The Hash Knife Outfit Page 6

  “F-f-fine f-for a g-girl with o-one lung,” chattered Gloriana as Jim lifted her out of the buckboard. “G-good n-night—Mr. Curly. If I don’t—f-f-freeze to death I’ll see you—to-tomorrow.”

  “I shore pray for a moderation of temperature,” replied Curly, gallantly. “Good night, Miss Traft.”

  “Set the bags on the porch,” said Jim, “and hurry those horses into the barn. … Glory, I reckon you’ll want to get warm before you see Uncle Jim.”

  Gloriana stood in the cold starlight, looking out at the spectral pine forest and the pure white peaks that notched the sky. “W-w-wonderful!”

  Jim almost carried her to her room, which was in the west end of the rambling ranch-house. When he opened the door a blaze of light and warmth and color greeted Gloriana’s eyes. Jim had spent a whole day on making this room different from any Glory had ever seen, and one that would be livable, even for a sick girl in zero weather. It had an open fireplace where logs were snapping and blazing; Navajo rugs covered the floor; Indian ornaments of bead, basket and silver work hung on the walls; a fine elk head, with massive horns, stood out over the mantel; the bed had a coverlet of deep, woolly, soft red, most inviting to the eye. Even the lamp had a shade painted with Indian designs.

  Gloriana gasped with delight, threw off her furs and hat, and rushed to the fire, where she stretched her gloved hands.

  “Pretty nifty, huh?” asked Jim.

  “Just lovely. But wait a minute until I can see.”

  Jim went out to fetch in the luggage. He had to make three trips to the porch and back. “Glory, from the looks of this you’ve come to stay awhile.”

  “I’ve three trunks, too,” rejoined Gloriana.

  “Is that all? Gee! I didn’t figure on trunks when I worked over this room. But there’s a big closet. … Turn round, Glory, so I can look at you.”

  She did so, and he saw his sister strangely changed, but how he could not tell at once. She appeared taller, which might have accounted for her slimness. But Jim looked in vain for a frail, flat-chested girl bordering on consumption. Her face, however, was exceedingly white, and herein lay the change that struck him. She looked more than her age. She wore her dark chestnut hair in a fashion new to him, and very becoming. But Glory’s great purple eyes were as he had them pictured in a loving memory.

  “Well, how do I look?” she asked, soberly.

  “Prettier than ever, Glory, only different. I can’t figure it yet,” said Jim.

  “Thanks. I didn’t hope for compliment. … Jim, you’ve been away almost a year.”

  “So long? Gee! time flies. Well, sister, it has been a terrible and a wonderful year for me. I’ve sure got a story to tell you. But that can wait. Sit down. You look fagged. And tell me about yourself. Mother’s letter scared me.”

  She did not take the chair he indicated, but sat down on the arm of his, and rather timidly took his hand. Jim remembered how seldom Gloriana had ever touched him voluntarily. They had never gotten along well together. Gloriana could not bear criticism of her actions or any antagonism to her freedom. And Jim had always been the bossy older brother, until she reached eighteen, when he had been flatly rebuffed. After that there had been a slowly widening breach. It all returned to him now, a little sadly, and he wondered at her. Perhaps she really had cared something for him. Gloriana had never been shallow; quite the reverse. Jim began to feel a deeper significance in her coming West, in her presence now, than at first had occurred to him.

  “Jim, you’re my last bet,” she said, frankly.

  “Glory! … I don’t understand,” exclaimed Jim, blankly. “You were a belle when I left home. You had so many friends that I never saw you. Then all that money Aunt Mary left you. … And now I’m your last bet!”

  “Funny, isn’t it, Jim? … Retribution, I guess.”

  “For what?”

  “I was never—a—a real sister.”

  Jim caressed the soft thin little hand while he gazed into the fire and pondered. A chill of fear of he knew not what crept over him. Glory had always worried him. Her childish pranks—then her girlish escapades—but now she seemed a woman!

  “Perhaps that was my fault,” he replied, regretfully.

  “Jim—you’re changed,” said his sister, quickly.

  “Sure. I’d not been much good if this Arizona hadn’t changed me.”

  “I hope it does as well by me,” she continued, wistfully.

  “Glory … what’re you driving at?” burst out Jim, no longer able to repress a mounting anxiety.

  “Please—ask me questions.”

  That from Gloriana May was indeed a strange request. Jim felt an uncomfortable constriction of his throat.

  “Glory, have you really lung trouble?” he queried, sharply.

  “No. Mother and Dad think so because I got so white and thin. I coaxed Dr. Williamson to hint of that. I wanted to come West.”

  “Thank goodness! —But, you deceitful girl! —Why such an extreme? And are you really ill?”

  “Only run down, Jim.”

  “From what?”

  “Worry—unhappiness.”

  Jim imagined his ears were deceiving him. Yet there his sister sat, slipping closer to him. She was now half off the arm of his chair and her head rested on his shoulder. A faint fragrance came from her hair. He let a long silence ensue. He could not ask just then what was forming in his mind.

  “Love affair?” he finally asked, lightly.

  “Affair—but not love,” she replied, scornfully.

  “So that’s it?”

  “No, that’s not it. Still, it had a lot to do with it.”

  “Gloriana!” That was how he had used to address her when he was on his dignity or wished to reprove. She laughed a little, remembering it.

  “Jim, I—I have disgraced the family,” she admitted, with a catch in her breath, and suddenly she sat up.

  “My God! … Oh, Glory—you can’t be serious!” he exclaimed, distressed, yet uncertain.

  “I wish to heaven I wasn’t serious.”

  Jim tried to prepare himself for a blow. Contact with the rough and wholesome West had knocked pride and prejudice out of his head. Nevertheless, something of the former reared its hydra head. In his gathering apprehension and horror he sensed that he was on trial. He must react differently to this revelation. Glory had come to him in her trouble. If he repulsed or scorned her! If he showed any of the old outraged brotherly disfavor! Suddenly he happened to think of Curly Prentiss—that cool, easy, careless firebrand of a Texas cowboy. How would he take such a confession from a once loved sister? Beloved still, he discovered, poignantly! But that thought of Curly was sustaining. Its content typified the West.

  “Well, so little sister has kicked over the traces?” he queried, as coolly as ever Curly could have said it.

  “Jim, don’t misunderstand,” she said, quickly. “I’ve been wild, crazy, out of my head. But I can still look you in the eyes.”

  And she sat up to give him a straight full glance, that was as searching as it was revealing. Jim hid his relief. And he realized the moment gave birth to his existence as a brother. The purple blaze of Gloriana’s eyes failed to hide her sadness, her hunger.

  “Shore, I never had any notion you couldn’t,” he replied, essaying Curly’s drawl. Then he put his arm around her, which action brought Glory slipping into his lap. Her head went down with a suspicious haste. Her nervous hand tightened on his. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Jim, you remember when I was sixteen the Andersons took me up,” began Glory, presently. “That began my gadding about, my desire for fine clothes—excitement, dancing—and so forth. Then Aunt Mary left me that money. And you remember the summer I graduated—how gay I was—what a wonderful time I had! … Even before you left I was traveling with a pretty fast set. But we younger girls hadn’t really gotten into it yet. After you left home I was about ready for it, I guess. But something happened. I met a man named Darnell—from St. Louis. He was handso
me—and all the girls were crazy over him. That tickled me. I—I thought I was in love with him. It might have been just as well—the way things turned out. I could have done worse. Mother wanted me to marry Mr. Hanford—you know him—the dry goods merchant.”

  “Not Henry Hanford?” broke out Jim, incredulously.

  “Yes, Henry Hanford. He was more than old enough to be my father. But Mother nagged me nearly to death. I dare say she wanted me to be—safe. Dad hated my running around—and he didn’t like Ed Darnell. So we had a bad time for some months. … I thought I was engaged to Ed. So did everybody else. All the same, I wasn’t. He said he was mad about me, but he didn’t ask me to marry him. … He borrowed a lot of money from me. He was a gambler. Then he embezzled money from Dad. Oh, how wretched it was! He left town, without a word to me. The truth came out—and—and the Andersons, the Loyals, the Millers—all my old friends dropped me. Cut me dead! … That broke Mother’s heart. And it went hard with Dad. … Well, I had reached the end of my rope. You know what gossip is in a little town. And gossip made it a great deal worse than it actually was. I had been a fool over Ed Darnell. I had snubbed some of the boys because of him. I had been wild as a partridge—so far as parties, dancing, running around were concerned. But I wasn’t as bad as I looked. Still that queered me at home, when the crash came. … And, Jim, it knocked me out. I began to go downhill. I realized I was done for there. I worried myself sick. Many and many a night I cried myself to sleep. I went downhill. … And then I got to thinking about the West—your West. I read all your letters to Mother. You never wrote me. And I thought, if I could get out West, far away, it’d be my salvation … and here I am.”

  “Well, is that all?” drawled Jim, true to his imitation of Curly. “You shore had me plumb scared.”

  “Jim!” she cried, and then she kissed his cheek in mute gratitude. By that Jim felt how hard it had been for Gloriana to confess to him—how little of a brother he had been in times past. Then before he could say more she burst into tears, which was another amazing thing, and Jim could do no more than hold her. There must have been much dammed-up misery in Gloriana, for when she succumbed to weeping it gradually grew uncontrollable. Jim thought, to judge by her emotion, that the situation at home had been insupportable for the proud, vain young lady. She had come to him as a last resource, doubtful of her reception, and he had overwhelmed her by making light of her trouble. As a matter of fact Jim felt exceedingly relieved, and even happy that what he had suspected had been wrong. Glory had been on the verge of disaster. That seemed enough for him to know. There might have been details which would have hurt him to hear. Pity and tenderness welled up in his heart for his sister. Indeed, there had been cause for her to come West and throw herself upon his protection. The very idea was incredible, yet here she was, sobbing softly now, and gaining control of herself.

  “Thank God I—I had the—courage to come,” she said, speaking a thought aloud. “I—I never knew how—good Jim was!”

  That established a character Jim regretted he hardly deserved, and one to which he felt he must live up.

  “Glory, I’ve got a little confession to make, myself,” he said, with a happy laugh. “Not that I’ve actually fallen by the wayside. But I’ve gone back on the East. And I’m——”

  “Wait,” she interrupted, sitting up to dry her eyes. “I haven’t told all—and what seems the worst to me.”

  “Gosh!” ejaculated Jim, with a sinking sensation in his chest. “Perhaps you’d better not tell me more.”

  “Jim, I met Ed Darnell in the station at St. Louis,” went on Glory, hastily, as if eager to impart what seemed important. “Quite by accident. I had to change trains there and wait five hours. And it was my bad luck to run into him first thing. … Well, he raved. He made a thousand excuses. … The liar! The thief! … I absolutely refused to have any more to do with him. Yet I was scared stiff at him. He had some queer power over me. But I had sense enough to realize I despised him. Then he threatened me—swore he’d follow me. And Jim—that’s exactly what he’ll do. He knew, of course, about Uncle Jim, the rich ranchman. Mother gabbed a lot. At first she was fascinated by Ed. I didn’t tell him where I was going, but he could find out easily. And he’ll come. I saw it in his eyes. … And that’d be dreadful.”

  “Let him come,” replied Jim, grimly. “I hope he does. It would be a bad move for Mr. Darnell.”

  “What would you do?” queried Gloriana, with all a woman’s curiosity.

  “Glory, you’re out West now. It’ll take you some time to realize it. … I’d impress that fact upon Mr. Darnell pretty pronto. And if it wasn’t enough, I’d tell Curly Prentiss.”

  “That wonderful-looking cowboy!” exclaimed Gloriana. “He seemed so kind and nice. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Jim laughed outright. Gloriana would be the tenderfoot of all tenderfeet who ever struck Arizona.

  “Glory, I’m engaged,” he blurted out suddenly, with a gulp.

  “Jim Traft! —You’ve kept up with that catty Sue Henderson,” exclaimed Glory, aghast.

  At first Jim could not connect any of his Missouri attachments of bygone days with that particular name. When he did he laughed, not only at Glory’s absurd guess, but at the actual realization. Ten times ten months might have elapsed since he left home.

  “No, Glory. My girl is a real Westerner,” he replied.

  “Real Westerner? What do you mean by that? Uncle Jim was born in the East. He couldn’t be Western.”

  “He’s pretty much so, as you will discover. Molly was born in Arizona. She’s about eighteen. Twice in her life she has been to Flagerstown, and that is the extent of her travels. She lives down in the Cibeque, one of the wildest valleys in Arizona.”

  “Molly. —Molly what?” queried Glory, her white smooth brow wrinkling and her fine eyes dilating and changing, as she bent them upon Jim.

  “Molly Dunn. Isn’t it pretty?” rejoined Jim, warming to his subject. He had need to.

  “Rather. But sort of common, like Jones or Brown. Is she pretty?”

  “Glory, I reckon there’s only one prettier girl in the world, and that’s you.”

  It was a subtle and beautiful compliment, but somehow lost upon Gloriana May.

  “You were always getting a case on some girl—back home. It never lasted long,” said his sister, reflectively.

  “This will last.”

  “How about her family?” came the inevitable interrogation.

  “Arizona backwoods. And that’s as blue-blooded as the skies out here,” replied Jim, rising to the issue. “Her father was ruined by a range feud between cattlemen and sheepmen. Her mother has been a hardworking pioneer. You will learn what that means. Molly has one brother. Slinger Dunn. I don’t know his first name. But the Slinger comes from his quickness and use with a gun. He has killed several men—and shot up I don’t know how many.”

  “Desperado?” gasped Gloriana.

  “Of course an Easterner would call him that. I did at first. But now he’s just Slinger to me—and the very salt of the earth.”

  Dismay, consternation, and sincere regret succeeded one another on Gloriana’s expressive face.

  “Dad called me the black sheep of our family,” she said. “But I’m afraid there are two. … It’ll kill Mother. … Jim, they have no idea whatever of all this. Dad brags to his friends about you. How you are in charge of his brother’s big cattle ranch. Nothing of this—this you tell me ever crept into your letters. I know them by heart.”

  “That’s true, Glory. I left out the real stuff which was making me over. And besides, it all sort of bunched just lately. … Look here.” Jim unbuttoned his flannel shirt at the neck, and pulled his collar back to expose a big angry scar on his breast.

  “My heavens! what’s that?” she queried, fearfully.

  “My dear sister, that’s a bullet hole,” he replied, not without pride.

  “You were shot?”

  “I should smile.”

  �
��My God! —Jim, this is awful! You might have been killed.”

  “Shore I might. I darn near was. I lay in the woods two days with that wound. Alone!”

  “And you can smile about it!” she ejaculated, her eyes dark with awe and fading terror.

  “It helped make a man of me.”

  “Some desperado shot you?”

  “Yes, one of the real bad ones.”

  “Oh, Jim,” she cried. “I hope—I pray you—you didn’t kill him.”

  “It turned out I didn’t, Glory—which was darn lucky. But at the time I’d have shot him to bits with great pleasure.”

  “This terrible West has ruined you. Mother always said it would. And Dad would only laugh.”

  “Nope, Glory. You’ve got it wrong. I’m not ruined by a long shot. And I hope you’ve sense and intelligence enough left to see it.”

  “Jim, I’ve nothing left,” she replied. “You’re wild, strange to me—sort of cool and indifferent like that Prentiss fellow. I’m just terribly sorry this West has made you rough—crude. I know I’ll hate it.”

  “Glory, you just misunderstand,” rejoined Jim, patiently. “It’ll jar you at first—more than it did me. You were always a sensitive, high-strung thing. And your trouble has only made you worse. But please give the West—and me—the benefit of a doubt, before you condemn. Wait, Glory. I swear you will gain by that. Not have any regrets! Not hurt any of these Westerners.”

  But he saw that he made no impression on her. He had shocked her, and it nettled him. She had quite forgotten already how kindly he had taken her dereliction.

  “Where is this Molly Dunn?” asked Gloriana, curiosity strong.

  “She’s here.”

  “In this house?”

  “Yes. She and her mother. I fetched them up from the Cibeque. Molly is going to school. It’s great—and a little pathetic—the way she goes at study. Poor kid—she had so little chance to learn. … I expect to marry her in the spring, if I can persuade her.”

  “Persuade her!” echoed Gloriana, with a wonderful flash of eyes. “I dare say that will be extremely difficult.”

  “It probably will be,” replied Jim, coolly. “Especially after she meets you. But Uncle Jim adores her and he’s keen to see me married.”