The One-Way Trail Page 2

  As a matter of fact he had been thinking of the woman he hoped to make his wife. He was wondering if he had a reasonable prospect of helping her to all the comfort in life she deserved. He took an ultra serious view of matrimonial responsibilities. Eve must have a good, ample home. She must have nothing to worry, none of little petty economies to study which make life so burdensome. Yes, they must start with that, and then, with luck, their stock would grow, he would buy more land, and finally she would be able to hold her place with the wives of all the richest ranchers in the district. That was what he wanted for her when they were married.

  When they were married. Suddenly he laughed. He had not asked her yet. Still––– His eyes grew gloomy. His thoughts turned to another man, his cousin, Will Henderson. He knew that Will liked Eve Marsham. It was the one cloud upon his horizon. Will was younger than he by a good deal. He was handsome, too. Eve liked him. Yes, she liked him, he was sure. But somehow he did not associate marriage with Will. Well,––it was no good seeking trouble.

  He pushed his thoughts aside and stood up. But the cloud upon his dark face was not so easily got rid of. How could it be? for Eve Marsham meant the whole world to him.

  He moved toward the door, and as he looked out at the sunlit yards he started. A horseman had just come into view round the corner of one of the barns. But though his smile was lacking when the man came up and drew rein at his door, there was no mistaking the kindly cordiality of his greeting as he held out his hand.

  “Why, Will,” he cried, “I’m real glad you’ve come along.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER II

  A SHOOTING MATCH

  In silence the two men sat smoking. Will Henderson, half sitting, half lying on the stretcher-bed, gazed out through the doorway at the distant mountain peaks. His hands were clasped behind his head, and a sullen, preoccupied look was in his eyes. Jim Thorpe was sitting, frog-fashion, on an upturned soap-box, watching him. His eyes were a shade anxious, but full of good feeling.

  Jim was nine years his cousin’s senior, and Will was twenty-four. They were really almost foster-brothers, for from the younger man’s earliest days he had lived with Jim, in the care of the latter’s widowed mother. He was an orphan, both his parents having died before he was two years old, and so it was that he had been adopted by Jim’s mother, the child’s only living relative. For years Jim had lavished on him an elder brother’s affection and care. And when his own mother died, and he was left to his own resources, it still made no difference. Will must share in everything. Will’s education must be completed adequately, for that was Jim’s nature. His duty and inclination lay straight ahead of him, and he carried both out to the end. Perhaps he did more. Perhaps he overindulged and spoiled the youngster of whom he was so fond. Anyway, as in many similar cases, Will accepted all as his right, and gave very little in return. He was selfish, passionate, and his temper was not always a nice one.

  In appearance there was a striking resemblance between these two. Not in face, but in figure, in coloring, in general style. A back view of them was identical. In face they differed enormously. They were both extremely handsome, but of utterly different types. Jim was classically regular of feature, while Will possessed all the irregularity and brightness of his Hibernian ancestry. Both were dark; dark hair, dark eyes, dark eyebrows. In fact, so alike were they in general appearance that, in their New York days, they had been known by their intimates as the “twins.”

  Just now there was something troubling. And that something seemed to be worrying Will Henderson even more than his cousin. At least, to judge by outward appearances. He showed it in his expression, which was somewhat savage. He showed it in his nervous, impatient movements, in the manner in which he smoked. Jim had seen it at once, and understood. And he, too, was troubled.

  They had been silent some time, and eventually it was Jim who spoke.

  “Come on, lad. Let’s have it out,” he said, decidedly.

  His voice was full and strong, and kindly.

  The other stirred, but did not reply.

  “This is your busy time, Will,” Jim went on. “You didn’t come away from those hills yonder to pass the time of day with me. You came because something wouldn’t let you rest. I know you, boy; I know you. Something’s troubling that mind of yours in a way that makes it hard for you to speak, even now you’re here. Shall I try and begin it for you?”

  There was infinite kindness in the man’s tone. There was a smile in his eyes that might well have drawn a responsive smile from even an angry child.

  Will removed his pipe, but the responsive smile was not forthcoming.

  “I’ll open out, Jim,” he said coldly.

  The other waited. The smoke of their pipes rolled up on the still, warm air of the room, upsetting the calculations of a few mischievously busy mosquitoes. The sun shone in through the doorway. The ranch was quiet now. All the “hands” had departed to their work, and only the occasional lowing of a solitary milch cow in one of the corrals, and the trampling feet of the horses waiting to be “broken,” and the “yeps” of a few mouching dogs, afforded any sign of life outside in the ranch yards.

  Jim began to grow restive.

  “Well, boy: I’ve some ‘breaking’ to do. Maybe you’ll come along. You can talk as we go.”

  He half rose, but Will sat up in a moment.

  “Not yet, Jim,” he said, almost roughly. Then his tone changed in a way through which his mercurial disposition spoke. “Look here,” he went on, “whatever happens in the future, I’d like you to understand that all you’ve done for me in the past counts for something.”

  “Then it’s real serious, lad?” Jim smiled back at him. But he failed to catch his eye. Then he, too, changed his manner, and there was a sudden coolness in it. “You needn’t recite,” he said. “Anything I’ve done has been a––a pleasure to me. Our ways have lain a bit apart for some months, but it makes no difference to my feelings, except to make me regret it. The fortunes of war, eh? And a fair bit of grist is rolling into our separate mills. Honest grist. We’re good friends, lad––so let’s have it. It’s––it’s a woman?”

  At the mention of the word, “woman,” Will seemed to utterly freeze up.

  “Yes, it’s––a woman,” he said frigidly.

  “Eve Marsham?”

  “Yes.”

  Jim sighed. He knew there were breakers ahead. Breakers which must be faced, and faced sternly.

  “You love her?” There was a dryness in his throat.

  “Yes. I––I can’t live without her. She is my whole world. She is more than that. God! How I love her!”

  “I love her, too.”

  Jim’s darkly brilliant eyes were on the younger man’s face. They compelled his gaze, and the two men looked long at each other, vainly trying to penetrate to that which lay behind. It was Will who turned away at last.

  “I knew it,” he said, and there was no longer any pretense of cordiality in his tone.

  “Well?”

  “Well?”

  It was a tense moment for both men; and tremendous in its possibilities. There was no shrinking in either now; no yielding. But, as it ever was, Jim took the lead after a few moments’ silence.

  “And––does she love you?” he asked slowly.

  His words were little above a whisper, but so tense was his feeling that his voice seemed to cut through the still air of the room. Will hesitated before replying. Perhaps he was reckoning up Jim’s chances as compared with his own. Finally, he was reluctantly compelled to make an admission.

  “I don’t know––yet.”

  The other sighed audibly. Then he mechanically began to refill his pipe. He wanted to speak, but there seemed to be nothing adequate to say. Two men, virile, thrilling with the ripe, red blood of perfect manhood, friends, and––a woman stood between them.

  “It’s no good,” Jim said, preparing to light his pipe. “The position is––impossible.”

  “Yes.”
r />   Now both pipes were smoking as under a forced draught.

  “I’d give my life for her,” the elder muttered, almost unconsciously.

  Will caught at his words.

  “My life is hers,” he cried, almost defiantly.

  They were no further on.

  “Can you––suggest–––?”

  Will shook his head. The snow on the distant peaks glistened like diamonds in the gorgeous sunlight, and his attention seemed riveted upon it.

  “What pay are you making, Will?” Jim inquired presently.

  “Eighty dollars a month––why?”

  “Ten more than me.” Jim laughed harshly. “You’re the better match. You’re younger, too.”

  “She’s got a wad of her own. A thousand dollars,” added Will.

  His remark was unpleasing, and Jim’s eyes grew colder.

  “That don’t cut any figure. That’s hers,” he said sharply.

  “But––it’s useful–––”

  “To her––maybe.”

  The flow of their talk dried up again. They could make no headway in clearing up their dilemma. To Jim each passing moment was making things harder; with each passing moment their friendship was straining under the pressure. Suddenly a thought flashed through his brain. It was a light of hope, where, before, all had been darkness.

  “I haven’t asked her yet,” he said. “And you––you haven’t?”

  “No.”

  “Say, we’re sailing an uncharted sea, and––there’s a fog.”

  It was a reluctant nod Jim received in reply.

  “We’ll have to ask her,” he went on. “She can’t marry us both. Maybe she’ll marry neither.”

  “That’s so.” Jim failed to observe Will’s smile of confidence. “Yes, we’ll both ask her. I’ve got to go through Barnriff on my way to the hills. I’ll call and see her. You can ride in this evening.”

  Jim shook his head.

  “Guess that’s an elegant plan––for you.”

  Quick as a flash Will turned on him. His volcanic anger rose swiftly.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Just what I say.” Jim’s response seemed to have less friendliness in it. Then he knocked his pipe out, and rose from his seat. “No, boy,” he said. “We’ll just play the game right here. We’ll take a chance for who goes to her first. If she wants neither of us––well, we’ll have played the game by each other, anyway. And if she chooses either of us then the other must take his medicine like a man. Let’s––be sportsmen.”

  “What’s your game?” There was no yielding in Will’s sharp question.

  “Just this.”

  Jim leaned forward, holding his empty pipe to point his words. There was a glow of excited interest in his eyes as he propounded his idea. With Will it was different. He sat frigidly listening. If through any generosity he lost Eve, he would never forgive himself––he would never forgive Jim. He must have her for his own. His love for her was a far greater thing, he told himself, than the colder Jim’s could ever be. He could not understand that Jim, in offering his plan, merely wanted to be fair, merely wanted to arrange things so that Eve should not come between them, that neither should be able to reproach the other for any advantage taken. He suspected trickery. Nor had he any right to such base suspicion. Jim’s idea was one to make their way easier. Eve would choose whom she pleased––if either of them. He could not, did not want to alter that. Whatever the result of her choice he was ready to accept it.

  He pointed at the revolvers hanging on the wall.

  “They shall decide who has first speak with her,” he said. “We’ll empty six at a mark, and the one who does the best shooting has––first go in.”

  Will shrugged.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s the best way. We’re a fair match. You’re reckoned the boss shot in the hills, and I don’t guess there’s any one on this ranch handier than I am. We’ve both played with those two guns a heap. It’ll save bad blood between us. What say?”

  Will shook his head.

  “It’s bad. Still–––” He looked at the guns. He was thinking swiftly. He knew that he was a wonderful shot with a revolver. He was in constant practice, too. Jim was a good shot, but then his practice was very limited. Yes, the chances were all in his favor.

  “Get busy then,” he said presently, with apparent reluctance.

  He rose and moved toward the guns.

  “Whose choice?” he demanded.

  Nor did he observe the other’s smile as he received his reply.

  “It’s yours.”

  While Will chose his weapon with studied care, Jim picked up the soap box and fumbled through his pockets till he found a piece of chalk. With this he drew a bull’s-eye on the bottom of the box, and sketched two rough circles around it. Will had made his choice of weapons by the time the target was completed.

  “Will it do?” Jim inquired, holding up the box for his inspection.

  “It’s got to,” was the churlish reply.

  Jim gave him a quick glance as he moved across the room and possessed himself of the remaining pistol. Then he examined its chambers and silently led the way out of the hut.

  They left the ranch buildings and moved out upon the prairie. A spot was selected, and the box set down. Then Jim paced off sixty yards.

  “Sixty,” he said, as he came to a halt.

  “Sixty,” agreed Will, who had paced beside him.

  “It’s your choice. Will you––get busy?”

  “All right.”

  Will stepped on to the mark confidently, raising his gun with the surety of a man who does not know what it means to miss. Yet, before dropping the hammer, he braced himself with unusual care.

  “Plonk!” The bullet struck the box. He had found his mark, and in rapid succession the remaining five chambers of his gun were emptied. Each shot found its mark with deadly accuracy, for Will meant to win the contest.

  Then they set out to inspect the target. Will led now. He was eager to ascertain the actual result. An exclamation of joy broke from him as he snatched up the box. The bull’s-eye was about two inches in diameter; one of his shots had passed through it, three had broken its outer line, while the other two were within a quarter of an inch of the little white patch. All six shots could have been covered by a three-inch circle.

  “Good,” cried Thorpe. And he turned the box round and drew another target on its side.

  The new bull’s-eye was a shade smaller. It may have been accident. It may have been that Jim preferred to make his own task more difficult than err on the side of his own advantage. Will said nothing, and they walked back to the firing point.

  Jim lifted his gun and fired. His shots rang out like the rattle of a maxim gun, so swiftly did he empty the six chambers. In a few moments they were once more on their way to inspect the target.

  Five bullets had passed through the bull’s-eye, the sixth had broken its line.

  “I shall see Eve to-morrow morning,” said Jim quietly. “You can see her later.”

  Without a word Will turned away, and moved off toward the ranch. Jim followed him. Nor was a word exchanged between them till the hut was reached, and Will had unhitched his horse from the tying-post.

  “Going?” inquired Jim, for something to say.

  “Yes.”

  There was no mistaking the younger man’s tone, and his friend looked away while he leaped into the saddle.

  Jim seemed to have drawn none of the satisfaction which the winning of the match should have afforded him, for he flung the box which he had been carrying aside as though it had offended him. He wanted to speak, he wanted to say something pleasant. He wanted to banish that surly look from Will’s eyes; but somehow he could find nothing to say, nothing to do. He looked on while the other lifted his reins to ride off. Then, in desperation, he came up to the horse’s shoulder.

  “Shake, Will,” he said.

  It was the effort of a big heart striv
ing to retain a precious friendship which he felt was slipping away from him.

  But Will did not see the outstretched hand. He hustled his horse, and, in moving off, his own right foot struck the waiting man violently. It was almost as though he had kicked him.

  Jim watched him go with regretful eyes. Then, as the man disappeared among the ranch buildings, he turned and slowly made his way to the bunk house of the horse-breakers.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  IN BARNRIFF

  It has been said that the pretentiousness of a newly carpentered Western American settlement can only be compared to the “side” of a nigger wench, weighted down under the gaudy burden of her Emancipation Day holiday gown. Although, in many cases, the analogy is not without aptness, yet, in frequent instances, it would be a distinct libel. At any rate, Barnriff boasted nothing of pretentiousness. Certainly Barnriff was not newly carpentered. Probably it never had been.

  It was one of those places that just grow from a tiny seedling; and, to judge by the anemic result of its effort, that original seedling could have been little better than a “scratching” post on an ill-cared-for farm, or perhaps a storm shelter. Certainly it could not have risen above an implement shed in the ranks of structural art. The general impression was in favor of the “scratching” post, for one expects to grow something better than weeds on a rich loam soil.

  The architect of Barnriff––if he ever existed––was probably a drunkard, not an uncommon complaint in that settlement, or a person qualified for the state asylum. The inference is drawn from strong circumstantial evidence, and not from prejudice. As witness, the saloon seemed to have claimed his most serious effort as a piece of finished construction. Here his weakness peeps through in no uncertain manner. The bar occupies at least half of the building, and the fittings of it are large enough to accommodate sufficient alcohol for an average man to swim in. His imagination must have been fully extended in this design, for the result suggested its having been something in the nature of a labor of affection. The other half of the building was divided up into three rooms: a tiny dining-room (obviously the pleasures of the table had no great appeal for him), a small bedroom for the proprietor (who seemed to have been considered least of all), and one vast dormitory, to accommodate those whose misfortunes of the evening made them physically incapable of negotiating the intricacies of the village on their way home.