the Drift Fence (1992) (5 page)

"It isn't customary," returned Molly, trying to be light when she feared he might hear the outrageous beating of her heart.

"I know that. But I've a weakness to be trusted with responsibility. If I hadn't I'd never gotten into the trouble I'm bucking now... You'll have to take me on faith--or not at all."

"But doesn't it--it apply to me--that way?" asked Molly, tremulously.

"No. I'm a man. And you're a girl."

"Yes. I'm beginnin' to find that out."

He laughed as if her reply was encouragement and possessed himself of her other hand. Then undoubtedly he began to draw her a little toward him, but to do him justice Molly imagined he did not realize it. She did, however, to the imminent danger of rout of reserve and self-control.

"I would take you as my best girl--my only girl, I should say, without one single thing beside your Yes."

Molly felt irresistibly drawn to the edge of an abyss. Here was an opportunity quite beyond even her dreams.

"You're--you're--" Molly did not know just what he was, besides being very careless and foolish. He had her almost leaning on his shoulder now.

She had not made the slightest resistance. She was as unstable as water.

Still, she tried to think in spite of his nearness and her dawning emotions. "If I said--yes--an'--an' afterwards you went back on me!"

"Good Heavens!... Little girl, you had better say 'yes' pretty quick or I'll--"

He choked at the end of that passionate utterance. Molly knew what he meant. For the moment it paralysed her. And then it was too late. He had her in his arms--tight against his breast. Molly closed her eyes. She did not realize her state beyond the exquisite contrast to what her backwoods admirers had roused in her. And suddenly that thought ended in a singular revulsion. She stiffened She repulsed him with a stinging slap which, blindly delivered, struck him across the lips.

He uttered an inarticulate cry of surprise and regret. His hand went to his mouth, and then he applied a handkerchief there. The force of the blow had cut his lip.

"I apologize," he said, constrainedly. "Sure lost my head--but I didn't mean to insult you."

Molly, with as unaccountable an impulse as the other, placed a tender, trembling hand on his lips. "I--I'm sorry," she whispered, wildly. "I didn't mean that--at all." And she followed the touch of her hand with a shy, swift kiss. Then she gasped at her utter effrontery.

"Well! You make sweet amends," he said, haltingly, as if she were beyond him. "By that did you mean 'Yes'?"

Molly dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. The tight, hot constriction in her breast eased its grip. "I don't know what I meant, only it wasn't 'Yes.'"

"In that case you'd better explain."

Molly looked up, impelled by his tone. His eyes burned doubtfully down upon her. His face shone pale in the moonlight.

"I--I'm dishonest," she burst out. "I've slapped boys before when they--took liberties with me. I liked them, I suppose, but I didn't want them pawin' and kissin' me... I really gave in to you... Only, I wasn't fair. I wasn't honest. I hit you because I--I wanted you to keep on believin' I was what all these people thought... They've made me act a lie. Me--in these pretty clothes! But, oh, I couldn't help it. I was afraid all the time. I knew somethin' terrible would happen."

"You wanted me to believe you were what?" he asked, sharply, bending over her.

"Like Miss Price an' her friends."

"I think they might do well by being more like you," he returned. "I asked to be your best fellow. I sure never asked it of any of them."

"But you don't know me!" cried Molly, distracted.

"I can see and think, cain't I? You're the sweetest, loveliest little girl I ever met."

Molly was brutally torn between the ecstasy of that and the mercilessness of her honesty.

"Fine feathers make fine birds," she replied, bitterly.

"You poor kid!... There's something queer here, but I swear it's not in you. I'm taking your kiss for 'Yes!' Heavens! what else could a kiss mean?"

"No, no. It meant nothin'," said Molly.

"Are your kisses so common, then?"

"You're the first boy I ever kissed," she flashed at him.

"I'm very proud of that. Well, then, what else could it mean except 'Yes'?"

"I was beside myself. I told you... I was ashamed--sick because I hit you.

But I wasn't dishonest when I kissed you."

"You said you wanted me to think you like Miss Price and her friends.

That puzzles me. I do think they can't compare with you."

"But you're only fooled," she said, despairingly.

"By what?"

"I don't know. This pretty dress, an' the place--an' everythin'."

"Why, it wouldn't make any difference to me what you wore or where you were," he protested, tenderly.

"Oh yes, it would!"

"But, you child, didn't I fall in love with you at the booth?"

This protestation was almost too beautiful and poignant for Molly to bear. It came in the nature of a revelation of her own beset state. In another instant she knew she would surrender and fall into his arms.

"But you don't know who I am!"

"You're my sweetheart!" he returned, triumphantly.

Molly suffered during one instant of glorious exaltation.

"I am Molly Dunn, of the Cibeque," she said.

"Molly Dunn. What a pretty name!... Cibeque? Oh, that's the valley you told me about."

"Yes. They call it the brakes of the Cibeque."

"Dunn. I've heard that name, too. Oh yes, I got into an argument with a fellow named Dunn. Slinger Dunn, they called him. But sure you couldn't be any relation to him."

"Why couldn't I?" she queried, in a curious calm.

"Heavens! He's a desperado! Wonderful-looking chap. They call him 'Slinger' because of his habit of throwing a gun. He has killed several men. The sheriff here is scared to death of him. I happened to cross his trail, unfortunately, and gave him a piece of my mind. If I ever saw lightning in a man's eyes I saw it then. Whew!... Well, his companion, as tough-looking fellow as he was, dragged him away. Saved me a scare if not more."

"His right name is Arch," replied Molly, and rose to her feet.

"Of course, living around here you'd have heard of him. It must be disgusting to have a criminal like that roaming around with the name of Dunn. People might think he is related to you."

"He is."

The young man rose slowly, in consternation, and made an appealing gesture.

"Impossible, Miss Dunn... Perhaps a very distant relation?"

"He is my brother."

"Good God! Your brother? You lovely, dainty, sweet little lady!... Why, I saw him again, drunk and dirty, hobnobbing with Mexicans and Indians, if he's a--one of your family, he surely must be an outcast."

"No. He was home the day I left to come here."

He appeared suddenly staggered, not only by the truth, but by the nature of his transgression.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he began, hurriedly. "I've hurt you. I never dreamed--please forgive me... After all, it was natural enough. Another of my damned tenderfoot blunders! But who would ever think that you--"

"Ah! Now you've said it," she interrupted, passionately.

"Miss Dunn, I was only going to say who would ever think a wonderful girl like you could have such a rotten brother? Well, it makes no difference to me, I assure you of that," he said, bravely, essaying a fine effort to keep under restraint. He was regarding her fearfully and again he had turned pale.

-The bitterness of reality had steeled Molly, yet she shook inwardly as he stood there, erect and earnest, doing her honour.

"Yet it does, or you couldn't have talked so," she replied, shaking her head gravely.

"I say it doesn't," he retorted. "And I certainly shall hold you to your word."

"Word? I didn't give any."

"You kissed me. Of your own sweet will! You can't get over that."

"No, I cain't... But it wasn't a promise."

"It certainly was. More than a promise. Unless you lied to me."

"Lie? I wouldn't lie to you," she declared.

"Then I hold you to it... Come, let's forget the--the thing. You see, Molly, we fell in love before we got acquainted. Didn't we? Isn't that great?"

"I didn't say we-I fell in love," returned Molly, pondering over the significance of the words.

"Not in words--yet."

Again Molly felt the imminence of a precipice. She could not resist this young man, stranger though he was, and presently she would not care to try.

"I kissed you because I wanted to be square," she said. "With myself, same as with you. I sure wasp t when I hit you. That's all."

"How can you say that? Kissing me proved your honesty. And for such a girl as I hold you to be, a kiss means a good deal. It just about means everything."

Molly was mournfully becoming cognizant of that very fact. Desperately she cried out again that she was only Molly Dunn of the Cibeque.

At this he seized her in his arms, masterfully, yet guardedly.

"Stop harping on that," he demanded. "What do I care who you are? You might be Sally Jones of the Missouri. I don't care any more than you'd care if my name was Bud Applegate instead of Jim Traft."

"Instead--of--what?" faltered Molly, slipping out of his arms. "Why, James Traft! Jim, for short."

"Traft? But that's the name of--of the cattle king."

"Sure. I'm his nephew. My dad is his brother. I was named after Uncle Jim."

"You're the new foreman of the Traft outfit?"

"Yes, I am," he replied, nettled. "That's the very question your brother asked me. Only he was insulting and you're--well, I don't care to have you ridicule me. The idea of my being a foreman seems to stick in the craw of these Westerners. Why not? I'm no nincompoop."

"You're the fellow who's buildin' the drift fence?"

"Yes--I am," he replied unsteadily.

"Did you know that fence is a slap in the face to every person down in the Cibeque?"

"No, I didn't. Uncle Jim said it would rile a lot of no-good homesteaders."

"I'm the daughter of one of them. An' sister to another," repined Molly, in tragic finality, and with a flash of eyes she left him there.

Chapter
FIVE

Up to eighteen years of age James Traft had often seen his uncle, the Arizona pioneer and cattleman, who made frequent trips East. There had grown up a bond of affection between them. James had from knee-high listened to stories of Indian fights and road-agents, gunmen and rustlers. The Westerner had never married; he was devoted to his brother, who was James's father.

Then had come an interval of four years during which Jim Traft did not visit Missouri. His vast interests had grown so complicated that he could not leave them. During this time James had been at loose ends, trying farming, clerking, and odd jobs without any indication that he might set the world on fire. At last a letter from the West at least changed the world for James.

Some passages in this blunt letter to his father were hard for James to swallow.--In the natural course of events all of Jim Traft's property would go to his nephew James. But that was something aside from James ever making good use of it. If he were a strong, resourceful boy with guts he might become a rancher. The cattle industry was growing. The days of the great rustler barons were gone, though cattle-stealing still represented altogether a big loss to the range. And so on.

The implication seemed to be that James would get all his uncle's money without having worked for it, and that there was a question whether or not he was big enough for the West. At first James had been humiliated and furious, and would hear nothing of going to Arizona. Nevertheless, his father prevailed in the end. Old Jim was caustic and crude; he had grown up in the stern school of the ranges, but he was the very salt of the earth and had genuine affection for James. He would be terribly hurt if James refused and he would never understand.

"It scares me a little, Jimmy," his father had said. "You've got to have the real stuff in you out there. I believe you have and I want you to go.

Show Jim you're a Traft!"

Persuaded and made to realize his opportunity, for which he should sacrifice anything and strive with all his heart. James started West. His first acquaintance with the Great Plains had come from the window of a train, and long before he saw the vast gray slopes of Colorado and the white-peaked Rockies the latent spirit of adventure stirred thrillingly in him. Then the wild timbered uplands of New Mexico and the red-walled canyon of Arizona won him to the West, long before he stepped off the train at Flagerstown.

He had telegraphed his uncle as to his arrival, but there was no one to meet him. What a funny, slow, sleepy, wide-streeted town! Every other building, all high boarded and weathered, appeared to house a saloon. He knew his uncle lived out of town, though not far. James finally found a livery-stable, where he engaged a loquacious negro to drive him, bag and baggage, out into the country. What he learned from this citizen of Flagerstown, in that short drive, was certainly not reassuring.