The Range Boss - Charles Alden Seltzer (best life changing books txt) š
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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She did hit it at the fourth attempt, and her joy was great.
For an hour she practiced, using many cartridges, reveling in this new pastime. She hit the target often, and toward the end she gained such confidence and proficiency that her eyes glowed proudly. Then, growing tired, she invited him to the porch again, and until near noon they talked of guns and shooting.
Her interest in him had grown. His interest in her had always been deep, and the constraint that had been between them no longer existed.
At noon she went into the house and prepared luncheon, leaving him sitting on the porch alone. When she called Randerson in, and he took a chair across from her, she felt a distinct embarrassment. It was not because she was there alone with him, for he had a right to be there; he was her range boss and his quarters were in the house; he was an employee, and no conventions were being violated. But the embarrassment was there.
Did Randerson suspect her interest in him? That question assailed her. She studied him, and was uncertain. For his manner had not changed. He was still quiet, thoughtful, polite, still deferential and natural, with a quaintness of speech and a simplicity that had gripped her, that held her captive.
But her embarrassment fled as the meal progressed. She forgot it in her interest for him. She questioned him again; he answered frankly. And through her questions she learned much of his past life, of his hopes and ambitions. They were as simple and natural as himself.
āIāve been savinā my money, maāam,ā he told her. āIām goinā to own a ranch of my own, some day. Thereās fellows that blow in all their wages in town, not thinkinā of tomorrow. But I quit that, quite a while ago. Iām lookinā out for tomorrow. Itās curious, maāam. Fellows will try to get you to squander your money, along with their own, anā if you donāt, theyāll poke fun at you. But theyāll respect you for not squanderinā it, like they do. I reckon they know there aināt any sense to it.ā Thus she discovered that there was little frivolity in his make-up, and pleasure stirred her. And then he showed her another side of his characterāhis respect for public opinion.
āBut I aināt stingy, maāam. I reckon Iāve proved it. Thereās a difference between beinā careful anā stingy.ā
āHow did you prove it?ā
He grinned at her. āWhy, I aināt mentioninā,ā he said gently.
But she had heard of his generosityāfrom several of the men, and from Hagar Catherson. She mentally applauded his reticence.
She learned that he had readāmore than she would have thought, from his speechāand that he had profited thereby.
āBooks give the writerās opinion of things,ā he said. āIf you read a thoughtful book, you either agree with the writer, or you donāt, accordinā to your nature anā understandinā. None of them get things exactly right, I reckon, for no man can know everything. Heās got to fall down, somewhere. Anā so, when you read a book, youāve got to do a heap of thinkinā on your own hook, or else youāll get mistaken ideas anā go to gettinā things mixed up. I like to do my own thinkinā.ā
āAre you always right?ā
āBless you, maāam, no. Iām scarcely ever right. Iāll get to believinā a thing, anā then along will come somethinā else, anā Iāll have to start all over again. Or, Iāll talk to somebody, anā find that theyāve got a better way of lookinā at a thing. I reckon thatās natural.ā
They did not go out to shoot again. Instead, they went out on the porch, and there, sitting in the shade, they talked until the sun began to swim low in the sky.
At last he got up, grinning.
āIāve done a heap of loafinā today, maāam. But Iāve certainly enjoyed myself, talkinā to you. But if you aināt goinā to try to hit the target any more, I reckon Iāll be ridinā back to the outfit.ā
She got up, too, and held out her hand to him. āThank you,ā she said. āYou have made the day very short for me. It would have been lonesome here, without aunt and uncle.ā
āI saw them goinā,ā he informed her.
āAnd,ā she continued, smiling, āI am going to ask you to come again, very soon, to teach me more about shooting.ā
āAny time, maāam.ā He still held her hand. And now he looked at it with a blush, and dropped it gently. Her face reddened a little too, for now she realized that he had held her hand for quite a while, and she had made no motion to withdraw it. Their eyes met eloquently. The gaze held for an instant, and then both laughed, as though each had seen something in the eyes of the other that had been concealed until this moment. Then Ruthās drooped. Randerson smiled and stepped off the porch to get his pony.
A little later, after waving his hand to Ruth from a distance, he rode away, his mind active, joy in his heart.
āYouāre a knowinā horse, Patches,ā he said confidentially to the pony. āIf you are, what do you reckon made her ask so many questions?ā He gulped over a thought that came to him.
āShe was shootinā at the target, Patches,ā he mused. āBut do you reckon she was aiminā at me?ā
Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, was stretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking at the lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to Bud Taylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of the departed Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who had been hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed to require the services of another man, and he had been the only applicant.
The new man was reclining on the other side of the fire, smoking, paying no attention to any of the others around him. He was listening, though, to the talk, with a sort of detached interest, a half smile on his face, as though his interest were that of scornful amusement.
He was of medium height, slender, dark. He was taciturn to the point of monosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his face had gotten on Red Owenās nerves.
āSince heās joined the outfit, heās opened his yap about three times a dayāusual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, heāll loosen up then,ā Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. āIāve got an idea that Iāve seen the cuss somewheres before, but I aināt able to place him.ā
āHis mug looks like he was soured on the worldāespecial himself. If I had a twistinā upper lip like that, Iād sure plant some whiskers on it. A mustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him.ā
Owen stared meditatively at the new man through the flames. āYes,ā he said expressionlessly, āa mustache would make him look a whole lot different.ā He was straining his mental faculties in an effort to remember a man of his acquaintance who possessed a lower lip like that of the man opposite him, eyes with the same expression in them, and a nose that was similar. He did not succeed, for memory was laggard, or his imagination was playing him a trick. He had worried over the manās face since the first time he had seen it.
He heaved a deep breath now, and looked perplexedly into the flames. āItās like a word that gits onto the end of your tongue when your brain-box aināt got sense enough to shuck it out,ā he remarked, lowly. āBut Iāll git it, some timeāif I donāt go loco frettinā about it.ā
āWhat you figger on gettināāa new job?ā asked Taylor, who had been sinking into a nap.
āSnakes!ā sneered Owen.
āThank yuā, I donāt want āem,ā grinned Taylor with ineffable gentleness, as he again closed his eyes.
Owen surveyed him with cold scorn. Owenās temper, because of his inability to make his memory do his bidding, was sadly out of order. He had been longing for days to make the new man talk, that he might be enabled to sharpen his memory on the manās words.
He studied the man again. He had been studying him all day, while he and some more of the men had worked the cattle out of some timber near the foothills, to the edge of the basināwhere they were now camped. But the face was still elusive. If he could only get the man to talking, to watch the working of that lower lip!
His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cookāasleep under the wagonāand Randerson, were lying around the fire in positions similar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edge of the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, his elbow resting on the other.
Randerson had been rather silent for the past few daysāsince he had ridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazing thoughtfully at the fire. Owenās gaze finally centered on the range boss. It rested there for a time, and then roved to the face of the new manāDorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward, his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with a bitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!
Evil intent was written largely hereāevil intent without apparent reason for it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothingāto Owenās knowledgeāto earn Dorganās enmity; Randerson did not deliberately make enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided persons who take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken during momentary abstraction.
Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed a deep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind to acquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorganās expression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around the campfire in the hope of attracting Randersonās attention.
Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes, as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculative glance at him. But Owenās determination had not lessened. āIf heās suspicious of me, heās figgerinā on doinā some dogās trick to Wrecks. Iām puttinā Wrecks wise a few, anā if Dorgan donāt like it, he cān go to blazes!ā
He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feet of Randerson.
āFigger weāve got āem all out of the timber?ā he asked.
There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplation of the fire.
āW-r-e-c-k-s!ā bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of the circle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hair bristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on his face. Owen grinned sardonically at him. āLay down anā turn over, you wall-eyed gorilla!ā admonished Owen. He turned his grin on the others. āCanāt a man gas to the boss without all you yaps buttinā in?ā he demanded.
āWhat for are you-all a-yowlinā that-a-way for?ā questioned a gentle-voiced Southerner reproachfully. āI was just a-dreaminā of rakinā in a big pot in a cyard game. Anā now youāve done busted it up.ā He sank disgustedly to his blanket.
āHe thinks heās a damned coyote,ā said a voice.
āYouāre thinkinā itās a yowl,ā said another. āBut youāve got him wrong. Heās a jackass, come a-courtinā.ā
āA man canāt get no sleep at all, scarcely,ā grumbled another.
But Owen had accomplished his purpose.
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