Acres of Unrest (21 page)

Although Will Nast had an eye for men, he had an eye for agriculture, also. As he passed through the lane, he looked on either side of him and admired the acres of greenery. He could remember, and so could every other man who traveled that road, a time when these had been dusty fields. He could remember, also, when these fine fences had been tumble-down, patched affairs, hardly strong enough to contain the few starving cattle in the fields. Now there was a veritable breath of wealth and contentment coming up from the soil. As he came closer to the house, he noticed the newly planted trees that surrounded it.

They had been brought in by Peter, at much cost of money, time, and toil because he could not wait until the front of the old ranch house was properly dignified with a veil of fine trees, as it had been when he first went away to college. The stumps of the others had been removed, all saving the butt of the largest of them all. This remained in the midst of that flourishing little plantation of trees, and the reason for it was plain to the mind of Sheriff Nast, because, in the first place, it was men that he knew; agriculture was second.

He understood that the single stump was left there as an undying sign of the heroic self-denial of a father, who had starved himself and ruined
his land for the sake of a single son. Peter, when he looked at that stump, would remember, and never forget. Those in the world who were gifted with something more than half an eye could guess, also.

Mr. Nast gazed for some moments on that stump, and, after he had tied his horse at the hitching rack, he opened the gate. It was new and cleanly painted, like all the red fence that went around the Ross Hale place. He walked slowly up the path toward the house. Thinking of the ways and the methods of other men in his recollection, he was deeply amazed by all that had been done on this place, and in so short a time. There had been others who had raised themselves and their fortunes, and, notably, there had been the case of Andy Hale. Andy had gone on putting one to one until he had two, three, then, 100, 1,000—and finally he had arrived at a notable state of wealth. He would keep on growing, also.

But, after all, Andy had used natural means. A little wit, much patience, a sharp eye, and a ruthless hand in a trade, a careful watching of the market—these had caused the growth of Andy’s fortune. Besides, he had had the steady industry of his son to help him. With Peter Hale, it was different. There had been no long and painful training in the ways of the range. He had stepped in from the outside, and by the force of a natural genius he had done this thing. Not so great as the achievement of Andy Hale, if bulk were considered—but greater by far, if the time and the circumstances were considered.

What would Peter go on toward? Or rather, what would he have gone on toward, if he had had a chance to develop in a natural manner toward all
of his potentialities? This thought being on the tip of his tongue, the sheriff was on the verge of murmuring something aloud, when he saw the tall form of Ross Hale issuing from the house. Nast paused and waved his hand. The rancher started. And the sheriff hastened to say: “I haven’t come for you, Ross.”

“Nor for Peter?”

“Would I be looking for him here?”

“No. And that’s true.” The head of Ross Hale fell.

“I see that the beans are coming on big and fine and strong, Ross.”

“Yes, getting pretty thick.”

“Who would ever have thought of raising beans in this here county, Ross?”

“Aye, who would of thought of it? Never me.”

“But is there money in the fool things?”

“More than you could shake a stick at.”

“Old Sargent is putting in a hundred and sixty acres in them, I hear.”

“Yep. Peter rode over and looked at his work and tried to tell him how his system was all wrong. But Sargent is pig-headed. He said that he knew, and that was all that there was to it. Peter says that the first hot summer will burn Sargent’s crop right out.”

“Well, experience is the only thing that’ll teach Sargent. But there’s a few of us that don’t need so much experience for learning, Ross.”

“Like who, now?”

“Like Peter, for an example.”

“Aye,” said the father, “there was brains for you. They worked out the reasons for things without no help. Was you…have you…?” He paused.

“No,” said the sheriff. “Peter ain’t been pulling up any more bridges by the roots.”

“Then what’s happening over Lawson way?”

“About Peter?”

“Yes. I heard that a lot of them was getting together to raid him.”

“They won’t do it,” said the sheriff. “Folks will talk a lot about what they’ll do when they get together and take the law into their hands, but they don’t usually do it. Not unless they have a handy chance, like finding a crook right in the middle of their town, or some such thing. A mob is lazy. It don’t like to ride a hundred miles for its honey. It likes to have the fun easy and quick. And take it by and large, a mob is a pretty cowardly thing, Ross. It does fine when it sees a helpless man with no guns on him. But it ain’t half so bold when it has to consider that same man with a pair of gats ready to kick in his hands. The same thing goes with those boys over to Lawson Creek. They talk a lot about how their town is disgraced and made a laughingstock. But it’ll be a long time before they turn in and hunt down three men that can tear up a bridge and chuck it in the river.”

Ross Hale listened with large eyes of wonder. “Then they ain’t going to shoot up Peter?”

“No danger in the world. I tell you, old son, that son of yours has made himself so feared over yonder that he could swing down the street of Lawson Creek on his crutches, and there wouldn’t be nobody that would dare to raise a hand against him.”

“But the law, Sheriff, ain’t it got something against Peter and the rest?”

“What’ll the law do?” The sheriff grinned.
“Accuse him of shooting? He didn’t kill anybody. And he really didn’t fire a shot. Disturbing the peace? He can say that he was being mobbed and that he had to fight back in self-defense. No, sir, Lawson Creek ain’t going to ask into a law court the three men that made such a fool of the town. They know that this thing has gone far enough. They don’t want any more air given to the story of what happened over there the evening of the fight.” He broke off with a chuckle.

“That’s tolerable good news.” Ross Hale sighed. “I just been sort of waiting. The other day, Will, I had an idea of something that might bring him back. But it didn’t pan out, you know.”

“An idea for bringing Peter back?”

“Yes.”

“Now,” the sheriff said seriously, “that’s what I stopped in here to talk to you about. I wanted you to know, Ross, that the thing for you to do is to settle yourself down and get ready for a lot of time to pass before Peter comes back.”

The rancher sighed and looked at the ground.

“It’s bleak, living alone,” said the sheriff. “But it’s what you got to do. Because, between you and me, Peter ain’t going to be here in any hurry.”

“Will you tell me what you mean by that, Will? And how could you know?”

“By the fact that I been up there talking to him.”

“Ah, you been there?”

“Yes. And the last thing that he said was for me to drop around and to cheer you up. But what I wanted to say first was that Peter ain’t changed. You might think that he’s gone sort of wild.”

“But he ain’t?”

“No. He’s just the same. Even a mite more sober
and silent, maybe. But just the same, steady as a clock and as strong as iron. You would laugh, Ross, if you could see the way that that big Negro waits on him.”

“I wouldn’t laugh,” said Ross Hale with a trembling voice. “Only…in the name of heaven, tell me what I done that drove him away.”

“You? Why, man, you didn’t do a thing! Not a thing. The whole point was that there is some sort of a pull that old man Jarvin has over him. That’s the fact, and Peter as good as told me so. He has to stay there with Jarvin for a while. I don’t know how long. Of course, he’s useful to Jarvin. But Jarvin is sure to let him go, sooner or later. What the hold is, I dunno.”

“Will, if Jarvin has a grip on him, Jarvin will be the death of him.”

“Why?”

“Because Jarvin is poison, as you know.”

“He hasn’t poisoned Peter, and he won’t. The only thing is patience.”

“Patience? Patience?” The rancher groaned. “Ain’t I had plenty of patience all of these years? But there comes a time when the patience is all burned out of a man, Sheriff. You understand that?”

“Yes,” said the sheriff, “I understand.”

So well did he understand that he cut his visit shorter than he had intended, and, when he went away, he paused beside the bean fields and wondered again at the glistening acres of beans. A great work had been accomplished here.

He looked, back and could see the distant form of Ross Hale striding up and down in front of the house. Some great resolution was forming in the mind of the father, for the sake of his son. When
the sheriff remembered what great things this same man had done in the past for that identical cause, he wondered now what strange deed would come from the hand of the rancher. But even his fondest imaginings were far short of the resolution that had formed in the brain of Hale.

The resolution that had formed in the mind of Ross Hale was simply that he must reclaim Peter from the hands of Mike Jarvin. Sheriff Nast was not apt to be wrong. If the sheriff said that Peter was with Jarvin—not from any wish of his own, but because of some power that Jarvin had over him—then, of course, Peter would return to the ranch and to his old way of living as soon as the influence of Jarvin was cut off.

How, then, could that influence be removed? There was one simple and effective means, of which Ross Hale thought at once. There was no sweetness in his life, he had discovered, except through Peter. He had spent so many years laboring for the sake of his son that he seemed to have lost all taste of enjoyment, except through Peter and Peter’s accomplishments.

Even the richness and the beauty of the farm was nothing to him, except that it exemplified the cleverness and the industry of Peter. To live in comfort again and in a growing wealth was nothing, but to hear strangers praise Peter was the delight of Hale’s life.

He had done all that he could, except one thing. And he determined on that one thing now. He would ride straight to the mine, ask to see Mike Jarvin, and then, no matter how the latter was
surrounded by his hired braves, he would send a bullet through the head of that fat gentleman and bring his wretched life to a close.

That would free Peter. As for Ross Hale, of course, he would be blown to bits by Jarvin’s men. But what difference did that make? None at all. At least he had the grim satisfaction of knowing that Peter would never forget him and would never let others forget him. Perhaps it would be better, too, to close his life with one great effort such as this—better than to drag out long days to no real purpose. So thought Ross Hale.

The sheriff, riding slowly off down the road, heard the familiar sound of a revolver exploding. He turned and looked back to the house of Hale, but he could see nothing except the blurred outline of house and trees, at that distance. The gun sounded again.

“Ross has seen a rabbit.” The sheriff chuckled.

So, indeed, Ross Hale had. And that rabbit lay dead, first lamed, and then with its head nearly torn off by the slugs from the gun of the farmer. It was a mighty satisfaction to him. He stood over the little animal for a moment and smiled. For, after all, there might be some chance that he could penetrate the camp of Jarvin, kill his man, and even fight his way out again.

He started at once to reach his best horse and saddle it for the long trail. It was a fine brown gelding with one white-stockinged foreleg and a white blaze down its face—a very good horse. Indeed, it was sure to be of the best, for Peter himself had made a present of it to his father, and when was Peter contented with anything other than the best?

On that same day, the sun was blazing hot on the mine and the shacks, which were clustered around the mouth of the shaft. Ordinarily there was a little breeze moving across the valley, carrying at the least a current of warm air around the buildings. But on this day, all was as deadly still and hot as an oven.

Jarvin was in great distress. He had taken off his coat; he had taken a rather greasy towel to mop the perspiration from his forehead and from under his chin. But still there was a working conscience, as one might say, that kept Jarvin to his labors. He sat at the table and shuffled the cards over and over again, and then dealt them.

It was a most bewildering thing to mark the dexterity of those fat, white fingers as they handled the pasteboards. Steadily, anxiously, with a puckered forehead, Mr. Jarvin worked at his art. As he dealt, he would say: “I win!” Or again: “You win!” Or: “Third man wins!”

Having completed the deal, he would turn the cards face up, and it was wonderful to note that his prophecies were rarely wrong. Not more than once in ten times did he make a mistake. But the hand that he selected was always the most powerful one going into the draw. In the draw itself, he could do astonishing things. The top two or three cards remained in place, but dexterously, from the center of the pack or from the bottom of it, he drew out cards, and all at such a flying speed that the most careful eye could not have detected it.

He grumbled to himself, however. Half a lifetime spent in similar labors, it was plain, had not lifted the cunning of Mr. Jarvin to the point that he
desired. Like all great men, he had established above himself a goal that he could never quite attain. Still he struggled patiently toward that end.

Said Jarvin: “Hey, Peter…did you ever see such a cursed day?”

Peter, lying in the hammock outside the window, turned his head and observed his employer calmly.

“Very close,” he said.

“It’s worse,” said Mr. Jarvin with emphasis, “than a katzenjammer. Soapy, gimme a drink, will you?”

Soapy grunted: “I’m busy.”

It brought a roar from Mr. Jarvin.

“Say, Peter, ain’t you going to let that Negro of yours do what I tell him to do?”

“Why,” said Peter, “Soapy can’t really work for two masters, you know.”

A brilliant crimson suffused the face of Jarvin. Words swelled in his throat and made his fat lips tremble, but then they were suppressed again. He heaved himself from his chair and went to the side of the room, where he poured out a glass of tepid water and swallowed it, still looking askance at the pair beyond the windows.

They had not altered their position. Peter lay with his eyes closed, again, and beside him squatted Soapy, with a tattered remnant of a newspaper, yellow with time, made into a fan, with which he set up a steady current of air. Now and again, he stretched forth his enormous hand and brushed away a fly that threatened to settle upon the face of his master.

In the beginning, Jarvin had hardly been able to refrain from gigantic laughter when he saw Soapy
adopting toward Peter the attitude of a mother to a child, or of a worshiper to a saint. However, the days had crept on, and still there was no change. Others, who looked on, ceased to smile, also. In the first place, it was always dangerous to smile when Soapy was near. Furthermore, it began to be apparent that this was no passing fancy in the mind of Soapy. He regarded the cripple with a strange species of veneration. Automatically he followed him about through all the day. He was like a dreadful shadow lurking behind Peter wherever the latter went. And his anxious eyes continually studied the face of his master, striving to discover the will of Peter before it could be spoken.

Some observing people thought that Soapy was going mad. But others contented themselves with observing that Peter was a very strange fellow and that he might accomplish queerer things than this, before the end.

Said Mr. Jarvin, as he scowled upon this peaceful picture: “The damned cards won’t behave.”

“Look here,” said Peter, “what’s upset you so much?”

A great oath ripped from the throat of Jarvin. “Who said that I was upset?”

“You’ve acted like a nervous child since last night,” replied Peter.

At this, Mr. Jarvin actually reached for his gun. But then he hesitated. The bright round, unwinking eye of Soapy was fixed upon him. Jarvin changed his mind. Nothing could be quite so discouraging to rashness as that unwinking eye of Soapy’s.

Peter asked: “Have you been sleeping badly? Or is it indigestion?”

Jarvin groaned suddenly. “Peter, it’s a ghost!”

The broad nostrils of Soapy flared; his eyes opened wider and rounder than ever.

“A ghost!” Jarvin moaned. “As I was riding along through the brush with you and Soapy, I looked back, and it sort of seemed to me that I could see a gent there behind the shadow of a bush…a gent with his hat off…and pale, silver-looking hair…that reminded me…of…somebody else.”

His voice trailed away into a little gasp of emotion, Plainly Jarvin had been badly frightened.

“And I remember,” said Peter, “that, when we were getting out of Lawson Creek in such a hurry, there was a fellow, such as you describe, standing on the steps of the general merchandise store. His hat had been blown off and his hair was long, and the wind was blowing through it. He was shooting after us a great deal straighter than the rest of them. More dangerous than the whole crowd put together. He was the one that crashed those bullets through the body of the buckboard, you know.”

Soapy cried: “Dog-gone it, Mister Hale, by the way that you and the boss talks, it would sound like old Sam Debney had come back to haunt…”

“Curse you, you fool, Soapy!” screamed Mr. Jarvin, leaping to his feet. “I’ll smash your skull in for you, if you say that again.” He relapsed into another groan. “I almost thought that it was,” whispered Jarvin. “The same…sort of a…white face, too.”

Yes, when Peter recalled the figure of the man who had stood on the steps of the store in Lawson Creek with such an accurate rifle, he could remember that the face of the stranger had seemed to him to be extraordinarily pale. But he had simply thought that this must be due to the manner in which the
lamplight was streaming across his shoulder from the open door behind.

“Hello,” said Soapy in a whisper. “He’s back on that idea. He always said that Debney would come back to haunt him.”