Miss Bailey."
"Glad to."
Westlake and Molly were both standing. They moved toward the door and out to the moonlit veranda together.
"They seem to hit it off well, that pair," said Miranda.
Kate Nicholson murmured something about the kitchen and left the room to attend to some refreshments. She had gradually taken over supervision of Pedro and the results had justified Molly's praise of her qualifications as a housekeeper.
"Now tell me about Keith," demanded Miranda. "What's he been up to?"
Sandy told her.
"I ain't a mite surprised. That Westlake acts white. I liked him from the start. What are you goin' to do about Molly? You ain't told her yet?"
"No use spoilin' her holiday befo' we have to," said Sandy. "I'm goin' to talk with Keith first."
"It'll be a good thing in a way, mebbe," said Miranda. "Molly belongs out west where she was born an' brought up. I hope she stays," she added with a shrewd glance at Sandy that startled him into a suspicion that Miranda had guessed his secret.
Kate Nicholson returned and the talk changed. Westlake and Molly remained outside until the food was served. Then there was music. Through the evening the pair talked together, confidentially, apart from the rest. Miranda departed at last with the telegrams. Molly lingered as good nights were said.
"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.