The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗

the situation was vastly

changed.

 

Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him

away. From the door Weaver sent back a doubtful,

scrutinizing gaze, then slouched out. That gaze Beasley had

not encountered before.

 

It meant, as Weaver’s cronies meant, as Beasley’s

long-faithful riders, and the people of the range, and as

the spirit of the West meant, that Beasley was expected to

march down into the village to face his single foe.

 

But Beasley did not go. Instead he paced to and fro the

length of Helen Rayner’s long sitting-room with the nervous

energy of a man who could not rest. Many times he hesitated,

and at others he made sudden movements toward the door, only

to halt. Long after midnight he went to bed, but not to

sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn arose,

gloomy and irritable.

 

He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their

displeasure at his authority. And to his amaze and rage not

one of his men came to the house. He waited and waited. Then

he stalked off to the corrals and stables carrying a rifle

with him. The men were there, in a group that dispersed

somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.

 

Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go

down into the village with him. That order was disobeyed.

Beasley stormed and raged. His riders sat or lounged, with

lowered faces. An unspoken hostility seemed present. Those

who had been longest with him were least distant and

strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley

roared for his Mexicans.

 

“Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes

sloped — gone these two hours — on the way to Magdalena,”

said Buck Weaver.

 

Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was

the most astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning

wonder.

 

“Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin’ cowboy from

Texas,” replied Weaver, imperturbably.

 

Beasley’s dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the

subtle reflection in Weaver’s slow speech! One of the men

came out of a corral leading Beasley’s saddled and bridled

horse. This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his

comrades without a word. No one spoke. The presence of the

horse was significant. With a snarling, muttered curse,

Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the

ranch-house.

 

In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had

known for hours — that if he had stood any chance at all

for their respect as well as for his life the hour was long

past.

 

Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got

there he nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something

in the fiery liquor frightened him, for he threw the bottle

aside. It was as if that bottle contained a courage which

was false.

 

Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more

wrought-up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular

state of affairs. Twice the pale serving-woman called him to

dinner.

 

The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal,

fragrant and steaming, was ready for him. But the women had

disappeared. Beasley seated himself — spread out his big

hands on the table.

 

Then a slight rustle — a clink of spur — startled him. He

twisted his head.

 

“Howdy, Beasley!” said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by

magic.

 

Beasley’s frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been

loosed in his veins. Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid

face.

 

“What — you — want?” he asked, huskily.

 

“Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein’ I am foreman

heah, thet it’d be nice an’ proper fer me to drop in an’ eat

with you — THE LAST TIME!” replied the cowboy. His drawl

was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant. But

his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.

 

Beasley’s reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.

 

Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.

 

“Eat or not, it’s shore all the same to me,” said Las Vegas,

and he began to load his plate with his left hand. His right

hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his

vibrating fingers on the edge of the table; and he never for

the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes

off Beasley.

 

“Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my

blood to see you sittin’ there — thinkin’ you’ve put my

boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch,” began Las Vegas, softly.

And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink. “In

my day I’ve shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws,

thieves, rustlers, an’ sich like, but fer an out an’ out

dirty lowdown skunk, you shore take the dough! … I’m

goin, to kill you in a minit or so, jest as soon as you move

one of them dirty paws of yourn. But I hope you’ll be polite

an’ let me say a few words. I’ll never be happy again if you

don’t… . Of all the — yaller greaser dogs I ever seen,

you’re the worst! … I was thinkin’ last night mebbe

you’d come down an’ meet me like a man, so ‘s I could wash

my hands ever afterward without gettin’ sick to my stummick.

But you didn’t come… . Beasley, I’m so ashamed of myself

thet I gotta call you — when I ought to bore you, thet — I

ain’t even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer

Chisholm. It don’t mean nuthin’ to you to call you liar!

robber! blackleg! a sneakin’ coyote! an’ a cheat thet hires

others to do his dirty work! … By Gawd! —”

 

“Carmichael, gimme a word in,” hoarsely broke out Beasley.

“You’re right, it won’t do no good to call me… . But

let’s talk… . I’ll buy you off. Ten thousand dollars —”

 

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a

strung cord and his face possessed a singular pale radiance.

His right hand began to quiver more and more.

 

“I’ll — double — it!” panted Beasley. “I’ll — make over

— half the ranch — all the stock —”

 

“Swaller thet!” yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident

ferocity.

 

“Listen — man! … I take — it back! … I’ll give up

— Auchincloss’s ranch!” Beasley was now a shaking,

whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.

 

Las Vegas’s left fist pounded hard on the table.

 

“GREASER, COME ON!” he thundered.

 

Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his

gun.